CHAPTER 12
ACE
MY APARTMENT DOOR closes behind me with a click, and I lean back against it, groaning.
I don't remember ever being this tired. December's barely a week old, and I'm already dreaming of January. Or better yet, July. Maybe I will finally be rested by then, although even that is debatable.
Between games, practices, extra training sessions Coach has us doing because apparently we need to be "sharper" (we're third in our division, we're plenty fucking sharp), and bar shifts for the charity thing, I'm running on fumes.
My entire body aches. My legs are screaming.
My shoulders feel like someone's been using them as a punching bag.
There's this persistent twinge in my lower back that I'm pretending doesn't exist because if I acknowledge it, I'll have to tell the team doctor, and then I'll get benched, and I cannot afford to get benched right now.
I drop my gym bag by the door—it can stay there, I'll deal with it tomorrow—and head straight for the bathroom.
I'm already pulling my shirt over my head, not caring that it's still half-buttoned because buttons are for people with energy.
Pants next. Socks. Boxers. Everything in a pile on the floor that I'll also deal with tomorrow.
The hot water hits my back, and I actually groan out loud. Fuck, that's good. That's so good I could cry.
I brace my hands against the tile and let the water pound over my shoulders, trying to will the tension out of my muscles through sheer force of wanting it gone. And more importantly, trying to think about anything other than Devon.
It doesn't work.
Just don't think about him.
That's the goal. That's been the goal for days now. Just... don't think about him.
Except trying not thinking about someone is apparently the best way to guarantee you'll think about them constantly, because my brain is a piece of shit.
I'm thinking about him.
About the way he looks when he's concentrating on making drinks, his tongue poking out slightly between his lips. About how he bosses everyone around and somehow gets away with it. About his laugh—this unguarded, genuine sound that borders on maniacal
About the kiss.
Fuck.
I press my forehead against the cool tile, water streaming down my back.
The kiss that was supposed to be nothing. A stupid dare from a bird. Something we'd laugh about later and forget.
Except I can't forget it.
I've tried. I've tried so fucking hard.
But I keep thinking about the way his lips felt against mine. Soft. Warm. The way he tasted. Like mint gum and something sweet.
The way I got hard.
From kissing a guy.
Hell.
I grab the shampoo, squirting way too much into my palm. Whatever. I work it through my hair, scrubbing too hard, like I can wash away the confusion along with the sweat.
What the fuck am I supposed to do about all this?
Am I into guys now? How? Since when?
I rinse my hair, watching soap suds swirl down the drain, and try to remember the last time I was actually attracted to a woman.
There was... Jessica? No, Jennifer. The girl I dated sophomore year of college. That was good. I think. I mean, we had sex. It was fine. She dumped me because I spent too much time at the rink, which was fair.
And then there was... fuck, what was her name? The one I met at that charity gala last year. Blonde. Tall. Smiled a lot. We went on three dates. I kissed her goodnight after the second one and felt absolutely nothing.
Huh.
I turn off the water and stand there dripping for a minute, processing.
When was the last time I actually wanted someone?
The towel rack is right there, but it feels a million miles away. I force myself to move, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around my waist.
The mirror's fogged up. I wipe a hand across it, revealing my reflection in streaks.
I look tired. There are dark circles under my eyes. And I need to shave.
I look like a guy who's having a sexuality crisis at twenty-six because a compact-sized bartender with a smart mouth and zero sense of self-preservation kissed him in front of fifty people.
"Get it together," I tell my reflection.
My reflection doesn't respond, which is probably for the best.
I brush my teeth, floss because my dentist guilt-trips me about it, and finally head to my bedroom.
My phone's on the nightstand, charging. I should check it. Make sure there's no team emergencies or last-minute schedule changes.
But the bed looks so fucking good.
I collapse onto it face-first, towel still wrapped around my waist, and just lie there for a minute. Maybe five minutes. Time is meaningless.
My phone buzzes.
I ignore it.
It buzzes again.
"Go away," I mumble into my pillow.
It buzzes three more times in rapid succession.
Fine. Fine. I roll onto my back and grab it, squinting at the screen.
It's the group chat.
I open it and instantly regret it.
There are 247 unread messages. How is that even possible? I checked it four hours ago.
I scroll up, trying to find where I left off.
Becker: guys. GUYS. i had an idea.
Wall: oh no
Petrov: This will be disaster
Becker: RUDE. Anyway, what if we did a social media campaign?
Devon: we're already doing social media
Becker: No, I mean like a CAMPAIGN campaign. With hashtags and everything.
Devon: ...we have hashtags
Becker: Better hashtags
Groove: What's wrong with our current hashtags?
Becker: They're boring
Devon: YOU’RE BORING
The conversation devolves from there into an argument about hashtag strategy that I don't have the energy to follow.
I keep scrolling.
Washington: Updated the spreadsheet. Everyone check your assignments.
Jesus, not the spreadsheet.
I haven't looked at the spreadsheet in three days.
I switch apps, pulling up the Google Sheet that's become the bane of my existence.
It loads.
And loads.
And—
Twelve tabs.
There are twelve fucking tabs now.
When I last checked, there were six. Which was already five too many.
I click through them: Main Schedule, Bar Rotations, Fundraising Goals, Social Media Calendar, Volunteer Coordination, Adoption Events, Equipment Needs, Vendor Contacts, Emergency Contacts, Budget Tracking, Post-Game Celebration Planning, and something labeled Hendrix's Greatest Hits, which I'm afraid to open.
My assignment list has grown. I'm still on hats—those are done, thank fuck—but now I'm also apparently in charge of "coordination with equipment manager re: loaner gear for firefighters" and "backup transportation logistics."
I don't even know what backup transportation logistics means.
I close the spreadsheet before my brain melts and then groan when a new notification pops up. A Reddit DM.
Do I have the energy for that right now? No. No, I don't, but I click it anyway because I'm a people pleaser and the thought of someone—anyone—being disappointed in me gives me nausea. I'm yet to decide which one of my parents I can blame for that, but once I do—run.
OnlyNewRadicals_69: ghosted by an online barely-acquaintance. oh, how tragic has my life become
I snort, and even that tiny extra flow of air hurts my strained muscles. At least this guy's funny. I could use a little laugh right now. Before I pass out from exhaustion.
Need_Tailor_Chicago: Is it still ghosting even if there were no messages? Damn. The goalpost just keeps on moving.
OnlyNewRadicals_69: don't mind me, just checking if you're alive. it was either that or setting a google alert for "murder+tailoring scissors+chicago" and I don’t need more notifications
Tell me about it…
Need_Tailor_Chicago: You and me both. But yeah, alive. Barely. December's been kicking my ass.
OnlyNewRadicals_69: ass you say? ?? i'm all ears
I huff out a laugh. I forgot the guy's ridiculous.
Need_Tailor_Chicago: I thought we've already talked about it…
OnlyNewRadicals_69: your ass? i don't recall
OnlyNewRadicals_69: jk jk. i'll be good. so why is december a bitch?
Because I'm mid-season and somehow I'm finding myself juggling like two extra jobs on top of that.
Need_Tailor_Chicago: Work and stuff.
OnlyNewRadicals_69: saaaaaame. what do you do for work?
I scrunch my nose. This is the part in any casual online interaction where you straight up lie.
We all do it. It's one of the curses of being an athlete.
Or any public-facing person, really. No online connection can ever become anything resembling a real friendship. Because it's always built on a lie.
I push the guilt that's already bubbling up down to the depths of my soul where it belongs and opt for my go-to response.
Need_Tailor_Chicago: I'm in fitness.
OnlyNewRadicals_69: HA! I KNEW YOU WERE HOT!
I chuckle. Damn. I keep forgetting who I'm dealing with.
Need_Tailor_Chicago: Hot and straight, as you surely recall.
OnlyNewRadicals_69: ?? and boring
OnlyNewRadicals_69: got any hot single non-straight friends then? asking for a friend
My thumb freezes above the screen keyboard, and I suck in my bottom lip.
Well, there's Groover. He's single. And people say he's hot, something I've never wondered about and definitely won't wonder about now, because that feels like incest. Yuck.
But Groover would absolutely murder me for playing matchmaker Besides, he's been on fire—well, on fire on ice technically—ever since he got rid of that doofus Julian. I'm not fucking with that.
And then there's Devon.
Devon's gay. Single, I think. And…
Is he hot? He's cute. He's good-looking. He's…
My mind drifts back to the kiss before I can stop it.
Fuck. Yeah, Devon's hot. There, I said it, and that should be enough to scare me, but it's not the scary part.
Because the scary part is, I definitely, definitely don't feel like offering Devon to anyone else for reasons I'm too chickenshit to examine.
Because I'm a dog, apparently. A dog in the fucking manger.
Need_Tailor_Chicago: Sorry. No one comes to mind.
At this point, I'm not sure why I'm even keeping this conversation going. Every other thing I type is a lie.
OnlyNewRadicals_69: damn. worth a shot.