Chapter 27 Got a Confession to Make
Twenty-Seven
Got a Confession to Make
Forest
Denny and I are putting chips and pretzels into bowls in his kitchen in preparation for poker night. He’s our ringleader, and he has the nicest house and a custom poker table, so we usually meet up here.
“Happy birthday, man!” he says. “Has it been a good one?”
“Sort of? Bought a truck today.”
“What did you buy?”
“A Nissan Frontier. Picking it up tomorrow after rustproofing.”
“Sweet ride!”
“Sort of. It’s five years old, and it’s got forty thousand miles on it already.” It was a lucky find, though. It’s better for my budget than a new truck, and it already had a plow hookup, too, which will save me several hundred more dollars.
No stereo system at all, though, which is a bummer. There’s just an empty hole in the dash where it should be.
“I thought you were getting a new truck?”
“Yeah, so did I.”
“Oh.”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “Now I don’t have to think about it anymore.”
I hear a car outside, and my gaze flicks nervously toward the kitchen door, wondering if it’s Beck.
But Kenji steps through the door instead, shaking snow off his boots.
“Hey guys!” Of all the divorced dads, he seems the happiest. He’s big into snowboarding and is often jetting off somewhere to bag another sick peak and then posting on Instagram.
He’s always wearing a big grin, with his long black hair spilling out of his helmet.
And behind him is CJ, who wears a lot of plaid and has an unfortunate mustache. “What’s news?” CJ asks.
Denny points at me with a pretzel. “Forest bought himself a truck for his birthday.”
“Score!” Kenji says. “Happy birthday, man.” He slaps me on the shoulder. “Who’s coming tonight?”
“Everybody,” Denny says. Our full roster is just five guys. “Big Bob got the night off, after all.”
“Cool.”
I take a breath, because I haven’t mentioned Beck yet, and I know I’m just making it weird now. The truth is I feel awkward mixing these parts of my life. My Dad Friends are all straight. They know I’m queer, and that I run a queer bar. They aren’t the least bit bothered by my sexuality.
It’s just that I never talk about dates or hookups with this crowd, and I sure as hell haven’t mentioned Beck.
“Um, guys?” I let out an awkward laugh. “Got a confession to make. I kind of invited someone tonight. Just this once. It’s someone I’m dating.”
Instant silence as they all gawk at me.
“Really?” Kenji says eventually. “Okay.”
“I know we don’t really do that,” I stammer. “But I had to mention my birthday…”
They’re still staring. “This person,” Denny says slowly. “Is it a…”
“A guy,” I say firmly.
That’s when the tension breaks.
“Oh!” CJ hoots. “Why dincha just say so?”
“I mean…” Denny says with a shake of his head. “If you invited a chick to poker night, that would just be weird. Wait—is that terrible? Am I being an asshole?”
“No, no,” Kenji says, looking relieved. “I had the same thought. So maybe I’m an asshole, too. But poker night has a vibe, you know? I mean—I love women.”
“So do I,” Denny insists. “Almost anywhere, anytime.”
“But not poker night,” CJ agrees. “Phew.”
And now I have emotional whiplash.
“So who is this guy?” Denny demands. “Where’d you meet him?”
“At my bar, of course. He was a regular.”
Kenji grins. “And then one night you took him home after work?”
“Aww, our little Forest is thawing out,” coos Denny.
“Well no,” I admit. “He asked me out, and I said no.”
“Of course you did,” CJ scoffs. “Who’s surprised?”
Nobody raises a hand.
“But then we were short a goalie for one of our games,” I add. “And guess who’s a goalie?”
They all crack up. “No way,” Kenji says. “He seduced you with his moves in the crease?”
“Something like that.”
They roar as Denny shoes us into the great room, where the poker table lives.
“Tell us more,” Kenji demands. “Can’t wait to see what kind of guy is Forest’s type.”
“He’s…” How do I even describe Beck? “Well, he’s younger than I am.
” That’ll be the first thing anyone will notice.
“And more fun. But we both have crazy schedules, so we don’t get to see much of each other.
And this week he bailed me out twice. Picked up Charlie from hockey and then tutored him for an hour. And then Ruby gave him a hard time.”
There’s a collective groan—the same one we make whenever someone mentions their ex.
“He play poker?” Denny asks. “That’s all that really matters here.”
“Of course,” I say.
The doorbell rings, and everyone turns toward the front of the house with matching curious grins. They’re practically salivating. Kenji even rubs his hands together.
How do I get into these situations?
I move toward the door, but Kenji leaps forward, winning the race. He swings open the door with a flourish. “Hey, man! You must be Forest’s date. We could not be more curious.”
“Thanks, I think.”
I find myself smiling. Typical Beck.
He looks good, unzipping his parka to reveal a blue button-down shirt with little white flowers all over it. It’s dapper in a way that catches me off-guard. And dark jeans that fit like they were tailored just for his strong body.
“I’m Kenji, and you are…?”
“Becker James?” yells Denny with obvious disbelief. He actually shoves me out of the way for a better view. “The Ice Cats’ goalie?”
“Yup,” says Beck, shifting a box under one arm so he can shake hands all around. “Some of the time, anyway.”
“Holy shit, Forest!” Denny yelps. “You bagged yourself a younger man, and he happens to be a professional athlete?”
I sigh. “Could you not sound quite so surprised?”
Another roar of laughter.
Beck sidesteps my friends and ends up in front of me.
I’m trying to decide on how to greet him in this situation.
I feel like we’re onstage. But Beck solves this problem by pulling me into a one-armed man hug for a half second.
“Happy birthday, old man. Wasn’t sure what to bring a bartender on his birthday, so I went with some cocktail fixings. ” He hands me the box. “Cheers.”
“Oh, cool,” I say, looking down into the open box. It’s full of mixers from an artisanal cocktail place in Boulder, plus a couple of small bottles of liquor. “I love this stuff.”
“Fancy,” Kenji agrees. “We can start with a blood-orange margarita or a mojito.”
“Mojitos!” yells Big Bob from the front hall where he’s removing his coat. “I’ll mix! Let’s get our poker on.”
“In a second,” Denny says. “What are your intentions with our friend Forest?”
“Oh God, Denny,” I moan, wanting to die.
Beck gives me a fond glance. “I intend to destroy him in poker. Birthday be damned.”
I grin.
What follows are some of the most entertaining poker games of my life.
In the first place, Kenji uses Beck’s gourmet ingredients to make us all a blood-orange margarita that’s so good I almost cry.
Then there’s the game itself. Beck is a proficient poker player with a few professional-level skills. He doesn’t showboat. He doesn’t take chances. And—I really should have seen this coming—nobody can tell when he’s bluffing.
“You sneaky fucker,” Big Bob complains for the third time as Beck wins another big pot with nothing but a pair of fours. “I’ll get you next time.”
Beck hums like he’s considering this. “Statistically, you won’t. But I support your optimism,” he says, while I try not to notice the way his shirt is unbuttoned at the top, showing off just a V of skin that I can’t stop staring at.
I mean, it is my birthday. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to assume I’ll be unbuttoning that shirt later and peeling it off his body.
Big Bob wins some chips off Beck, finally, and crows about it.
Beck tips his head. “Nice. I love watching underdog documentaries in real time.”
Kenji snorts into his cocktail glass, and then somebody breaks out the cigars. And also a chocolate cake.
“Don’t sing to me,” I mutter. “I’m not seven. Just deal me a decent hand, Kenji.”
“Sure thing, bud.”
But I just don’t have the cards tonight—which, let’s be honest, is just how my life has been working out lately. Even on my birthday. I run out of chips eventually, and so does Denny. The game comes down to a final standoff between Big Bob and Beck.
I can tell from Big Bob’s face that he thinks he’s got a winning hand. “I’ll raise you fifty,” he says, pushing his chips toward Beck.
The look Beck gives him says: you sure about that? “I’ll call,” Beck says with enough composure that Big Bob is probably shitting himself already.
And, yeah, it’s all over a minute later. Beck wins with a pair of tens.
Big Bob flips over ace-high. “Christ!” he hollers. “How did you know I was bluffing? I thought you’d fold, for sure.”
“Reading guys who are trying to take advantage of me is my day job.”
“You must be a fantastic goalie,” he mutters. “We got time for one more cocktail?”
“Sure,” Kenji says. “I’ll whip something new up. Hold, please.” He gets out of his chair and heads for the kitchen.