Chapter 29
Milo
Iwake up the next morning, and my heart is aching for Beau.
What he told me about his parents… I know mine are really a piece of work, but his mom clearly did a number on his self-worth.
I wake up with my arms still wrapped around him, holding him close.
He looks so peaceful in my arms, so serene.
Nothing like the sobbing man I saw last night.
I think about his tears, just the endless tears as I held him and he wept.
I think about those tears, and I feel helpless. What am I supposed to do?
I know that his strong emotions and his shitty childhood are why he numbs his emotions with alcohol now. I’m sure he grew up seeing that shit on the daily. And just because he recognizes that what his parents did wasn’t okay doesn’t mean he doesn’t see drinking like that as normal behavior.
I don’t want to see him hurt himself, but I don’t want to be that guy who starts out a potential relationship by delivering an ultimatum.
My thoughts turn to Coach. To what he’s been through. Maybe he would understand what I’m thinking. Maybe he would understand why it’s so important that I handle this. He would get why Beau’s self-medicating is a problem.
It may be risky, talking to Coach, but I know that all he wants is for his team to work cohesively. He wouldn’t hold something as trivial as drinking against Beau.
When I first joined the team, I never went out with the guys after games. Why would I go to bars and shit when I don’t drink? But he told me it’s not about drinking with everyone; it’s about the camaraderie built in time spent together. It’s about being a team, always.
It took me quite a few tries to get the hang of a mocktail menu, but eventually, I figured it out. Now I go to every celebration with my teammates because they’re my brothers.
I roll out of bed, leaving Beau, planting a kiss on his forehead before slipping into sweats and a T-shirt.
I need to talk to our coach.
When we were talking about my own hangups with alcohol, Coach Waldor told me about his own past with alcohol.
He was a center for the Minnesota team back in the day, top of his game, in his absolute prime.
He was married back then, to a pretty young woman named Jackie.
He was drinking one night to celebrate after a game and got behind the wheel.
He hit ice and then hit a tree, concussion, pelvic fracture, foot crushed. Jackie died on impact.
They slapped him with a DUI, took away his license and he lost the love of his life.
He never drank again.
Coach knows how much alcohol can fuck up your life. He’ll know exactly what to say to Beau.
I pull up to the rink and park in the garage.
When I finally walk up to Coach’s office, you’d think I would have some idea of what I’m going to say, but no, of course not. I have nothing. Nada. Zilch.
But I knock on the door anyway.
“Come in.” His voice is booming, always so stern and strait-laced. I push open the door, and he smiles at me. He’s a handsome older man, neatly trimmed hair cut close, dark eyes. He walks with a slight limp, but that doesn’t take away from his powerful presence. “Milo, what can I do for you?”
I pull out the chair across from his desk and sit myself down. This is not going to be a standing conversation.
“I’m worried,” I say quickly, maybe too quickly. “About Beau.”
I’m suddenly ashamed, embarrassed to be airing Beau’s dirty laundry like this to our coach of all people. I feel my cheeks heating, the flush blooming across my face.
“Worried? About what exactly?” He quirks a brow, clearly taking in my blush but thankfully not addressing it.
“His drinking.” I’ve come this far, might as well get some insight. “I’m worried about how much he’s using alcohol to numb his emotions. I’m worried about him, and I don’t know how to talk to him about it.”
“I see.” Coach Waldor is watching me carefully, a serious look on his face. “It’s not my place to talk to him about things that aren’t affecting him on the ice.”
“It’s affecting me,” I say quickly. “I worry about him constantly. I can’t focus during practice because all I can think about is if he’s at home getting buzzed. I know he’s only out for a few months, but I worry about him so much. I l—”
I come to a screeching halt.
I’m not saying that for the first time out loud to my coach.
But it’s true. I do love him.
I love him so much I’m sitting in my coach’s office, trying to figure out how to tell a boy that I love him. Because when it comes down to it, that’s what I really want to tell him.
“I’m scared he’s going to end up really hurting himself,” I finally continue.
“I see,” Waldor says again, very slowly.
We sit like that for quite some time, stilted silence between us. I think he knows exactly who I am, and I think I have to tell him.
“I’m gay,” I spit out, my words coming out much too quickly. There’s a beat of silence between us before.
“I figured,” he answers self-assuredly, nodding to himself, because of course he knew.
There, that wasn’t so hard.
“You have to be honest with Beau about how you’re feeling, son,” Waldor says slowly, like he wants to make sure I’m following every word so carefully.
And I am. “If you can’t do that, then you’re not starting your relationship out with open communication and honesty.
That’s so important. Jackie always said that communication and honesty were the key to any happy and healthy relationship. ”
“But this isn’t just about our relationship,” I counter. “This is about him as an individual.”
“Then you’ll have to appeal to him as an individual.”
His attention turns back to his computer, and for some reason, I feel as if our conversation is done here. I push myself to stand.
“Milo.” Waldor doesn’t even look up as he types, but he has a secret smile tilting his lips. “Tell the boy how you feel. I think that’ll be enough for him.”
I nod slowly, but internally, I’m battling. Because Beau is still so skittish. What if I tell him how I feel, that I love him, and he bolts? What if he laughs?
No, he wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t do that to me.
The car ride home is so tense that I am pretty much white-knuckling the steering wheel the whole time.
I walk through the front door, and Beau has on those glasses, and he’s reading one of my smutty books. He looks up when I walk through the door and smiles.
“Did you know some of these books are, like, emotional porn?” he asks with the loveliest smile that I try to match. I must not do the best job because his falls, and he sets the book down. “What’s wrong?”
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” I say slowly, unsure really of how to start.
“Okay.” Beau nods and pats the couch next to him. I plop down beside him, and he scooches closer to me. Our sides are touching, and I instantly feel a little better, a little braver.
“I want to talk about what you told me last night,” I start.
“Just a little bit,” I hurry to continue when his face kind of falls.
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable at all, so we can talk about anything else if it starts to feel that way, okay?
” He nods slowly, a wary look on his face.
“You told me about how awful your mom was, but I want to ask about your dad.”
Beau laughs a shallow laugh.
“What about him? He’s a deadbeat who is always asking for money.” He scoffs a little and looks straight ahead. Fuck. Have I pissed him off already?
“Why is he always calling you and asking for money?” I ask carefully. I think I know, based on what I’ve overheard, but I don’t want to assume.
“He’s a fucking addict,” Beau says matter-of-factly. “He gambles his life away and then I have to bail him out because I owe him. I wouldn’t be a big hockey star if it wasn’t for him.” I can tell he’s repeating words he’s heard over and over.
“You know that’s not true. Children don’t owe their parents anything.” I reach out to touch him, unsure if he even wants that, but he leans into the touch. I take the opportunity to wrap an arm around him and pull him to me. “I … I want to talk about his addiction.”
“What about it?” He gives me a killer side-eye, and I blanch a little.
“He was a shit father.” He leans back into the couch, crossing his arms with a vexed expression on his face.
“He was always busy driving up to Oklahoma to gamble away his life. We never played catch or whatever cheesy dad stuff he was supposed to do.”
Like not making you feel like a burden? I think to myself.
“Have you heard about addictive tendencies being genetic?”
“Genetic?”
“Yeah,” I continue slowly. Not because I don’t think he can keep up, but because I don’t want to miss anything.
“Basically, children of parents with substance use disorders have a higher risk of developing addictive tendencies, despite how they were raised, and you were raised in the thick of it.” Beau is nodding as I’m talking, and I suddenly feel like I’m talking over him.
“I don’t want to just steamroll you. I want your input. I want this to be a conversation.”
“I don’t really have anything to say. Besides, it sounds like you think I’m an alcoholic.”
“No!” I say, maybe a little too loudly. “No, baby, I don’t think that.
Not at all. What I think is that all the cards you’ve been handed in life make it a lot easier for that to happen.
” I take a deep breath as my eyes begin to burn.
“And I’m scared that I’ll lose you to it if I don’t say anything. ”
Beau looks at me then, really looks at me, eyebrows scrunched and lips downturned in focus.
“You promise you don’t think that?” he asks carefully.
“No, no, I promise I don’t think that at all, Beau. I know you.” This is it, the moment of truth. This is my chance to tell him exactly how I feel. The words feel like they’re stuck in my chest, right above my heart, where they’ve lived all this time. “I—” They stay stuck.
We just sit there while I silently fight with myself to build up the courage to tell Beau I love him.
Because I do love him.
I love his smiles. I love his passion. I love his fears and doubts, and I love his flaws. I love all the little things that make up Beau.
He’s talking, saying something, but I can’t focus. All I can think of are those stuck words buried deep in my chest, until they’re bubbling up my throat and I’m blurting them out.
“I love you.”
Silence.
Beau isn’t looking at me, but to be fair, my eyes are squeezed shut, so I guess I don’t really know where he’s looking.
“Milo?” His voice is so quiet, so unsure. I squeeze my eyes tighter until I feel his hand on my face. I peel my eyes open slowly and peek at him. His cheeks are flushed, and there’s a dark curl falling in his face. He looks dreamy like this.
“Yeah?” I ask, wondering if I should just pretend I didn’t say anything. Maybe he’ll let me skirt right past this as if nothing has even happened. I think I could possibly get away with it.
“I—” he starts, and my breath gets caught in my chest. “I love you too.”
And I smile. I smile so wide before tackling him, gently, to the couch and catching his mouth with mine. Our kiss feels electric.
I love him.
I love him.
I love him.
And he loves me.