CHAPTER EIGHT
J ason
I loathe flying.
I charge thirteen grand on my credit card, then head for the lounge. A few people shoot me curious looks. Some people frown, and I jut out my chin and square my shoulders and pretend it doesn’t matter.
I’m a truth teller, that’s all.
I head straight for the bar in the lounge. One tumbler of Maker’s Mark slides down my throat like hot embers. I have another. Then another. Unfortunately, nothing can burn away the knot in my chest.
Finally, it’s time to board, and I march to the first-class boarding section. Murmurs follow me everywhere I go, and I shiver under gazes of people I don’t know, but whose disdain is as obvious as if they’re painting me with tar, then flinging feathers.
I hate that this job makes me famous. It’s cool when I go to bars and girls are thrilled to be with someone they’ve seen on TV.
But for the most part, it’s annoying, which sounds ungrateful.
Because if I had most any other job, not everyone would see when I mess up.
Now when I make a mistake, it’s national news.
And Jesus, I got a goal the other night. I should have been celebrated for that.
Guilt bubbles in my chest. I tell myself it’s the bourbon.
I hurry onto the plane and curl up into the first-class cabin. There’s an eye mask in the VIP gift bag and I whip it on.
Maybe I hate flights, but at least this will get me to the other side of the world.
Finally, the plane lands. I tap my fingers along my passport and hope I didn’t need to get a visa or something. Oskar always books our trips for the team. I want to ask him if he has any booking advice, but he probably hates me now too.
It doesn’t matter.
I yank my gym bag from the overhead luggage compartment, then I march off the plane, mumbling goodbyes to the flight attendants.
Unease moves through me. I don’t do things like this. The only time I took a beach vacation was when I went to Florida with Finn and Troy over a year ago. They didn’t ask me this time. I can’t blame them.
I show my passport to Fiji security, then step outside.
I’m definitely, definitely not in Boston. Warm air wafts around me. Palm trees sway in the distance. There’s not a single icicle is in sight— nor a single icy surface that can derail my career if I step on it wrong.
I’m in a place many people call heaven.
Something makes me glance over my shoulder, but tourists study their luggage as if they might have forgotten how to count within the time they got off the plane.
No matter.
I’m slightly paranoid. That feeling will go away when I vacation. There’s a reason vacations are something people go on. They’re supposed to make you feel better.
And since I can’t imagine feeling worse, maybe this will be good.
I take a taxi to my hotel and try to push away the guilt I feel for going on vacation to begin with. I stare out the window until the taxi drops me at the resort.
I’m groggy and out of sorts, unprepared for the cheerful chorus of welcomes from the Fiji staff. Even the male Fijians wear skirts, which is weird, but I guess is practical in this heat. Huh. My mind sort of hurts, and I wonder what Dad would make out of all of this.
Someone at reception thrusts a sweet drink into my hand, and I flash my card again.
Finally, I’m taken in a golf cart to my room.
A gentle gust drifts in from the ocean, rustling the long grass.
The resort is perfect, excessively so. Each villa gleams with polished luxury, the private pools sparkling in the sunlight.
Couples stroll hand in hand, smiling at each other like they invented love and are fucking proud of it.
At any moment someone’s going to propose. I consider vomiting.
I’ve stepped straight into someone else’s fantasy, and it’s pleasant, but not mine.
All I ever wanted was to be on the ice. To play in the NHL: to work hard, keep my head down, and win.
The golf cart whizzes past luxurious villas, avoiding hitting the designer-clad guests in their loud tropical apparel.
I feel ridiculous being driven around, but hotels here aren’t built vertically.
I hate the definite feeling of boredom. I’m supposed to be living my best life. I’m supposed to be making people jealous.
But instead, all I wonder is if I can watch hockey games in my room. I wonder how elaborate the gym setup is. The website promised a good one. That’s how I chose this hotel. I wonder if Coach Holberg is plotting to trade me somewhere.
Shame moves through me, sharp and steady. Cal’s face flits into my mind again and again and again.
But then, it’s had a habit of doing that since I was sixteen.
But that makes sense. People normally think about their best friends, after all.
And if occasionally they think about them in not strictly straight ways, because imagining a friend naked isn’t something most guys would admit to, well, that’s probably normal too.
Teenagers are horny. Discovering how a dick works is a pretty cool thing, it would be weird not to wonder what one’s friends’ dicks look like.
And how they would feel in your hand. Or mouth. Or ass—
“Mister?” The driver stares at me, and I realize he’s stopped in front of an attractive villa.
I blink against the stupidly cheerful sun and squint at a patch of aggressively tropical flowers that look like they were stolen from a sticker collection of a nine-year old girl.
I need sunglasses.
“We’re here, sir.” The driver’s forced smile wobbles, and I wonder how long he’s been trying to speak to me.
“Sorry.” I scramble from the golf cart. “I was distracted.”
The driver is already holding up my gym bag, and I hope he can’t tell it only contains an empty water bottle. Going through security was embarrassing.
“No worries, no worries,” the driver assures me. “First time in Fiji, yes?”
“Jet lagged,” I apologize, and the driver nods. “I, uh, don’t suppose there’s a clothes shop here?”
“Ah.” He nods. “You came to Fiji for shopping?”
“Um—”
“There are some stores outside the resort. Even some ferries. You like Castaway ? With Tom Hanks? The island is near here.”
Where have I arrived? I’m officially in the middle of nowhere. I wonder if there’s a discreet way I can ask what the nearest continent is.
His eyes soften. “Come. I show you inside, Mister. You have nice patio. Ocean view.”
I follow him through the villa. The floor is marble, and guilt rushes through me. I would have been fine going to Minnesota to see my family.
The driver opens the curtains. The sparkling Pacific Ocean fills the entire window. My eyes round. My breath quickens.
My driver smirks. “Welcome to Paradise.”
I force a smile on my face as the driver continues to expound about how I’m in the most beautiful place in the world. It would be rude to not look happy about that fact.
“Where’s the gym?” I ask.
“At the end of the road to the left,” the driver says.
I nod. “Cool.”
“You like sports?” the driver asks.
I smile, and my shoulders ease, as if grateful I can finally say something honest. “Yeah. I like sports a lot.”
“We have many things for active guests. Yoga when sun comes up. Good for the body.”
“Cool.”
“You look like a man who likes adventure, yes?”
When I don’t look enthusiastic about yoga, he continues, “We have scuba diving to see the reef. Very colorful, very beautiful. Or we have kayaks and jet skis. You can hire a guide to take you to other islands.”
“Other islands?”
“Fiji has more than four hundred islands.”
“That’s amazing.”
His smile widens.
After he continues showing me around the bungalow and I try not to feel guilty I booked something that would suit an entire family, with multiple bedrooms in case I get bored during the night and want to act out The Three Bears, and my own private pool that overlooks the ocean, I collapse onto the patio and do not think about Boston and do not think about Cal Prescott.
The thing about vacation is you have more time to think than you do otherwise. I wish I were at training and could think about stick handling or getting a puck past Troy or something.
And then my follicles prickle, and my nerves skitter in that now-familiar manner.
No.
Surely not.
I turn my head, and he’s there. Cal Fucking Prescott.
My eyes round. He grins.
I glare, and he manages to look abashed.
Then I storm from the patio and slam the sliding door shut.
I yank the curtains closed.
Fuck.
He found me.