Chapter 12
Twelve
Free Seats are Free Seats
Forest
January
It turns out there are only so many back-to-back days of watching his son play video games that a man can endure before losing his mind. And on New Year’s Day, I’ve officially hit my limit.
“Charlie, maybe we could do something else?” I suggest from the kitchen, where I’m staring into the refrigerator, wondering what to make for dinner. Teenage boys really burn through the groceries.
“Like what?” Charlie asks without looking away from the TV. His thumbs move at superhuman speed across the controller. “Everything’s closed tonight.”
Unfortunately, true. We’re also in the middle of a cold snap, so the skiing I’d planned to do with him during our week together was nixed when we both decided that the icy wind was too much.
So here I am at hour eleventy billion of watching Charlie master Reavers of the Void on the PlayStation 5 that I bought him for Christmas.
On one hand, I hated to buy him a gift that reminded him of what was stolen from him.
On the other hand, he hasn’t stopped playing with it since he opened it the day after Christmas.
“Why don’t we…?” I trail off. What could we do?
It’s fifteen degrees outside. “I don’t know. Play a board game? Go for a drive?”
Charlie snorts. “Dad, I’m about to level up my Voidlord to Tier 4. That’s like, impossible to do in one week.”
I give up. “Right. Of course. Very important.”
Just as I’m considering whether day drinking is an acceptable parenting choice, a sharp knock sounds at the front door.
On New Year’s Day? It can’t be Scully, because he’s busy covering all my shifts since I took the week off to spend time with Charlie.
I go to the door and peer through the peephole. Then my heart stutters in my chest.
Beck. He’s standing on my doorstep, cheeks flushed from the cold, looking unfairly attractive in a wool beanie and parka.
Uh-oh. I haven’t responded to his last several texts. But what was I supposed to say? Thanks for the great sex, but I have too much baggage to deal with your hotness right now?
And now here he is, at a not-ideal moment.
“You planning to open that door, or just stare through the peephole all day?” Charlie calls from the couch.
I take a deep breath and open the door. “Hey, Beck. This, uh, isn’t a great time.”
Beck’s blue eyes roll. “Dude, I know you’ve been avoiding me, and I get it.
Message received. But I’m not here for sex.
I came here for advice.” Even before I can process that sentence, Beck is pushing past me into the entryway.
“Let me in. My balls are going to shrivel up, and the wings are getting cold.”
“The what?” I yelp, but it’s too late. Charlie is swiveling around, eyebrows raised in amusement as Beck stomps snow off his boots in the entryway.
“Hi,” my son says, his eyes darting between me and the stranger. “I’m Charlie.”
“Oh! You’re the kid,” Beck says, seemingly unfazed. He pushes a plastic bag into my hands. Then he shrugs off his parka and hangs it on the coat rack like he’s been here a hundred times. “Look at that sweet console. Are you playing Reavers of the Void?”
Charlie’s face lights up. “Yeah! Do you play?”
“Do I play?” Beck scoffs, heading straight for the couch. “I’ve got a max-level Shadowblade with the Deathwhisper armor set.”
“No way!” Charlie’s so impressed that he forgets to do that weird, fake smile. The one that’s supposed to conceal his braces. “You want to play? I’ve already unlocked the Void Gate to the Nether Realm.”
“Seriously? That’s supposed to take like a month!” Beck drops onto the couch beside Charlie, who’s already handing him the second controller. “Let’s see this.”
“Um,” I say loudly, holding the plastic bag at arm’s length. “And this would be…?”
“Wings,” Beck says, as if it’s obvious. “Glad I brought a few dozen. I didn’t know if you like ’em hot or whatever.”
I stand by the door for another beat, utterly flummoxed. What the hell is happening here?
“Dad, aren’t you letting the heat out?” Charlie says without looking away from the screen, where he and Beck are already battling…something. “Man, those wings smell good.”
I close the door with a thud. This is… not how I expected this day to go.
I’d never in a million years introduce a hookup to my kid.
That’s a line I’ve never crossed, not even before The Incident.
But it’s out of my hands. Charlie and Beck are already laughing about something in that ridiculous game.
I don’t know how to feel about this. Should I be mad at Beck for barging into my house, uninvited?
As I listen to his goofball gaming commentary and my kid’s appreciative chuckles, I gotta admit that I’m not even close to feeling mad.
In fact, the gloomy day suddenly feels as bright as Beck’s blond hair in the lamplight.
Is this progress? Or am I just an idiot?
Shaking my head, I carry the plastic bag into the kitchen and set it on the counter. There’s a reason I don’t date anymore. It’s too confusing. I’ve lost my faith in people, but I’m not sure I want it back.
Yet the smell of chicken wings is making my stomach rumble, and I peer into the bag—hot wings, mild wings, BBQ wings, plus six buttermilk biscuits and a container of blue cheese dressing.
So I pull out some plates, napkins, and find some carrots and celery sticks from the fridge. And I pour everyone a glass of water.
When I return to the living room, Beck is showing Charlie some kind of combo move that involves a lot of button-mashing and exaggerated sound effects.
“So then you hit R2 and L1 at the same time while jumping, and BOOM!” Beck demonstrates, his character on screen executing a spinning attack that decimates a group of enemies.
“Shadow Vortex. It’s basically cheating. ”
Charlie is laughing, his eyes bright with excitement. “That’s wild! How do you even know this stuff?”
“My roommate plays like eighteen hours a day,” Beck explains. “He’s basically fused to our couch at this point.”
Charlie cackles and pauses the game. “Are we eating now, Dad?”
I guess we are. I carry the tray in, and I try not to feel too weird about it when the two of them make room for me on my own couch.
After dinner, plus another hour of on-screen decimation, I finally convince Charlie to shut it off for the night. “You need to shower and call your mother. You told her you would.”
“All right,” he says with a sigh. He puts his games away. “That was fun, Beck. We can do it again, right?”
Beck shoots me an uncertain glance, proving he’s more attentive to my hesitation than he’d let on. “Maybe? We’ll have to see.”
When Charlie’s footsteps fade upstairs and the bathroom door shuts and the shower starts running, Beck puts his elbows on his knees. “So, um, thanks for not kicking me out. Your kid is cool.”
“He is,” I agree, still trying to process the surreal experience of seeing Beck and Charlie bonding over digital carnage. “So what’s this advice you supposedly came for? Because it seemed like you had gaming tips to spare.”
Beck’s face transforms into an expression of pure panic. “Oh shit, that part was real. I mean, not that the other parts weren’t real too. I actually do need advice. And I don’t know who to ask.”
I raise an eyebrow. “About?”
“Clay Powers found out that I was actually playing goalie that night for your team. And now he wants to have lunch with me.” His fingers tap nervously on his knee. “In two days. Like, a one-on-one lunch with the head coach of the Cougars.”
“Lunch... That’s good, right?” I ask, still not seeing the problem.
“No! I mean yes, but also no.” Beck’s hands flutter in distress. “What if he’s mad? What if he asks me something important, and I start talking about how cereal is really a soup? Because I do that when I’m nervous.”
I can’t help the smile that cracks my face in two. “Soup. Really?”
“Yes!” Beck hisses. “But that’s not my issue right now. What do I wear? What if he wants to talk about my future, and all I can think about is you naked?”
“Beck—”
“Is there a way to practice not being weird for three hours?” He’s truly spiraling now. “Should I take notes? Is note-taking weird? Is it weirder to be weird or to try too hard not to be weird?”
I reach out and put a hand on his knee, stopping the frantic bouncing. “Beck. Breathe.”
He inhales sharply, looking at me with those impossibly blue eyes.
“Powers isn’t going to fire you for helping out a beer league team,” I say calmly. “And if you want my advice? Just be yourself.”
Beck looks horrified. “That’s the worst advice I’ve ever heard. Have you met me?”
I can’t help it—I laugh. “Yeah, I’ve met you. And Powers must see something in you too, or he wouldn’t be inviting you for lunch.”
Beck groans, flopping back against the couch. “Would it be weird if you went with me? You could sit at another table and hold up signs when I’m being too Beck-like.”
“Very weird,” I confirm. “Look, you want my actual advice? Powers sees something in your game. You had back-to-back wins, right? He wants to talk about hockey, not test your social skills.”
Beck considers this. “But what if—“
“No what-ifs,” I interrupt. “Just go, be respectful, talk hockey, and don’t overthink it.”
“Don’t overthink it,” Beck repeats skeptically, as if I’ve suggested he sprout wings and fly. “Right. Sure. Do I apologize for ruining the Plague’s night?”
That’s trickier. “You can apologize, if he seems really put out by it. But just be honest—tell him you wanted to help out, and you didn’t think it through. But now that you understand how much management objects, you won’t do it again.”
“Okay,” he says heavily.
Looking at him sitting there on my couch, all twisted up about a lunch meeting, I feel something unfamiliar stirring in my chest. It might be affection. And that terrifies me. “Where did you get the idea that people don’t like you?”
“Because they don’t,” he says simply. “It’s always been this way. I’m a weirdo. Terrible conversationalist. Even my music is weird.”
It is, but I don’t point that out. I let my bartender instincts kick in instead. “But what if that’s your superpower? A goalie has to have a unique perspective. He has to look at the world his own way so he can figure out what the opponent is up to.”
Beck lifts his head from his hands. “Huh. I like this idea, but I think you’re just bullshitting me.”
“No, I’m really not. And Clay Powers has been around for a while. He probably understands it better than I do. Maybe you’re worrying for nothing.”
“Maybe,” he says slowly.
The water shuts off in the bathroom, and I glance toward the stairs, where Charlie is probably heading to his room.
“I know I have to leave,” Beck says quietly. “I’m sorry I didn’t call first, but I didn’t think you’d answer.”
My face heats, because he’s probably right. “It’s not you,” I whisper. “My life is messy, Beck.”
He gives me a sideways glance. “I really enjoy making it even messier. Especially when you put your tongue…”
I hold up two hands. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
He winces. “Okay. Yeah. Sorry.”
I walk him to the door, keeping a careful distance between us. When we reach the entryway, I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the wall—a deliberate maneuver to keep myself from touching him. Because I want to. Even though I shouldn’t.
“Thanks for the wings,” I say, my voice sounding stiff even to my own ears. “And for entertaining Charlie. He really enjoyed it.”
Beck’s eyes track the movement of my arms, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you physically restrain yourself.” He gestures to my crossed arms. “Like you’re afraid you might forget you’ve been trying to ghost me.”
I feel heat creep down my neck. “I’m just standing here.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, stepping closer. “I know you had fun that night, Forest. You probably want to do it again, but you don’t want to lead me on.”
That’s exactly right, and the accuracy of his assessment makes me shift uncomfortably.
“I’m not as clueless as you think,” Beck continues, his voice dropping lower. “Well, not about you. I see through your tough-guy routine.”
“Beck—“
“Oh, shit, I almost forgot,” he interrupts, digging into his pocket. He pulls out a small envelope and hands it to me. “Ice Cats game on Sunday afternoon. Four tickets. In case you want to bring Charlie or some friends. I promise not to read anything into it. Free seats are free seats.”
I take the tickets, careful not to let our fingers touch. “That’s… actually really nice. We’ve been trapped at home this week.”
“It’s okay,” he says with a shrug. “Your life is complicated. But just so you know, I’m not fooled by the crossed arms and the ghosted texts. You’re totally down for a repeat.”
Before I can formulate an argument, he leans forward and grabs my sweatshirt in one hand. Then he presses his lips to mine.
My brain shorts out at the first brush of his scruff against my face.
The kiss is slow but insistent, and confident in a way that seems utterly at odds with his earlier panic.
My arms unfold of their own accord, hands hovering uncertainly for a moment before one traitorously finds its way to the back of his neck.
And, fuck it. Since we’re here already, I slide my tongue into his mouth. He tastes like hot wings and hotter times. I forget for a long, achy minute why I’m not supposed to do this.
When he finally pulls away, I’m embarrassingly breathless. “Good luck with your lunch,” I manage to say, trying to regain some composure.
Beck grins, looking entirely pleased with himself. “See? Not such a tough nut to crack after all. Although most nuts aren’t. Except Brazil nuts. Those are cast iron.” He opens the door and steps out into the cold. “Happy New Year, Forest. Tell Charlie I’ll show him that secret dungeon next time.”
Next time. As if it’s already decided.
I close the door behind him and lean my forehead against it, feeling the cold seep through from the other side. The worst part is, I’m already looking forward to it.