Chapter 3 #2
“See!” she exclaimed. “It just rings and rings. When he didn’t answer any of my calls or texts, or even my emails, I called the boys who lived here with him—Mason Keller and Nolan Proctor.
They’ve not heard from him either. Mason said Cash was barely speaking to them when they moved out.
It seems so unlike Cash. Nolan said in the group chat that Cash didn’t even show up for their going-away party.
They even had some guys from the Breakers come over to check in on him.
When that didn’t work, they called Cash’s ex-boyfriend.
Not that I’m sure why. That guy stopped showing his face around here months ago. I asked Cash about him—”
“Ma’am…do you have a key?”
Fuck! Time to face the music. Standing, I moved from the kitchen to the bedroom.
No fucking way would I let them catch me hiding.
Even if that’s what I was doing. I picked up my phone from exactly where I thought I’d left it.
I swiped the screen. Half dead. Just my luck.
Oh well. There were places all over to charge the damn things.
Then I looked at the date. Holy shit! Where the hell did a week go?
“Mr. Benjamin? No, ma’am, you cannot come in. Wait on the porch.”
“But it’s my house!”
“Yes, ma’am. It is your house, but technically, it’s the tenant’s residence until he vacates the property.”
“But—”
“Even if he hasn’t paid the rent. Now step back and let me walk through the home.”
Thought she didn’t care about the rent, I scoffed to myself.
Swallowing against the panic of my childhood trauma beating at the box I shoved it into years ago, I stepped into the living room with my hands raised to my shoulders. I knew better than to startle a cop.
“Cash Benjamin?” the man in uniform asked as I stepped into the living area.
I nodded.
“A lot of people have been really worried about you.”
“Sorry, I’ve not been feeling well,” I said.
He stepped toward me slowly. “Do you have any weapons in the house?”
I shook my head. “Only if you count hockey skates and a goalie stick.”
He chuckled and waved his hand in a lower motion, but I stayed still. “You can lower your hands,” he said, removing his own from the butt of the gun holstered at his waist.
I dropped my hands, threading my fingers together in front of me and staying perfectly still as he looked me over. “You look different, kid, since the last time I saw you.”
“When was that?” I asked, trying to remember the last time I took the time to look in the mirror.
Ten months without more than a passing glance. Given how grungy I smelled, and the facial hair itching me to death, which could probably rival last year’s playoff beard when we lifted the Calder, I definitely looked worse now.
“I’m a fan. So…”
“Ah. Gotcha. You saw me get flattened.”
“I did, unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately. Yeah. That about sums up my life,” I said, staring off over his shoulder. Mrs. P’s muttering faded in and out as she paced past the front door.
He motioned toward the kitchen barstools. “Let’s sit and talk, Cash. Sorry, can I call you Cash?”
I nodded and shrugged. “Sure.”
“Good. My name is Aaron Vale. It’s nice to meet you.” I didn’t know how to respond. “Can you tell me a little about what’s going on?”
His tone brought tears to my eyes, so I closed them, sucking in deep breaths to push the emotions away.
The whole crazy, scary tale sat just inside my mouth, beating on my lips, trying to get me to talk.
But…I knew if I did, I’d lose what little control I had over my emotions, and that control was the last bit of authority I had.
Keeping those words in was my only choice,
“Cash…can you look at me?”
I shook my head.
“Okay. Can you tell me what’s going on?”
I shook my head again as desperation and despair grew exponentially. I couldn’t. Just the thought overwhelmed me. My face twisted as I maintained my hold on the avalanche of emotion threatening to break through.
“Okay, that’s okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to make some educated guesses about what’s going on. You don’t have to look at me or even say anything. Just nod if I’m close and shake your head if I’m not. Sound good?”
The relief of having that weight lifted let some of the stress trickle away.
“You’re a hockey player on an AHL-only contract who got hurt on the ice ten months ago.”
Nod.
“You’ve rehabbed the injury, but the team isn’t re-signing you.”
Another nod.
“You have no other income.”
Emotion fought to be free, but I kept it locked down, dipping my chin.
“You have nowhere to go the moment you step outside that door, and that’s frightening.”
A deep breath and a couple of head bobs.
“And you’re queer.”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “All that.”
“Do you have the money to obtain new housing?”
My head bobbed from side to side. “Yes and no. I have around fifteen grand left, but I’m gonna need to pay Mrs. P for this month. I don’t have another source of income, and even if I did, I’m not cleared to return to work, so signing a new lease somewhere feels really stupid.”
He paused, taking out his phone and texting someone before saying, “I know a place.”
“I won’t be a charity case.”
“Cash, no one’s asking you to be. I’m offering you a hand up. Just like you would do for anyone you knew or loved if they were knocked on their asses with no way to get up.”
“What kind of place is it?”
“There are so many words I could use to describe it, but mostly, I would call it a safe haven or a soft place to land that’ll give you time to breathe and think and then plan when the time is right for you.”
“Sounds too good to be true,” I said. And a little too much like foster care. A social worker had said something eerily similar once when I was probably five or so.
“Your mama just needs some time to come up with a new plan and to catch her breath.”
“Like when you run too hard?” I’d asked.
And she nodded. It had been a lie. My mother was just as clueless and out of breath when I returned to her and my on-again, off-again, here-one-day, gone-the-next father’s care.
“How much?” I asked.
“Nothing. Halo House is free.”
“Bullshit. Nothing in this life is fucking free.”
“The house is set up to help LGBTQIA+ people who need a place to recover, to find themselves, to figure out next steps. If the residents want to help out, they can pitch in around the house or work at the club or charity events. But it’s not a rule. You do as much or as little as you want.”
I nodded. I wasn’t so sure, but if it bought me a month or two… “How long can I stay?”
“As long as you need.”
“This place sounds too good to be true.”
“I promise you it’s legit. I’ve taken more than one person there in the years I’ve been a police officer.
Some have stayed months, some years, and some just a few weeks.
There are rules, of course, as with any shared living space, but nothing too off the wall.
And probably nothing you haven’t experienced as a billeted hockey player. ”
I nodded, still petrified of the unknown, but the crippling anxiety of my situation before the officer sat me down and gave me a tiny hint of a reprieve was gone.
“Is this all your things?” Officer Vale asked, pointing at the suitcases easily seen from where we sat.
Remembering my bed, I muttered. “Yeah,” then continued, “All I could carry, anyway.”
“So there’s more?”
My throat bobbed as I swallowed the emotions clogging it. It was a stupid fucking bed.
“Just some furniture. My bed and stuff.”