Chapter 5
GUS
I’d been sober for a week. No alcohol, nothing to dull my senses or drown out the voices in my head.
It had been a rough few days. The hangover from hell had lasted a solid forty-eight hours.
My brain had banged against my skull like a hammer, and it had taken my stomach a little extra time to get on board with anything other than toast or bland turkey sandwiches.
It was almost as if I’d been recovering from a terrible flu.
Not gonna lie, it had freaked me out.
But the listlessness and general blah feeling had dissipated, and by midweek, I’d felt more like myself. The unmedicated me who was fidgety as fuck, smiled too wide, and carried a restless energy that seemed to amuse or alarm the general public.
I’d forgotten how irritating it was to constantly manage my words and reactions. Tone it down and be chill warred with Don’t zone out…no matter how boring this asshole is in my head.
Getting the balance right was tough, but I was determined this time. I was reasonably sure my bad habits hadn’t tipped into a full-scale issue. I wasn’t an alcoholic or an addict…yet. I could control this. I had to. There was no way I was doing another secret rehab stint.
No way.
I had to get my shit together. I couldn’t stay at Smithton forever, hiding from familial expectation.
Besides, other than Brady, my best friends were graduating this year, and I was already on the brink of being the pathetic old guy on campus.
Christ, I was going to be twenty-five this year. Twenty-fucking-five.
But I wouldn’t get anywhere if I couldn’t think clearly. So…I went cold turkey.
News flash: it sucked.
I’d been nauseous at practice on Monday and had actually taken a break to puke in the middle of sprints.
“You okay, Langley?” Coach had asked.
“Stomach bug. I’m fine.” I’d grabbed my stick and blasted onto the ice. Not fast enough to avoid Coach’s penetrating stare.
I wondered if he knew I was a mess. I wondered if they all knew and that the only person I’d been fooling all along was me.
Yep, that was when the paranoia set in.
I’d been positive the TA in my criminal justice class was looking at me weird the next day. Shar, our favorite waitress at Bear Depot, had set her hand on my forehead and told me I needed more rest. Darya at Coffee Cave had questioned my latte order, and that had sent me spinning, too.
“Sure you don’t want the extra shot? You usually order it that way.”
Oh, right.
I’d smiled, but it had felt plastic, as if I’d been wearing a broken mask.
I found myself checking my pits to be extra sure I didn’t stink ’cause damn, I was sweaty and jittery too. Everyone had to notice.
But they didn’t.
Ty was in la-la land with Walker, Brady was freaked out about midterms, and Regan was having girlfriend issues. I nodded and said a few encouraging words, like, “Happy for you man” to Ty and “You got this, Brade-ster” to Brady, and “Cassie’s awesome, Re-Man. Just talk to her.”
Christ, I sounded normal.
By Wednesday, I’d thought I had my mojo back. I’d been strong at practice—my passing game on point and my reflexes legit quick. Four days sober was all it had taken. Fuck, yeah!
For someone who sought excuses to celebrate, this was it. Party at my pad! But I’d stayed strong.
Good thing too ’cause Thursday, I’d run into a pretty brunet who’d greeted me like an old friend and I’d spiraled all over again.
“Hey you,” she’d purred, digging her teeth into her bottom lip as she’d twirled a strand of her long hair around her finger. “You didn’t text me.”
I’d read the social cues and put the pieces together, but they were incomplete at best. Was there a polite way to tell someone that you couldn’t remember their name or place them in a lineup?
Probably not. And I certainly wasn’t about to admit that I wasn’t sure what we’d done.
Her look had indicated that whatever it was had been sexy.
But had we made out or fucked or something in between? Had it been good?
A rogue memory of waking up half-naked and queasy the other morning had flashed in my mind. So real that my stomach had flipped and I’d almost gagged.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been busy with midterms and practice.”
She’d trailed a manicured finger down my chest, gazing up at me with a saucy expression that had left little room for misinterpretation. She’d wanted me.
Me.
Was she nuts?
Last week I would have been all over this. I’d have immediately invited her to the house for a repeat. Why wait till evening? We could go now and fuck like bunnies. I’d charm her name from her, and she’d never know I was a shithead with the maturity of a blowfish.
But this week…she was living, breathing proof that I was a complete and total fuckup. I was embarrassed and ashamed, and at a loss as to how to tell someone they could do better with literally any other man on the planet.
“You have my number. Use it.” She’d left before I could respond.
I’d swiped my forearm across my mouth and speed-walked to my truck, my fingers shaking as I’d turned on the engine.
Get your shit together, Langley.
So yeah…it had been a bad week.
The only saving grace was that Rafe hadn’t been home much. I figured he was still supremely pissed at me for the partying, the mess, and the grocery bullshit. Maybe he needed some space or was just busy, but for the sake of sanity, I chose to believe he hadn’t thought twice about me.
Either way, I’d been on my best behavior.
I’d kept the house tidy, I hadn’t touched anything that didn’t belong to me in the kitchen, and I hadn’t invited anyone over.
I’d stayed out of Rafe’s way as much as humanly possible and worked on keeping my shit together.
A mumbled greeting in the hallway had been the extent of our interaction.
Until today.
I rinsed my cup in the sink, my stomach rumbling as I plotted out my morning. I was hungry. No, I was ravenous. It was the first time I’d had a real appetite in days. Not that I hadn’t been eating…just not as much as usual.
Last week’s me would have swiped the blueberry yogurt hidden behind the milk in the fridge and helped myself to a couple of slices of the cinnamon raisin bread I’d spotted in the pantry. Now, I was bummed I hadn’t ordered groceries online or stopped by the market last night or—
“Oh. You’re still here.” Rafe paused in the doorway, cradling a “Go Figure” mug with a figure skater’s silhouette to his chest.
“Yeah, I’m on my way out, though. I’m gonna have to swing by the market later today. Did you want me to pick up anything for you?”
“You mean for the party? No, that’s not necessary. Just bring your charming self.” His smile was a little too tight, but he seemed more stressed than insincere.
“What party?”
“The party I told you I was having. It’s tomorrow. Here. And…well, okay…I have to admit it’s not going according to plan, but it’ll still be a rip-roarin’ good time.”
“Rip-roarin’?” I chuckled. “I’m sure it’ll be a blast. Have fun.”
He frowned. “I…you’re invited too.”
“Thanks, but I’m gonna sit this one out.”
“What? You said you’d be there. You asked how you could help and even offered your friends’ assistance.
Don’t you remember?” Rafe stepped into the kitchen, set his mug on the counter, and continued speaking with expressive hand gestures.
“Yes, my big idea of pulling an all-nighter is a bust—Penny has a date, so she’s only available till seven o’clock, and I hadn’t taken the age gap of her clientele into account.
Turns out one of her best pupils is a seventy-five-year-old grandma of six who could kick my ass in an arm-wrestling match.
She sounds incredible, so I’m inviting her anyway, but… I still need you.”
Okay, that was a mouthful of confusing.
I cocked my head curiously. “Someone’s grandma is coming to your party, and it’s rip-roarin’ till seven p.m.? Did I get that right?”
“Yes…sort of. But there’s more to it. Obviously. Great food, amazing tunes, and you will not believe the beverage selection.” Rafe plucked the pair of glasses hooked on the collar of his “Axel Me This” T-shirt and pushed them onto his nose. “Crazy good.”
Huh. Was it me or was my roommate giving hot nerd vibes?
“You wear glasses?”
He pulled them off immediately, squinting like an owl. “I…yes. I take out my contacts to sleep, and use these as necessary.”
“Are they new?”
“No.”
Fuck. He’d been wearing glasses for months, and this was the first time I’d noticed?
I cleared my throat. “Oh. Can you see without them?”
“No, not at all. You’re a big blur, but—”
“Put ’em back on.” Unbelievably, Rafe complied without making a federal case about it. He immediately looked softer, more approachable…and really fucking cute. “I like them.”
“Uh…thanks.” He tucked his hair behind his ear.
“You’re welcome.” I dried my mug and returned it to the cupboard as heat pooled south to my groin.
Chubby alert.
What the hell? Yeah, Rafe was attractive—if you were into hedgehogs or porcupines. Seriously, the dude was prickly as fuck.
I didn’t think I was hard up, so I wasn’t sure what was going on with my dick. Nothing good, that was for damn sure.
“I should get ready,” he said, shaking me from my internal freak-out session. “See you later…and whatever you do, don’t forget tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” I repeated, holding his shifty gaze like a champ. “What time does this banger start?”
“Four o’clock?”
My brow creased so hard, I gave myself a mini headache. “In the afternoon?”
“It’s gonna be…great.” His delivery lacked conviction, but he pushed his glasses to the bridge of his nose and smiled and, yep…I was putty in his hands.
“All right. I’ll be here.”
To top off an already strange week, for the first time in the five and a half months we’d been roommates, Rafe initiated a high five.
Weird. I couldn’t read these new signals to save my life. The glasses, the party I had to attend, the lack of general antipathy. And yeah, don’t act so surprised. I knew big words too. Still…nothing in my life made sense at the moment.
Thank God for hockey.
Our season had been full of the usual ups and downs, but the Bears had become a finely tuned machine over the past month, crushing our competition in the postseason. Our passes connected with ease as if we could read signals based on body language or the tilt of a blade.
Personally, I was a little more hit or miss, but the rest of the guys were on fire.
Ty especially. He was our AHL-bound superstar and our biggest weapon on the ice.
I might have been the captain, but I wasn’t as fast or agile as Ty or Brady.
However, I was adept at reading the ice and getting the puck to the most open player.
Right now, that was Ty.
The Bears were up three to two with six minutes left in the third period as I deked around St. Mark’s biggest threat, controlling the puck and maneuvering to the goal.
Ty was on my left but I could feel the defender closing in, blocking that option.
There was no one else nearby. I had two choices: take the shot myself or dump it.
Now, this was where I relied on almost two decades of training to guide me. This wasn’t rocket science. This was a low-consequence split decision. The only way to fuck it up was to lose control of the puck.
Pass, dump, shoot…what’s it gonna be?
Seconds were ticking like a time bomb, but I froze.
I fucking froze.
“Langley, dump it!” Regan shouted. “Behind you!”
“Yo, Cap…I’ll take that.” St. Mark’s D-wad stripped the puck and skated down my lane on a breakaway with every Bear in the vicinity on his tail.
And scored.
Coach wisely called for a line change, skewering me with a harsh glare. I flopped onto the bench, removed my mouth guard, and guzzled half a bottle of water.
Ty sat beside me and did the same. “What happened out there?”
Shit, I was sweating all over again—more than the lights and nonstop action called for. My hair was drenched, my socks were wet, and I was parched. I drank more water and shook my head. “I don’t know. We’ll get it back.”
We did. No thanks to me.
I didn’t touch the puck once on the play that eventually led to a score in the final minute of the game.
However, we won, and that was what mattered. I pumped up my team like I always did and gave the requisite “We got this, Bears” speech that everyone expected. No one questioned my game, but I did get a few funny looks when I suggested going to Vincento’s rather than to my house.
“No party? You okay, Langley?” some smartass piped up.
I gave him the finger and dropped my towel on my way to the showers. The hoots of laughter and the usual locker room melee were a balm to my inner frazzled state. I belonged with these guys. I was a team member, a friend, a captain.
I was somebody.
Now I just had to convince myself that losing hockey wouldn’t be the end of me.