Chapter 32 #2
“I wanted to quit last week,” he announces.
“Hated all of you. Especially you.” He points at Kowalski, who has never done anything wrong in his life and accepts this with dignity.
“But tonight.” He looks around the room.
“Tonight you showed me something. You pulled it together. And I’m proud.
” He pauses, and Fitch pausing for effect means high praise.
“Our two strongest players came together tonight and it showed in every single one of you. Nash. Callahan. Stand up.”
Someone in the back yells: Kiss!
The room dissolves.
I feel the heat hit my face before I can stop it.
It’s the way we joke around here ever since Rhys joined, but it still makes me embarrassed. Rhys beside me is grinning and I refuse to look at him directly because I know exactly what expression is on his face and I don’t need that right now.
Fitch sighs from the depth of his soul. “Animals. Every last one of you. Go celebrate. No kissing.” He points at the room generally. “I mean it.” The complaints are immediate and loud, joined with boos.
Kowalski materializes at my shoulder, jersey still soaked, smiling wider than I’ve seen him smile all season. “Bar that doesn’t ID anyone so we’re all going this time,” he says. “You in or what?”
I wrap an arm around his shoulder. “Fuck yeah.”
――――――――
The bar is exactly what a bar called The Rusty Blade deserves to be — rock posters and peeling stools and a pool table that’s seen thirty years of abuse.
It smells like old beer and cigarettes and questionable decisions and it is absolutely packed.
I love it. It’s a great distraction from the constant roaring in my ears lately.
I push through to the bar, find the least interested bartender I have ever encountered in my life, and order a tequila shot.
Then I have a better idea.
“Rhys is buying everyone shots!” I announce to about nobody and everybody.
The cheer is immediate. I feel the glare from somewhere across the room and I search until I find him — by the jukebox, expression exactly what I expected — and I lift the shot Bartender Greg just slid me in his direction.
He takes it as an invitation because of course he does.
By the time he’s shouldered his way through the crowd to where I’m standing we’re pressed together by the sheer density of people around us and he leans close enough that I can feel his breath near my ear.
“Get drunk with me,” he says. “As a thank you for the tab I’m about to run up.
” His hand settles on my back. Moving once.
Rubbing higher and higher. Like he has a right to.
I remove it. “No touching.”
“Right. Sorry. Touching is bad.” He winks and catches the bartender’s eye with the ease of someone who has never once in his life had trouble getting a bartender’s attention and orders without asking me.
To my dismay, the bartender is suddenly interested in doing his job and very enthusiastic about serving Rhys. Great.
“Three each.”
I glance at the line of shots, each with salt on the rim and a lime wedge, then back at him.
He raises an eyebrow in challenge.
I shrug. Fuck it. Not a drinker, but I’ll do anything to empty my head right now.
Three shots back to back is, it turns out, a catastrophic decision for someone who doesn’t normally drink.
Within twenty minutes the bar is spinning and louder and significantly funnier than it was before and I am not entirely sure where my center of gravity went.
I stand up from the barstool and strong hands catch my arms before I trip.
“Easy, Nash.”
“Hey, keep your hands to yourself,” I tell Rhys, with what I intend to be firmness.
“Right,” he says. “Because it meant nothing,” he repeats.
“Exactly right. And it won’t happen again. Not even in my dreams.” I pause. “Your dreams. Whatever, you know what I mean.” And I push him lightly and stumble away with grace.
I start playing pool with the team. Rhys sinks the next shot and points at Cooper with the cue. “You’re obsessed with me, Coop.”
“Obviously,” he says immediately, leaning against the edge of the table like he’s personally offended Rhys even had to say it out loud. “You’re beautiful. Talented. Emotionally unavailable. You have my whole heart.”
Ben snorts into his drink.
Bryce misses his shot by a mile and squints at the table like the balls betrayed him personally. “I love you guys,” he announces, out of nowhere.
“We know,” Kowalski says solemnly.
“No, like.” Bryce presses a hand to his chest. “Seriously. Hockey brought us together. Pulled us from the streets.”
“Oh my God,” I mutter. “Bryce, your family is upper middle class, fuck off.”
Cooper appears out of nowhere, steals Bryce’s drink, and downs half of it before Bryce can react. “That’s mine,” Bryce says, sadly, looking at the bottom of his almost empty beer with a frown.
“Community drinks,” Cooper replies.
Bryce looks at me for support. “See what I deal with? They don’t respect my authority.” Bryce slaps Cooper lightly on the ass with his pool stick. Cooper immediately bends over farther. "Again, but really try this time."
I’m already laughing too hard to answer.
Cooper leans over the table during Rhys’ shot and whispers, “Miss and you hate gay people.”
“I am gay.”
“Internalized homophobia is wild. Learn to love yourself, bro.”
I miss the next shot because I’m still laughing. Bryce points at the cue ball like it personally offended him. “This game is rigged.”
“Against people who suck?” Cooper asks.
“Against friendship, man.”
Somewhere in the middle of another round and another tequila shot, Kowalski grabs my face with both hands and says, looking more emotional than I've ever seen him, “I just love you and hockey so much.”
“Okay,” I say, trying not to laugh, while I peel his hands off of me.
“No, seriously.” His eyes get suspiciously glossy. “You changed my life.”
Bryce starts clapping like this is a proposal.
Cooper wipes fake tears from his eyes. “This is beautiful. Somebody kiss, come on.”
“Don’t make it weird,” Ben says.
"You make it weird by denying the genuine connection between men," Cooper says.
Then he drags all of us into a deeply disorganized group hug.
Tequila is incredible.
Kowalski eventually finds me tilting slightly at one of the tables and wordlessly puts nachos in front of me.
“Eat,” he demands.
“You know what, I should have said it earlier, but I love you too,” I tell him, while also hoping he understood my incoherent mumbling.
The food helps. The water helps. I come back to myself in increments after a while, aware enough to be slightly embarrassed about the pool table incident but the guys are happy so I decide to let it go.
I look up and search for Rhys.
He’s in the corner with someone I half-recognize from around campus. Dark hair. Good looking. Decent build. Laughing at something Rhys said with the ease of someone who doesn’t know yet that Rhys Callahan laughs with everyone like that. He’s not special.
Rhys catches me staring and smiles. That taunting one he saves just for me.
And then, without breaking eye contact with me, he leans in close to this stranger, says something low near his ear, hand on his arm.
The stranger responds immediately, with a wicked look in his eyes.
Rhys laughs — openly, the husky laugh I’ve heard maybe three times.
And then he lets this stranger pull him in closer.
The stranger laughs—a throaty, pleased sound, fucking melting under Rhys’ attention.
But he has his eyes on me the entire time.
Rhys’s fingers skate down his arm. The guy leans into it, pushing back, grinning like they’ve shared this joke before.
Rhys murmurs something else, mouth close to the guy’s skin, and the guy just tips his head back, exposing his throat like he’s offering it up to a vampire.
I finally tear myself away because I’m this close to losing my shit.
No one else is even noticing this. It’s a private show just for me. And Rhys knows. He’s doing it for me. He wants me to see this—wants me to burn. To feel it all.
I can’t move. I can’t think. I’m pinned in place by jealousy so sharp it might as well be a blade to my throat.
It does burn. I taste it in the back of my throat, bitter and hot.
My whole body goes tight, jaw locked, fists clenched under the table.
My heart’s pounding hard enough to hurt.
I want to fight. I want to drag Rhys off, slam him into the wall, and wipe that look off his face.
I want to take him for myself. And he fucking knows this. He knows it all.
Instead, I force myself up, legs shaky, blood boiling.
I barely see the crowd, just the path to the hallway, to the bathroom.
I need space. Air. Anything but this. I slam the door behind me, lock it, and grip the sink until my knuckles ache.
My reflection looks like someone ready to break something. Maybe myself.
It’s not enough. I want to scream.
Rage.
Pure, immediate, completely unreasonable red is all I can see.
He’s just trying to piss me off because I ended whatever we had going on. I fucking hate him. I hate him and I’m gripping the edge of this sink like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
I slap myself. Flat palm, right across the cheek. Sharp enough to sting. I don’t understand why watching Rhys Callahan almost put his mouth on some stranger’s neck feels like a hand reaching into my chest and squeezing until something cracks.
It’s meaningless. He’s meaningless. The whole thing — the locker room, the shower, all of it — it meant nothing. He said so. I said so. We shook on it. Gentleman’s fucking agreement.
I turn the cold tap on and splash water on my face. Then again. This is exactly what he does. He gets under your skin and he stays there and he pushes until you react and if I walk out of this bathroom and spare him a single glance he wins.
I’m going home. Right now. Sticking to my word. It’s done.
Walk out, find the guys, say goodbye, leave.