CHAPTER TEN
J ason
The restaurant looks like it was created via Photoshop: sunlight slants through the palm fronds above, casting dappled gold across the linen-draped tables, and the ocean glitters beyond the terrace.
Cutlery clinks, servers murmur greetings.
Plates clatter softly as guests load up on tropical fruit and buttery pastries.
I stride in wearing tropical swim trunks.
They’re dotted with iguanas sporting sunglasses that look like they’re having the sort of good time I’m pretending to have.
I purchased the shorts at the gift shop this morning, along with a white t-shirt and matching flip-flops that slap across the tile floor.
I pretend to look at ease.
I’m not.
Cal is at the resort.
More specifically, he’s in the buffet line, balancing a plate piled high with breakfast delicacies. Cheese and olives squeeze beside bread pudding and bacon.
He turns his head toward me. My body jolts alert: coffee is unnecessary in his presence.
I buckle under the intensity of his gaze and swerve around. I march from the restaurant and its promise of a buffet breakfast overlooking the ocean and head back toward my villa.
But every step through the manicured resort sends a pang to my chest. I don’t want to hide. I’m not some loser.
Everything I’ve lost flashes in my mind.
I refuse to also lose the breakfast view that people fly across the world for. Maybe eggs and sausage taste better in front of turquoise waves.
I march back to the restaurant. The hostess assigns me to a table, and when Cal appears in my sight, I ask for one inside.
I’ll still see the ocean. It will just be through glass. I’ll be grateful if there’s a sudden thunderstorm or something.
The hostess is too professional to raise an eyebrow, but my cheeks flush all the same, and I avoid looking at Cal.
When he rises from his table and goes inside, swinging his head optimistically toward me, I lurch up and scurry to the coffee bar where a man in a black-and-white uniform flits between coffee machines.
“Coffee,” I say in a surreptitious manner, channeling the spy cartoon characters I watched Saturday mornings during my single-digit years.
It doesn’t work.
The barista launches into an explanation of their coffee menu options, and when I say I don’t care, I don’t know the difference, he launches into an explanation of how each coffee is made.
A rush of panic flares through my body, as if someone is setting light to every organ in warning, but I pretend I don’t see Cal coming closer, closer, closer.
“Hi Jason,” Cal says.
“Larvik,” I correct, proud that my jaw is steady, and my voice firm.
“Right.” This time he’s blushing. I turn my head away, because I don’t need to see how pink spreads over his cheeks. It does that in the normal manner. Nothing particularly interesting. Just an influx of blood under his skin.
He probably looks the same in bed.
I force that thought away.
“So, Fiji, huh?”
My lips twitch. “Can’t believe you followed me to the other side of the world.”
He gives a strangled laugh, and for a wild moment, we’re teenagers again, and I’m teasing him about his skating.
“Your latte, sir.”
I blink, startled, and reach out my hand.
The moment shifts, and Cal and I are no longer teenagers.
The smiling barista, the dark wooden counters and floors, the groggy-eyed guests carrying plates topped with pastries and eggs and bacon, reappear, replacing the cold ice rink Cal and I used to hang out in.
“I want to talk to you,” he says, and for a moment, I want to give him everything.
But then I remember his article about me started this whole thing. Coach yelled at me when I said what I did about Dmitri, but he didn’t suspend me. Maybe he knew I was right.
Cal’s article changed things.
Cal’s article showed I had a “history of homophobia.” Cal’s article opined on whether I was making my colleagues uncomfortable.
And maybe I am.
But they’re so revoltingly happy all the time, so desperately in love, that they can handle it.
They haven’t sacrificed things.
Not that I have.
I’m straight.
It’s not like I’m sitting around in the locker room, yearning for a gay relationship or anything. Craving a man to hold me, and a deep voice in the dark.
Nothing like that.
Obviously.
But still, if I did think that way, if I’d actually sacrificed something, they don’t know what it’s like.
Finn and Luke all of a sudden declared themselves in love with men. They never deprived themselves, repressed themselves, they were just instantly happy and in love.
And Jesus Christ, who could blame me for resenting them?
But I know the thought is wrong as soon as it enters my head.
Everyone blames me.
They always have.
CAL
Jason’s face shutters. Being near him still feels strange. It’s embarrassing to remember the last day we saw each other as teens. Because the night before... I’d thought it’d been great.
My heart had been happy, bouncing against my ribs, unable to sleep as I relived our kiss a thousand times. His hands had run along my face in what I’d thought had been wonder. He’d been hard. I’d been hard.
But I guess teenage hormones can be blamed for any physical reactions on his part. The next day he’d left the program, and when I’d contacted him, he’d told me not to do so again.
I’d felt dirty.
God, I’d been an idiot.
“I’m sitting over there...” I point to a table outside by the water. “It has a nice view. Come join me.”
His face hardens. “We’re not friends, Cal. This isn’t the 2010s.
My cheeks flame. “I know, I—”
His gaze falls to the bracelet on my wrist, and his eyes bulge. “What’s that?”
I follow his gaze. “A rainbow bracelet.”
“Take that off.” He looks around, then lowers his voice. “People will think you’re gay.”
“Jason...”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m not taking it off, Jason. I’m gay.”
Jason blinks. “Seriously?”
I stiffen. “You didn’t know?”
“No.”
“I thought hockey camp made that obvious.”
“But that was different.”
I frown, but Jason is already sauntering away.
He plops down on an inside table, as people continue to walk around him, balancing heavy plates topped with desserts and eggs and meat and sushi and yogurt, as if the resort is hopeful they’ll get upset stomachs, and the pools will be mostly empty this afternoon.
I stride outside.
I don’t care. I absolutely don’t care.
I take my seat and watch the waves lap against the shore. People on paddle boats move over the water, as if they’re delighted to have discovered that if you pay enough money, you can be inside a postcard.
Everything is outrageously pretty, the sort of perfection that finds its way onto desktop backgrounds, distributed to millions. I’ll focus on that.
I’m in Fiji, and it’s incredible.
I refuse to think about certain grumpy, impossibly attractive hockey players with pale blonde hair and blue, constantly assessing eyes, and clear skin that’s flushed in the Pacific heat.
A ping pops up on my phone. It’s my boss.
I smooth my features, trying to avoid looking either maniacally happy or on-the-verge-of-being-committed fearful.
I answer the video call.
Rex Manley, my onetime and still current hero, frowns at me. The light is dim. It must be nighttime in Boston.
“Callum.” Rex gives the sort of smile I sometimes saw on the faces of opposing players before the puck dropped. His eyes shimmer, but not in a jovial Santa Claus manner. “You seem to be enjoying yourself.”
I’m conscious of the people strutting around in teeny bathing suits around me. “Um, sorry. Yes, sir.”
“Have you spoken with Mr. Larvik?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh.” Rex blinks. “That’s wonderful. I confess, I didn’t expect that.”
My stomach turns cold.
I want to be a sports reporter. Sports Sphere is the best network there is for that. A poor showing there will ensure I won’t get any other opportunity. I have my dream job. Now I need to make sure I keep it.
This was supposed to be the easy part, but I’m finding it difficult.
“The hotel looks nice,” Rex continues, but I know he means that it’s too nice.
“It’s okay.”
“Have you seen him talking to any other guests?”
I slide my gaze over to him. Guests eye him.
God, he’s handsome.
I should never have kissed him ten years ago. Everyone thinks he’s attractive. That doesn’t mean he wants someone’s lips on his. Usually people kiss after they’ve been dating, preparing themselves for the action after coffee shop chats and candle-lit restaurant discussions.
“He’s been by himself. Mostly in his villa. Blinds shut and everything.”
Rex heaves a sigh. “This story needs to be interesting, Cal.”
“I understand, sir.”
Rex yawns, then clicks off.
I glance at Jason’s table. He’s already gone. Where did he go?
I take a slice of my eggs. It’s cold in my mouth.
I try to chew, but I don’t seem to have any tastebuds anymore and the action is strangely difficult.
Fuck it.
I hurry from the restaurant, moving at a speed the romantic couples scattered around the patio overlooking the Pacific do not attempt. I dart my eyes around, then spot Jason walking on the beach.
Bingo.
I hurry toward him.