Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
DONOVAN
As soon as the door closes behind Shiloh, I turn to Oakley, anger simmering in my belly as I push him off me. “What the fuck is your problem? Why are you being such an asshole?”
Oakley snorts out a laugh as he takes a couple of steps back from me. “I was just joking around.”
“No, you were being an asshole.”
“Did you not sleep well last night? You’re grumpy this morning.”
“Yeah, because my best friend just met my boyfriend for the first time and decided to be the world’s biggest dickhead to him.”
Oakley rolls his eyes and heads for the kitchen to begin rooting through my cupboards like he lives here.
He pulls out a chipped blue mug with a giant green “O” printed on the front and pours himself a cup of coffee while I wait for some kind of explanation as to why he was such an ass to Shiloh.
I haven’t had many romantic partners in my lifetime, but he’s never behaved anywhere close to this with any of them before.
Anyone else would mistake his behavior as jealousy, but I know Oakley, and there’s something far deeper to this.
There always is.
“Well?” I prompt after waiting long enough.
He looks up at me over the rim of his mug, clutching it in both of his hands like a toddler. “Upgraded to boyfriend, has he?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting. When did that happen?”
“Recently.”
Oakley cocks his head to the side, his lips pursed in a frown. “Where did you say you met him again?”
“Why does that matter?” He hums under his breath, glancing at the door then back to me like he suddenly isn’t certain we’re alone. “Oak. It’s not like he’s hanging outside the door listening.”
“You trust him?”
I roll my eyes, scowling at him. “Of course I do. I wouldn’t date someone I don’t trust.”
“What about someone you don’t know?” he asks, placing his mug down on the counter in front of him and meeting my eyes with his. The usual warmth hidden inside them is gone, and I’m a bit rattled at how cold he looks in this moment.
“I know Shiloh,” I reply. Well, I know enough for now I suppose.
He is still full of secrets, but day by day I’m getting small glimpses of who he really is, and that’s enough.
Shiloh’s a challenge and a puzzle, and peeling back the layers he’s built around himself hasn’t been a burden on our relationship so far. The opposite, actually.
“How much do you know about him, Donovan? Like, really know? What’s his middle name? Or even his last name? Where did he grow up? Has he told you any of those things?”
No.
He hasn’t.
I also haven’t asked, but there’s no way I’m confessing that much to Oakley.
He’s got that glint in his eyes again, the one he only gets when he’s getting worked up.
Usually it happens on the ice before he flings his gloves off and starts throwing punches, but on rare occasions it sneaks out when it’s least expected.
“I’m not having this conversation with you,” I sigh. “You’re being an impossible dickhead right now.”
Oakley moves to stand right in front of me, hardly giving me an inch to breathe. He’s a few inches shorter than me, not that I’d know it by the way he seems to tower over me in this moment. “Be careful, Donovan. I don’t trust that one at all.”
I sigh again, shaking my head. “Whatever, Oak. You don’t trust anyone.”
“Not true. I trust you. I trust my teammates. I don’t trust Shiloh. There’s something about him, Donovan. Something… dark and kind of… wild.”
“He’s not some kind of animal at the zoo.” I snort derisively as I cross my arms in front of me, shielding myself from whatever the hell has gotten into my best friend today. “He’s my boyfriend, and if I have it my way, he’ll be around for a long time, so you better get used to it.”
“I’ll kill him if he hurts you,” he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous.
“Oakley!” I blurt out, surprised he’d go that far with whatever hate he’s suddenly got going for Shiloh. “Jesus Christ, he’s not going to hurt me. Would you fucking relax?”
Oakley goes silent, then offers a curt nod before turning away from me.
I can see his jaw ticking still, his teeth gnawing on the inside of his cheek as he used to do when he was little and was trying to not explode.
He used to do it hard enough that he’d bleed, and his parents grew desperate enough to force him to wear his mouth guard off the ice on bad days to prevent him from ripping holes in his cheeks with his own teeth.
He probably could have used some therapy or something, but the thought of even trying to get him to comply with something like that would have been like trying to bathe a feral cat.
“You’re chewing your face,” I point out, carefully reaching a finger out to poke him in the cheek.
“Fuck off,” he replies, smacking me away with a laugh that sends relief cascading through me. His dimple pops out as he offers me a smile. “Just… be careful.”
“I will be.”
“And if you ever need my help, you just gotta ask. You know that.”
I choose to ignore that last little implied dig at Shiloh and bite back the retort that lingers in my mind.
I won’t need Oakley’s help because despite whatever he thinks, I’m not in any danger with Shiloh.
I mean, it could end in heartbreak, but that’s the chance you take getting to know someone and letting them into your heart.
My mom used to say that that’s sometimes the price of loving hard, and you have to be ready to pay it if you’re going to live a full life. Not that I love Shiloh, but I could.
I really could, someday.
“Oh God. You’re blushing,” Oakley groans, gesturing at my face. “You’re thinking about his dick.”
“Oakley.”
He nudges me with his elbow and heads for the living room. “Come on, loser. I came here to kick your ass in Mortal Kombat and I only have two hours until I gotta be back at the arena.”
“I don’t have much time. I have practice and then a community event this afternoon,” I comment, following him to the living room.
“Hurry your ass up, then.”
Oakley offers a grin, then turns on the TV and grabs the PlayStation controllers from the stand before throwing one at me.
I catch it as he turns the PlayStation on and settles down onto the couch.
I follow behind, watching as he gets things started for us, then I relax into the routine of playing video games with my best friend, trying my best to shove the rest of the morning to the back of my mind.
Helping Hearts sits at the tail end of a quiet street along the water, the walkway to the bright yellow front door slushy with melted snow as I follow the team’s social media coordinator.
Behind me, Tucker trails like a puppy, walking so close to me I’m sure if I stop he’s going to bump into my back.
“Do you think they’re gonna like me?” he asks.
I glance over my shoulder and shrug. “Why wouldn’t they?”
“I dunno man. I don’t know shit about kids. What if I suck at this and they hate me and like, call me names and shit?”
“Tuck, you’ll be okay,” I reply, with a small laugh. “We’re here to play ball hockey and sign autographs. It’s not rocket science.”
“I wish it was,” he mumbles. “I’m good at science.”
That surprises me, and I have to catch myself from blurting that out loud.
Tucker and I are friendly as teammates, but we aren’t exactly friends in the way that would let me get away with poking fun at him.
Instead, I take a deep breath of the cool, crisp winter air as Krystal opens the heavy exterior door to Helping Hearts.
A whoosh of warm air hits me like a brick wall, and from the entryway, I can hear music playing somewhere beyond the bright, open room I’ve entered into.
The space is filled with color and sound, but no visible children and no space to play hockey.
I glance down at Tucker who offers a shrug as he pulls his jacket off and hangs it on one of the hooks.
I ditch my own jacket then shuffle my feet, kicking slush and dirt off the bottoms of my shoes as a tall, slender man stands up from a bench by the door.
Krystal smiles and greets him as he smoothes out the creases in his baby-blue button down and extends a hand out to her.
“Pierre,” Krystal says, shaking his hand. “Good to see you.”
“Thank you for this,” he replies, his lips curling into a small smile. “The kids are excited to meet some real hockey players.”
“Allow me to introduce them, then.” Krystal steps back and gestures my way. “Donovan Myers, goalie, and Tucker Parent, forward.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, offering a smile and a handshake his way. “Thank you for all that you do.”
“The kids deserve it,” he says, with a small smile in return.
I nod my agreement. Helping Hearts is a neighborhood hub for some of the children and youth in the city who don’t exactly have the best home lives, but it doesn’t cater to just that population.
Any kid needing help or connection is welcome to come here and get whatever help they need, even if what they need is to just make some friends.
Pierre turns to greet Tucker and I glance around the space, a rainbow of paintings hanging on a string that traverses the far end of the room catching my eye.
I gravitate toward them, sidestepping tables and chairs clearly meant for the younger kids as I head for the larger tables and chairs where the paintings are hung.
They’re all simply splotches of color with no real shape to them, but they’re brilliantly done, bright and lively.
Even the paintings that have lots of black splashes are lightened by colors that appear almost neon in contrast.
Shit, maybe I am becoming an art guy after all.
I grin as I scan each of them, making a mental note to tell Shiloh all about my art thoughts when I’m done here.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Pierre says from somewhere behind me.
I turn to answer him, but find he isn’t looking at me at all.
Instead, he’s focused on Tucker who has come to hover behind me, staring up at the same array of paintings I’m looking at.
Tucker stammers out some noises that aren’t really words, and I take pity on him as Pierre’s fine lips turn into a small smile.
“Gorgeous stuff,” I comment, drawing attention away from Tucker and onto me. “They do lots of art here?”
“Oh yes. In fact that class is just ending here shortly,” Pierre replies, turning to face me now.
Tucker mouths a silent “thank you” over his shoulder and I bite back a laugh.
Pierre doesn’t seem to notice, though, and instead spends the next ten minutes filling me in on all the activities that happen here at the organization, before heading for the hallway that leads off to the left and gesturing for us to follow.
Dutifully, I trail behind with Tucker and Krystal at my back.
Pierre sidles up to a window along the wall and nods inside.
We file over and peer into a large room filled with easels, tables, chairs, and enough shelving to hold any kind of art supply I could probably think of.
Kids sit at some of the tables, gathering up art supplies into plastic totes, but an even larger group have abandoned their artwork at tables in favor of dancing to some pop song that filters out through the windows to where I stand.
“Remember, you should be cleaning as you dance, Artvarks. I don’t want to be the bad guy, but we need to do some multitasking here or we lose the tunes entirely,” a voice calls out over the music, and my heart skips a beat.
I know that voice.
My heart skips another beat in my chest as Shiloh steps out from behind a rack of canvases along the far wall, his face lit up like sunshine and his hair pulled off his face into a ponytail.
He wears a pair of paint-spattered jeans and a bright blue shirt emblazoned with the logo for Helping Hearts on the front.
One of the kids lights up as he steps over and starts helping the nearest table pack up their art supplies into one of the plastic totes, and I can’t help but watch in awe.
“The oddly named Artvarks Club. Our volunteer, Shiloh, leads the group here twice a week,” Pierre comments, like I don’t already know his name. I suppose here I don’t. I can’t. He can’t be known to me, but I do know him.
I nod, mouth dry and pulse racing as Shiloh’s hips sway to the beat.
One of the kids reaches out a hand and he takes it, letting her twirl around in his grasp like a princess before she curtsies to him, a grin as bright as the sun on her face.
Shiloh smiles back as he bows to her, her laughter carrying over the din of the music pumping from the stereo.
He turns as one of the other kids grabs his waist, wrapping his tiny arms around Shiloh’s slender midsection.
He doesn’t flinch as he does when I touch him.
He doesn’t shy away or go stock still as the child clings to him, his tiny hands digging into his stomach hard.
Instead, he stoops and pulls the little boy into his side, giving him a hug that ends with both of them smiling.
Warm.
Soft.
Unlike I’ve ever seen him before, and it’s beautiful.
“We’re lucky to have him,” Pierre continues. “He’s an art therapy student at U Mass, but he’s a very talented artist in his own right.”
I already know this, but both Tucker and Krystal nod in response so I follow suit.
I’m captivated as Shiloh works with the kids to tidy the last of the room, my heart warming at the ease with which he interacts with them all.
He’s not completely shut down with me, but this is a side of him I’ve never seen before and I want to know the secret to drawing this out of him.
“We should head to the gym,” Pierre announces, taking a step away from the window. “They’ll be ready to run after sitting for so long, so I hope you’re both ready.”
He says this more to Tucker than he does to me, but it’s fine.
I’m still stuck on Shiloh’s smile, the way he tips his head back to laugh as the kid who hugged him earlier reaches out to poke him in the cheek with paint that matches the color of his eyes.
Reluctantly, I turn to follow Pierre as he leads Tucker and Krystal away, but a small tap on the glass window separating the art room from the hallway meets my ears and I turn back around.
Shiloh’s standing there, surrounded by kids who are all waving at me, their little hands flailing in the air as excited noises meet my ears from behind the glass. I wave back at them, then look at Shiloh to find a small smile on his face.
“Hi,” he mouths wordlessly behind the glass that divides us.
“Hi,” I murmur back.
I love you, is what I think I mean.