12. Gideon
Gideon
I forgot my name. Not literally. I knew I was Gideon Taftwell, winger for the Rochester Copperheads, twenty-five years old, six-four, currently wearing an oxblood suit, but when Ryan came down the stairs, every useful thought disappeared.
He’d worn the dress. For some reason, even after our phone call, I wasn’t sure he would.
I told him I’d be happy with whatever he chose, and I meant it.
Suit, dress, jeans, that ridiculous ramen hoodie he’d stolen from me.
I wanted Ryan beside me tonight. The rest didn’t matter because he looked fucking incredible.
The dress was dark blue, fitted through his waist before falling around his legs, the fabric catching the light when he moved.
His hair was up, held back with little blue things I didn’t know the name of, and his eyes were dark around the edges with blue glitter catching at the corners. His lips were darker than usual too.
Pretty wasn’t enough. Beautiful sounded too much. Hot worked, but I probably shouldn’t lead with that in front of his dad.
Ryan reached the bottom step and stopped, and I realized I was staring.
“Say something,” he whispered. “Do you hate it?”
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
His dad started laughing from somewhere behind me. “I told you the big hockey player would forget his name.”
Ryan’s mouth twitched, but he was nervous. I could see it in the way he held his hands together in front of himself, one thumb rubbing hard over the other.
“You look…” I tried again and waited for the rest of the sentence to show up. It didn’t. “Fuck. I mean, you look amazing. Really amazing.”
His smile grew, and I stepped closer, stopping before I got into his space. I’d gotten better at remembering that touching Ryan without warning could still startle him, even if he trusted me now.
“Can I?” I asked, all kinds of gentlemanly, when what I really wanted to do was gather him up and kiss the gloss from his lips.
He glanced at my hand. “Yeah.”
I took his fingers. His hand was cold. “You’re freezing.”
“I’m terrified.”
“You don’t have to do this. We can go get noodles.”
“I know.”
“Hell, we could drive around Rochester for three hours and tell everyone we went to the fundraiser.”
He laughed then. “That would be lying.”
“Okay. We could drive around Rochester for three hours and tell everyone the fundraiser sucked.”
His laugh came easier that time. “I want to go. I want to go with you if you still want to go with me. I’d understand if you—”
“I want to.” My chest tightened.
He squeezed my fingers. “And you look hot. Very. The suit was an inspired choice.”
His dad made a loud coughing noise behind us. “Photos before you leave.”
Ryan groaned, and I almost suggested that a couple of photos weren’t going to hurt.
Only there were a lot of photos, including one where he was fixing my pocket square and another where I was looking down at him and apparently smiling in a way that made his dad stop taking pictures for a second.
He waved us out the door, pressed a hand to Ryan’s shoulder, and nodded.
I offered Ryan my arm for the short walk to the truck then opened the truck door and realized this was probably fuck-up number two. Fuck-up one was losing my ability to speak.
“I have heels on. I’ve got to climb up,” he said and pointed at the huge step.
I looked from him to the truck then down at his shoes. “Oh. Can I help?”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “How?”
I considered several options and discarded all of them. Were we at the level where I could scoop him up and place him in the seat? He was small enough, and I’m sure I wouldn’t drop him, but would that be a step too far? Fuck, this wasn’t something I’d thought about.
Ryan started laughing. “Turn around, giant.” I did, and his hands landed on my shoulders. “Do not move.”
“I’m not moving.”
He used me as a support while he climbed into the truck. I stood there grinning at absolutely nothing. Then I turned around to find Ryan settling his dress around his knees with as much dignity as anyone could manage after using me as portable scaffolding.
“Done. Thank you.”
He looked so damned beautiful sitting there, and I wanted to…
Kiss him? Touch him? Hold him?
Get a grip.
Waterways on the Lake was decorated in Copperheads colors, huge team banners hanging behind the casino tables, signed jerseys and sticks displayed for the silent auction, and enough photographs of smiling kids from the mobile dental program to remind everyone why we were there.
There were donors, sponsors, season-ticket holders, local business owners, team staff, players, partners, and enough people that I suddenly understood why Coach had threatened us with death if anyone got drunk and embarrassed the organization.
I handed my keys to the valet and walked around the truck. Ryan was already getting out.
“Wait,” I said, hurrying to his side and offering my hand.
He took it and let me help him down, his fingers cool in mine.
The lights from the entrance caught the glitter at the corners of his eyes, tiny flashes of blue and silver when he looked up at me, and brushed across the high line of his cheekbones.
His skin seemed softer somehow under the warm light, his lips darker than usual, and for a second, I forgot I was supposed to be helping him out of the truck.
He stepped down carefully, one hand in mine and the other gathering the dress away from his heels.
The fabric shifted around his legs, and then he was standing right in front of me, close enough that I caught the faint scent of whatever he’d used after shaving, mixed with something warmer that was simply Ryan.
There was no reason to keep holding his hand once both his feet were safely on the ground.
I should’ve let go, but I didn’t and neither did he.
His thumb moved once against the side of mine, so small I might have imagined it, and my heart gave one stupid, heavy thump.
Holding his hand for those few extra seconds felt amazing.
Then Ryan glanced toward the entrance, and I saw the nerves come back into his expression.
“You ready?” I asked.
“No.”
I tightened my fingers around his. “Let’s do this, gorgeous.”
That earned me a smile, and the glitter caught the light again.
Fuck, he was beautiful.
An older couple was waiting behind us for the valet. The woman stared at Ryan, then at me, then back at Ryan. Not hostile. Curious. Ryan noticed too, and his fingers tightened around mine. I tightened mine back.
“You okay?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
“Yep.”
“You sure?”
He quirked a smile. “Nope.”
Fair enough.
We walked through the doors, and the second we stepped inside, heads turned. Not all of them. Not even most. But enough that Ryan’s hand clenched mine harder.
“Holy shit!” Walker exclaimed when he noticed us. Finn elbowed him. “What?” Walker protested. “I meant Taft.”
Finn rolled his eyes, and Ryan laughed, some of the tension leaving his hand. Finn came straight over and hugged him. “You look incredible. I love the dress.”
Ryan lit up. Walker looked me over, smoothed his lapels, and tipped his chin. “Nice styling, Taft.”
“Thanks,” I said and nodded back. “You are too.”
“Our boys did good,” Walker said with a grin and winced theatrically when Finn smacked him on the arm. “What? I’m being nice.”
Chip arrived next with his date Dane, a firefighter with a handshake like a vice, and Sable trotting between them in a red bow tied to match Dane’s tie.
Bob and Arnaud right behind. Arnaud stopped dead in front of us, placed one hand over his heart, and announced, “Mon Dieu. You’re magnificent, little Ryan.
Like an ocean-faring princess who has arrived to destroy the hearts of men. ”
Ryan went scarlet.
Bob stared at Arnaud, his mouth open. “What the fuck does that even mean?”
“It means he is beautiful.”
“You could’ve said that.”
“I did. With poetry.”
Chip smiled at Ryan. “You look great.”
“Thanks.”
Bob looked Ryan over next, and I waited. He nodded once. “Nice dress. Shoes look dangerous.”
“They are.”
“Good.”
And that was apparently Bob’s complete contribution to fashion.
The night got easier after that. Not easy, just easier.
I saw the looks, and Ryan saw more of them.
A woman from one of the corporate sponsors complimented his dress before spending five minutes asking where he’d bought it.
A season ticket holder told him his makeup was beautiful, and a guy from a local bank stared too long before his wife elbowed him and told him to stop being rude.
There were whispers. There were double takes.
There were people who didn’t know what they were looking at and people who knew exactly what they were looking at and couldn’t decide how they felt about it.
Mostly, though, there were people who didn’t give a shit.
The roulette wheel still spun. People still drank champagne.
Walker still cheated at blackjack even though no actual money was involved.
Arnaud somehow ended up running a craps table despite admitting he didn’t understand the rules, and Bob threatened to throw him in the lake for it.
Ryan stayed beside me at first then slowly stopped needing to.
He talked to Finn for twenty minutes, helped one of the wives fix a broken clasp on her bracelet, and got dragged into a conversation about skincare with three men representing a local brewery.
Someone asked about his eye makeup, and ten minutes later, he was explaining the difference between shimmer and glitter to an audience of five people.
I watched him from my roulette table. He was glowing.
Not the makeup. Him. For the first time since I’d known Ryan, there was nothing hidden, no faint glitter left behind after he’d scrubbed his face clean, no bag of makeup clutched against his chest while he invented imaginary women called Penny, no oversized hoodie covering everything. Ryan. All of him.