Chapter 1 #2
But a few days after the photoshoot ended, Cosmo added me to a group chat of nearly everyone who had been on set that day, and it almost felt like some kind of mentor program combined with a sibling group text.
I scrolled the names, and my heart did a double take when I saw Quinn on the list, but after spending an embarrassing three hours looking at old messages, I saw Quinn had only replied twice. And both times were one-word answers.
So at least it wasn’t just me he’d gone silent with. And hell, I couldn’t blame him either. I wasn’t the most social person in a room—digital or otherwise—full of people.
I couldn’t bring myself to talk much in the chat. Or, well, ever. Every time I typed out a response or a question, I second-, third-, and fourth-guessed myself until I just hit Delete, closed the app, then buried my face in my pillow and silent-screamed until my lungs hurt.
But that didn’t last.
One night, in a fit of anxiety over what my life was going to look like after school was over and I was forced to step out onto professional ice with, you know, cameras and shit watching, I word-vomited my entire relationship existential crisis.
Minus the virgin thing because I wasn’t ready to come out about that yet.
But my fingers got ahead of my rational brain, and right after hitting Send, I prayed for some kind of helpful answer.
Or, if not, that they wouldn’t spend the rest of my life mocking me.
Me: So yeah, how do you even handle relationships when you’re so busy all the time? I mean, do I wait? Do I date? Does it even matter? Is all of this reasonable? How can I be with someone if I’m never around to spend time with them? If I’m being annoying, please ignore me.
Brayden: Don’t put yourself in a box, man. Your rookie year you’re supposed to be having fun.
Colton: You’re overthinking it. You’re never annoying, okay? And I will kick anyone’s ass who makes you think that. Got it, chat? Now, go crochet me a dragon.
Cosmo: Breathe, dude. Even if you do date, you don’t need to propose to anyone. It’s not that deep. Rookie years are for playing hard and having fun. Just like the frat house, right?
Me: I guess that sounds reasonable, yeah.
Except that didn’t help with my problem at all or answer any questions. I could have fun—yeah. That was easy enough. But meeting people? Dating? Having sex? It seemed like an alien world full of a language I didn’t speak.
Then, two minutes later, I had a private message from someone I never thought I’d hear from again.
Quinn: I’m in Boston soon if you want to get together and talk about this sort of thing. I know pretty much all there is to know about maintaining relationships while being an active player.
That’s when my heart nearly stopped beating in my chest. Quinn had been kind to me at the shoot and had spoken to me more than he had anyone else, but the idea that he was offering to spend time with me while he was here was wild.
I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since the photoshoot ended.
His memory had me in a damn chokehold. It was the way he’d leaned in close to me, and the way he not-quite but almost smiled at me every time our eyes met.
And he didn’t make me feel like I was annoying at all.
He even let me help him when he had to do a pose sitting down and had trouble getting back up.
He had a commanding air about him—like he would be really, really good at telling people what to do, and that made me feel all hot around the collar.
And in the pants.
I hoped to fuck I’d done my best not to show that during the shoot, and maybe I succeeded because otherwise why would this literal god of a man want to meet up with me and talk?
Haha, it most definitely wasn’t because of my shining, socially functional personality. It was very much likely out of pity, which I could deal with so long as he didn’t know that I’d gotten hard watching him take off his shirt and flex his pecs for the camera.
Christ, I needed to stop thinking about that.
Me: Uh. Yeah we can do that.
Quinn: This is my number. Text me so I have yours.
It wasn’t a request, and my mouth got all dry, and my crotch got all hot and uncomfortable. But I did what he said. It was very, very easy to do what he said. I waited with my heart in my mouth, resting between my teeth as I saw text bubbles pop up, then disappear, then pop up again.
Me: Hi. Um. This is me.
Me: Ferris, I mean.
Me: You probably knew that.
Me: Sorry for texting so much.
Quinn: You’re fine. I’ll text you when I’m in town.
Me: Sounds good.
And that was that.
For the next six weeks.
It ate at me to the point I couldn’t focus, and it was in that silence I made my first and very serious decision: before graduating, I needed to lose my virginity. Then maybe I’d stop acting like a fool when one attractive, older man paid me even a little bit of attention.
It was pouring rain, and I was sitting in my room, staring at the window, debating about whether or not I could afford to skip my watercolor class—which I could. Even if my GPA took a ding, it wasn’t like I needed the class to graduate.
Or needed a GPA to do anything with my life because it wasn’t like I was going to grad school. But every time I thought about fucking off, I could hear my mom’s voice in my head telling me that it didn’t matter if I was going to do sports. My education would always be important.
There was nothing like the internal, breath-stealing panic at the thought of bringing home a B average.
But I hated walking in the rain. The feeling my skin getting cold and wet was just…no. No, thank you. So I picked up my latest little pack of amigurumi yarn—a button quail with a Spanish guitar and a hat—and I began to weave the strands through the loops and around the hook.
It was meditative. It was probably my favorite activity. I could zone out, get lost on the pattern, and counting the stitches. It was what my therapist had called a “happy brain scratch.” I was propped up against my headboard, rocking back and forth gently as the quail started to take shape.
I was content, even if I was well aware that no one was going to want to fuck an anxious virgin who crocheted little animals in his free time.
At least, not anytime soon.
And then my phone started to buzz—five texts in a row.
My heart leapt. Myles, my friend from art class, tended to text like that—sort of rapid-fire, hitting Send before he ever properly finished a thought. But those could also be family chat emergency texts too.
It was no surprise I was catastrophizing as my fingers dropped the half-done quail in my lap and scrambled for my still-buzzing phone. Two more texts had come through. I swiped open the screen, and then my heart did a little samba in my chest because the name was no one I’d expected.
It was a name I had been trying—and failing—to forget for six weeks.
Quinn: I’m in town
Quinn: Fuck, sorry, rain’s making…
Quinn: Jesus fucking Christ I’m in a damn downpour
Quinn: Anyway I’m…
Quinn: Sorry. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with my phone. I’m in town. I’m currently staying at a Residence Inn if you want to pop by and talk. Totally cool if you don’t.
I stared at his words, at his name, picturing his face and the way he smiled for the photographer, only for it to fade the moment the camera was away from him. He had a media face—well practiced and perfected. He was most definitely a veteran of professional sports.
And it seemed like the accident that had busted his knee and ruined his career hadn’t cooked that out of him.
He was called Rhodie by his teammates and his fans. He played for San Jose for three years before being traded to New York. He was with them for another six years before his accident—a drunk driver had careened into him when he was crossing the road to get a coffee, and that was that.
His knee was entirely blown out. According to the poorly worded, frankly insensitive op-ed on the ESPN website, he’d almost lost his leg. The doctors had saved it, but they hadn’t saved the functionality of his knee.
Which was probably what the cane was for. And the limp.
He was retired now, his jersey lifted to the rafters a few weeks after the media announced that he was leaving the NHL.
There was a single photo of him looking upward, his eyes kind of wet, though he was most definitely not crying.
Then he disappeared for a decade, and no one had seen him again until he came to that photoshoot.
No one had mentioned that it was a fucking miracle he was hanging with us. Everyone just kind of ignored him, and what the fuck, because the dude was a goddamn legend.
Okay, maybe he wasn’t a record-breaker, and he’d only won the Cup a couple of times during his career, but he was old-school, and hockey had been his entire life.
The guy hadn’t even been in a steady relationship during his tenure with the NHL. He had one thing and one thing only on his mind—getting the puck into the net.
He was kind of an inspiration.
And oh shit, I’d just left him on read!
Me: Uh sorry. Yes. Yeah.
Me: I mean yes?
Me: I mean, I can totally come over. I don’t drive though. Is it okay if it takes a while? It’s pissing rain and none of the bus stops are covered.
I was about ninety-eight percent sure he was going to ignore me after that mess of a text.
Quinn: I can pick you up. Send me a pin.
Oh shit. Oh god. Oh hell.
There was no stopping my panic attack. There was only riding it out. Putting my face in my pillow, I held it firmly and screamed as I rocked back and forth. For me, these things were like an old boiler with too much pressure. I had to release something in my chest, or bad things would happen.
My parents called them temper tantrums.
My therapist called them meltdowns from overstimulation.