Chapter 11
Eleven
Bus to Hell
Beck
By midday, I’m at a hockey practice in Abbotsford, which is somewhere in Canada.
It wasn’t easy getting here. Hours ago, I’d jolted awake in Forest’s bed, my phone screaming at me. My game day alarm is labeled BUS TO HELL IS LEAVING DUMMY.
My heart nearly exploded when I saw the time: 5:17 a.m.
I’d done my best to get out of there quietly. Forest is a sound sleeper, though, because he didn’t move as I thumped around his room like a nervous elephant, grabbing my stuff before sneaking out.
In his kitchen, I’d made myself a sandwich and called my roommate.
It rang five times before a groggy voice answered. “Somebody better be dead.”
“Rigsy! Thank God. I need a massive favor.”
“It’s not even five thirty, Becks. What the actual—“
“I’m not at home and I need to make the bus.” I’d shoved my feet into my shoes and let myself out of Forest’s house, sandwich in one hand, keys in the other. “Can you pack my travel bag? Just throw in whatever. Three days of clothes. My passport’s in the—”
“Hold the fuck up. You’re not home? Where are you?”
I’d hesitated. “A friend’s place.”
“A friend.” I could practically hear him grinning through the phone. “Becks, did you finally get laid?”
“Just pack the bag, man.” The car had started with a growl, and I’d swerved onto the main road, pushing my poor Jeep as fast as it’ll go.
“Holy shit, you did! Who is she? Anyone I know?”
The “she” made my stomach clench. “No one you know. And I’m driving, so—”
“Was it that chick from the smoothie place? The one with the nose ring?”
“No! Jesus, Rigsy, just help me out here. My passport’s in the desk drawer. And grab my lucky socks—the blue ones with the penguins on them.”
He’d finally agreed, but not without more commentary. “Fine, fine. But you’re telling me everything later. Can’t believe you’re finally getting some. Was starting to think you were, like…”
My blood had stopped circulating.
“…broken.”
God. “Rigsy.”
“Yeah?”
“If I make the bus, I’ll buy you breakfast for a week.” That message had finally gotten through, and we’d both made the bus on time.
Even though I’d saved myself from getting reprimanded and fined, the danger isn’t over, because I’m finding it hard to concentrate on hockey.
My body might be in Canada, but my brain is doing its best impression of that new concert venue in Vegas—the spherical one.
There’s video on every surface, and it’s super loud.
But instead of rock music, I’m tuned into the sex channel. All I can think about is Forest—his beard against my skin, his hands gripping my hips, the way his voice got deeper and rougher when he... Yeah. That happened. It actually happened.
And when I picture the face he made when he climaxed, I skate the wrong direction around a cone. Luckily, the coach is looking at someone else.
We take a water break, and I flip my phone over for the hundredth time, weighing the pros and cons of texting Forest. Too soon?
Too needy? I’ve never experienced the “after” part of hooking up.
So I open up my favorite AI chatbot and ask it another question: I’m a socially awkward loser who just had his first hookup with another dude.
How much time should I wait to text him, and what should I say?
The little dots pulse as the AI thinks. Then:
Hi there! Congratulations on your new connection! There’s no strict timeline—text when it feels right. Be authentic and express genuine interest without overwhelming. Perhaps a simple “Had a great time last night” with a specific detail you enjoyed about your conversation.
Conversation? We barely spoke. Most of what came out of my mouth were sex noises. I probably sounded like a drowning seal.
I try again: No, you don’t understand. This is a hot, bearded bartender who reluctantly agreed to have sex with me after I helped his hockey team. The specific detail I most enjoyed was when he growled into my mouth and came hard all over my chest.
The bot recalibrates.
In that case, consider keeping your text a little more subtle. To encourage a continued relationship, perhaps invite him to an event that will demonstrate the full breadth of your personality. Like an art exhibit, or an interesting concert.
I lock my useless phone and go back to practice.
During the scrimmage, Coach has me splitting time with Hennie, our starter, which means I might actually get to play tonight. Or I might spend another game watching from the bench, getting colder than day-old coffee.
“James!” Coach bellows. “Heads up!”
Right. Focus. On hockey. Not on Forest’s killer tattoos, or on the perfect amount of chest hair that gathers into a happy trail on his abs.
I shake my head and drop into my stance. And it’s weird, but my body knows what to do even when my brain is elsewhere. I’m loose. Calm. Making saves I didn’t make last week.
“Looking sharp, Becks,” Rigsy says after practice, punching my shoulder. “You still owe me details about last night.”
I nearly trip over my own feet. “What? No. I mean—no way. I’m a gentleman.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Dude, you got on the bus smelling like bad decisions and someone else’s shampoo.”
“Shut up.”
“Nope. Not until you give me details. Who’s got you sneaking around like a teenager missing curfew?”
I focus on refilling my water bottle, pretending the question isn’t making my palms sweat. “Just a hookup, man. Not a big deal.”
Rigsy stares at me. “Bullshit. You’ve never hooked up with anyone since I’ve known you. You don’t even go out except to that one bar you’re obsessed with.”
My heart stutters. It hadn’t occurred to me that he’d noticed my weekly disappearances. “I’m not obsessed with anything.”
“You go there every week like it’s church.”
I guzzle my water, mind racing for a believable lie. Nothing comes.
“Who is it?” Rigsy’s voice drops to a dramatic whisper. “A bartender?”
This is it—the perfect moment to come out. To just say, “Actually, it’s a him, and his name is Forest, and he has a beard that makes me want to cry with happiness.”
But I don’t do it. “Maybe,” I say. Anyone can tend bar, so it’s a safe cover. “And there’s a reason I go to the bar alone. I don’t want the rest of you cutting in on my action.”
As if.
He hoots with laughter. “I see how it is. Must be something special if you’re willing to almost miss the bus.”
I swallow hard. “Yeah. Special.”
“So let’s talk about my prize,” he says, smacking his gloves together and mercifully changing the subject. “Breakfast for two weeks. I want those fancy egg sandwiches from that place by the rink. Not gas-station crap.”
“Whatever you want, Rigsy.”
We board the bus to go to lunch, and I check my phone again.
Nothing. Forest is probably working, or buying groceries, or doing a hundred other things that hot, interesting guys do the day after a hookup. He’s not obsessing like me.
Fuck it. I have to say something. I have to shoot my shot. I pull up our texts.
Beck
Hey, I’m in Abbotsford BC, which is the raspberry capital of Canada!
Just a random fact I thought you should have in your bartender arsenal. For trivia night.
Then I immediately add:
This is Beck btw. The goalie who stole your peanut butter. Not a random berry enthusiast.
God, I’m bad at this.
I just wanted to say hi, and to tell you I can’t stop thinking about last night. It’s not hurting my game for some reason. Made like 40 saves in practice today. Coach only yelled at me twice. Personal best.
And, yup, my whole screen is full of text. Ugh. I lock my phone and put it in the bottom of my gym bag, so I won’t be tempted to keep staring at it.
The next morning, there’s still no response. And then Coach confirms it—I’m starting in goal tonight. My first start in four games.
So I add something to the text chain.
Starting in net tonight. Thinking about changing my pregame ritual from listening to Depeche Mode to thinking about you tying me up. For scientific purposes. To see if it improves my save percentage.
I send it and immediately regret it. Too much? Definitely too much.
But then I think, screw it. If he’s already pulling away, what do I have to lose?
The arena fills up slowly during warmups. I’m tracking pucks, feeling the ice under my skates. My phone is locked away in my stall, probably still showing zero notifications.
Right before the puck drops, I close my eyes in the crease. Just pretend you’re back at that high school rink. Playing for the Stickhandlers. Playing for Forest. He needs you to shut the Plague down again.
Our opponent has black jerseys, actually. Just like the Plague did. See? It’s the same.
And somehow, this bit of trickery works. When the game starts, I feel a little calmer than I have lately. These are just a bunch of assholes, and I’m here to teach them a lesson.
Three minutes in, when Abbotsford’s first line crashes the net, I track the shot through traffic and snag it with my glove, almost like it’s in slow motion.
Then, when their power-play unit tries to thread a cross-crease pass, my pad is already there.
“Fucking right, Becker!” Rigsy shouts after I stop their captain on a breakaway.
That’s when I make a deal with myself—If we don’t win, I can’t check my phone at all tonight.
And it works, too! For two more periods, I’m untouchable. We win 3-0, my first shutout of the season. The guys are slapping my helmet, shouting in my ear.
It’s not until I’m back in the locker room, peeling off my sweaty gear, that I finally look. Ten hours after I’d sent my last text, there’s a reply.
Forest
Great to hear you’re starting. Good luck tonight. Hope it goes well for you.
That’s it. No innuendo. No hint that he’s thinking about me the way I’ve been thinking about him. Just... polite. Like he’s responding to his dentist’s appointment reminder.
The shutout doesn’t feel as good anymore.
No, wait, it does. I needed that shutout bad. I reply to his tepid message, because fuck it.