14. Pope
Chapter 14
Pope
“Was that Hayden?” Jules asks when I return to the pool table with a fresh beer and a body trembling with anger and anxiety.
I take a long pull from my drink before jerking my head in a nod. “Yup.”
“Was that his boyfriend?”
“I—” I stare down at my beer, my knuckles white with how hard I’m holding the bottle. “I don’t know. Thought he was single, but…”
Jules shifts his feet, causing me to look up at him. His expression is pinched with worry. “Pope—”
“Who’s single?” Kirkland asks.
Jules tears his gaze away from me. “Hayden. He just walked out of here with some guy hanging off him.”
Kirkland whistles. “Good for him. Dude has been kind of cranky lately, have you noticed? Probably needed to get laid.”
I flinch.
No one notices.
“Who’s getting laid?” Lafferty asks, heading over to us with his pool stick in hand.
“Hayden.” Kirkland answers. “He just left.”
“Damn. I hope it’s in the air tonight. I could use a roll in the sheets.”
Jules nudges his shoulder against mine, his eyes glancing at the guys as if checking to make sure they’re not paying us any attention. Then he asks with a lowered voice, “You okay?”
“Yup.” I drain nearly all of my beer. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He watches me for a minute before shrugging a shoulder and looking over at the guys who have returned to playing the game. I take the opportunity to pull my phone out of my pocket. I don’t know how far Hayden’s place is, but if he walked earlier then it must not be more than a few minutes’ drive. He should be home by now, right? Why hasn’t he texted? Is he making out with Noah in the asshole’s car? Did he invite him in? Did he forget about me completely?
Did Noah hurt him?
I clench my hand around my phone, willing it to vibrate with a message.
It doesn’t.
It doesn’t for another hour and forty-seven minutes, just after Jules has dragged my drunk ass home and dumped me onto my bed.
Hayden: Got home safe.
That’s it?
That’s all I fucking get?
Why did it take so long?
I frown at Jules as he pulls my shoes off my feet for me. He frowns back. “If you’re about to throw up, tell me.”
“No,” I grumble, turning my frown toward my phone instead. It’s the phone that deserves it after all. At least, the man on the other side of the phone. Fucking asshole. “He got home.”
Jules pauses in the middle of the room. I realize when I look over at him that he got the small trash barrel from beside my dresser and seems to be bringing it to me. I don’t think he has much faith in me not throwing up. I can’t exactly blame him. I had four drinks tonight—and the last three were 11% beers. With very little for dinner and the fact that I avoid alcohol at nearly all costs because of how much it fucks my head up, I’m pretty fucking drunk.
“We talking about Hayden?” Jules asks, snapping out of his frozen moment to finish bringing me the basket. He tucks it right beside the side of the bed and squats down so we’re eye to eye.
“Yeah.” He starts to manhandle me onto my side, tucking a pillow behind my back to keep me that way. I glance at my phone. “Why d’you think took ’im so long?”
“Well, buddy, I think he was probably with that guy until now.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Yeah. Probably.”
“Just—just get some sleep, man. It’ll be better in the morning.”
I don’t know if he’s talking about the drunkenness or this feeling in my chest—this horrific tearing apart that I’m starting to think might be the feeling of heartbreak—but either way, I don’t know if I believe him. The hangover tomorrow is going to kick my ass, my depression is no doubt going to be unbearable, and sleeping isn’t going to cure the fact that Hayden probably just got himself fucked by that hot guy from the bar. Or did he do the fucking?
My stomach turns at the thought.
Maybe I’m going to throw up after all.
My Saturday is plagued by three horrors.
Horror Number One: I am devastatingly hungover. Not the “Oh darn, I think I had one too many last night” kind of hungover, but the “Kill me, please, someone kill me” hungover. My stomach has nothing left to throw up, but that doesn’t stop my body from heaving every few minutes or the nausea from constantly churning my stomach. The area between my eyes and my temples are experiencing a sharp pain, the rest of my head hurting with more of a deep ache that feels like it’s seeping into my damn bones. Even with sunglasses on, my hat tucked low, and my hood up, everything is still so damn bright and noisy that my skin is crawling from it all.
Horror Number Two: It’s an away game—one far enough for us to have to drive eight hours on a stuffy bus, all of the guys hyped up and talking at the same volume kindergarteners use. Jules tries his best to shield me, shuttling me onto the bus to a seat near the back where it tends to be a little quieter. He lets me sit by the window, handing me a recovery drink, some pain relievers, and a plastic bag in case I throw up again. I already told him I have nothing left, but he doesn’t believe me. I think I may have thrown up on him last night. It’s foggy. He’s a good bro.
Horror Number Three: Hayden. Everything to do with Hayden. The gut-punch this morning as the night before came back to me. The sight of him stepping onto the bus wearing a knee-length wool coat with a plaid scarf draped over his neck. The dusting of snow on his tightly curled black hair. The sound of his voice as he greets Ian and hands him a travel cup of coffee. His easy smile like he has no care in the world, like last night was great instead of devastating, like maybe he got laid just as my friends suggested, like maybe he’s falling in love with someone else—someone that’s not me.
Fucking hell, am I in love with this man? Is that what’s happening? Is this more than just a sudden bisexual awakening—is my stupid heart involved too?
“Kill me now,” I groan, letting the side of my head thunk against the cool glass of the window.
Jules gives my knee a little pat. “It’ll pass, buddy.”
The hangover will, but the feelings? I don’t think these feelings are going anywhere anytime soon.
I’m so unbelievably fucked.
Eight hours on a bus is enough time for a hangover to turn into nothing but slight fatigue and a new surge of hunger. It’s also enough time for my mind to pick apart, analyze, and overthink every single moment I’ve spent interacting with or in the presence of Hayden Wallace. I can’t pinpoint the moment the attraction started, but there’s no doubt in my mind that it’s there. It’s like a burning fire in my veins, fueling me like nothing I’ve felt before. Unfortunately, all of that thinking doesn’t help me figure out the love thing. Can I really be in love with someone I’ve only known for a month? Someone who I started out hating?
Love doesn’t exactly follow logic, I know that. They say it in movies and books. I’ve never really experienced it myself—unless you count Sasha Turner in college, but that was more of just comfortable companionship and great sex, it was nothing like this. It never stole my breath. Never made me ache. Never had me sick thinking of her with someone else.
I want to lay Hayden out and kiss every inch of him. I want to see what makes a man other than myself tick. No, I want to see what makes Hayden tick. I want to know what his cock tastes like. I want to know what it feels like, the weight of it on my tongue, the mass of it pushing into my throat. I want to know his hot spots, the areas that make him shiver or moan or leak precum as my fingers or lips or teeth come in contact with them. I want to know if he likes to fuck or be fucked, or if he likes to switch between the two.
I want to know what his long, elegant fingers feel like around my cock. What they feel like sliding into my hole, stretching me out for him. I want to know how it feels to be split open on his cock. Would I be able to handle that? Would it burn? Ache? Are prostates really as sensitive as gay porn makes them seem? Would he want to use a condom? Oh god—what would it feel like to have his cum inside of me, hot and sticky, maybe even leaking out? I’ve seen that before—Sasha had an IUD and we had a few nights where we were feeling just reckless enough to not use a condom. I remember watching in wonder as my cum leaked out of her onto the sheets. Would Hayden want to watch that? What would it be like to cum inside of him and watch? Does cum even leak out of your ass, or is that hole too tight?
But that’s not all I want. Hayden isn’t just fuel for filthy fantasies and endless curiosity. I also want to know him.
I just want to know everything about him.
I want to lie beside him in bed and do nothing but talk. I want to know about his family, his home, his childhood. Did he like to stomp around the backyard looking for grasshoppers or did he prefer staying in with a book? Did he have pets growing up? Does he have some now? What’s his favorite color, his favorite movie, his favorite book? Can he cook or is he hopeless and resorts to takeout?
Is that what it’s like to be in love with someone? Or do I have to know all of those answers before? Is there a set of rules somewhere? A checklist of milestones before I can be officially in love?
And do I have to tell him things in return? Can I still love him if I’m keeping secrets? Does it count if—
Something hits the back of my head. I wince, my headache that I just finally managed to get rid of making a comeback. Jules doesn’t look sorry when I turn to glare at him.
“Whatever you’re thinking about, stop. Focus on the game.”
“I’m focused,” I mumble before looking down at my stick and frowning. My tape is completely fucked. That’s not just my superstition, it’s a ritual of sorts. I have to sit, block everything out, and pristinely wrap my stick. It’s like a meditation. It’s when I lock in.
Hayden is making it fucking impossible to lock in.
Was that really a date last night? Was it their first? Did they fuck? Did they sleep tangled together in the sheets after? Did they wake up to each other? Did Hayden spend the bus ride texting him?
I look over at Hayden where he’s squatting in front of Knut to talk about his groin. My fingers clench on the tape I’ve now ripped off my stick, crushing it into a ball. Is he falling for Noah?
Jules settles beside me, his shoulder bumping into mine. “Dude…”
“Fuck off,” I snap.
I can feel multiple sets of eyes turn to me as I drop my head to look down at my stick again. It’s probably impossible to actually know, but I swear one set of eyes burns more than the rest. I can’t get myself to check if I’m right. What’s he looking at anyway? He’s got himself a guy. He doesn’t need me. I’m just a stupid fucking project, a mystery he’s been trying to solve. That’s probably the only reason he was spending time with me anyway.
With a mumbled, “You can be a real asshole sometimes, Pope,” Jules gets back up and returns to his temporary stall to finish getting ready.
I grab my roll of tape and take a deep breath to steady myself. I try again.
The sets of eyes drop away from me until there’s only one left. I can’t fight it. The need inside of me takes over until I have to look at him.
It was a mistake. The moment our eyes lock, I know it.
I love him.
Fuck me, I’m so in love with him.
Fuck the tape. I have to leave.
I draw every fight I possibly can. I play dirty—not dangerously so, but closer to the line than I usually would. Every chance I get, I’m slewing shit at the opposing team until I can almost see steam coming out of their ears. Whenever there’s a scuffle, I throw myself into it. Whenever there’s a chance to start my own, I’m right there with gloves off and a grin on my face.
Coach eventually pulls me with only three minutes left and the game tied, my nose freshly bleeding from my latest skirmish. He grabs the front of my jersey without even looking at me, his eyes locked on the ice as he growls, “End of the fucking bench. You’re out.”
I stand stunned for a moment as all the anger inside of me dissolves into something darker and scarier. “Yes, sir.”
“Go.”
I head to the end of the bench, dropping to the spot beside our backup goalie. The energy of the team is full of frustration. I can feel that a lot of it is directed at me.
Hayden pauses in front of me, his eyes on the ice like Coach’s. “Meet me in the AT room after this. I’ll get that nose sorted out.”
“It’s fine.”
“For fuck’s sake, Pope,” he growls, his gaze snapping to mine. It’s full of so much anger I physically shrink back from him. “Just fucking agree.”
“ Fine .”
“ Fine ,” he echoes.
The bench erupts a moment later, Hayden nearly getting knocked down from the excitement. I look across the ice to see our guys celebrating despite the lack of celebration from the crowd. We scored with just a few seconds left, most likely getting the win. I stand with the others and cheer like it’s not my damn fault they had to work so hard tonight.
I’m the first to leave when it’s time to go to the dressing room. It feels like everyone’s eyes are on me as I pass by, especially Coach’s. I keep my head down and go straight to my temporary stall. Hayden told me to go see him first, but he meant after Coach talks with us. Nothing but severe injuries ever go ahead of Coach’s speech.
Once the players file in, all much happier than me, Coach calls for us to settle down.
“Tonight was a harder one than it needed to be. I’m disappointed, especially with a select few of you. This isn’t elementary school, I won’t call you out, but you know who you are. Take the night to think about your shit and get it together because I’m not dealing with more games like this one. You’re grownups on a fucking professional team. Act like it.” There’s an awkward pause, long and heavy. I don’t look up, but that feeling of everyone’s eyes on me is back full-force. Coach claps his hands once. “I’m glad we pulled it out at the end there. Get some showers, food, and sleep. Bus leaves at eight with or without you. Goodnight.”
I stand, quickly stripping out of my gear without looking at anyone. The moment I’m down to my gitch, I slip away to where Hayden has set up his equipment. He gives me a look that makes me feel about an inch tall before gesturing for me to take a seat on his table. I do as told, keeping my head ducked until he takes my chin in hand and pulls it up.
“Any signs of it being broken?” he asks, not having to bother listing them for me at this point.
“Nope.”
He dabs at my nose with a wet wipe to clean away the blood that’s dried there. His hand is still on my chin, making it impossible to hide when I wince. He raises a brow at me. “Hurts, doesn’t it?”
I grit my teeth. “That’s the point.”
He suddenly softens, his hand holding the wipe falling away. “Pope.”
“I don’t mean it like that,” I lie. It’s probably pointless, though. The bastard has always been able to see right through me. That’s the fucking problem in the first place.
“Please stop doing this,” he begs, his voice low and gravelly. Our eyes catch. I tell myself to look away, but he holds the same power he always has over me. I’m caught. In so many ways, this man has me caught. “I can’t keep watching you do this, Pope.”
“It’s hockey.” I finally gather the strength to tear my gaze away, focusing on the zipper of his team pullover instead. “Everyone fights.”
“Not like you. Not like this. Tonight was—that wasn’t just hockey, Pope.”
The moment his hand with the cloth moves away, I jerk my chin out of his grip and move to push past him. He stops me with his body, making it so we’re pressed chest to chest, my ass pinned against the edge of the exam table. I glare at a spot over his shoulder. “Move.”
“No. Not until you listen to me. This has to stop.”
“Move.”
“You’re so angry. Why? The way you acted last night and the way you snapped at Jules in the dressing room and now this fight—what’s going on?”
I push past him, making sure I don’t knock him over as I pass him by. It’s the perfect representation of how I feel right now—pissed off and in love, wanting to shove and wanting to protect all at once. “Why the fuck do you even care?”
“Because I care about you, you idiot!” His hand grabs my bicep and yanks me until I’m spun around to look at him. His chest is heaving, his eyes wide, his nostrils flaring. When he speaks again, his voice is hoarse with desperation. “Because I fucking care about you, Ethan.”
My throat locks up as my heart starts jackhammering inside of my chest. I curl my shaking hands into fists and try to remember how to breathe. My brain can’t quite recall the mechanics. All it can do is replay because I care about you over and over again. How is it possible for words to be both exhilarating and terrifying?
Hayden takes a step back from me, looking down at the bloody rag in his hands. He takes a breath that causes his chest to visibly shake. “I’m sorry. I’ve tried to stop. Lord knows I’ve tried to fucking stop. But there it is.”
He walks away before I can recover. I don’t know how long I stand there just staring at the place where he was, a war raging inside of me. Eventually, an arm wraps around my shoulders, a huge hand squeezing my arm. Jules guides me into the dressing room until I’m settled in front of my stall. I don’t have it in me to shower, so I go through the motions of changing into some sweats and a sweatshirt. He skips his shower too, heading out at the same time as me toward the bus.
We don’t talk while we wait for the rest of the team, or for the six minute drive to the hotel, or when Coach assigns us our shared room. We don’t talk in the elevator. We don’t talk when we walk in to find two queen beds, Jules claiming the one by the window as I sink onto the edge of the other in defeat.
I can feel the shroud of depression starting to pass over me just as he comes to stand in front of me. I can’t get myself to look at him, my eyes focused on my bruised hands in my lap.
“Whenever you’re ready to talk about it, I’m here, eh?” he tells me, his voice warm and calm.
My throat tightens.
There’s a lot he could be referring to, but I know in my gut that it’s about Hayden.
My eyes slide closed. “Is it that obvious?”
“I can’t speak for anyone else. There isn’t gossip about it or anything. But, brosy…” He pauses. I know what he wants, so I steel myself and finally look at him. His usual goofball grin is nowhere to be found. “He’s the only person who can get you to smile. The smile with the dimples, you know? The real one. I don’t know much about you, man, but I know you’re not one to smile much. It means something.”
I can’t maintain the eye contact, dropping my gaze to my hand again. “Doesn’t mean it means what you’re implying.”
“Maybe not.” He makes a soft sound. “Then again, you did pop a boner for him when he was stretching you out the other day, so there’s that.”
I snap my gaze to him, my heart kicking into overdrive. I’m not sure my face has ever felt hotter. “You—you fucking noticed that?”
He smirks. “Yup.”
“I— fuck. Do you think he noticed it?”
“No, man.” Jules’s smirk broadens into a shit-eating grin. “He was probably too busy hiding his own from you.”
The words drop my stomach out from under me. “What?”
“And that so called date last night? I asked Tara about it. Her brother is military, only in town for a few days. It was just a way to get him and Hayden to have a night out and relax.”
“Wait, so it wasn’t a date?”
“Nope.”
“But… wait.” I squint as if I could understand him better if I just look hard enough. “Are you… cool with that?”
He frowns. “With you being gay?”
“I—well, I think maybe bisexual, actually. It’s… new.”
“Oh. Alright. Well, still cool with it. Every time I get pulled up to the Devils, I get dicked down by one of their guys. Never really cared about labeling it, but I don’t judge.” He shrugs as if that wasn’t an entire fucking bomb dropped into the room. “Honestly, I don’t care where you stick your dick. I’d just prefer you figure your shit out so you can go back to scoring goals instead of burying us in penalties.”
I manage a weak laugh. “Alright, yeah, that’s fair.”
He stares at me, not saying anything in return.
I stare back.
“ Osti de marde ,” he says in exasperation before gesturing wildly toward the door. “I mean now. Right now. Go figure it out. He’s in room 204.”
I don’t even question how he knows that. There’s no time. I’m already walking to the door.