Chapter 11 Jacks
Jacks
Saturdays were for sleeping in. All the gods decreed this was a sacred truth.
It was also acknowledged by anyone who’d ever worked a Friday night in the service industry.
I had earned this sleep.
I had bussed tables and hauled ice and talked a sad hockey player through an existential crisis.
The universe owed me at least until noon.
My phone buzzed again.
I groaned into my pillow and fumbled for the nightstand, fully prepared to silence whatever group chat had decided 9:47 was an acceptable time for human interaction.
But it wasn’t the group chat. It was a hyperactive golden retriever with more energy than any human should possess at such an ungodly hour.
And I couldn’t read his texts fast enough.
PuckingSkylerShaw: You up?
PuckingSkylerShaw: Wait, that sounds like a booty call. I promise it’s not a booty call.
PuckingSkylerShaw: I wanted to say thanks again for last night. I feel like I trauma dumped all over you and then fled into the night like a weirdo.
I stared at the screen, sleep fog clearing faster than it had any right to.
Three messages.
Skyler had sent three messages before 10 a.m. on a Saturday, and two of them were apologizing for the third.
It was kind of adorable. Definitely golden retriever-esque.
I typed back before my brain could catch up with my fingers.
Me: First of all, how dare you wake me before noon on my day off?
Me: Second, you didn’t trauma dump. You vented. There’s a difference. Trauma dumping doesn’t include maple syrup prank reenactments.
Me: Third, I’m billing you for the therapy session. My rates are reasonable. I accept payment in sliders.
The reply came faster than the tiny dots could dance.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Deal. Next time I’m in, sliders are on me.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Also sorry for waking you. Go back to sleep. Pretend I don’t exist until a reasonable hour.
Me: Too late. I’m awake now. The damage is done.
PuckingSkylerShaw: I’m a monster.
Me: The worst. Truly despicable.
PuckingSkylerShaw: In my defense, I’ve been up since 6. Practice waits for no man, not even men who stayed out too late talking to barbacks and drinking whiskey.
Me: You went to practice on 4 hours of sleep?
PuckingSkylerShaw: Closer to 3. It wasn’t my best showing. Coach called me a “moose on ice,” which I think is Canadian hockey speak for “you look like shit and I’m disappointed in you.”
Me: Ouch.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Deserved, but worth it.
I read that last message three times.
Worth it.
He’d said it was worth it.
Staying out late, losing sleep, and dragging himself through practice like a zombie was worth it!
Because of me?
No. That couldn’t be right. It was because of the conversation, because he’d needed to vent and Barbacks had been there, and I happened to be part of the package.
Still.
The sunlight that spread through my chest at those two words was harder to dismiss than I wanted it to be.
Me: Get some rest, hockey star. You’ve got games to win and coaches to disappoint.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Game tonight. Home against Boston. You working?
Me: Yeah, we’re showing it at the bar. Saturday Lightning games are basically a holiday for us.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Nice. Cheer loud for me.
Me: I’ll wave a giant foam finger. Really embarrass you.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Please don’t. Murph would never let me live it down.
Me: Fine. I’ll wave my middle finger.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Funny boy.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Hey, random question—what are you doing tomorrow? Before the game, I mean. We play at 7, but I’m free during the day.
I stared at the message. Read it again. A third time, just to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.
Was Skyler Shaw asking me to hang out?
Me: I’m off until my shift at 5. Why?
PuckingSkylerShaw: I was thinking maybe we could grab lunch or something. If you’re free. No pressure.
PuckingSkylerShaw: I figured since we’re friends now (officially, per the DM blood pact) we should do friend things. Outside of bars. Like normal people.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Unless that’s weird. Is that weird? It might be weird.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Forget I asked. This is weird.
I was grinning at my phone like an idiot.
Skyler Shaw, NHL captain, guy with millions of followers and endorsement deals, was spiraling about asking me to lunch.
Me: It’s not weird. Lunch sounds good.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Yeah?
Me: Yeah. I know a place. Casual, good food, nobody will bother you.
PuckingSkylerShaw: You had me at “nobody will bother you.” Where?
Me: There’s this taco spot in Seminole Heights. Hole in the wall, best carnitas you’ve ever had. Very low-key.
PuckingSkylerShaw: I’m in. Text me the address?
Me: Will do. Meet at noon?
PuckingSkylerShaw: Perfect. It’s a date.
My heart stuttered.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Not a date date. Obvi. A friend date. A bro hangout. You know what I mean.
Me: I know what you mean.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Cool. Good. Awesome. I’m going to stop talking now before I make this weirder.
Me: Probably wise.
PuckingSkylerShaw: See you tomorrow, Jacks.
Me: See you, Sky. Win for me tonight.
PuckingSkylerShaw: First goal’s for you.
I set the phone down and stared at the ceiling. My apartment was quiet, morning light filtering through the blinds I kept meaning to replace. From somewhere outside, I could hear the neighbor’s dog barking at a squirrel or a mailman or the concept of existence itself.
I had plans with Skyler Shaw.
Lunch plans.
Outside of the bar, like normal people, as he’d put it. We’d be two guys grabbing tacos on a Sunday afternoon.
Friend things.
Bro hangouts.
Not a date.
Obvi.
Who the fuck says, “Obvi?”
Before I could examine that life-altering question, my phone buzzed again. This time it was the group chat I feared had replaced my morning alarm only moments ago, the one with Mia and DeShawn that had existed since sophomore year of college and had seen me through every major life event since.
Mia: Brunch at Cuba Libre. 11:30. Non-negotiable.
DeShawn: I’ll be there.
Mia: Jacks?
I could lie and say I was busy or claim illness, exhaustion, or a sudden need to reorganize my sock drawer. They were all valid excuses that Mia would see through in three seconds.
Me: Fine. But I’m ordering the most expensive thing on the menu.
Mia: That’s the spirit . . . even if you’re paying for your own meal.
Cuba Libre was already buzzing when I arrived, the Saturday brunch crowd filling the colorful space with chatter and the clink of mimosa glasses. I spotted Mia and DeShawn at our usual table near the back, already halfway through a basket of bread.
“You look like hell,” Mia said by way of greeting.
“Thanks. I was going for ‘mysterious and brooding,’ but I’ll take hell.”
“Sit. Eat.” She pushed the bread basket toward me. “You have bags under your eyes. Did you sleep at all?”
“Some.” I slid into the booth next to DeShawn, who offered me a fist bump and a sympathetic look. “Late night at work.”
“How late?”
“Got home around 2:30.”
Mia’s eyes narrowed.
She was small but mighty, five-foot-two of Cuban-American intensity packed into a frame that looked like it should belong to a Disney princess.
She’d been my lab partner freshman year and my emergency contact ever since.
She was the single most perceptive person I’d ever met. Lying to her was pointless.
“What aren’t you telling me?” She crossed her arms and sat back.
“Nothing. It was just a busy night.”
“Jackson Lleyton Hewitt Steinbrenner Smith.” She said the made-up name like a warning. “I have known you for six years, which in gay years is basically all of eternity. You get that exact look on your face when you’re hiding something. Spill.”
DeShawn leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, mirroring the queen’s posture, settling in for a show.
He was the opposite of Mia in almost every way: six-foot-four, built like the linebacker he used to be, and possessed a patience that bordered on supernatural.
He’d been my roommate junior year, stood next to me when my knee exploded, and held me together during the darkest months that followed.
These two knew me better than anyone and were more like family than any blood could demand.
“Skyler came by the bar last night,” I said.
Mia’s eyebrows shot up. “The hockey player? Your number one fan?”
“He’s not my—yes. Him.”
“Alone?” she asked, brow raised.
“Alone.”
“Interesting.” She exchanged a look with DeShawn. “You may continue.”
So I gave them the condensed version. I left out the “make me” slip and the way I’d called him Sky without thinking. Some things were too embarrassing to share, even with your besties.
“And then this morning,” I continued, “he texted to say thanks.”
“And?” said the Oracle of Omaha, not buying the period at the end of my sentence.
“And then he asked if I wanted to grab lunch tomorrow.”
Mia’s eyes went supernova as her voice jumped an octave. “He asked you out?”
“Shh!” I glanced around to make sure no one could overhear. “He’s a pro player, Mi. Keep it quiet, okay?”
Her whole face scrunched into a frown, as though I’d insulted the idea of chicharron.
I continued in a whisper, “He asked me to lunch. As friends. He was very clear about that. He even used the phrase ‘bro hangout’ twice.”
“Bro hangout,” DeShawn repeated, a smile tugging at his lips. “That’s adorable.”
“Shut up, Dish. It’s not adorable. It’s just lunch.”
“With a famous hockey player who keeps finding reasons to see you.” Mia leaned forward on her elbows and batted her evil, all-seeing eyes. “What did you say?”
“Well, duh, I said yes. We’re going to that taco place in Seminole Heights. It’s casual and low-key.”
“And very date-like,” DeShawn added.
Mia’s grin turned feral.
“It’s not a date.”
“Does he know that?” DeShawn asked.
“He said ‘not a date date’ in the text.”
Mia and Shawn exchanged another one of those looks, the ones that made me feel like a specimen under a microscope.
“What?” I demanded.
“Nothing,” Mia said, though she was smiling now. “It’s funny. You’re both so adamant that it’s not a date, which means someone wishes it was.”
“He’s straight, Mia.”
“So you keep saying,” DeShawn countered.
“He literally told me about the woman who broke up with him.”
“The woman he felt nothing for. The woman who said he wasn’t present.” She shrugged. “I’m just saying that’s not a ringing endorsement of his heterosexuality.”
“It’s not an endorsement of anything. He’s going through a rough patch. I’m someone easy to talk to. That’s all this is.”
“Okay.” She held up her hands in surrender. “I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t, but I believe you because I am the very definition of understanding and . . . what’s the word, Dish? Fabulous. Yes, understanding and fabulous.”
“Fabulocity?” DeShawn suggested.
“Fabulousness?” she let play on her tongue.
“I hate you both,” I said, smothering my face with both hands.
“Have fun, man,” DeShawn said. “Don’t overthink it. If it’s just lunch, it’s just lunch. If it turns into something else, you’ll get a dick in the mouth and that’ll be your clue.”
Mia lost it.
“Thank you.” I shot Mia a pointed look. “Both of you. You are most helpful.”
“Aren’t we always?” Mia smiled. “It helps that I’m also always right. Those two things can coexist.”
We ordered food, and the conversation drifted to Mia’s clinic, DeShawn’s team, and the latest episode of The Traitors Australia, a reality show they’d gotten me hooked on.
We’d already binged all the US and UK episodes and were now devouring the Aussies at an unnatural pace.
It was normal stuff, easy stuff, the kind of conversation that reminded me why these two were my people.
But underneath it all, I couldn’t stop thinking about tacos with Skyler.
A bro hangout.
Two friends grabbing lunch like normal people.
Nothing more.
On cue, my phone buzzed in my pocket. Being a complete idiot, I pulled it out and glanced at the screen.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Random question. What’s your favorite movie? I need to know for science and shit.
I smiled before I could stop myself.
Mia noticed. “Is that him?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re smiling at your phone as though Lady Gaga just called,” DeShawn said.
“I’m smiling because he asked a funny question. That’s allowed, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.” Mia sipped her mimosa with exaggerated innocence. “Sure, babe. Just friends.”
I ignored her and typed my reply.
Me: For science? Or shit? Can’t be both. In either case, I need to consider my answer. This feels like a test.
PuckingSkylerShaw: It is a test. As the wise man in Indiana Jones once said, “Choose wisely.”
Me: That’s not the quote, but whatever.
Me: The Princess Bride. Final answer. Lock it in.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Oh thank God. If you’d said something pretentious, I was going to have to cancel tomorrow.
Me: Never. I’m a man of taste and culture.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Clearly. This is why we’re friends.
Friends.
That’s what we were.
I put the phone away and went back to brunch, ignoring the knowing looks from across the table.
Tomorrow was just lunch.
Just tacos.
Just two friends hanging out.
Nothing to overthink.
Nothing at all.