Chapter 7
Seven
The nine-to-five stint on Sundays was Mitch’s only shift at the long-term care facility in Montpelier, and since it was about as interesting as reading the phone book, he inevitably left the place every weekend tired and grumpy.
Combined with the head-banging math tutoring session with his freshmen this morning, he was ready for dinner and a nap—not necessarily in that order—before hunkering down with the reading for tomorrow’s biomechanics lecture.
Finding a dejected pro hockey player in the facility’s parking lot wasn’t part of his evening plans, but Mitch didn’t mind, especially when that hockey player was Alex Dean. Mitch’s heart leapt, and then crashed when Alex’s slumped shoulders registered.
Alex sat on the trunk of his car, his feet on the bumper, elbows on his knees, with one hand buried in his hair.
He stared at the ground and was so lost in thought, he didn’t react when Mitch stopped in front of him and cleared his throat.
Mitch shifted on his feet and cleared his throat again.
He wanted to reach out and run his fingers through Alex’s beard, but resisted the urge.
Alex would probably slap his hands away.
Bending at the knees, Mitch peered up at Alex’s face until he caught Alex’s eyes.
“Jesus!” Alex jerked up, hand on his chest. “Where the fuck did you come from?”
A witty reply was on the tip of Mitch’s tongue, but he resisted that urge too. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I work here.”
“You…” Alex’s brow furrowed. “Doing what?”
“Office stuff. Filing, returning phone calls, inventory, ordering supplies, restocking, that sort of thing.”
“Sounds…fun?”
“It’s about as much fun as my creative writing class.”
Alex laughed, and Mitch mentally patted himself on the back for putting a little bit of light back into his friend’s dark eyes.
“What are you doing here?” Mitch said.
Alex lost his smile, and his shoulders slumped further, if that was possible. “I was here to visit someone, but the nurses said he’s not having a good day and I should come back tomorrow.”
Questions raced through Mitch’s head. Who are you visiting? How long’ve they been here? What does ‘not a good day’ mean? How long have you been sitting here?
Can I touch your beard?
Stop that!
Mitch shook his head to scatter his wayward thoughts. Dropping his backpack next to the car, he hopped up to sit on the trunk next to Alex. “What are you up to now, then?”
Alex shrugged those massive shoulders and squinted against the setting sun. “Dunno. I was going to go home, but…”
Mitch waited, but Alex never finished his sentence. Instead, he stared off into space, unmoving, looking so hopeless that Mitch had to bank the desire to reach out and put his arm around him.
They sat quietly for a few minutes, breathing in the chilly evening air. Mitch shivered in his long-sleeved T-shirt, but didn’t get up to fish the hoodie out of his backpack, afraid any sudden movements would ruin the comfortable silence they’d settled into.
The facility was built on the outskirts of Montpelier, nestled between a hill with trees that were slowly losing their leaves to winter, and a stretch of flat land that led downtown.
Away from the relative hustle and bustle of State and Main Streets, it was peaceful and still, and it smelled like wet grass.
Mitch felt the stress that was a constant weight on his shoulders release.
Alex turned to him with narrowed eyes. After a few seconds of yet more silence, Mitch looked down at himself, but didn’t note any stains. Was Alex looking at something behind him? Mitch turned to check, making Alex laugh.
“What?”
Alex shook his head, lips quirked. “Nothing. I’m hungry. Let’s get dinner in town.” He hopped off the trunk, making Mitch bounce in place as the car adjusted to the sudden loss of over two hundred pounds, and headed for the driver’s side door.
“Actually,” Mitch said. “I have a better idea.”
* * *
An hour later, their bellies full of drive-thru burgers and fries they’d picked up on their way back to Glen Hill, Mitch was in his skates and drawing figure eights on the ice.
A few feet away, wearing borrowed skates Mitch had pilfered from Marco’s locker, Alex grinned and pulled his sleeves up, exposing a strong forearm dusted with almost-black hair.
A thick cast encased the other forearm. There was some kind of drawing on it, but Mitch couldn’t tell what it was from this distance.
Alex waved his hand at him. “Show me what you just did.”
Mitch came to a stop. “What did I just do?”
“That thing with your feet.”
Confused, Mitch scratched his head.
Alex pointed at the figure eight on the otherwise pristine ice. “Do what you just did.”
Mitch skated to the middle of the eight, where the top and bottom circles connected, and pushed off on his right outside edge. He completed the figure eight, slowing his moves so that Alex could follow along, speaking them aloud as he did them.
“I want to learn that,” Alex said.
It was one of the earliest moves Mitch had been taught in the figure skating lessons he’d taken as a kid and he’d mastered it almost instantly. Alex, on the other hand, fell on his ass attempting the first turn.
Mitch hovered over him. “Don’t break your head as well as your arm.”
“Fuck you.” Alex pushed himself up, groaning.
“Anytime, big guy.”
“I’m not big.”
Mitch tilted his head and zeroed in on Alex’s crotch. Even through underwear and jeans, Mitch could tell the man was hung.
Alex let out a laugh, stood, and brushed the ice from his ass. “You don’t give up, do you?”
“Nope. Again?”
Half an hour later, Alex admitted defeat. “Teach me how to skate backwards.”
“Uh, I’m pretty sure you already know how. You’re a hockey player.”
“I mean like you. With the—” He made a move with his arms, crossing one hand over the other. “The crossover. But backwards.”
“That’s not any easier than the figure eights. It takes time to become comfortable skating backwards.”
“Yeah.” Alex skated right up to him. Mitch sucked in a breath at his proximity. Goose pimples broke out over his neck and his stomach quivered. “But as you’ve oh-so-helpfully pointed out,” Alex said, “I already know how to skate backwards. Just not as fast as you. Show me.”
“Okay, come on.” Mitch led Alex to the boards, where he had Alex place his hands on the barrier in front of the GH Mountaineers’ bench. “Feet shoulder width apart. Knees slightly bent. You want to make sure your weight is on the balls of your feet.”
Alex’s eyebrows went up. “You know I’ve been skating longer than you, right?
Mitch threw his hands up. “I just want to make sure you’re not going to tumble onto your ass. Again.”
“We’ll see who’s falling on his ass.”
“That an invitation?” Mitch asked, even though he knew it wasn’t.
“No, it isn’t, you horn dog.”
Chuckling, Mitch told Alex to take the position and then had him push off.
“What’s the point of this?” Alex asked as he slowly coasted backwards.
“I just wanted to make sure your athletic stance was good. Which it is.”
Alex scowled at him. “Of course it is. You just wanted to ogle my ass.”
“That too.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I prefer incorrigible.”
“Okay, smart-ass. Show me what’s next.” Alex pointed a finger at him. “For real, this time.”
It took Alex no time at all to get the hang of it. By the time he was confident doing backwards crossovers, Mitch had convinced himself he was hallucinating.
Here was a professional hockey player asking Mitch for tips.
It was fucking surreal. Alex was a strong skater, even without extra tools in his wheelhouse, and Mitch was dying to play either with him or against him, he didn’t particularly care.
He just wanted to be wielding a stick during a game at the same time as Alex.
“You should join us for practice sometime,” he said to Alex once they’d retired to the Mountaineers’ bench.
Alex held up his broken right hand. “I can’t hold a hockey stick.”
“You don’t need one for some of the drills we do.”
“True.” Alex took a pull from his water bottle. “I’ll think about it. Coach Bedley did say I was welcome.”
“Then you should totally come. We practice Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings. Friday practice gets moved to Thursday if we have a Friday evening game.”
“The schedule hasn’t changed, I see.”
Mitch untied his laces. “Is it weird being back here?”
Alex’s lips pursed. He took a minute to answer. “Yes and no. This was home for four years. I haven’t skated in this rink in over two years, but it’s still familiar. Yet at the same time, it feels foreign. I don’t know if that makes any sense.”
“It does.” Mitch slipped out of his skates and into his running shoes. “It’s like when I go home for a visit. It always feels like I’ve been gone for years, but also like I was just there two days before.”
“Yes.” Alex turned his gaze on Mitch, and he studied him with what Mitch liked to think was appreciation, or maybe affection. “That’s it exactly. That’s what it feels like to be back here.”
Mitch smiled back at Alex. Don’t look at the beard! The beard made him think sexy thoughts. Namely what it’d feel like against his jaw when they kissed.
Fuck. Mitch’s cheeks heated despite the coldness of the rink. He pressed his water bottle to his forehead and took a deep breath. “Do you miss your team?”
“I miss some of them,” Alex said. “The guys who are good friends. I’ll see them in a couple of days, though.”
The water bottle slipped out of Mitch’s hand, bounced away, and rolled to a stop against the boards. Shit, was Alex going back to Tampa already?
Alex reached forward and rescued the bottle. “We’re playing a game of street hockey with some kids from a shelter on Thursday,” he said, handing Mitch his water.
“Oh. So you’re not leaving yet?”
“No, I’ll only be gone a few days. I don’t head back for good for another month or so.”