Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
DONOVAN
There are too many art galleries in Boston.
I frown as the bus hits a bump, jolting my finger where it rests on the screen of my phone and making me accidentally click a shitty ad for some car insurance company. I backtrack quickly in the browser, finding my place again in the list I was browsing through.
Shiloh said he made money from his art, and that means he has to sell it somewhere, right? I figure one of these galleries may have some answers to at least a few of the questions I have burning in my mind, and it’s not like I’m doing anything else right now.
Around me, my teammates have either been lulled into sleep by the swaying of the bus as we travel back home, or they’re watching a movie in their own silence.
Some of the seats ahead of mine are illuminated with a soft glow, but it’s quiet as we make our way through the darkened night.
I’ve never been able to fall asleep during these quick little road trips, and while I usually occupy myself with a movie or a book, tonight my brain is curious about Shiloh.
It feels like I’ve been curious about Shiloh since the first moment I met him, really.
I click into one of the art galleries and I’m faced with an image of purple and pink wildflowers painted against a yellowy orange sky.
I don’t have to linger long to know that’s not Shiloh’s work.
While I don’t quite know what he paints, I can probably rule out anything flowery or soft, I think.
I can’t picture his hands creating something like this, it doesn’t quite match with the lines of the sketches he did at the diner.
I’m looking for edges and angles.
Sharp, bold lines and probably deep colors.
Definitely not soft flowers and gentle shades of yellows and oranges. These flowers are pretty, but that’s about it. It’s kind of boring, like something I’d see in a hotel lobby or some shit. Good for the artist getting their work out there, but absolutely not what I’d want in my place.
Absolutely not what I’m looking for.
I don’t think Shiloh would make boring art for hotel lobbies.
I click back to the list of galleries and pick a new one to look through, but I can’t find anything that looks like Shiloh could have made it there either.
I’m checking artist names as I go, but I’ve learned that sometimes artists use fake names for their work.
A pseudonym or something, like a book author might.
With Shiloh being as secretive as he is, I can’t put it past him that he may use a different name for his art career, and that means any of these artists could be him.
Except the soft flowery ones.
I select the next gallery from the list and start clicking through artist names, coming across brilliant colors, bold patterns, and fine lines that don’t quite feel like Shiloh’s work either, but I can tell I’m getting closer.
These colors match more closely what I imagine he’d make, but it feels too…
clean? I know I’ve only seen sketches, but they felt messy, and I think that may translate into his finished work?
I could be totally wrong, but it’s what I’m going with anyway.
At the very least, it’s keeping my brain occupied while we travel, and that’s worth it to me even if I’m wrong in the end.
I spend a bit more time clicking into and discarding art galleries that don’t feel right for Shiloh, until I click into one that makes me instantly slouch in my seat and pull my phone to my chest. I scan the seats around me carefully, making sure I’m not being watched back here in my darkened corner.
Gilly and I usually get to sit by ourselves at the back of the bus, but a glance in his direction tells me he’s asleep, and as far as I can tell, nobody has eyes on me.
With my heart racing, I pull my phone away from my chest and glance down at the screen.
I swallow hard as I stare at the art on this particular artist’s page, surprised it wasn’t hidden behind some kind of disclaimer or something.
Some kind of barrier I needed to click to confirm my age or something.
It’s a nude painting of a man, and nothing is hidden from view.
He’s painted leaning back against something, one hand on his chest, the other hand on his thigh, but beside that hand…
yeah. That’s an erection. I swallow hard again as I scroll down, finding more paintings of the same man in various poses, all nude with his erect cock jutting out from his body.
This doesn't strike me as being Shiloh’s work, but I can’t help but wonder whether Shiloh maybe paints nudes? He did say I’d be good captured in paints, and now, staring at these paintings of this naked man with his thick cock between his legs, my brain is starting to wander.
Would Shiloh want to paint me nude?
Would I let him, if he did?
My cheeks burn as I consider it, imagining myself in place of this naked man in the paintings for Shiloh to capture.
Standing in front of him with an erection and moving around into different poses for him to capture with his talents.
He’d see all of me, all the lines of my body, all the freckles on my skin.
It’s been a while since anyone’s seen me that way: there hasn’t been much time for being naked around other people, and I’m not into apps or hookups. But Shiloh? His art?
I’d do it. Probably. Just for him, if he asked. Maybe.
Maybe if nobody else ever saw them, I’d let him paint me like this.
The thought of it has blood whooshing around my body, heading for the one place it shouldn’t be going on this bus ride when I can’t do anything about it.
My cock starts to thicken in my pants as I click out of the nude artwork and remind myself of where I am, but my brain is a traitor and doesn’t move past the thought of Shiloh painting me in the nude.
I click into YouTube and throw on a documentary about whales, hoping that’ll take my attention and settle my shit down.
It does the trick, somewhat. I’m not horny as hell at the back of the bus anymore at least, which is a damn blessing really.
I’m still thinking about Shiloh, though.
I still wonder what kind of art he makes, not that I’m going to risk opening my browser again and doing more searching.
Who knows what the hell else I’ll find that will take my brain places it shouldn’t be going right now.
No way. One erection-induced panic on the bus is good enough, thanks.
Instead, I settle into the documentary and turn my mind off, listening to whale song as the bus carries us back home to Boston, Shiloh existing in the corners of my mind where he always seems to be these days.
“That’s one hell of a mask you got there, bud,” Blake, one of the team equipment managers comments as I step into the locker room.
We got back from the road trip at about two in the morning, but that doesn’t mean we get a day off.
After a sleep, we’re all due at the rink to work on our game off the ice.
Some of the players will hang out in the gym, working on the programs set out by a strength and conditioning coach, while others will hang out in medical with the athletic trainers and physical therapists.
I’m due for some time in the gym, then Gilly and I are heading to a yoga class to work on our flexibility and core strength.
But first things first.
“My mask?”
“Yeah. It’s a beauty,” Blake comments with a grin. “Who did the work? Doesn’t look like anyone I know. Gilly uses JohnCo Arts, but he has a signature style and your new lid ain’t it.”
I’m baffled as I stare at him, trying to figure out what the hell he’s talking about.
“I don’t have a new mask. I mean, I have that blank, but I haven’t had time to get anything put on it yet.
” Or the money. It’s expensive to get a goalie mask custom painted, and I’m not exactly raking in the millions down here in the minors like Oakley is in the NHL.
“You sure? Because it’s in your cubby and it’s got your number on it. You take a hit to the head or something?”
I shake my head, then walk past him toward my locker stall. He’s been busy this morning unpacking gear after the road trip, and everything of mine that doesn’t need to be washed is in my stall.
Along with a freshly painted mask.
My heart leaps into my throat, and I swear my eyes must be as big as saucers as I reach for it, lifting it gently off the shelf it sits on.
It’s fucking gorgeous as it catches the light, reds, greens, and a deep black popping off and shimmering.
I breathe in as I turn it over and over in my hands, stunned into silence by the number on the throat guard that sits below the silver cage.
43.
It is my helmet. Holy shitballs. I nearly drop the damn thing in shock, but manage to stop myself in time.
A coiled red-and-green-scaled snake hovers on the top of the mask, its vicious golden eyes shining out from just above where my eyes will be when I wear it.
Along either side of it, two more bright red-and-green snakes curl, their tongues flicking out and fangs painted razor sharp against the backdrop of pitch black.
It’s what rests on the backplate that has my heart skipping a beat, my lungs squeezing, and my core filling with warmth and recognition.
I stare at what he’s left there, tears forming in my eyes that I have to blink away fast because crying in the locker room is a fucking atrocious decision.
Swallowing hard, I trace my fingertips gently over the red-and-black Godzilla painstakingly painted onto the rear of the mask, its mouth open in a silent roar that speaks volumes.
Behind him sits a pair of wings I instantly recognize as belonging to Mothra, my heart skipping another beat as I recall telling Shiloh she was my favorite.
That she reminded me of my mom the most, even though I didn’t tell him that part. I swallow hard again as I trace my fingers over her wings, blinking back more embarrassing tears. I don’t have words to explain how much this means.
How seen I feel in this moment when all I’ve ever really been so far in this city is number forty-three, one of the goalies on the team.
“See? Beauty of a paint job,” Blake comments from behind me. “You don’t remember commissioning it?”
I don’t know what to say in response that won’t have him hauling me to medical under suspicion of a concussion, but I really didn’t commission this piece. I would never have been able to find the right words that would have led to this mask being painted as beautifully as it is. “I forgot.”
Blake gives me a funny look, then shrugs, nudging me in the side with his elbow as he laughs. “Hopefully you remembered to pay for it. You remember who the artist is?”
I nod, turning the helmet over in my hands as I look for a signature of some kind to confirm what I already know.
There’s only one artist who could have done this, and he made it very clear that the green snake mask I’ve been wearing is a tragedy in his eyes.
Though I’m not sure how I feel about him going into my apartment once again while I wasn’t there, I am blown away by the work Shiloh’s left behind.
He clearly had a copy of my key made, and I’ll sort out how to get that back from him later, but for now I’m filled with awe and the tiniest bit of comfort at having been seen by someone in such a vivid way.
Blake wanders away, leaving me alone with the present from Shiloh. I stare at it for a few more moments before placing it down on the shelf of my locker stall and pulling out my phone. I send two text messages to two different people, snapping a pic to send along with both.
One picture goes to Oakley and includes a snake emoji.
The other goes to California and reads, “I know it was you. Thank you.”