Chapter 3 #2
As if by mutual agreement, they headed around the side of the house and sat on the front porch steps, where they wouldn’t wake anyone with their conversation. The porch lights were bright, and around them, crickets chirped incessantly.
“That’s not true. I guess I am a farm boy in the technical sense.
I grew up here.” Ryland extended his legs, crossing them at the ankles.
“But Jason was the real farm boy. Me? I was either playing hockey or out with my friends. Or playing hockey with my friends. Running the farm never interested me.”
Dabbs leaned his elbows on the step above him, giving him a perfect view of the beauty mark on the back of Ryland’s neck. “How old were you when you learned to skate?”
“Five, maybe six. It was a few months after my parents divorced. I think they put me in skating—and then hockey—just to get rid of me for a few hours a week. According to them, I acted out a lot right after the divorce.” Ryland let out a short laugh, the sound hollow and brittle.
“I don’t remember that part. I just remember things feeling chaotic.
Like life had flipped upside down while I wasn’t looking, and nobody noticed that I couldn’t figure out how to turn it right side up again. ”
An ache settled behind Dabbs’ ribs. Had Ryland acted out in a desperate attempt to get his parents to pay attention to him?
Had leaving food out for the wildlife been his way of trying to feel less alone during a tumultuous time?
Dabbs wanted to ask, but the set of Ryland’s shoulders cautioned him against it. “Where’s your mom now?”
“In France. She remarried when I was fifteen. A Frenchman she met while on vacation a couple of years after my parents divorced. She’s been in Lyon ever since.”
“It must be tough to have her so far away.”
Ryland shrugged one shoulder casually. Dabbs didn’t buy it.
“We text all the time and video chat when we can. Are your parents still together?”
Dabbs should’ve expected the question given the conversation, yet it nevertheless took him by surprise. He was tempted to change the subject or claim fatigue and head back to bed, but that wouldn’t be fair after Ryland had exposed part of his own soul.
“No.” Dabbs rubbed a palm over his jaw. “My mom took my sisters and me away from our dad when I was ten. He was . . . ”
Christ. How to explain? He pictured his dad ripping his seventeen-out-of-twenty math quiz in half right in front of him and clenched his teeth.
Ryland turned toward him, his brows pulled low. “Did he hurt you?”
“He was a bully. Verbally abusive. Mean. The kind of guy who’d find fault with perfection.
” A moth flew past Dabbs’ face. “I had a friend from school over once, and while he was there, my dad went apeshit over a sand pail that my youngest sister had left out. Totally lost it. Called my sister lazy and told her she was old enough to put away her own toys. Accused my mom of purposefully leaving it out for him to trip over. My friend told a bunch of the other kids at school what had happened, and none of them wanted to come over after that—not that I could blame them.”
“Sounds like a swell guy, your dad.” Ryland’s sarcasm was unmistakable. “Are you still in touch?”
“No. He once told me that if I wasn’t a top three overall draft pick, what was the point? I blocked his number after that.”
“Probably a smart move for your mental health.”
They lapsed into silence for several moments, the crickets chirping loudly around them. Hanging his head back, Dabbs looked up at a sky silvered with stars.
He hadn’t thought about Dimitri in years and had never quite forgiven him for telling all of their school friends that his dad was—to quote Dimitri—“so scary.” It had made Dabbs the oddball among his friends with their perfect home lives, and he’d never quite fit in with them after that.
Ryland mimicked Dabbs’ position, elbows on the stair behind them and legs kicked out. Their shoulders brushed, sending a flurry of goosebumps up Dabbs’ arms.
“You mentioned sisters,” Ryland said. “How many?”
“Two. Both younger.”
“So you’re the oldest of three? I’m the youngest of three. Do you know what that means?”
“I’m almost afraid to ask.”
“It means we belong together. Like cupcakes and sprinkles.”
“Oh yeah?” Dabbs chuckled. “Says who?”
Ryland smiled winningly. “Me.”
Dabbs rose with a grunt, amused despite himself, and held his hands out to Ryland. “It’s not a good idea.”
Ryland placed his hands in his. “Why not?”
“We play for different teams,” Dabbs said, pulling him up.
“So?”
“So . . . ” He faltered, briefly lost for words as Ryland’s chest collided with his. He couldn’t bring himself to step back. “We’d never see each other.”
Ryland’s eyebrow went up. “That’s your main concern? I know plenty of hockey players in long-distance relationships with their partners. You probably do too.”
“We’re also . . . too different.”
Cocking his head, Ryland regarded him for a long moment. “You think so? Hm. I’ll just have to prove otherwise. Now come on. Let’s go back to bed. My nieces will be up at seven regardless of whether we’ve had a good night’s sleep or not.” He sauntered away, an extra sway to his hips.
Dabbs hesitated. “I really don’t want to get back in that tent.”
“Damn.” Ryland paused. “Now that you mention it, neither do I.”
“We could use one of the other tents?”
“But the sleeping bags are all in the main one. Fuck it. Let’s go inside and sleep in an actual bed. At least my back will thank me in the morning.” He strolled by Dabbs with a teasing grin and climbed the porch steps. “My bed’s big enough for two.”
Dabbs shook his head. “You don’t let up, do you? I’ll take the couch.”
“Spoilsport.” Ryland pushed the front door open, which his parents had kept unlocked in case anybody needed a real restroom in the middle of the night. “At least use Jason’s bed,” Ryland said quietly. “The couch is way too short for you.”
Since he had a point, Dabbs followed him through the darkened living room and up the stairs, several of which creaked under their feet. In the upstairs hallway, a nightlight illuminated their path to the bedroom at the end of the hall.
“This is Jason’s,” Ryland whispered.
He opened the door, flicked on the desk lamp . . .
And there, snuggled together in the middle of the bed, were Bellamy and Jason, fast asleep. One of them was snoring lightly.
Cursing under his breath, Ryland clicked the lamp off, and they snuck back out of the room, closing it quietly behind them.
“Looks like they had the same idea,” Ryland murmured. “Guess you have no choice but to bunk down with me.”
Ryland’s bedroom was a complex contradiction of guest room and little boy’s room.
It appeared to have been converted into a guest bedroom, yet there were trophies on shelves built into the wall and Ryland’s clothes lay folded on top of the dresser, as though he hadn’t been bothered to put them away on laundry day.
“You get that side.” Ryland pointed at the side of the bed closest to the window.
Dabbs slid under the bedcovers and closed his eyes, biting back a groan of contentment. This was so much better than sharing a tent with six other people.
Wait. If Bellamy and Jason were in the house, whose limbs had Dabbs been covered in earlier?
Maybe Bellamy and Jason had snuck out after Dabbs had left the tent?
He opened his eyes to ask Ryland’s opinion on it and found Ryland staring at him. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“I mean . . . ” Ryland booped his nose. “Aren’t you?”
Dabbs was.
A little too much.
He closed his eyes again.
“Good night, Ryland.”
“Good night, Dabbs.”
Dabbs was asleep before Ryland turned off the light.
* * *
Dabbs woke up to pitch-darkness and a tangle of limbs.
Still not in the sexy way.
The disappointment that hit was acute and unwanted.
Wait, scratch that. It wasn’t pitch-black. Sunlight played peekaboo around the sides of the blackout curtains, and the tangle of limbs was Ryland’s leg tucked between Dabbs’.
Plus, Ryland’s chest against his back and Ryland’s nose at the base of his neck.
It was . . . cozy. Warm. And judging by the state of his morning wood, his body didn’t hate the sensation of Ryland’s against his.
And was that Ryland’s morning wood poking him in the back?
Okay, maybe it was in the sexy way.
Still mostly asleep, Dabbs croaked a half-formed, “Wha?”
“I’m cold,” Ryland mumbled. “You stole all the covers.”
Dabbs raised his head to look and—
Shit. He had stolen all the covers, leaving Ryland in boxer shorts and a T-shirt, arms curled around himself for warmth against the house’s air conditioning and cuddled up to Dabbs for body heat.
“Fuck, Ry, sor—”
The door burst open, interrupting his apology, and Ryland’s eldest niece, Callie, launched herself onto the bed.
Dabbs’ morning wood instantly deflated.
Ryland made a pained sound and shimmied away from Dabbs. “Ow. Watch the elbows.”
“It’s Frozen Fest day,” Callie yelled much too loudly for whatever godawful time of the morning it was. “Get up, Uncle Ryland.”
“Hmm, I don’t know.” The teasing in Ryland’s voice was unmistakable. “What if I want to stay in bed all day?”
“But you promised I could get my face painted.”
“Did I? Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Callie whined. “Uncle Ryland. Get up.”
Dabbs flopped onto his back, chuckling as the seven-year-old tried ineffectually to drag the six-foot, two-hundred-pound hockey player with thighs bigger than her waist off the bed by the wrist.
“Oh no. Callie. I’m glued to the bed. Go get help.”
Callie laughed even as she said, “That’s not funny. Come on. Mom says to get your butt up so we can be at the festival in time for the ice cream contest.”
Ryland narrowed his gaze. “Your mom did not tell you to say butt.”
“Boys!” came Brie’s voice from downstairs. “Get your butts in gear. You’ve got half an hour before we leave without you.”
“See?” Callie preened. “I can say butt.”
“Oh, you can, can you?”