Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
DIEGO
Hi, I hope you don’t mind me reaching out. I host a hockey podcast, and I’d love to have you on to talk about your injury, your personal life, anything you’re up for…
I hope you’re doing well, Diego. I’m a big fan and I’ve been worried about you. I run a small blog…
Diego, I hope you don’t mind me reaching out this way, but I’ve tried to call you several times and always seem to get your voicemail. I write the sports column for…
I groan and drop my phone on the couch next to me with just a little more force than necessary.
Okay, fine, maybe I throw it at the couch.
I seem to be doing a lot of that lately.
This is why I never log on to my social media anymore.
It’s nothing but DMs from sharks who smell blood in the water and are hoping to boost their own visibility by picking all the flesh off my carcass.
Now I’m all itchy and annoyed, and fuck, what I wouldn’t give to have an excuse to throw off my gloves and start some shit with somebody—anybody, really, I’m not picky.
I’ve never been much of a bruiser on the ice.
Sure, I’ll get into it when the moment calls for it, but I was never the type of player to go looking for a fight.
But too many months of “taking it easy” and “giving my body time to heal” have me feeling like I could turn into that guy and probably even enjoy it.
I stand up and mentally brace myself for any twinges of pain or muscle cramps that might come, but everything feels fine.
I’m not scheduled to train with Callan today, but that doesn’t mean I can’t go down to Sweat and get my own workout in, right?
Sure, I have a home gym right here, but I need to get out.
I need the distraction of other people around me, even if I’m not interacting with them.
And if I run into Callan down there, that’s fine too.
I feel less annoyed already now that I have a plan to get out of the house.
Slapshot trots after me like he always does as I head to my bedroom and change into my gym clothes.
I search for my gym bag for a minute or two before I remember that I left it in a locker when I ran out of there two days ago after the whole massage incident.
Well, even better that I’m going today, then.
I can’t just let my stuff sit in a locker forever…
or, you know, until my next training session tomorrow morning.
Once I’m dressed, I stoop to scratch Slapshot’s wrinkly forehead, and he makes that funny gremlin noise that never fails to make me laugh.
“I’ll be back later and we’ll take a little walk down to the park for some fresh air, okay?”
He snorts, which I’m pretty sure is the pug equivalent of an enthusiastic “yes.” I slip on my gym shoes, stuff my phone into my pocket, and put my spare key back under the mat outside my door just in case I need it again.
I swear this fucking summer heat feels like it’s never going to end.
Sweat is beading on the back of my neck before I even reach the end of the block.
I hop on the bus that rumbles to a stop right at the corner and grab an open seat.
While I wait for the stop closest to the gym, I let my mind wander to the chill of the arena, the smell of the ice, the feeling of my blades cutting through the smooth surface like glass.
I miss it so much that there’s a physical ache in my chest. I miss the adrenaline that sharpens my eyesight as I follow the puck through the sea of skates and moving bodies, I miss the power of slamming another huge, hard body into the boards.
More than anything, I miss the energy in the locker room after a win.
Guys hugging and jumping on each other’s backs, recapping the best plays like they didn’t just happen, that feeling like we could all conquer the fucking world together.
After a win is the one time nobody bats an eye at a guy getting a little emotional. It’s like all the rules go out the window for a few minutes and you don’t have to worry so much about what everyone thinks.
Is that what Callan was talking about last night?
I guess he wasn’t totally wrong, but that’s just the way it is.
If you’re too emotional, too weak, too soft as a guy, other people are going to have an opinion on that, and usually not a very good one.
So you learn early to push feelings like that down deep and man up.
Hurt on the ice? Suck it up. Jealous that your buddy got a girlfriend and doesn’t have time for you anymore?
Bite your tongue or he’s going to think you’ve got a big, gay crush on him.
Feeling lonely as hell because all the guys you thought had your back let you look like an idiot and then didn’t bother to show up when you needed it most? Get over it.
The bus hisses to a stop and I realize that my fists are clenched and I’m grinding my teeth. I let out a slow breath and stand up. Yeah, I could really use a workout to release this damn tension before it drives me fucking insane.
It’s nice to step inside and recognize people, even though I haven’t been training here long.
Silas is working out with free weights, and it looks like he’s squatting double my body weight.
Butch is doing push-ups in front of the reception desk, and he looks up as I walk in.
He hops to his feet with a big smile that reminds me of when dogs wag their tails so hard they can hardly walk straight.
“Hey, man.” He offers his hand in one of those bro handshakes that’s really just a clasp, a chest bump, and a rough pat on the back. “Did Callan screw up his schedule?”
He cocks his head and turns around to lean over the counter and rummage on the desk without giving me a chance to answer.
“Oh no, don’t mess up Silas’s system,” AJ says with sarcasm dripping from his voice as he makes his way over to us, wiping sweat off of his forehead with a towel that he slings over his shoulder when he’s done with it.
“I’m just trying to find the schedule,” Butch says.
“Don’t worry about it, I’m not on his schedule today.
” I take a quick glance around the gym. It’s busier than usual, but the place is small enough that it only takes me a minute to spot Callan over by the weight machines, standing over some guy who’s using the leg press.
I can’t get a good look at the guy from this angle, but his legs look a bit scrawny.
No shame in that. We all start somewhere, right?
“Oh, chill,” Butch says. “You just here to work out?”
“Yeah, I really need to work on my stamina, so I’ll probably hit the treadmill for a while and then do a circuit.”
“You want some company?” AJ offers. “My training client for this afternoon canceled on me. I thought about going home early, but Slater won’t be back from work for at least another hour, and he’ll probably want to swing by for a workout anyway, so I might as well just stay.”
“Sure.” I shrug, but honestly it sounds pretty nice to have a workout buddy. I’ve got used to my solo workouts over the last few months, but being back in the gym with Callan this past week has been a huge reminder about how nice it is to have someone to help me stay motivated.
I pop into the locker room to make sure my bag is still where I left it, and I stick my phone inside it so I won’t have to feel it slapping against my thigh while I run.
When I get back out, AJ is already warming up on the nearest treadmill with a towel hanging off the one right next to him to save it for me.
“Thanks, man.” I hop on and move the towel, then program the settings for a warm-up jog and start moving.
In the mirrors straight ahead, my attention wanders to the reflection of Callan and his client while I fall into a steady rhythm with my feet against the belt.
They’ve moved on to chest presses now, and I have a much better view of the guy he’s training.
He’s… well, I’m not sure there’s a better word for it than pretty.
I was right, his legs are a bit scrawny, but seeing the whole package, he’s more petite than anything.
He’s a good head shorter than Callan and he fits pretty much every stereotype I’ve ever had of a gay man—gesturing with his hands when he stops between reps to talk, wearing a bright pink tank top with rainbow laces in his gym shoes.
It’s his long eyelashes and pouty lips that really put his looks over the top though.
Callan said he’s hooked up with a couple of clients… or did he just say he’d flirted with a few clients? Damn, I can’t remember now. Either way, I can’t help wondering if this guy is one of them. Not that it matters. He can flirt with or fuck whoever he wants.
My jaw ticks and my steps falter for half a second, but it’s long enough that I lose the rhythm and stumble. I’m not going very fast, so I manage to catch myself on the handlebars and get my footing again quickly.
“Whoa, are you okay?” AJ asks.
I nod and try to turn my attention to the large TV hanging on the wall instead, but my gaze wanders right back to Callan.
AJ chuckles, and I glance over to find him looking at Callan and his client through the mirror too.
“From what I’ve seen, I don’t think Perry is his type,” he says.
“What?” I force a chuckle, bumping my speed up a few notches and working so hard not to look back at Callan again that I start to get a crick in my neck.
“Callan,” AJ says casually, increasing his speed to match mine. “I’ve never seen him go for a twink, so I think you’re safe.”
“What?” I say again with another laugh, but for some reason this one sounds borderline hysterical as my heart starts to thunder wildly. Damn, I really am out of shape if a warm-up is getting my pulse racing like this. “I’m not… I wasn’t… I’m straight.”
“Yeah, I remember you saying that at the bar.” His words are right, but there’s something in his tone that gets my hackles up, like maybe he doesn’t actually believe me?