Chapter 8
GUS
“Step one, ask Eli on a date.”
Rafe’s mouth formed a perfect O. “What? I can’t do that.”
“Of course you can.”
I hiked my workout bag on my shoulder, sliding my thumb around the strap as Rafe and I headed for the rink.
I wanted to leave my stuff in my locker, and my roomie was going to take advantage of the free ice time to practice his moves.
He’d said something about perfecting a complicated triple spin and the importance of keeping up his speed. Made sense to me.
I’d even convinced him to ride with me to campus so I could extend our powwow-slash-planning session.
See, when we’d talked about our schedules over morning coffee and realized that my practice ended at the same time as Rafe’s final class of the day, it had made sense to drive together and maybe grab some groceries on our way home.
Bonus: It gave me an excuse to show up late to Vincento’s to meet with my friends later. By the time I joined them, they’d be a few pitchers in and no one would notice that I was more interested in pizza than beer. Smart thinking, huh?
Nine days in and I was doing okay. I felt better physically, but I’d be lying if I claimed that I didn’t want to get high every fucking morning or drink every fucking night. I craved it. Seriously craved it.
I envied people who could choose sobriety. I knew guys who could say, “No, thanks. I’m not drinking tonight.” Just like that. I mean… Wow. That was not me. I was here white-knuckling it, hoping like hell this would get easier.
Update: It wasn’t easy at all. I stared at my ugly mug every morning and talked myself out of self-medicating. It was the same speech I gave my teammates in the heat of battle.
“You got this. It’s tough, but you’re tougher.”
What a bunch of crap. I wasn’t tough. I was desperate.
So desperate that I’d contacted my old therapist and set up a few online sessions. She said I needed tools and daily support.
“Go to meetings, Gus. There’s no shame in admitting you need help.”
I wasn’t sure about that. My mother definitely wouldn’t agree.
My mom had pretty much had a cow the day I came out as bisexual.
She couldn’t say the word without her lips twisting as if she’d smelled a skunk.
To her, it was code for “hedonistic party lifestyle.” Adding a possible substance addiction to the list of labels she disapproved of would be icing on the cake and would probably cement my reputation as the family’s lost cause—a perpetual student and a has-been hockey player with no postcollege prospects.
Okay, see? Half of that wasn’t true. My mom could be demanding and relentless, but I knew she loved me. I was being a dick. And this self-hating BS that had become my new private pastime wasn’t a good look.
Needless to say, it was better all around if I spent my free time doing something positive—like helping Rafe. And so far, it was going well.
“No, that is the worst wingman advice I’ve ever heard,” Rafe huffed, pushing the arena door open. “Where is the creativity? Where’s the hook?”
I snorted. “You’re not getting fucking married. You’re going to have dinner at the diner.”
“The diner? Oh, hell no.” He shot a disgusted sideways glance at me before continuing down the corridor to the rink’s main entrance.
“What’s wrong with the diner? Great fries, great burgers.” I followed him inside, inhaling a gulp of refrigerated air as we took the stairs leading to the ice.
“Have you ever taken a date to the diner?”
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone on a date. Period. “I think so.”
“No wonder you’re single,” he mumbled, sliding onto an empty bench in the first row.
“Ha. Ha.”
I scanned the rink, noting a few individuals gliding along the periphery and two figure skaters on either end practicing complicated twirls and jumps.
I’d played hockey for as long as I could remember and I was a damn good skater, but I wouldn’t even pretend to know how to spin without falling flat on my ass.
Rafe kicked his sneakers off and pulled on his skates, bending to lace them securely. “I don’t think this is a good idea anymore, and—”
“Cool it with the bad attitude, Rafey. Pro tip for the day…every meeting is an opportunity. You’re a nice guy under that porcupine suit. Show it. Do something simple like compliment Eli’s footwork.”
Rafe snorted. “That’s like telling someone you like the way they walk. Awkward.”
“It was an example. Think of something else or better yet, practice on me. Gimme a compliment.” I wiggled my fingers meaningfully, not quite hiding my grin at Rafe’s WTF expression.
He opened his mouth, shook his head, and sighed in reluctant acquiescence. “Okay. Um…”
The scrutinizing once-over was comically thorough.
“I’m waiting,” I singsonged.
“I like your hair. It’s…a nice color. Chestnut. I believe that’s the proper name.”
“Ouch. You really do suck at this.”
Rafe jabbed me with his elbow. “What do you suggest?”
“Use a light touch. Like this.” I struck a casual pose, propping my hand on the bench and leaning backward. “I heard this great song on my way to practice. It reminded me of you.”
He stared at me for a beat. “What’s the song?”
“Doesn’t matter. You skate away before he asks. Let him wonder.”
“Oooh! Right. Right. I thought you were speaking to me and—never mind.”
I grinned. “Are you blushing? ’Cause it’s a good sign if you are. Lemme see that face. C’mon.”
Rafe smacked my arm with a laugh. “You’re so annoying.”
“I know.” I took another glance at the ice. “Will Eli show up soon?”
“We both usually practice at this time, so…theoretically yes.”
“Okay, I’ll get out of your way.” I squeezed his shoulder, and damn…
Rafe had muscles. And from this angle, his cheekbones were razor-sharp and his lips were pink and plump and— Whoa!
No ogling the roommate. I coughed and stepped aside.
“Use my line about the song…it’s a good one. You got this, Johnson.”
“Johannsen.”
“Right. I knew that.”
He shoved me away, but he was smiling when he did it.
I took that as a good sign.
“That was the first and last time I will ever take your advice.”
I lowered my sunglasses like a boss before pulling them off and grabbing a cart. “What did you do?”
Rafe blew a piece of hair from his eyes and stomped ahead of me into Bear Market.
He made a beeline for the produce section and picked up a container of strawberries.
He popped open the lid and examined the berries, did a double take at the price marked on the display, and quickly returned them to the shelf.
I rescued the strawberries, tossed them into the cart, and followed Rafe to the apples, where he was struggling with a biodegradable bag. I snatched the bag away, licked a finger, and easily opened it.
“Thanks, but you shouldn’t lick your fingers,” he said without heat.
I made a show of licking my palm to gross him out, snickering at his put-upon glower and the smile he couldn’t quite mask. “Out with it. What happened with Eli?”
“I used your line, modulated my voice so I didn’t sound overeager or creepy. Flawless execution if you ask me. But as I predicted, Eli asked what song reminded me of him. I pretended not to hear, but he wouldn’t let it go, so I blurted…”
“Jesus, don’t stop now. I’m on the edge of my seat,” I cajoled.
“ ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ ”
I groaned. “Oh, man. Mega cringe. Dude, that’s bad. And it’s my dad’s music. How do you even know that song?”
Rafe bristled, pushing the cart toward the organic produce section. “I’m well versed in popular music.”
“Try classic rock, my friend.”
“I know what it is! My coach back home loved Led Zeppelin. I did one of my first ever programs to one of their songs. But the truth is…” He averted his gaze to study the leaves on the red lettuce.
“ ‘Highway to Hell’ was playing in the lobby and somehow, I managed to catch myself before I said that instead.”
I howled. I couldn’t help it. That was freaking hysterical. I made a mini production of strapping on my air guitar and rocking out in front of the tomato display.
Rafe leveled me with a deadpan stare as he filled the cart with a medley of veggies. I struck a pose with one last flourishing lick, shoved my phantom guitar aside, and got busy adding my own supply of fruits and vegetables.
“You’re building a mystery. Remember that. He doesn’t need to know everything you’re thinking. It’s enough to know that he crossed your mind.” I tossed a bag of carrots, celery, and two prepackaged salads on top of his measly bunch of red lettuce.
“Hang on. This—” Rafe motioned to the growing pile of produce in the cart. “—isn’t going to work. It’ll take forever to divvy up our food at the register. Let’s shop separately and meet outside afterward.”
“It’s all going to the same address. Don’t make it complicated.”
He frowned. “I’m not trying to be difficult, but I can’t risk going over budget.”
“Oh. Well…what’s your budget today?”
“Fifty dollars. And whatever I buy has to last a week.”
My eyes bugged out slightly. “A week? How is that possible?”
“Careful planning, willpower, and a separate budget for weekly splurges like my three large lattes at Coffee Cave, one pizza at Vincento’s, and one evening out with friends.
If I spend all my funds here, I’ll have to forego a treat, and I’m not willing to do that.
” Rafe stopped in front of the orange juice, mulling brand name prices.
“As for Eli…I’ve embarrassed myself quite enough.
If you’re still interested, he’s all yours. ”
I grabbed two jugs of OJ and made room for them next to Rafe’s apples. “One for you, one for me. I owe you at least five more of these, so don’t argue. And I don’t want Eli, and this isn’t done till you find your balls and ask him out.”
“I know exactly where my balls are, you…caveman,” Rafe growled, deliberately running the cart over my foot.
“Ow. Jesus, you’re testy.” I steered us toward the cookies and chips aisle.
“And you know I’m right. You’ll be mad at yourself if you don’t do it.
Plus you’ll screw up the roommate game. If you give up on Eli, you’ll give up on me too, and before you know it, you’ll hate me again ’cause I’ll accidentally drink your juice and leave Oreo crumbs on the counter. Regular or Double Stuf?”
I held up both packages.
“Neither. Oreos are terrible for you,” he declared, crossing his arms. “They’re nothing but mass-produced sugar pills. I’m surprised you’d put them in your body.”
“My body loves Double Stuf…and ice cream. I work out. I can handle a few Oreos or ten.” I flexed my muscles to rile him up, but damned if he didn’t check me out.
And why did I suddenly feel warm and tingly?
“Get over yourself, Langley. But it’s your temple…fill it with crap as you see fit,” he said with a nonchalant shrug. “Okay. If you insist on making a game of it, I’m open to one more bit of advice. That’s it, though.”
Uh…advice. It took a moment for me to track the change in topic. I liked it better when he was staring at my pecs, tracing his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, and—
Rafe poked my ribs, motioning for me to make room for the young mom navigating around us with two munchkins skipping behind her.
“Okay, well…I got two ideas for you. Favorite karaoke song and best series you’ve ever binged.”
“That sounds like ‘how to look desperate in under five seconds’ advice.” He made a buzzer sound. “Try again.”
“Nope. I’ve given you gold, Johannsen. Work with it.
Everyone has a karaoke story and or a show they freaking love and can’t shut up about.
Get him talking while you’re practicing your spins or something.
I guarantee you’ll have your opening to ask him out.
How do you feel about sriracha?” I held up a bottle.
“I like it…sparingly. Too much changes the taste of whatever you’re eating.”
“True, but I like spicy food. I went to this karaoke bar where they served the hottest wings ever. Ty put my name on the list to sing a Britney Spears song. My mouth was on fire and I could barely whisper into the mic, let alone sing.”
Rafe’s lips twitched with humor as he pushed the cart and perused chicken breasts. “Which song?”
“ ‘Toxic.’ I was supposed to make my voice extra deep and Ty was gonna go high, but those damn wings lit a fire in my throat. I won’t be ordering those any time soon. It’s a great bar, though. Hey, we should go sometime. What are you doing next Friday?” I winked. “See what I did there?”
He added chicken to our now half-full cart and grinned. “That was impressive.”
“Thank you. If you need another pep talk, I’m here for you, but I’ve got do-or-die playoff games next week and—”
“I’m fine.”
“I know you are. I believe in you, Rafester.”
He blushed, then grumbled about the sodium in a bottle of soy sauce.
I was a little insulted that he thought I’d buy his faux-grouchy routine.
I’d been privy to the real grump, so I could tell the difference.
But I didn’t call him out on it ’cause whether he’d realized it or not, Rafe had let me in.
Sharing a ride to and from school, grocery shopping together, sitting next to each other at the rink and talking about boys…all this was new. I kinda liked my prickly roommate, even if he was squirrely, quick to take offense, and stubbornly proud.
Rafe wouldn’t let me buy the groceries outright, so I doubled the quantities, took his fifty bucks, and tomorrow I’d remind him that I had an away game and tell him to help himself so nothing went to waste.
This was just me playing the roommate game.
Maybe someday I’d be honest and let Rafe know I was probably getting more out of this than he was.
Practicing discipline and accountability off the ice wasn’t something I’d done in years.
Maybe stringing a few days of abstinence together was the definition of taking baby steps, but it was something.
And if I looked forward to being with Rafe, talking about our days and squabbling over how to properly bake a potato while binging White Lotus, that was something too.