23. Nolan
NOLAN
I haven’t been to Pope’s condo in two nights, and I’m more bothered by that than I want to be.
Two nights shouldn’t matter. We see each other at practice, sit across from each other, and spend half the day on the same sheet of ice. Pope answers when I talk to him and passes when I’m open, so nothing is wrong with the line.
Off the ice, he’s being weird.
His texts have gone from actual conversations to one-word answers. He was busy the first night. Last night he said he couldn’t hang out again, then stopped answering before I could ask if he meant he was going to bed or only didn’t want company.
I keep looking for him during the drill anyway.
Pope circles low through the defensive zone while I hold the wall. Bobby retrieves the puck behind the net and sends it up to me. I chip it past the defenseman, and Pope is already moving through the middle for the return pass. We cross the blue line with the spacing exactly right.
On the ice, he’s exactly the same, which gives me no clue what happens when we leave.
Maybe the thing with the bite mark scared him. He dropped a skate when the room started celebrating the evidence he’d left on me, then nearly told everybody he knew where I was ticklish. I covered for him and walked out without giving him the grin he wanted.
Pope doesn’t usually run from anything. A man who spends his working life cutting through the middle of the ice while people try to knock him unconscious should be difficult to scare.
Sexuality might be different.
He’s still figuring out whether he wants men, or only wants me, or whether those are separate problems in his head. I knew that when this started. Getting impatient with him now isn’t fair.
I’m still getting a little tired of it.
I want him to figure himself out so we can stop circling around whatever this is and…
Oh God.
I want Ben to be my boyfriend.
My right skate slides out from under me.
I jam my stick against the ice and catch myself before my knee hits, but the puck keeps going without me. It crosses the slot and taps harmlessly off the far boards. Gunderson’s whistle cuts through the rink.
“Fraser.”
“Yeah.” I straighten and push back into position. “I’m good.”
Gunderson is waiting to restart the drill, so Ben stays quiet. His eyes go over my legs and stop on the shoulder Nara taped.
His concern makes the boyfriend thought worse.
I give him a small shake of my head. He faces the puck again.
This is a terrible time to learn something about myself.
It’s not that I don’t date. I date. I’ve had relationships that lasted long enough to leave clothes at somebody’s place and short ones that ended before either of us learned how the other took his coffee. What I don’t do is get involved with teammates.
Teammates are there every morning. They know when you’re playing hurt or in a bad mood, and Bobby usually knows who went home with whom before the rest of us arrive. If it ends badly, I still have to dress beside the guy and sit near him on every road trip.
That rule was supposed to keep my life simple.
I’ve been involved with Ben for close to two months.
We keep staying together after the sex, eating dinner and watching games until one of us falls asleep. We talk every day, and a few nights ago we agreed neither of us would touch anybody else.
We’re basically dating.
Ben would probably leave the room if I said that out loud. The sex isn’t what has me losing my balance at practice, either. Two nights without it would be annoying, but I miss sitting with him and getting the full version of whatever he’s thinking instead of four words on a screen.
Gunderson drops the puck for the next repetition. I get my feet moving before anyone has to yell at me again, take Ben’s pass cleanly this time, and shoot from the top of the circle. The puck catches the inside of the post and goes in.
Ben collects the puck from the net and sends it back to the pile. On his way past, he taps the blade of his stick against my shin pad. It’s the same thing he does when I finish a chance he started, and I hate how much better it makes me feel.
The next drill has us battling along the wall.
That helps. It’s hard to think about getting a teammate to call me his boyfriend while a defenseman has my shoulder pinned to the glass and Bobby is yelling that he’s open when he isn’t.
I work the puck loose, kick it behind my skate, and hear Ben call my name from the middle.
The pass reaches him through two sets of skates. He puts it under the goalie’s blocker before the defense can turn.
For the rest of practice, I keep my mind on the puck whenever Ben is close enough to notice.
By the time I get back to my stall, I’ve shoved the boyfriend problem far enough down that I can shower and get dressed without staring at Ben.
He takes longer than usual talking to one of the coaches near the door, which gives me time to pull on jeans and a sweatshirt and decide what I’m going to do.
He comes back while I’m tying my shoes and drops onto the bench at his stall. Sweat has dried in his hair after the shower, and the collar of his shirt is folded under on one side. He looks exactly like himself instead of somebody who has spent two days planning how to get rid of me.
“You lose an edge?” he asks.
I tug the second knot tight. “Caught a rut.”
His gaze drops to my shoulder again. “Tape okay?”
“It’s fine.”
Ben nods and reaches for his jacket. He can check whether my shoulder hurts with half the room listening. He still won’t tell me why he hasn’t wanted me around.
I’m going to talk to him, although the boyfriend part may never leave my head again.
I only need to ask why he’s been acting weird and get us back onto normal ground. The last two nights may have had nothing to do with me. Maybe I’m being a drama queen because the man didn’t invite me over for forty-eight hours.
I leave the locker room, turn the corner toward the players’ entrance, and see Ben hugging a guy.
Not a teammate hug. Nobody has scored, there are no helmets between them, and Ben isn’t using one arm while he tries to escape with the rest of his body.
Both arms are wrapped around a slim guy in a fitted black coat, holding him close in the middle of the hall where Bobby, Sindre, and anybody else leaving the room can see.
The guy is young and very cute, with dark hair that looks deliberately messy and one small silver hoop in his ear.
Jealousy hits so hard I stop walking.
We agreed nobody else. Ben made me say it while he was inside me, then said it back. Now he’s hugging some twink in public after two nights of telling me he was busy.
I’ve never seen him hug any man in public.
Bobby bumps my shoulder from behind. “Move.”
I take one step because he pushes me into it. Ben’s head comes up, and his arms loosen around the guy.
He sees me, and the guilt on his face makes everything worse.
“Hey,” Bobby calls. “Who’s your friend?”
Ben lets the guy go but keeps one hand on his shoulder as the rest of us reach them. A small suitcase and a duffel sit against the wall near the security desk.
“This is Grayson,” Ben says. His attention catches on me before he looks back at the others. “My little brother.”
Ben gets through Bobby, Sindre, and Caleb, then looks at me and stops.
Well, fuck. I was jealous of his little brother.
Grayson Pope is Vasya Korolev’s boyfriend. I’ve seen pictures, although the ones that reach hockey media usually involve Korolev taking up most of the frame. In person, Grayson is even smaller beside Ben.
“I came by to say goodbye,” Grayson says. “I’ve been here since Friday and still hadn’t seen the place. My flight’s tonight.”
Ben spent the last two days with his little brother and never told me. He could have texted My brother’s here and saved me from wondering whether a bite mark sent him into hiding.
There isn’t even anything private about the visit. Ben introduces Grayson to half the team without hesitating, but he couldn’t tell me who was sleeping in his guest room. He let me think whatever I wanted instead.
Ben looks sorry when his eyes meet mine. I turn to Grayson instead.
“I’m Nolan.”
“Yeah, I know.” Grayson takes the hand I offer. His grip is stronger than I expect. “Hi.”
Ben stands beside him with his shoulders too square, watching us as if he expects me to follow nice to meet you with a detailed description of what his dick tastes like.
Come on. I’m not that bad.
“You like Seattle?” Caleb asks.
“Yeah. I went up to Capitol Hill yesterday.” Grayson glances around at the five hockey players surrounding him. “Some guy tried to talk me into staying for a jockstrap thing.”
Bobby’s grin slips. “A jockstrap thing?”
“There are like three of those,” I tell Grayson. “If it was the one on Pike, don’t bother.”
Grayson forgets Bobby after that. It was the one on Pike, but he left and ended up at Marlowe’s. I tell him he made the right call. Ben watches me through all of it, waiting for the conversation to turn dangerous.
That pisses me off too. He should know me better than that.
Grayson’s phone beeps. He checks the screen. “That’s my Uber.”
Ben gets the duffel before Grayson can pick it up and carries both bags toward the lobby. We follow as far as the glass doors because Bobby is still talking to Grayson and apparently plans to continue until the car physically removes him.
A dark sedan pulls up at the curb. Ben carries the bags outside and loads them into the trunk, then comes back around while Grayson waits beside the open rear door.
“Text me when you get through security,” Ben says.
“I know.”
Ben opens his arms, and Grayson goes into them without any hesitation. The hug is hard and quick this time. When they separate, Grayson says goodbye to the rest of us, gets into the car, and closes the door.
Ben stands at the curb until the sedan pulls away, then comes back inside.
Bobby and Sindre head down the hall toward the players’ lot. I start after them, but Ben reaches me before I get to the exit.
“You coming over?” he asks.
I was ready to say yes before I turned the corner. Now I can only think about the message he could have sent and how frightened he looked while I shook Grayson’s hand.
“I have other plans.”
I shift toward the exit and head out of the room before anyone can stop me.