Chapter Thirteen Jamie
(I Left the Team Behind)
Iborrow one of Taylor's cars to pick Mateo up from the airport.
He presses his hand to my bouncing leg to reassure both of us that this trip is a good thing.
We've been bullshitting the world for five years, so it should be fine.
We've never had to bullshit in such a concentrated group for a few days in a row, so maybe it won't be.
The introductions go smoothly, though there was no reason they wouldn't. Mateo doesn't have the same PR experience I do, but he's been in the trenches with the parents of teenagers for a couple of decades.
I think that's probably trained him at least as well.
We're at the lake house with one of the other assistant coaches, one of our trainers, and a friend of Taylor's who has nothing to do with hockey as far as I can tell.
I don't know. I'm careful not to pry into his personal life.
I very defensively don't want him prying into mine.
Our plans for the entire stay are about as casually undefined as any getaway can be.
Tonight, we're grilling out back and lounging near the dock.
We'll eat and drink around the fire pit while we talk shit about anything and everything.
The days are warm, but the nights are cool, not unlike my oceanside backyard.
I'm wearing Mateo's old Baja hoodie because it's as much as I can get away with for now.
I've got little doubt he'd wear my jersey if he could, but he'll be even more careful here than I am.
"Soccer, huh? Are you the guy responsible for making Sinclair's kid a Husky?" Taylor asks.
Mateo smiles easily. "I think Harper's responsible for making herself a Husky. I'm just the lucky guy who got to coach her along the way."
"How about her mom? Pretty lady."
"She's beautiful, yeah. But she never seemed all that interested in talking to me, so I don't know her well."
"Not like you know Harper's dad."
Everybody looks at me, their expressions so much the same and all at least a little different. Some kind of bait has been dangled, though I can't tell whether it's about our relationship. Whatever it is, Mateo barely raises an eyebrow before he responds.
"Jamie and I talked a lot more often. Not quite so much since you lured him to the East Coast, though."
Taylor laughs. His friend does, too. "I'm not sorry about that. First, he's a hell of a coach, and our team is better with him behind the bench. Second, it couldn't have fucked with your friendship that much if you were willing to fly all this way to see him."
"You're right," Mateo says. "Nothing has been fucked."
I take a long, long drink.
The subject changes with no effort on my part.
Everyone has plenty to talk about, and none of them have an interest in doing genuine harm to Mateo or me.
I think they like Mateo a lot already, and none of my once-famous personality conflicts have followed me here.
My reputation for late nights with beautiful women has lingered more than I'd like.
At least a rumor or two has caught Mateo's attention, but I'll work on that.
I'm curious about how much of my reputation still catches Taylor's attention when he tells me I'll be sharing a room with Mateo.
He says something about the other three guys already claiming rooms. Then he insists it'll be fine because the one we'll be sleeping in has a bed and a futon, and "there's not a single piece of furniture in this lake house that isn't worth more than a high school teacher's paycheck, actually. "
I don't roll my eyes because it's not the worst thing Taylor's said in the past fifteen minutes, much less the entire evening. I assume Mateo doesn't roll his eyes because he knows what his bank account looks like.
"I guess since I'm the one who can't afford this futon, I should be the one to sleep on it?" Mateo chuckles once we’re alone. "Or did you want to let me have the bed after the long flight I took just to see my friend?"
"And here I was thinking his carpet is pretty soft. You could just toss a pillow and blanket down there, and you'll probably sleep like a baby."
Mateo pauses as if he's considering it. Or something else. "I wonder how much room Taylor's friend has in his bed."
"Taylor's friend? Wyatt?"
"Yes, Wyatt. Let's just say he'd be unlikely to turn down overnight company from someone like you or me."
My eyes widen. "Are you serious?"
He just shrugs, then gestures toward the bedroom door. "Do you think anyone will notice if we use that lock?"
"They don't have any reason to," I answer, though I'm not sure it's an answer at all.
Without another word, I lock the door. Mateo makes up the futon so it looks slept in.
Then we get ready to crawl into bed together.
There are bitter things on my tongue—reminders of what happened the last time we fell asleep in each other's arms—but tomorrow he'll still be here, no further than the dock, even if he runs from me.
And I don't expect him to run from me.
"Do you still think about sneaking around—trying to get away with it all?" he asks. His lazy fingertips trace the length of my spine, my bare back turned to him.
"It wouldn't be that easy."
“The sex could be. Maybe not right here, under Taylor McKeon's very expensive roof, but you know we could break the rules and have something while we wait for the rest. We've come so close. And how many times have we asked each other what we're doing?”
"A lot," I admit. "Too many, probably."
"I wonder whether we'll stop asking someday, and let ourselves have that much. While we're still waiting, I mean," Mateo says, his hand finally resting against my waist. "Once. What if we decide to lie even more loudly to everyone else just to have one night together?"
"Only once?"
"Only once."
"I don't think I could. The rules and lines are there for a reason."
"You hate the rules and lines."
I roll over and pull him closer, kissing him on the forehead and taking far too long to move away. He's always so warm. Without his hoodie on now, I shiver and want more.
Which is exactly my problem. I always want more.
"But it would break me, I think. Having all of that and not being able to tell the world."
"It doesn't break you already?"
We're tangled together, the way it usually happens when we get the chance to be close. Both of us are wearing shorts, but they leave so much skin within reach. We take advantage of the time we have to hold each other, but Mateo asked me a question, too. I try to find the right way to answer him.
"Right now—having what we have and keeping our secret—it's like the day after a great game against a tough opponent.
When I played hard and fought for the win, and loved every second on the ice.
Then I woke up the next day and felt it everywhere, that perfect ache.
It doesn't break me. It never did. It's more like a full-body bruise.
Sure, it hurts if I lean on it the wrong way, or for too long.
But otherwise, it's just a wonderful reminder of the night before.
An ache that won't go away until I can do it all over again. "
"But if we fuck?"
I shiver again, having nothing to do with being cold.
He's always been nicer than I am when we talk about this—far less crude—and my dick reacts quickly to hearing the word fuck from Mateo's well-educated mouth.
And he knows it, too. I can almost feel his smile against my neck, at least until I keep talking.
"Fucking you will change everything for me.
Everything I want and everything I need and everything I am," I say, my voice laced with pleas for so many different things.
Patience. Understanding. A promise that the feelings turning me inside out are still mutual.
"Fucking you and walking away like it didn't just alter our lives in one final, irrevocable way?
That wouldn't feel like a bruise. That would be another shattered leg. "
Mateo growls and noses at the underside of my unshaven jaw. "You're putting a hell of a lot of pressure on an orgasm, sweetheart."
"It's not about the orgasm."
"Yeah, I know," he sighs.
"So we wait?"
"So we wait."
As far as I know, nobody notices the locked door.
After Mateo and I wake up to a greasy breakfast and plenty of coffee, all six of us go out on Taylor's boat to soak up sunlight that feels different from California's.
Someone's playing music. Someone else brought a deck of cards.
We enjoy a little of everything while doing almost nothing.
Once we're docked again, most of us are hungry.
Taylor has pizza delivered so none of us have to put on a shirt.
When we stop shoving slices down our throats, some of us talk about the team.
It's probably only natural when four coworkers spend time together, even in the offseason, but it means there are two outsiders today.
Mateo and Wyatt follow the conversation for a while—however long it interests them, or long enough to be polite—and then Wyatt's hand is around Mateo's arm, tugging him out of his patio chair.
I try not to panic, but I'm only familiar with being the one drawn away from the crowd for a private moment. I know I freeze mid-sentence.
"Relax, Sinclair. It's a vacation, not a horror movie. I'm sure they'll both return safely. They're just bored because the rest of us don't know how to take a break from our jobs like your daughter's teacher does."
It's at least a little like a horror movie, but eventually I remember to be nonchalant about the man Mateo suggested is less than straight. Wyatt grins, and I feel like it's mostly directed at me.
"We're just going for a walk."
They do put shirts on for that, and I'll take what I can get.
"You were jealous," Mateo teases me later that night.