14. Hank
HANK
Nick is cruel.
Not really, but kinda.
It’s cruel to be that good-looking in a hockey uniform and only want to be friends.
Friends? A blow off line I’ve heard many times in my dating life. I really wish I could stop thinking about our parking lot kiss and craving more.
Nick probably has a boyfriend in Baltimore.
Or a rotating series of flings. He’s a catch!
I don’t know why I’ve been simmering on it all week.
We were friends before he kissed me, and we’ll be friends after he kissed me.
I was totally fine with us being friends.
But then he kissed me, and now I feel a little lost.
I’m not in the habit of kissing friends—and definitely not with a hint of tongue. Maybe it’s a Baltimore thing.
We spent the last few days texting our thoughts on Elf and the creepy, uncanny valley animation of The Polar Express. No awkward vibe was detected in our messages. I’m not one for drama. If Nick wants to be friends, that’s cool with me.
On Thursday night, I have Nick meet me at a little community gym—one squat rack, a rubber floor that smells like old sneakers, and a space heater fighting for its life in the corner. Nick’s in workout clothes that probably cost more than my one good suit, stretching like he’s made of rubber bands.
“I figured we should do a workout tonight,” I tell him as we stretch on the mat. “The work we do in here is as important as what we do at goal. You can’t be a great goalie if your legs are weak. What’s your workout look like typically? Treadmill?”
“I work out regularly with a trainer. We rotate through upper body and lower body exercises.”
“A trainer? Fancy.”
“It’s part of the job.”
“As an accountant?”
He laughs nervously. “That was a joke. A bad joke. I need to work on my timing.”
A lock of hair falls in his eyes. His smile cruelly lights me up inside.
I walk to the center of the mat. “We’re going to do an intense leg workout. Cossack squats. Reverse lunges. We’ll turn your legs into jelly before we turn them into steel.”
When people look at me, they see my gut.
They don’t notice my strong legs underneath.
Just because a guy is big doesn’t mean there isn’t muscle under the padding.
Since I started on the Comebacks, I’ve gotten back into my gym routine.
I’d let myself slide for a few years when I wasn’t playing. Exercise is a great attitude booster.
“Okay,” I say, clapping my hands. “Cossack squats.”
Nick blinks. “Those are the side ones?”
“Yep. They make goalies cry in the best way.”
I sink all the way down, one leg bent deep, the other straight out, heel planted, chest up. My hips open like a well-oiled door. One slip, and I’ll fall into a split. I switch sides, smooth and steady.
Nick just stares. I damn near think he’s going to give me a round of applause.
“What?” I say, grinning. “People think because I’m built like a refrigerator, I can’t move.”
“Apparently refrigerators can do ballet,” he mutters.
I laugh. “C’mon. Your turn.”
He tries. Wobbles. And falls. His trainer likely has him do simpler leg exercises that avoid him being bulky. I suppose he doesn’t want to scare his clients.
“Let me try that again.”
“Focus on your core. Find that balance in the center of your body as you push your legs.”
He tries again and slowly sinks down. He doesn’t get far before he falls onto his butt.
“Try it again. We’re going to keep doing this until you get it right.”
“I miss fun Hank.”
“Remember how fun it was being MVP on Sunday? Maybe that’ll happen again. If you do your squats.” I rub my hands together. “When I’m done with you, you won’t be able to walk.”
Fuck. Did I just say what I said? Nick turns away, bright red.
“No—shit. I didn’t mean that. I meant that when I’m done with you, you’re going to be sore tomorrow. Fuck. Not that either.”
Nick’s eyes widen, a little bit of panic and a little bit…something else. And now I’m thinking about the thing I’m not supposed to be thinking about.
Friends, Hank. Friends. Like the Jennifer Aniston show.
“What I meant is that your inner thighs—nope, I’m definitely not finishing that sentence.”
Why is it that hockey works all the most sexually adjacent muscles in your body? Who knew Canadians were so horny?
“We’re going to have a hard workout,” Nick offers.
“Yes. A…hard workout. Hard as in difficult. Not erect.”
I really wish Nick hadn’t kissed me. It only makes me think about other things we could do, other places for his tongue to go.
“Why are we talking at all? Exercise can be a silent activity,” I say.
Nick puts his leg out and sinks down slowly. When he starts to tip over, I hold his torso to keep him upright. His body is warm and thick. His cedary deodorant and body wash smell like they came from a country club locker room.
“That’s good,” I say in a low voice. My hands are dangerously close to his round ass. His shirt rides up. The waistband of his boxers peeks out from his shorts. I want to gnaw at it.
I step back when he seems balanced.
He drops into the squat some more, long legs folding clean, balance locked in. When he shifts sides, his butt muscles flex in a way that is extremely unfair to the general public.
And…yeah. His ass.
I do not mean to look. I really don’t. I am a good man. A respectful man. A man who is absolutely staring at Nick’s ass as he sinks into a lunge.
For a man with little hockey experience, he definitely has the butt for the sport. It’s a bit bigger than his slim and trim frame would hint at. A nice, round curve to it. His shorts dip into the hollow of his crack.
I cough and look at the wall. The wall is very interesting. Beige. Slight crack near the outlet. Someone should have that looked at. You don’t want the building to crumble. That wouldn’t be good.
“Looking good,” I say, aiming my eyeline safely above the waist.
“Really?” he asks, pushing up into a forward lunge, knee hovering just off the floor.
I glance back.
Mistake.
His form is perfect. Back straight. Core tight.
And his ass—firm, controlled, doing exactly what it’s supposed to do.
Like it trained for this moment specifically to ruin me.
Each second I stare at it, I gain a point on the gay scale.
I’m reminded of the scene in Mrs. Doubtfire when Robin Williams desperately shoves his face into a cake.
“How’s this?” Nick asks.
“Mrs. Doubtfire.”
He cranes his head around. “Huh?”
“Good,” I say quickly. “Strong. Controlled. Uh. Drive through the heel.”
I demonstrate, lunging forward, then switching legs. Deep. Clean. No problem.
“See?” I say. “Flexibility’s about practice, not size.”
Nick nods, focused, copying me. Sweat darkens his shirt. His breathing turns heavier. Real. Manly.
Something warm and stupid settles in my chest.
We finish the set and straighten up at the same time. By the grace of God, I don’t have a boner. Just a mind boner. Nick smiles at me, flushed and proud.
He shakes out his legs. “I can feel the burn already.”
“We’re not done yet. We’ve got split squats, leg curls, planks. You’re going to be on your back unable to move—shit. I did it again.”
“You’d think that every athlete would be somewhat homosexual after a workout routine.”
“If they’re not, the group shower should do the trick.”
Nick and I line up and do lunge walks down the length of the mat. We race each other. I win the first round, and Nick beats me in the second round. It makes for a fun workout.
“So what’s the dating scene like in Baltimore?” I ask when we take a break. We sit on the bench, each taking sips from our water bottle.
“It’s…fine.”
“You seem like you’d be a hot commodity there.”
Nick blushes, and I wonder if that was an overstep. But it’s true! Even if I was 100 percent straight, I wouldn’t feel ashamed to comment on his handsomeness.
“Actually, Hank. Can I be honest with you?”
“I’d hope so. It’s better than lying.”
He stares at the leg press machine and possibly beyond. “I haven’t dated much in Baltimore. In fact, I haven’t dated at all.”
He glances down and looks away.
“Hey, that’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s not about quantity. It’s quality, pal.”
“There’s been no quality because there’s been no quantity.” He throws his head into his hands. There’s a cute aspect to watching him freak out. “God, it sounds worse when I say it aloud.”
“That’s okay, pal.” I pat his back and give it a calming rub. “You just haven’t found the right guy.”
“I haven’t been looking for the right guy. I’ve been too…” His jaw tightens with a hard edge. “It’s complicated.”
“Whenever you say it’s complicated, that’s just code for your dad.”
He ambles over to the wall of mirrors and gives himself a disgusted once over.
My dad was one of my best friends. We’d share a beer (even in high school—whoops!), go fishing together.
He was incredibly proud when I finished my plumber’s apprenticeship.
Same with my mom. She was my biggest cheerleader, and she made the best apple pie I’ve ever tasted.
Mom and Dad have been gone sixteen and fourteen years, respectively, and I still miss them every day.
Sometimes I wonder how I’ve been able to navigate divorce, parenthood, and life on my own, without their wisdom.
I can’t imagine having this kind of relationship with my parents, not having their unwavering support.
“What’s the deal with your dad? Who died and made him king?”
“Ugh. I’m going to be sick.” Nick bonks his head into the mirror and sinks to the floor, a crumpled up piece of paper of a man.
I sit down next to him. “Maybe when you get back to Baltimore, you tell him to back off. Tell him you’re gay and you’re allowed to stick it in whoever you like.”
“Hank—”
“Or is it whomever?”
That breaks him out of his pity party jail. His face lights up with a smile, dignified dimples creasing around his lips. I firmly believe that if we’re able to laugh, then all hope isn’t lost.
“It’s embarrassing how little control I have over my life. It’s like…do you ever feel like you’re a side character in your own life?”
“Uh, yeah.” Never has a question cut so quickly to my core. “I’ve been the funny best friend since I was a kid.”
“All I am is a spectator. I’ve spent my life watching things happen to other people: falling in love, having hot one-night stands, pursuing their passions. They get to have cool stories. I don’t have any cool stories.”
Everything Nick says pounds in my chest. I thought I was okay with being the comic relief in my own life, but why does that have to be my destiny?
“That’s it.” I stand up and wave my hand at Nick like I’m casting a spell. “I hereby declare us main characters.”
He gives me a humoring smile.
“I’m serious. We are interesting and complex and fucking awesome.”
Nick nods along, slowly letting the hype creep in.
“We got stories coming out our ears. Suck it, Brad Pitt,” I say. “Let’s start exuding some fucking main character energy.”
“Damn right.” Nick takes my hand, and I pull him up. “Shall we do some planks?”
“Yeah, but first.” In a burst of main character motivation, I push Nick against the mirrored wall and press my lips to his. And damn, his mouth feels good. Hot and wet.
Yet I realize there’s a difference between main character energy and sexual assault, and I quickly pull back.
“Shit. I’m sorry. Is this okay?” I ask.
“Is it okay that you’re kissing me?” He quirks an eyebrow.
“You said you wanted to be friends. I got caught up in the moment.”
“This is exactly how friends kiss in Baltimore.” He grabs my shirt and pulls me against him.
Good morning, Baltimore!
For a guy who has barely any sexual experience, he knows what he’s doing with his tongue.
He presses it between my lips, flicks it against mine as he lets out a deep moan.
Our mouths open and close in sync, like we’re both gasping for air.
And maybe we are, maybe we both spent too long suffocating under fear and doubt.
“I have got to get to Baltimore.” I wrap my arms around his waist and pull him close, breathing in his tangy sweat and crisp scent.
His back muscles tense and flex under my grip.
There’s a desperate lust exploding between us, a long held need we’re fulfilling.
I haven’t kissed anyone with this kind of hunger.
And the best part? Amid all the hunger and need, his lips curl into a smile as we make out. Mine do, too. We’re having fun. Enjoying this. It’s not a race to climax.
“Shit. Sorry,” I say when our teeth knock together.
Nick darts his tongue in and out of my mouth. It’s a little overeager and unlike everything else about him, not suave. But I still love it. It’s natural. It’s odd. It’s him.
The sensible adult part of me pulls back after a few minutes. The gym may be empty, but it’s still a public place. I’m pretty sure there’s a no sex rule here.
“Okay. Good workout.” I can feel the dopey grin take over my face, much like it did when I made out with Alicia Brenner in seventh grade. This is one hundred times better. No offense, Alicia.
Nick dips his head bashfully, his cheeks flushed red, lips extra pouty.
“Come over tomorrow night for dinner,” I say.
The way his eyes glow with anticipation tells me that’s a big yes. “What’s on the menu?”
“It’s Friday night, so Brody and I order pizza.”
“Brody will be there?”
“Yeah. Is that okay?”
“Of course. I’m excited to meet your son.”
“You’ll like him. You both seem like smarties.”
Nick looks around the empty gym. “Should we keep working out?”
I fear if I watch this man do a squat or flex a muscle, then I will violate the no sex rule. “I think we’re good.”
The bell on the door rings as a trio of girls come in and beeline to the elliptical machines. That’s our cue to go.
Nick wipes himself off with a towel, then heads out. He turns back before he exits the door, giving me one more loaded glance. “Good night, Hank.”
Being a main character rocks.