2. Gideon ‘Taft’ Taftwell #2
His head jerked up so fast I thought he’d hit himself with the needle. Instead, he blinked at me, one hand pressed against the frame of the goal as he let out a shaky breath.
“Taft!” He laughed under it, more at himself than at me. “You made me jump.”
“Sorry, it’s just…” I leaned over and pointed toward the section he’d just tied. “There.”
His eyes followed my finger. He frowned for a moment before groaning softly. “So I have.”
He eased the cord back through the previous loop, undoing two minutes of work without complaint.
“I’ve already done two of these today,” he said. “They’re all starting to blur into one.”
Say something useful.
“If you miss one loop, the whole thing pulls crooked.”
Heat crept up my neck the second it left my mouth. Smooth, Gideon.
Ryan nodded, threading the needle through the mesh again and drawing the cord tight before glancing up at me. Then he smiled to himself.
“Dad always says nobody notices when you’ve done the job right.” He tugged another section into place and gave it an experimental pull. “They only notice when a puck goes through a gap. He lives in fear of things not being up to his standards.”
“He’s a good man, and an even better equipment manager.”
Ryan laughed quietly. “Then you know.”
Normally I’d have had an excuse by now, something about warming up or checking my skates, and been halfway down the corridor before anyone noticed. But the doctor said I should make friends and now was as good a time as any. So, I stayed.
Still, I was six-four, and Ryan was already itty-bitty down there on his knees, and standing over him like that just made me feel every inch of my own bulk, looming.
I settled onto one knee beside the frame, resting an arm across it while he worked.
I wasn’t helping. He didn’t need help. My hands stayed where they were, and standing there watching felt less awkward than walking away.
The nylon scraped against painted steel with a soft rasp every time he pulled another length through, and somewhere out on the ice a compressor kicked into life before settling into its steady drone again. It wasn’t much of a conversation, but the quiet between us didn’t need filling.
Ryan worked with the same care I’d noticed when he sharpened skates after practice: nothing hurried, nothing wasted, every knot checked before he moved to the next, every section pulled until the tension matched the last. Watching him get it right calmed me.
“You don’t have to stay. I won’t mess up again.” He sounded as if he expected me to sit here checking his work and criticizing, and I wasn’t here to do that. What else is he going to think? I pointed out the missed loop. “You could be, uh…” He waved behind us. “Doing hockey-type things.”
“I could.”
He stared at me over the top of the frame, amusement flickering across his face.
“But you’re not.”
I shrugged. “I’m curious.”
“About hockey nets?”
“No, about how someone gets volunteered to restring three of them.”
“Dad says I have an affinity for careful work.” Ryan didn’t look up from the mesh.
“And I was here anyway.” He went still for a second, considering it.
“Or maybe I was voluntold. He just wants me to keep busy, I think, and I didn’t want to be at home on a Saturday.
” I felt as if there was more to that last part than he was saying, but I didn’t ask why.
He pulled another length of cord through.
“He’ll probably redo half of these tomorrow, anyway. ”
“You’re very good with your hands.”
“That’s what all the men say,” he quipped and then went scarlet. “Sorry, inappropriate banter alert.”
“It’s all good,” I said. A speck of glitter sat just under one of his eyes, catching the fluorescent light every time he moved.
I had no idea where that had come from. I wondered if I should say something, but there was a smudge of eyeliner too, just under his lash line, and I didn’t know what to say.
Whether he wore makeup was his business, not mine.
But his skin was flawless, freshly shaved, not a mark on it, and his face was all cheekbones and—
He pulled the final loop tight on that section and leaned back on his heels to study his work. One corner still sagged slightly, and he reached forward and adjusted it.
“There,” he murmured, more to himself than to me. “That’ll hold until Dad redoes it all.” He laughed.
I was watching him instead of the net.
“What do you think?” Ryan asked.
I ran my fingers over the mesh, checking the tension the way I always did from the crease, out of habit as much as anything.
“It’s good.”
Ryan looked pleased and sat back to examine his work.
“Yeah,” he said. “It looks good.”
Ryan went to push himself up and swayed, one hand missing the frame he reached for.
“Head rush,” he said and wobbled again.
I caught him, my arm hooking around his waist while I was still down on one knee, but he landed half across my lap instead of upright.
He was warm all down one side of me, and he smelled like sweat and rink and something sweeter underneath.
He wriggled, getting his feet back under him, and every part of my brain narrowed down to one thought: don’t let go.
I wanted to hold him. Not steady him. Hold him and keep him exactly there. It hit me out of nowhere, hard enough that I nearly missed him finding his balance. I got to my feet fast and put a full step of air between us.
“Knew I should’ve eaten my oats this morning,” Ryan said, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead.
“You need protein, not just carbs, if you’re going to be on your knees for hours.” What the fuck did I just say? I tripped over something about electrolytes and blood sugar; a stat I was sure I’d invented on the spot. Word vomit, Gideon. Jeez. “Sorry,” I said. “Ignore that.”
Ryan just looked confused. “Okay then,” he said. “Good to know.”
“I have to—” I muttered and turned away with the rest of it unsaid, walking fast, straight for the locker room.
Make friends, she said. Smile, she said. Fuck.