15. Ben
BEN
I’m not sure what to make of Marlowe’s. Or Tessa and Micah. Or the version of Fraser who sits in a worn-out booth and lets his friends give him shit.
At the rink, Fraser is an asshole who turns everything into a competition. Tessa and Micah gave him shit and he took it, and once they got going he didn’t seem like a professional hockey player at all.
A few people in the bar recognized us, but the looks never turned into requests for a picture or questions about the suspension. Thank fuck. Sitting in a gay bar already felt weird enough, even when nothing especially gay was happening.
The bar had rainbow stickers, and two men in the booth near the door sat with their arms around each other.
I’m the weird one.
Grayson would punch me if he could hear my thoughts.
He’s always known he’s queer. I have no idea what the fuck Nolan and I are doing.
I start the car, and Fraser buckles his seat belt. “When’s your car getting out of the shop?”
“Should be tomorrow or the next day. They had to get a part.”
That’s why I drove across town when he told me to pick him up, even though an Uber would’ve been easier.
I pull out of the lot. “Are you hungry?”
Fraser looks at me for long enough that I wonder if he expected us to go straight to his apartment. I want to, though dinner sounds good too.
“I could eat.”
I take the next right.
I found the burger place not long after I got to Seattle.
It’s twelve minutes from Marlowe’s, on a side street between a dry cleaner and a pet-supply store.
There are six tables inside and a counter where they pass out food in red plastic baskets.
The burgers are good enough that I’ve come back twice.
Fraser leans forward when I turn into the lot. “I’ve lived here six years. How do you have a burger place I’ve never heard of?”
He’s supposed to know Seattle. Beating him to one good restaurant feels like a win.
The OPEN sign is still lit, but the place is almost empty. Two women are finishing a basket of onion rings near the window, and the clock over the register says nine fifty-three.
Fraser looks through the glass without reaching for his seat belt. “We can get it to go if you want.”
Marlowe’s comes back to me: the rainbow stickers, the men touching, the looks people gave us. I don’t want Fraser deciding I can’t handle a quiet restaurant with him.
I unbuckle my seat belt and open the door. “Inside’s fine.”
He gets out without saying anything about how long it took me to decide.
The woman behind the register is wiping down the counter when we walk in. I order a double cheeseburger and fries. Fraser studies the menu until she asks if he needs more time, then orders the same thing with jalapenos.
“Together,” I say when she asks. Fraser holds out his card. “Mine’s separate.”
I look at him. “I was getting yours.”
“You didn’t say that.” He taps his card against the reader before I can argue, and the woman gives him his receipt.
I pay for mine and follow him to a booth.
Our food comes out before we’ve finished the first basket of fries. Fraser takes one bite and makes a low sound in the back of his throat. For a second, I wish we’d ordered takeout.
“Fuck, Pope.” He takes another bite and makes the sound again. “This is good.”
I grip my burger with both hands and try not to watch him chew. “Could you not say my name like that in public?”
Fraser pauses. His next appreciative noise is louder.
Asshole.
The woman behind the counter is cleaning the soda machine ten feet away, which is enough to keep me on my side of the table. Even with a hard-on, I’m glad we didn’t go straight to his apartment. We’re hanging out like bros, and I need a friend in Seattle.
In Miami, most of my friends came from the team. Meals after practice and nights out filled whatever time the road left us, and I saw those guys more than most people see their families. Since the trade, I’ve talked to a few of them twice and most of them not at all.
I don’t blame any of them. Hockey friendships can be like that. A guy gets traded, somebody else takes his stall, and the group chat moves on without him. When our teams play each other, we’ll probably go out after and act like no time passed.
Fraser finishes half his burger before he says, “We can still make it.”
He’s talking about the playoffs. We both know which teams Seattle needs to pass and how many points we’ve already thrown away, so I take a minute before answering.
My first month here, I would’ve thought he was talking shit. He sounds sure now, but not cocky.
“Yeah,” I say after I work through the next stretch of games. “We can.”
“We can’t keep losing the weak side when the defense pinches,” he says. “Bobby drops too low.”
“Not just Bobby. You were below the goal line twice in the second period last game.”
Fraser starts to argue, but only half a word comes out before he stops and works back through the shifts.
“Yeah,” he says. “I was.”
Fraser owned the penalty in front of the team. I don’t need another apology over dinner, so I let the last game go.
“Then I stay higher, you hold the middle, and Bobby can attack the weak side when we win it.”
I can see the play without needing video. Nolan pulls the defense toward him, Bobby cuts across the open ice, and I’m behind both of them if the puck comes back.
“It gives us a cleaner exit, too.”
“And if their defense backs off, we carry it out instead of giving it away.” He doesn’t wait for me to agree. “On the power play, I want the first carry next game.”
My first answer is no. Fraser holds the puck too long when he tries to force an entry, but Bobby coming underneath him would make the first forechecker choose.
“If Bobby swings under you,” I say.
“That’s what I was thinking.”
It could work, as long as he gives up the puck before the blue line instead of trying to beat the whole penalty kill by himself.
“Then move it before the blue line.”
Fraser gives me a flat look. “I know how entries work, Pope.”
We move from there to missed changes and the teams coming up.
Fraser remembers two shifts I’d forgotten and catches one problem I missed.
Our wrappers are empty by the time we decide Gunderson might give the second unit more offensive-zone starts.
The woman behind the counter has cleaned every table except ours, and neither of us noticed.
Fraser thanks her when we leave, and she locks the door behind us.
The drive to his building takes fifteen minutes. Fraser hates both radio stations I try, so the car goes quiet. We keep talking about hockey until we’re arguing over the racing game Bobby made everybody play at Nolan’s party.
I turn into Nolan’s parking garage and follow the visitor ramp to the same space I used last night. The engine goes quiet.
Fraser unbuckles his seat belt but doesn’t open the door. He’s looking at me with that fucking smirk again. “Oh, were you planning to come up?”
I lean toward him, ready to kiss that smirk off his face, then spot the camera over the exit. Anybody could come around the corner. The kiss will have to wait.
“I bought you dinner first,” I say instead.
He laughs. “I paid for my own damned burger.”
I get out of the car. Fraser’s still laughing when he joins me, but he waits beside the elevator until I catch up.
I follow him upstairs.