Chapter 3
Lex
He’s been doing worse.
Mom’s words from earlier today ring out like an alarm bell inside my head the second I step onto the ice, and it’s not because Eli’s all I can think about, really, it’s not.
It’s just that I immediately know he’s here, and he’s watching me. Like a sixth sense or something. This weird knowing has been a thing from the moment Eli came into my life with a wonderful father who only made my poor teenage head even more confused.
I had a wonderful father already.
I had a brother already.
I didn’t need any more of them.
But it turns out . . . maybe I did.
The second father thing, not the brother thing.
Eli is not my brother.
Definitely not.
For one, he’s not annoyingly good at hockey, he doesn’t tease me every chance he gets, and he doesn’t shoot deadly laser beams from his eyes at my teammates and decimate my team in some twisted protective older-brother way.
Also, I’ve never in my life been able to tell when Vinny enters a room, or when he’s looking at me, and I’ve definitely never been mesmerized by how Vinny’s eyes pop when he puts on eyeliner.
Eli is possibly the opposite of my brother, and that right there is the issue.
He is my best friend, though, and not only because I have no other friends, but because he’s the best, funniest person I’ve ever met, and he’s a genius—literally.
And I . . . I’ve been a shit friend the past few years. Okay, eight years, and now Mom is worried about him.
It’s not hard for her to be worried over someone, she’s a very maternal person, takes care of most people she crosses paths with, but Lyla Storm only gets really worried when shit is about to hit the fan.
Like when Wolf went to rehab—both times—or like when Si got a job with the Pirates and he would be in Vinny’s proximity for the first time since his accident.
This is why I know that her telling me what’s been going on with Eli is her not-at-all subtle way of telling me to stop measuring my interactions with him like I’m a recovering addict.
Which in some ways, I am.
Feeling Eli’s eyes on me is like the smallest dose of my preferred drug, and I hate myself for loving the high it gives me. I hate myself for how much better it feels to play hockey when he’s watching—when I know he’s watching.
So much better, in fact, that my teammates’ lackluster celebration of my two goals doesn’t even dim my smile.
We lose, though, because of course we do. Even if the Demons aren’t that great, they don’t spend three periods mostly ignoring their best player—Lussier—so he gets a hat trick and an extra point for an assist.
I get the usual silent treatment when I walk back into the locker room after doing my time with the media, but after a quick escape, I find three of my favorite people waiting to hug me.
Mom goes first, of course. “You were amazing out there, baby. I’m sorry you still lost.”
“It’s just the team not gelling,” Michael adds—and he’s not completely wrong, so I hum in agreement and hug him back.
“Hey,” I murmur, finally coming face-to-face with the most beautiful person alive.
His blond hair is even lighter than the last time I saw him. I bet he had one of his “I’m bored” episodes and bleached it himself.
His blue eyes shine brighter than normal thanks to the glittery, golden eyeshadow on his lids, and of course it’s paired with that love that has kept me shackled for years, but it’s not enough for me to ignore the dark circles under them.
“You were amazing out there, Lex.” He jumps into the hug so his arms reach around my shoulders and buries his face against my neck.
I give myself one minute, knowing this will all go away soon, and enjoy having him in my arms.
“Thank you,” I whisper in his ear.
“All right, we’ve got reservations and Lex needs to be back at the hotel early. You two can catch up on the way.”
Letting go of Eli’s smaller frame gets harder every time, but I do it, and I make sure I don’t look into his eyes again and instead nod Mom’s way.
We walk behind our parents in silence. As always, I’m painfully aware of our differences. He’s fit, don’t get me wrong, and not exactly skinny, but his five feet seven frame always seems so small next to my six feet five.
I ball my fists at first but then think it’s probably better to stuff them deep in my pockets so I don’t get any ideas.
“You really were amazing.”
The softness of his voice and his hesitation are like back-to-back punches.
I hate that I’ve made him this way, that it always takes us so much time to get back to our normal.
We never have enough time, not really. Not even in the off season, because I need to train when August rolls around and the rest of the time I’m either busy with sponsors or trying to spend time with Vinny and Mom.
We haven’t been able to just be in so fucking long.
I know when it changed and why. There’s no way I could ever forget the tears that were clinging desperately to his lashes, the way his blue eyes looked so heartbroken after he told me, after he bared his soul to me, and I had to break both our hearts.
We were just kids—which is exactly the point.
I was a kid, even if it didn’t really feel that way back then.
It doesn’t change much that we’re not kids anymore, I don’t think.
It still feels like my soul is being ripped out of my body every time.
But I’ve powered through broken ribs in the playoffs, I can power through this too.
“Thank you. I’m really doing my best.”
Hockey.
If I focus on that, then maybe it won’t hurt as much.
“Your best should be more than enough for them,” he mutters, and I know he’s trying to sound mean and vicious, but I can’t fight a tiny smile—a true one. He’s freaking adorable. I’d love to focus only on his scrunched-up nose, or the low slope of his eyebrows, but his words ring true, and yet . . .
“It’s not.” That’s the painful truth right there, especially because I doubt there will ever come a day when I can give them any more than I already do.
I’m in my prime at twenty-three and have four full seasons behind me, and I understand the league and the game better than I ever did even with a retired player as a father.
It’s not enough for them.
I already take the jokes, the snide comments, the carelessness from all our coaches.
“Then it’s not your fault.” Just the touch of a hand to my back—and it’s not even a lot of pressure, just presence—soothes my overworked nerves, and everything settles inside me.
It’s not my fault. I’m not doing anything wrong.
The realization isn’t a solution—there is no solution—but it’s a kind of solace.
“Thank you,” I repeat.
“I’m not just saying it either,” he insists. “I don’t know much, but just the fact that you’re the only one who scored tonight tells me everything I need to know, you know? You’re like Thor out there.”
“Thor?” I ask, a surprised snort escaping against my will.
“The only one with common sense and the most powerful,” he says, like it’s obvious, then adds a very wise nod.
I laugh softly, and don’t stop the words when they bubble up.
“I love how your brain works,” I tell him, my devotion coming through in my voice loud and clear.
His smile is blinding, just like it was the first time I said those words to him.
Years and years ago.
We were watching Back To The Future for the one hundredth time and he started ranting about the inaccuracies of time travel. He’d just learned something about space-time and timelines and declared he couldn’t possibly enjoy the movie anymore because of this.
It was before everything went to shit, before I moved away, and so I’d had no qualms about pulling him against me for a half hug and kissing his forehead.
“I love how your brain works, angel.”
He’d looked at me like I’d just given him the best gift in the world, and looking back, I think that’s the moment where there was no turning back.
The way he relaxed against me, kept smiling for the whole film even though he really didn’t enjoy it as much anymore, and the way those words became our thing.
It’s how we started to let each other know we liked each other, and it’s been just ours ever since. Ever since I moved I stopped doing a lot of things—stopped talking to him daily, stopped calling him angel—but this is something I can’t give up.
Some things are just too precious to let go.
He doesn’t look away, doesn’t pull back, and I don’t either.
I just let myself have this . . . until we get to the car.
“So, Boston tomorrow night then Buffalo on Thanksgiving, right?” Michael asks after we’ve ordered our dinner and the waiter has left the private room.
“That’s right.” I nod and smile, hoping that’s enough to show Michael I appreciate the effort it takes to keep up with my schedule. I’m way better at it these days . . . showing appreciation, but I still feel so awkward around him.
I doubt that’s ever going to go away considering I’ve been in love with his son since the moment they introduced us.
“Will you have time to fly down to spend the night with us?” Mom asks, though I think she already knows the answer.
“I doubt it, Mom. The game should end around ten and we’re leaving the hotel at six in the morning because we have an early home game on Saturday.”
She pouts and Michael immediately puts a comforting hand on her shoulder, the way I want to put my hand on Eli’s shoulder.
No.
Shit.
“You’ll come for Christmas, though, right?” he asks me, always trying to help Mom look on the bright side.
Perfect distraction.
“Yeah, I’ll book my flight up from DC as soon as I can.”
“We can send the jet,” he says helpfully, but . . .
“That’s not necessary.” I shut that down fast. The last thing I need is to get on the fans shit list for using a private jet too often.
It’s understandable to use it when it involves Hawk or Wolf—who’d get mobbed in an airport no matter how good their bodyguards are—and even when a good chunk of us fly out west, but me alone?
That wouldn’t fly with the fans if they ever found out.
“The offer’s there if you have any issues getting a flight on time.” That amiable smile used to drive me insane when I first met Michael, now it just makes me feel like shit for that time.
He’s very simply, a good guy.
Yeah, he’s a pretty fierce businessman and has about a million enemies since he insists on having all his companies report the truth, but he really only wants to help out.
“I’ll let you know.” I nod in thanks then turn to Eli.
After an hour of thinking, I have the perfect words to get him talking, and maybe get us back to our easy banter faster.
“So, how’s the big new company going?” I don’t have to fake how impressed I am by him. “ECS is already a huge hit, right?” I hate myself for it but I clap his shoulder in a friendly move I’ve pulled on almost all my teammates throughout my life.
He ducks his head shyly, and I refuse to focus on that fucking precious—no. Not precious. It’s just a blush for fuck’s sake.
“I’m doing okay,” he mumbles.
“Please, you’re the big boss man now. Aren’t all those guys supposed to brag about themselves?” I tease.
He chuckles lightly, and when no one jumps in, he lets out an unsteady breath and finally looks up at me, that excitement that has my own heart rate spiking shining through his eyes.
“It’s going really great. My firewall and intrusion detection and prevention systems are holding steady for the five companies that have signed on. I also really like my team. It’s only ten people for now, but they’re great, and they help me keep everything going.”
“You’re too humble,” I grumble teasingly. “And you’re probably working too hard.” I raise one eyebrow pointedly, hoping he’ll . . . hell, I don’t know what I’m hoping.
“I’m really not.” He pulls away, flattening his back to the chair, his wide eyes looking scared for some reason. He turns to look at Michael then Lyla for only a second, then down at his empty plate. “It’s a lot of responsibility and I just want to do a good job.”
“An—Eli.” I cut myself off before I can say it. “There’s no way in hell you could ever do a bad job.”
“Just like you?” those blue laser beams strike right on their mark.
“There are plenty of ways I can fuck up on any given day. But overall, you’re right.
If you look at the big picture, I’m not fucking up, not on the ice.
” It feels like a dagger, to have to clarify, but I gotta.
“And your magic software, or algorithm, or whatever it’s called, is too good to fail big time.
That’s why all the big dogs want you to take them on as a client, right? ”
For a moment, only we exist. It’s only us at the table, trying desperately to make each other see ourselves, but as always, our bubble pops.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Michael says, and though I can’t look away from Eli, I recognize that tone. I know the soft smile he has on his face.
“With both of you,” Mom adds. “Now, enough about business. Tell me how your father and Ally are really doing.” Mom probably talks to Dad more often than me, especially since I’ve been kind of avoiding him lately.
There’s no way she doesn’t know exactly how they’re doing, but I understand why she wants to change the subject.
She wants Eli and me to let go of our worries, only wants to help, and I know she means well, but I’ve felt the grief of looking away from Eli around a million times, and it still hurts as if it were a fresh wound.
Thursday morning, we get to the airport, the whole team marches onto the charter like a hoard of zombies, and I make my way to the empty back of the plane where I’m less likely to catch anyone’s attention.
“See you at Christmas. I already have the perfect gift for you.”
Those were Eli’s parting words, and all I could think about was that on top of everything else he has on his plate, he’s found the time to order or buy me a fucking gift—which will probably be my favorite of the night since he always nails it.
And all I could do was look away, restrain myself from touching him, discourage him from touching me.
I’m a shit friend.
Before I can think better of it, before I’m told off by the flight attendant, before we make our way to the runway, I unlock my phone and type out a message.
Lex:
Want to come spend Thanksgiving with me?
His reply comes back instantly.
Eli:
Yes.
Lex:
I’ll make sure the tickets are waiting for you and Austin at will call.
Maybe that’s as subtle as a sledgehammer, but I’m not going to be a part of a scheme that involves Eli ditching his bodyguard. It’s underhanded, maybe, but if there’s one thing I’m always going to be sure of it’s that Eli’s safety isn’t up for debate.
I set a reminder in two days to get them both a suite at whatever hotel we end up in in Buffalo. As I turn off my phone I feel even worse than I did before I got to New York.
All I’ve needed to do to be a good friend in the past is ask.
I know why I haven’t before, because it’s too risky, because I have shit self-restraint, because I’ve been hoping for this love to go the fuck away.
Obviously, it hasn’t.
Is it time to throw in the towel and accept it never will?