Chapter 15 Vincent #2
He kisses me, hard and efficient, no hesitation. I kiss back, because the last thing I want is to be alone with my own brain.
We get in the car. I stare out the window the whole way to his place.
My phone stays in my pocket, silent, forgotten.
Tonight, I’m not the sub. I’m not the ghost. I’m the guy who said yes.
For once, that’s enough.
———
Woodbury is one of those places that’s almost too well designed, like the owner had a nervous breakdown in a Restoration Hardware and decided to weaponize it.
The lighting is all Edison bulbs in birdcage pendants, the tables are reclaimed wood with nails still sticking out, and the menu is printed in lowercase, courier font, on something that looks like a failed art student’s thesis paper.
Even the barstools have “personality,” which is to say they are all different heights and all equally uncomfortable.
I get there before Vincent and immediately regret it, because the only open seat is directly under a vent that cycles freezing air every seven minutes.
I shiver, then try to play it off by checking my phone, which is still a barren landscape.
I swipe through the cocktail menu, which includes things like “deconstructed negroni” and “pine smoke julep,” and realize I could do five rounds and not find anything that doesn’t taste like a dare.
When Vincent walks in, it’s like someone spliced him in from a better movie.
He’s in a perfect navy button-down, sleeves cuffed twice, a watch that looks vintage but probably isn’t, and jeans that fit like he was born in them.
He scans the room, makes eye contact with me instantly, and flashes a grin that’s so confident it should be illegal.
He slides onto the stool next to me, close enough that our knees touch, and says, “Nice pick. Very ‘Seattle grunge but make it $16 a drink.’” He’s got a voice like a radio host, low, smooth, just enough bite on the end of every sentence to keep you off balance.
“Sorry,” I say. “Didn’t get the memo on the dress code.” I pull at my henley, which suddenly feels like pajamas.
He leans in, conspiratorial. “You look great. The last guy I met here wore cargo shorts. You’re a step up.”
He orders drinks for both of us. “Two of the Laphroaig, neat,” without even checking the menu, and I realize he’s done his homework. The bartender raises an eyebrow but says nothing.
Vincent asks about hockey, and I deflect with every trick I know—sarcasm, stories about the bus rides, O’Doul’s stupidity, how Raz once got us kicked out of a hotel in Kearney by launching a grapefruit off the fourth floor.
Vincent laughs at all the right moments. He knows how to keep a conversation alive, and how to keep the attention centered exactly where he wants it, on you, or more specifically, on the version of you that he’s building up, one layer at a time.
He’s full of stories too.
He grew up in Bellevue, “escaped” to NYU, then came back after a family thing. He’s got a younger brother he’s clearly raising by proxy, and parents who “collect second homes the way normal people collect kitchen magnets.” When he talks, his hands move a lot, but never awkwardly.
Every gesture is measured, like he’s rehearsed it, or at least thought about what it would look like.
The drinks arrive. The whiskey is peaty, rich, way better than anything I’ve had before.
I cough on the first sip and he laughs, “It’s an acquired taste. Like kombucha, or being disappointed by Seattle sports.” The way he says it makes me laugh even harder than the actual joke.
He asks about my last relationship, and I say “Not much to tell.” He raises an eyebrow, the same way the bartender did, but lets it drop.
“So, Ash,” he says, tracing the rim of his glass with a finger, “what’s the endgame for you?”
It’s a weird question. I stall, say, “What, you mean, like, in hockey?”
He shrugs, but he’s watching me like a chess master. “Hockey, life, relationships. All of it.”
I don’t know what to say, so I joke: “I’m hoping to peak by thirty, get a minor concussion, then open a frozen yogurt place and never think about pucks again.”
He laughs, but he doesn’t look away. “You’re funny,” he says, and it’s not quite a compliment, not quite an accusation.
I feel myself flush. “You have to be, when you’re the sub.”
He leans closer, his shoulder against mine. “You’re not the sub anymore. Not here, not tonight.”
He holds my gaze for a second longer than necessary, then switches topics like it’s nothing. “You ever been to the Crocodile?”
I nod. “Saw a band there last fall. Got hit in the face with a flying beer cup.”
He grins. “That tracks.” He orders another round, doesn’t ask if I want one, and I realize he’s reading me perfectly, knows that I’ll say yes to whatever, that I don’t want to make choices tonight, that I’d rather let someone else take the wheel.
Halfway through the second drink, I feel the conversation shifting. Vincent’s questions get more pointed, less about the team, more about me—childhood, worst fear, “have you always been out,” which makes me snort-laugh so hard I nearly choke.
He says, “I mean, you were kind of a thing in the local circles, even before the shooting. There was a pool on when you’d finally say it.”
I shake my head. “Didn’t know I was that interesting.”
“Everyone’s interesting,” he says. “You just have to ask the right questions.”
There’s a pause, then he puts his hand on my arm, casual but heavy. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want,” he says. “But I’m guessing you had a reason for not being out. And I’m betting it was a good one.”
I think about Darius, about the way he never asked but always knew, about how it felt to finally let someone see all the way in, even if it was just for a second.
I say, “It’s complicated.”
He nods, doesn’t press. He holds the silence until it turns comfortable, then says, “Can I tell you a secret?”
He’s so close I can smell the whiskey and whatever cologne he uses, clean and sharp.
“Sure,” I say.
He grins. “I was nervous as hell to meet you.”
I laugh, but he’s serious. “You’re like a minor celebrity,” he says. “The whole ‘eternal sub’ thing, the shooting, then suddenly you’re first line and scoring game-winners. It’s compelling.”
I roll my eyes, but secretly I like it. No one’s ever called me compelling before. Not even my therapist.
We sit in the bar, two more rounds, and by then the crowd has thinned and the music’s gotten louder.
The whiskey is hitting hard, and I feel loose, not quite happy but not miserable either.
Vincent says, “You want to go somewhere quieter?” and again, it’s not a question, just a suggestion I’m supposed to agree with.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sure.”
He stands, pays the tab, and offers his hand. I don’t take it, but I follow him out, and the night feels less like a punishment and more like a dare.
In the alley behind the bar, he stops, turns, and pins me to the brick with a kiss that’s half threat, half invitation.
He tastes like whiskey and the tiniest hint of toothpaste, and when he presses his body against mine, there’s no hesitation, no awkward shuffle, just pure, practiced want.
It’s nothing like Alki Beach. It’s not gentle, not careful.
It’s a need, and for the first time in weeks, I let myself believe that being wanted can be its own kind of comfort.
He pulls back, breathless, hair slightly messed. “Let’s get out of here,” he says, and I say yes, because what else am I supposed to do?
We walk to his car, and he opens the passenger door for me. I slide in, legs shaking just enough that I have to steady them with my hands.
He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other on my thigh.
He doesn’t talk, doesn’t fill the silence, just lets it build. Every so often, he squeezes, and the heat of his palm is the only thing I can feel.
When we hit the first red light, he glances over and says, “You good?” His hand never leaves my leg.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m good.”
He grins. “You’re more than good,” he says, and this time I almost believe it.
I close my eyes, lean my head back, and let the motion of the car carry me away.
This isn’t what I wanted.
But for tonight, it’s enough.
———
Vincent’s building is new construction, the kind where every surface is the exact shade of “wet concrete,” and the lobby art looks like a screensaver that never fully loaded.
He parks in a reserved spot, helps me out of the car, and guides me through the security doors with the efficiency of a TSA agent.
He doesn’t ask if I want to go upstairs; he just swipes us in, elevator, twelfth floor, end of the hall. His hand stays on my back the entire time, the pressure calibrated just this side of possessive.
Inside, the apartment is a shrine to minimalism.
Clean lines, gray and white, a couch so severe it could double as a punishment device.
There’s not a single photo, not a single trace that a human lives here, unless you count the three bottles of whiskey lined up like artillery on the kitchen counter, or the row of glassware above the fridge. The air smells faintly of ozone and fresh paint.
He takes my jacket, hangs it, and pours us both another drink, a smaller pour this time, as if he’s testing to see how much I can take before I shatter.
I don’t touch my glass.
I sit on the edge of the couch, knees together, hands clasped. For a second, I think about bolting, but he’s there, kneeling in front of me, and he looks up with this predator’s half-smile that says, “I know what you’re thinking. And I’m not going to let you.”
He puts his hands on my thighs, just above the knee.
His touch is warm, firm, a little too steady.
He holds there for a second, like he’s letting me opt out, but the only thing I feel is the blood roaring in my ears.
He leans in and kisses me again.
It’s even harder than in the alley, all teeth and tongue and the kind of force that would have terrified me last year.
I open my mouth, let him take what he wants, and try to tell myself it’s fine, that this is what I’m supposed to want, that this is what normal looks like.