Chapter 2
Two
My Fantasy in Flannel
Beck
My face is burning. I can’t believe I finally did it—I propositioned Forest. The hot bartender. My long-time crush. I’ve spent so many hours on this barstool watching him make drinks, admiring his tattooed forearms, trying to gather my courage.
Sportsballs is my happy place. He can’t possibly understand what it means for me to be sitting here.
It took all my courage to walk through the door.
I wasn’t quite sure what I was hoping for.
Just a chance to acknowledge myself, I guess.
I was actually shaking a little the first time I walked across the battered wooden floor toward the bar.
And there he was—my fantasy in flannel, a tattoo peeking out of the V of his collar, his sleeves rolled up. I’ve been stuck on him ever since, and it’s taken months to actually do this—to tell him what I want from him besides a light beer.
When I heard his beer league team lost their goalie? I knew I had to speak up. They need me so badly. So after all this time, I’m finally shooting my shot.
Yay me. Except Forest isn’t having the reaction I’d hoped for, which was, “Sure, dawg, let’s roll.” Or whatever you’re supposed to say when you agree to sex. I wouldn’t really know.
Instead, he looks tortured. He sticks out one strong arm and pushes Scully away. Then he leans his elbows against the bar and studies me. I get the feeling it’s the first time he’s really noticed me, in spite of all the attention I’ve given him for months.
A feeling of doom descends. I’m not good with people, but even I can tell he’s about to shoot me down. At least I’m getting a closeup view of his muscled arms. Forest is the reason my search history includes the term “lumberjack porn.”
“Kid, look, I’m sorry,” he says in his growly voice. “I can’t promise you something like that.”
“Why?” I demand. “I’m not ugly. And I know I’m awkward, but I promise to shut up while you fuck me. You can even use a gag. If you want. I bet you’re into that. I hear you and Scully joking sometimes. He teases you like you’re into bondage.”
His eyes widen, and he swallows roughly. “Okay, slow down.”
“Or wait… Do you need me to win the game first? Because that won’t be a problem.”
Maybe I should just come clean about who I am. I play for the Ice Cats, which is a minor league affiliate team in Loveland, about an hour from here. I’m not out to my team, so I always keep my trap shut when I’m in Sportsballs.
I don’t know, though. If Forest checks my stats for the Ice Cats right now, it might not help my case. I’m in a slump. A bad one.
He looks down at his rough hands, and for the hundredth time I wonder what they’d feel like on my body. “Shut up and listen a sec, okay?”
My body quiets down immediately. I don’t mind being told to shut up. Not by Forest.
“You’re cute as hell,” he says, “but you’re too young for me. Even if you weren’t, I don’t really do hookups anymore. Not to mention that trading sexual favors isn’t my style. I’m trying to be an upstanding citizen, here.”
“See, I appreciate that. But it’s unnecessary, because I’m literally upstanding in bed every night after I watch you work a shift.”
The stranger on the barstool next to mine laughs loudly.
Fuck. This is turning into the most embarrassing night of my life. It’s even worse than the interview I gave after my first college game, when I told the reporter that my pregame ritual involved talking to my pads in French, which I don’t even speak. They played that clip for weeks.
I pocket my phone and grab a pen off someone’s order pad on the bar. I scribble my number on a paper coaster. “Here’s my phone number. Text me if you decide it’s worth it. I’ll be a great goalie for you guys, and I promise not to speak French.”
I slide the coaster in Forest’s direction, and he looks at it the way he might look at a cockroach scurrying across the bar.
Scully, though. He reaches around Forest, picks up my coaster, and pockets it, grinning like he just won the lottery. “I’m keeping this safe. For the team.” He winks.
I drain my soda and stand up. My face is still burning, but at least I tried. My coach always reminds us that you miss all the shots you don’t take.
Propositioning bearded bartenders isn’t really his milieu, though.
“Thanks for the soda,” I mumble, pulling my wallet out to leave a fat tip. Tipping well is one of my rules. That, and never eating gas-station sushi, no matter how fresh it looks.
As I push back my barstool, I realize several people are staring at me. Oh man. Let’s just pray none of them are Ice Cats fans. Maybe I just ruined my sexual fantasies, but it would really suck if I managed to wreck my privacy, too.
I head straight for the door, stepping out into the freezing cold in just my sweater. All my jackets say Ice Cats on them, so I never wear a coat to Sportsballs. I jog to my Jeep and climb inside to start the engine.
My playlist starts right up, blasting a song by the Smiths called, “Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me.”
“Shut up,” I growl, advancing to the next track. “That’s way too on the nose.”
Most of this album is depressing, though, and the engine takes ages to warm up, so I have plenty of time to stare gloomily at the exterior wall of the bar, wondering why everything having to do with other humans is so difficult for me.
I mean—Forest is attracted to men. I know this because I hang on every damn word he says. I don’t really do hookups, he’d said, but that’s gotta be a lie. The way Scully teases him, I know Forest has had plenty of sex.
My self-esteem slides down another several notches as I put the Jeep in gear and head for home.
But the self-recriminations keep on coming.
Because—why not me? Every time I go to Sportsballs, I see guys picking up.
Sometimes they barely exchange more than a few words before they leave together. You down? Let’s bounce.
It gives me life to see that. Dudes hitting on other dudes. Living their best lives. Like maybe I will someday. But today is not that day for me, and given the streak I’m on, tomorrow doesn’t look good either.
Maybe I am ugly, as well as awkward. And maybe defeat has an odor, and the bartender gets a whiff of it every time I sit down at the bar.
It’s an hour’s drive home, which is plenty of time to question my whole existence. I let in four goals last night, and we lost to a team near the bottom of the division. If I don’t turn things around, I’ll get sent down to an even more minor league. Or worse, I won’t get renewed at all.
These are the things I should really be focusing on. Not hot, grumpy bartenders with big, brown eyes.
My phone rings, and it’s my mom. Against my better judgment, I accept the call, if only for a pause in the doom cycle of my thoughts. “Hey, Mom. How are you?”
“Great!” she practically yells. “We just finished putting all the ornaments on the tree!”
“Cool. What’s the theme this year?”
“Lobsters! Ron Junior chose it.”
Five years ago, my mother married Ron. He has two adult sons—Junior and Trevor—and the four of them live on Ron’s family compound and run a few small businesses in a beach town about a half hour from where I grew up. I get a lot of updates about their lives but very few questions about my own.
“There!” she announces. “I just sent you a photo.”
“Cool. I’ll look at it later, Mom. I’m driving.”
“Did you have a game tonight? How are the Wildcats doing?”
My team is called the Ice Cats, not the Wildcats. But whatever. “The team is doing fine,” I say, not wanting to discuss it.
But I must sound low, because she pounces. “If things aren’t working, Becker, you can always come home and work for Ron. He’s adding a hot-dog stand next to the mini golf this spring. You could manage it. We’re always hiring.”
Managing a hot dog stand. My mother honestly believes that to be a step up from professional hockey. “I’ll keep it in mind.” Especially when I’m lying awake at four a.m., feeling tortured over my stat sheet.
“Are you coming home for Christmas this year?”
I hold back a sigh. “No, sorry. Our schedule doesn’t break for long enough.” I’ve explained this several times already, but she doesn’t seem to believe me.
“That’s criminal,” she says gravely. “Everyone needs time off to be with their family at the holidays.”
Do they, though? The last time I had Christmas with Ron and his sons, they watched the ice fishing championships on TV. Is there a dumber sport? Perfectly good ice just sitting there, and nobody wears skates. They drill holes in it instead.
I don’t even want to go “home” for Christmas. I don’t even know what home means anymore. My mom has moved on to babbling about entering her gingerbread whoopie pie in a cooking contest, and I’m suddenly exhausted.
“Hey, Mom? I should let you go. Practice is early tomorrow.”
“Okay, sweetie! Just let me know if your plans change, and you have time to come home! We all miss you!”
Sure you do. “Thanks, Mom. Later.”
After we hang up, I take a slow breath. I don’t want to go home to Maine, anyway. My life is here. I have hockey, and…
I think of Sportsballs and my favorite barstool. Forest’s stern face, and his solid forearms. And the truth hits me in the chest like a slap shot—I can’t ever go back to Sportsballs again. Not after what happened tonight.
Fuckity fuck.
How did this happen?