Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
When I step out of Eric’s truck, the first thing I notice about his home is the fresh air and the stillness. Beyond the sound of Eric’s footfalls and the occasional caw of a bird, there’s nothing else. No sounds of traffic, sirens, or people.
“It’s so quiet.”
“Yep,” Eric says while unloading the truck of my luggage. “Exactly how I like it.”
The two storey craftsman home has a modern facade which appears to have been recently restored with a fresh coat of gray paint.
The large front porch features a cushioned swing, giving the home a cozy, welcoming atmosphere.
The front yard is spacious and well-maintained with tall trees framing the home, giving it a degree of privacy.
Unlike the usual suburbs I’m used to, the homes in Eric’s neighborhood are spread further apart along the road rather than packed together.
Eric gives me a tour of his home. Like the exterior, the interior appears to have been renovated with modern comfort and convenience in mind.
Despite Eric spending much of the hockey season away, the living space still feels lived in and loved.
I’m most familiar with his backyard porch from pictures of parties, but now I have full context.
With his home situated on a hill, the patio deck overlooks the forest, and there’s a perfect view of the expansive sky above.
“Your home is lovely,” I tell him.
“Thanks. It’s come a long way since I purchased it years ago. The structure was solid, but it needed some modernizing.”
I’m surprised by the size of his home, though.
I understand Eric would want to live somewhere immersed in nature after traveling all across the country for games, but the space seems suited for a big family, not a bachelor.
Then again… Eric was in a relationship a few years ago.
He must have imagined a different outcome than how it ended up.
I follow Eric upstairs, carrying my duffle while he effortlessly lifts my luggage like it weighs nothing.
“I actually just had the guest bedroom redone last summer, so it’s all relatively new furnishings. The mattress is just like mine—super cozy, like sleeping on a cloud. If you end up needing more blankets at night, just tell me.”
Eric drops off the luggage inside the room I’ll be staying in.
“The bathroom’s just down the hall, and I’m just across the way. Any questions?”
“None that I can think of.” At least, none that are appropriate to ask of a man who’s generously opened his home.
“Alright. Awesome. Feel free to make yourself at home then. I’m gonna get started on dinner while you unpack.”
When Eric slips away, I stand in the middle of the guest bedroom uncertain of what to do first. The last time I settled into a place other than my apartment was my college dorm.
My stay in Washington certainly won’t be as long as my time in college, but this isn’t a weekend sleepover at a friend’s house.
Loud screaming and laughter outside draw my attention as I start to unpack.
I’m pulled to the room’s bay windows which offer a vantage point of the entire neighborhood.
Further up the street, a group of kids have gathered to chase each other for an intense game of tag.
Beyond the kids, Eric’s other neighbors have started their weekends.
A man leans over the popped hood of a car in his driveway.
A pair of women have come out to do yoga in their backyard.
Another homeowner waters her potted plants on her porch.
It’s a completely different environment from what I’m used to in the city, quiet yet alive. I could see myself spending a summer sitting in this nook, reading and people watching. Still, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll have a hard time sleeping without the constant noise.
Unpacking shouldn’t take long—I have a sneaking suspicion I didn’t bring enough for my trip—but all I want is a shower and a change of clothes. I forgo unpacking and grab my bag of toiletries and head for the guest bathroom.
In the hall, the robust smell of barbequed meat wafts upstairs. My stomach groans, unused to being neglected this much. I should’ve purchased a snack before my flight, as no doubt I’m going to embarrass myself with my ravenous appetite—even by athlete standards.
Eric’s guest bathroom is well equipped, and it sports a walk-in shower. I undress quickly, eager to get out of the clothes I traveled in. I turn on the shower and stand under the hot spray, letting the airport grime wash off.
It’s nice, it should be relaxing, but no matter how much I tell myself it’s time to shift out of playoff mode, my body’s still so tense. My season’s over, but the stress remains thanks to a whole new crisis unfolding in the background.
I turn off the water and wrap a towel around my waist. I dry off, wringing out as much water as I can from my hair and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
I’ve always looked like a shaggy dog after a shower with my hair askew in all directions, and after playoff season, this is especially true.
I change into a pair of underwear and spare one last glance in the mirror. I run a hand over my jaw, checking if I need to shave, but it’s still smooth, just how I prefer it. Of course, my superstitious teammates probably think my shaving routine during the playoffs is the real reason we lost.
My stomach growls again, reminding me to hurry up and get over my wayward thoughts. I really should’ve picked something up before the flight.
Yet when I step back into the hall, Eric’s just coming up the stairs.
Our eyes meet, and he stops short of reaching the landing.
It’s not unusual to encounter another half-naked, if not outright naked guy around the showers.
We’re athletes. Yet the context here is different; this is Eric’s home, not a dressing room with countless other guys.
A beat passes with neither of us saying anything.
His eyes drift from mine, slowly moving down my body, making my breath catch in my throat.
All I’m wearing is a pair of black underwear and a towel around my neck to catch stray droplets of water from my hair.
The way he’s staring at me makes me flush from more than just embarrassment, and I feel my cock twitch with life from his gaze.
“Sorry,” I say, a little too raspy. I pull the towel down to cover myself in a futile attempt at modesty. “I was just… I thought I should…”
Eric’s gaze snaps back up to my eye level, and he smiles bashfully. “Hey, no need to apologize. I’m glad you’re settling in. I was just coming up to say the burgers are almost done.”
“Thanks. I’m starving.” I chuckle. “Sorry in advance.”
“I told you, no one gets a goaltender more than another goaltender. I’m expecting a big appetite.”
“Let me just get dressed then I’ll be down.”
“Sounds good.”
Eric turns to head back downstairs in record time, and I slip into the guest bedroom in a hurry.
Inside, I distract myself by rummaging through my luggage, looking for something to wear. I try not to be mortified by the fact that Eric’s gaze alone is enough to turn me on. I can’t get flustered every time Eric looks at me.
But… But the way he looked at me. If only he would always look at me that way.
After turning over every piece of clothing I brought for the trip, I’m at a total loss—which is ridiculous.
Why am I making this such a big deal? This is no different than if I came over for a party.
A party for two. An extended, long party which comes with the risk of running into each other like we did in the hallway.
Okay, so the party metaphor doesn’t work.
I’m essentially his temporary roommate. Yeah, that title works better.
Yes, it’s possible to overthink everything.
While staring at my open luggage, my phone pings with a series of texts from Robbie.
Normally, Robbie manages the majority of my communication with the team’s front office, but for the past few days, he’s been struggling to make contact to find out more about how management will respond to Coach Miller’s comments.
No surprise, today’s text is another update letting me know there’s no updates.
I power down my phone and toss it into my bag, irritated at the sight of it. I’m sick of hearing about Coach Miller and the Comets. The only person I want to hear from is Eric, and I no longer need to rely on texts to talk to him.
Frustrated, I pull on a pair of black jeans and a white t-shirt with a faded logo—casual and cool, two adjectives that “definitely” suit me.
I head downstairs and find Eric out on his backyard patio instead of in his kitchen.
He’s wearing a familiar apron I’ve seen in photos over his clothes, and he smiles again when he hears the sliding glass door open.
Outside, Eric has already decorated his backyard patio in a way which reminds me of something out of a home and garden magazine: strings of bistro lights; a buffalo checkered tablecloth; an antique lantern as the table’s centerpiece; two place settings with chargers; a bucket filled with ice and a handful of nestled beers; an assortment of burger toppings and condiments; a basket of fresh fries.
Eric’s gone above and beyond to make tonight’s dinner extraordinary.
“Eric… You really didn’t—”
“It’s your first night here,” he explains with a sheepish laugh. “I wanted to make it special.”
Eric serves up a juicy patty onto the bun on my plate, then his own. He sits down across from me at the table, fishes out one of the beers, and pops the top off with a bottle opener. He gestures to me, and I nod, so he offers me the cold bottle, then pulls out another for himself.
“What’s this?” I point to one of the condiment bottles which is unlabeled and filled with an orange sauce I don’t recognize.
“My own homemade burger sauce. It’s a little sweet and probably a medium on the spicy scale. I tend to use it over ketchup and mustard.”