24. Riley
CHAPTER 24
RILEY
SIX MONTHS LATER
There’s a huge difference between knowing you have a problem and taking the time to work that shit out so it doesn’t bog down the people you care about.
Accepting that Griff makes me happy and I deserve to be happy was only the start of the equation. The next step was remembering who the hell I was outside of hockey and my relationships.
Which means I spent a lot of time at home, staring at ceilings and looking for anything that made me feel as alive as playing did.
Coach called me one day about going over film with some of the guys. He sent me the tape to review, and for a couple of hours all of the questions and insecurities melted away.
One game, and then two—then next thing I knew it was routine for me to watch the games online, for Coach to immediately send a copy to me, and then have a virtual meeting with the team and other coaches to make game plans.
Even if I’m not on the ice, I know this game like the back of my hand.
Seeing Griff, talking about games when we haven’t talked about anything else, it felt strange. Like a string tying his chest to mine was being plucked and twisted, like this was a tease egging us on to do something about our current non-relationship.
We’ve had a few phone calls and FaceTimes, but we always seem to avoid the topics at large: am I coming back, and are we doing this again?
The twenty hour car ride I just took with my little brother should answer the first question, and the second … well that’s going to depend on what happens when we’re face to face again.
Escorting Parker to the summer hockey camp Griff and a couple of the other guys are hosting at the practice arena isn’t the homecoming either of us had anticipated, but after six months it’s a wonder I have any nerve at all.
“The fact that Mom and Dad kept all of your old hockey gear is some serious hoarder shit.”
I laugh at Parker’s indigent attitude as he stares out the window to the sunny Chattanooga sky.
“You’re lucky they kept my middle school gear, because my freshmen stuff would have swamped you.”
Parker is starting his first year of high school this fall, and thanks to Dad making him keep up exercise, he’s got a surprisingly athletic build. But he’s still small compared to me as a teenager.
“Do you have a plan?” Parker asks, arms crossed and turned to face me. “To win the guy back?”
“Wasn’t aware I was trying to win anyone. We’re going to talk. Like mature adults.”
“Lame. Aren’t you supposed to do, like, some grand gesture or something? That’s what Mom does in her novels.”
“Why do you know that?”
He shrugs. “Boredom and a Kindle on a twenty hour drive with my very boring, very broody big brother?”
“You don’t tell her, and I won’t tell her.”
“Didn’t plan on it. Now. Big gesture.”
“No gesture.” I sigh. “This isn’t a romance novel, and I’m not some sap.”
Parker huffs and throws his head back against the seat. “It’s a good thing I brought a backup.”
“Excuse me?” I throw the car into park in the lot of the hotel that I hope we don’t have to stay at for long, fixing my brother with a hard stare. “Parker Easton, what did you do?”
The permanent dip of aggravation between his brow lifts as his lips tip into a grin. “You’ve been mooning over him for months, and I had kind of, sort of started working on something before he left that I never got around to finishing. I vote we run in, change, and get this bad boy wrapped up for you to show off.”
He hooks his thumb toward the backseat, and nestled amongst our bags is one of his canvas containers.
“You miss him,” Parker says, voice going soft. “I hear you up late some nights. Talking to him on the phone.”
Griff and I haven’t been entirely no contact. It’s quiet moments talking about the game or our friends, always skirting around the deeper meanings neither of us can bring ourselves to say.
I reach over and scrub my fingers through Parker’s hair, laughing as he ducks away.
“Let’s be sappy, then.”
We aren’t going to talk about the amount of art supplies stuffed into the trunk of my car. We also aren’t going to talk about the t- shirts ruined from working on Parker’s “Grand Gesture Project” and how we had to tiptoe around the huge canvas material while it dried since it took up most of the floor space.
Camp starts at 9AM sharp, so it’s no surprise that I have us in the practice center lot by 8:45, and even less surprising that Parker is sitting in the passenger seat with murder in his eyes and a beanie pulled so low he thinks I can’t tell he was sleeping until moments ago.
“This whole thing was your idea, bud.”
He grumbles and groans, unfurling from the ball he’s tucked himself into. “I’m a child. Smart decisions are your territory.”
I quirk my brow and crack the door open. “I’m in this position specifically because I make un-smart decisions.”
Parker rolls his eyes but follows me from the car, grabbing his container from the backseat and slinging it over his shoulder while I grab the gear bag from the trunk.
Since this camp isn’t a usual Hornets sanctioned activity, they don’t have their own kid-sized gear to lend out, so it’s basically BYOG.
Inside, there’s a table set up with a sign in sheet manned by a chipper Rory.
“They put you on desk duty to scare the kids or stop you from scaring them?”
My tiny, excitable, ex-teammate shrugs, holding the clipboard out to Parker, who takes it with more muttered curses.
“This must be your little brother!”
Parker hands it back, giving Rory a cautious stink eye. “Who gave the Chihuahua coffee?”
Laughter crackles from behind us, and I peer back to see another kid waiting in line. There are no parents or siblings, just a kid close in age to Parker with unruly ash blond hair.
The two of us step aside to let him check in, but instead of going straight to the locker room, he stops in front of Parker and holds out his hand.
“That Chihuahua is my cousin. Micky Donovan.”
Parker’s eyes flick up to mine then back to the kid, taking his offered hand. “Parker Easton.” He points over at me. “Older brother.”
The kid—Micky—looks over at me and breaks out into a wide grin. “I hear you’re retired now.”
Kids these days; it’s hard to tell whether they’re poking fun or making conversation.
“Official as of the end of the season.”
“That’s a shame, but if you ever want to take up coaching, Mountain Valley over in Hudson County has some real promising players joining up this year.”
It’s my turn to smile. “That so?”
The kid beams brighter, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Freshman as of August. The coach they’ve got now can hardly touch the ice himself. I want to join the NAPH someday, so having a former player on our side would be epic.”
I don’t have any set in stone plans other than re-establish my relationship with Griff and figure out where we’d want to go from here, so I nod and say, “I’ll think about it, kid,” before stepping aside to speak with an amused Rory.
“Micky is gonna show me to the locker room. That cool?” Parker asks.
“Go on. Make friends.”
The two scurry away, and Rory hops up from his seat to envelop me in a tight, squeeze-the-air-from-your-lungs hug.
“We’ve missed the fuck out of you.”
I laugh, hooking an arm around his shoulders. “We’ve literally talked like twice a damn week all season. Plus, you knew I was coming back to help with camp.”
I hear the camp was Griff’s idea, that he worked out all of the logistics and details, and I can’t help but think it’s his way of keeping himself busy. When I asked if he needed a hand, I expected a brush off. Not the quietly sighed, “Yeah … thank you.”
“Are you maybe coming back a little more permanently?” Rory pulls away, stretching his arms behind his back, twisting them together like the limber, anxious man he is.
A quick look around shows not a sign of Mash.
“Where’s your shadow?”
He shrugs. “Home. Says off season is sleep season, and Coach isn’t doing summer practice this go ‘round.”
Practicing during the off season isn’t technically mandatory, especially since a lot of trades and rearrangements are made in the summer months, but thanks to Hawks building some intense teamwork when he first joined, it became an unofficial tradition. That tradition became Coach’s routine.
You don’t mess with Coach’s routine.
“Maybe because Griff bullied him into giving up the space.”
Rory laughs and unfolds his hands, beaming up at me with pure happiness.
“He said it’d be great for team morale. I’m just here because someone made brownies.”
Together, we head to a separate locker room from the kids, but just outside the room, I grab Rory’s arm and pull us to a stop.
“Can you do me a favor?”
He blinks up at me with owlish blue eyes. “Course.”
“Can you help my brother with something? Help him get something set up before we start?”
Rory nods and gives me a playful salute. “Let me get changed, and I’ll sneak out. Quiet as a mouse.”
Stepping foot through the door feels like gliding onto enemy ice for the first time. Tensions high, eyes darting around in rampant anticipation, the stifling air heavy resting on my lungs.
The handful of players helping out with camp greet me, hollering my name and clapping me on the back as I take up a cubby and start stripping out of my street clothes.
A hush falls over the room with a couple snickers in the corner, and the scuff of shoes on the tile is glaring, coming to a stop at the cubby next to mine. Someone throws their body onto the bench, leaning back until their hazel eyes make contact with mine.
There’s some Imagine Dragons song playing in the background, and it’s how I know Griff isn’t in charge of the locker room music today. I have to say, though, that Thunder is most definitely an apt tune to play as invisible lightning races between us.
From his skin to mine and back, wrapping around our souls as a reminder that being apart was some cosmic fuck up the universe feels we need to rectify.
Or my heart is beating so fast I’m on the verge of a heart attack.
That’s a possibility.
“Foster.” I give him a nod as I slip on my practice jersey, sans pads since the most we’ll do is slap the puck around a little.
There’s whispers from a few guys before I hear them ushered out of the room likely by Rory as he escorts himself out as well.
“You’re such a shit,” Griff mutters, kicking my ankle with his bare foot seconds before I drop my pants to the ground. He sucks in a breath, and I bite back a smirk.
“I don’t think I’m allowed to fuck you until we make up,” I say, swapping out my regular boxers for my jock. My jersey covers my junk, and I can see the twitch in Griffin’s fingers to raise it up.
I guess he’s been as celibate as I have these last six months.
“Are we fighting?” Our stares clash, and the energy between us charges more than simple sexual urges. It’s deeper. Stronger. More polarizing.
“I don’t want to be.”
It’s instantaneous how Griffin’s shoulders slump, how an easy smile comes out as his head thunks against the wall.
“I miss having you in bed.” When I grin, he rolls his eyes. “Not just sex. Having you beside me. Waking up to your sweaty ass chest stuck to my back. The way you drag your hands through my hair and whisper ‘good morning’ until I swat you away.”
A chuckle slips out while I finish getting dressed, sitting down beside him to work on my skates and nudging him to do the same.
“I certainly miss my lazy mornings in bed with you, frat boy.”
He reaches a hand over and sets it palm up between us.
An offer.
A plea.
There’s no hesitation as I take it, wrapping my slightly chilled fingers around his warm ones.
“I love you, Riley,” he says. “If you want this, if you want to be all in with me, then I’m game.”
Heat swoops from my stomach to my chest, spreading out into a blanket of comfort that settles in my limbs.
“I want you, Griffin Foster, to be my present and my future. I can’t change the past, but I can kick myself out of living in it. You are where my heart leads. Where I want to lay down roots and build from.”
I don’t get a moment to bask in the honesty of the words; I barely get a chance to peek over and see Griffin’s wide-eyed elated expression before he’s on me.
His hand in mine is unrelenting, the other tangling in my hair and crushing my body to his as he swings a leg over my hip and settles his weight in my lap. I ground him with an arm around his waist, meeting his mouth in a heart pounding kiss that knocks me into the wall—the only thing keeping me from falling over completely.
“Say it,” he pants into my mouth, barely letting the words pass before his lips are on mine over and over again.
I laugh, kissing and holding him to me like it’ll never be enough. Because it won’t. Not in five minutes. Not in five hours.
“I love you,” I say between swipes of his tongue. “I love you.”
He growls his approval, hands slipping under my shirt to dig into my skin and make me gasp. A smile lights up his face when we finally part for breath, and he nestles his eyes in the crook of my neck.
“Knew you’d get there, Cherry Picker.”
It takes all of two seconds for it to click, for me to remember that first night we spent in bed together years ago. At the start of it all.
When it does, I crack up until my face is red and my voice is hoarse.
“Fuck you so much, Foster.”
He grins into my neck. “Please do.”