The Nature of the Game (Stick Side Book 2), page 11
“Were you even watching—”
“The other guy gets the penalty, you asshole—”
“Touch my brother again and I’m coming down there!”
Ash’s eyebrows were up to his hairline as Dan and Cody continued to shout and swear, the crowd went absolutely crazy, and Mitch’s coach had a word with the referee. He’d never been to a college hockey game before, but maybe he should go to more. This was awesome.
Dan and Cody, who still weren’t getting along, high fived over Ash’s head.
Hockey had a way of bringing people together.
Cody slapped the back of Alex’s shoulder. “Where’s your indignation?”
Or maybe not.
“I think you two—” Alex waved a finger between Dan and Cody. “—have enough for all of us.”
Dan sat, biting his lip. “I hope he’s okay. That looked like a hard fall.”
“He’s fine,” Alex said. “Probably more upset that he didn’t see it coming than over any bruising he might have.”
Dan didn’t look convinced, and Ash’s hand was halfway to his thigh for a reassuring squeeze before he realized what he was doing and yanked his arm back.
No. No, no. None of that. Fluttery, bouncy stomach or no, he was not Dan’s caretaker.
He offered Dan some of his own popcorn.
Damn it, what had he just said?
“Thanks.” Dan took a handful, then glanced between his feet. “I lost most of mine.”
“I noticed. Hey, question for you: why did you get claustrophobic at Alex’s signing but not here?”
“Hm.” Dan munched on popcorn. “I think it has to do with the arena being bigger. At the bookstore, I was stuck between bookshelves and people and I couldn’t see the way out.” He shrugged. “I can’t always predict what will trigger me. What’s okay once might not be okay next time.”
“Humans are contradictory creatures.”
“That’s for damn sure.”
It took several minutes for everything to get sorted, and not much happened during that time. Members of each team huddled around their respective coaches, doubtlessly discussing plays for the two likely scenarios: either Mitch would stay in the penalty box or he’d be replaced by the other guy. Hell, who knew? Maybe both players would get the penalty.
Mitch sat in the box, and Ash could see him growing more and more restless the longer nothing happened.
“He looks like he’s about to bust out of there,” Ash said.
“Yeah.” Dan ate more of Ash’s popcorn. “He’s never been good at sitting still.”
Alex was busy having a conversation with his friends and Cody behind them, so Ash said, “I’m surprised I never met him when I was in New York.”
“He was fourteen at the time,” Dan said. “He didn’t spend much time in the city, and then he went to development camp for a few weeks in . . .” He made a noise in the back of his throat and cocked his head as he thought. “Quebec City? Winnipeg? Somewhere in Canada that summer, I think. I really wanted him to meet you.” A smile thrown in Ash’s direction. “He would’ve loved to pick the brain of a professional hockey player.”
Ash almost asked then. Almost. About what Dan had done to Mitch, that thing he’d alluded to at brunch last month that had Cody so angry with him. But Dan was smiling and happy and having a good time, and Ash wasn’t about to shit on him again. And right now, surrounded by friends who didn’t know about their past? Probably not the best time.
They’d had breakfast together this morning at the B&B, all domesticated-like, Dan trading half his Belgian waffle for Ash’s eggs Benedict on a croissant. They hadn’t even had to talk about it. Just split their meals in half and forked it over onto the other’s plate, exactly like they used to do.
Almost as if six years hadn’t gone by. It was an odd feeling, falling into old patterns as if no time at all had passed.
It took five minutes for play to resume, and when it did, Mitch was let out of the penalty box and the guy from the other team who’d tripped him went in. Which was what should’ve happened in the first place. Who were these college hockey refs?
Within the first thirty seconds of the power play, a kid named Yano sent the puck Mitch’s way. And Mitch, knowing when to take advantage and having the on-ice vision that he did, skated toward the net like he’d die if he didn’t, maneuvering around the other team’s players as if they were standing still.
Pressure on Ash’s arm made him look down. Dan had a hand clamped on him, knuckles white; the other was poised near his head, fisted, ready to throw up in a cheer if Mitch made the goal.
Which he did seconds later, with a sweet backhand shot that flew right past the defensemen, putting the puck right where mama kept the cookies. His message was clear: payback’s a bitch.
Dan flew out of his seat, his whoop of laughter so carefree and joyous, all Ash could do was grin at him.
This was bad. Very, very bad.
Two in the morning. Ash stared up at the ceiling of his room at the B&B. His eyes had adjusted to the dark hours ago, and he noted every striation on the ceiling. He was pretty sure a spider had made itself a home where the wall met the ceiling above the window, but he didn’t care enough to get up and check. Let the little bugger live there. At least its home was undamaged.
Ash couldn’t say the same for himself.
It was his own stupid fault he couldn’t sleep. He’d purposefully avoided the news since leaving Florida and had deleted the weather app on his smartphone. His room at the B&B didn’t have a television, thank god for small miracles. But they’d gone to Mitch and Cody’s after the game tonight—after Mitch’s team had won—and Cody had turned on the television to set up a game of Mario Kart . . . and Ash had caught a glimpse of the weather report.
The good news was that the hurricane had been downgraded to a Category 2 by the time it made landfall early Friday morning, and then had been further downgraded to a Category 1 as it made its way over central Florida. His mom’s place would be fine; she lived in a reinforced condo tower. His own home would probably be fine. It was concrete, had storm shutters, and he’d placed extra reinforcements over them. He was relatively certain it’d still be standing when he went back.
It was the storm surge he was worried about.
At least he was further inland, so maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. But what about Pinellas County? And downtown Tampa? What about Alex’s apartment? He was in the Channel District, so close to Ybor Channel that he might as well be on the fucking thing.
The hurricane had already passed over Tampa and was now on its way to the Atlantic Ocean, but the airport had taken some damage and there weren’t any flights going in or out. He and Alex would be needed back in Tampa at some point soon, and it looked like they might have to rent a car to get there. However, according to the weather report, many of the roads were impassable—debris, downed trees and electrical lines—and could take a week to reopen.
Ash hadn’t heard from any of his team’s operations people yet, but he had a feeling their canceled game would be rescheduled for sometime next week in their rivals’ city, or possibly at a neutral site.
Speaking of his team, he’d finally manned up and called his head coach this morning to explain what was happening with the Sport Check article. The conversation went something like this:
Coach Ness: “Why are you telling me something I already know?”
Ash: “Oh. Um. I guess Rachel told you?”
Coach Ness: “Uh-huh.”
Ash: “I wanted to apologize for the shitstorm that’s about to come down on the organization.”
Coach Ness: “Son, if you think this is going to be a shitstorm, you haven’t lived long enough.”
Whatever that meant.
Coach Ness: “Besides, once game three gets rescheduled, everyone will go back to analyzing what it means for us this season that Taylor didn’t score a single goal in the last six games last season.”
That . . . was probably true.
And that was that. Coach Ness was about as worried as he’d be had a fly landed on his arm.
Ash wasn’t sure what to do about that. Coach’s cavalier attitude was both immensely comforting and mildly frustrating.
Why was Ash the only one dreading Monday?
At least Alex understood.
“You’re doing what?” His face had paled—actually paled—when Ash drew him aside before Mitch’s game. “Are you crazy?”
“I just . . . You should’ve seen Grant’s eyes, man. He looked like a baby animal that knew it only had a few more seconds to live.”
“That’s the most morbid thing you’ve ever said.” Alex had sighed. “I can’t even say I wouldn’t have done the same thing under those circumstances. I don’t envy you. Do the rest of the guys know?”
“Texted them before leaving the B&B.”
“What’d they say?”
“Variations on good luck and I wouldn’t want to be you and I got your back, dude and wait, you’re still on the team, right?”
“So basically they didn’t care.”
“Nope.”
Rolling over, Ash exhaled into his pillow. His brain wouldn’t shut off, and he was not only wide-awake, but bored to boot. And kind of hungry. He could go for a run, expend some energy, down a bowl of cereal when he got back, then pass out.
Good plan. But he didn’t want to go for a run by himself in the dark. It was creepy.
Throwing on running shorts, a T-shirt, and a hoodie, he went down a flight of stairs barefoot and knocked softly on Dan’s door.
Tap, tap.
Nothing. Not even the sound of bedsprings squeaking as the room’s occupant got up to answer the door.
Ash knocked again, louder.
Tap, tap, tap.
Still nothing. Ash debated going back to his room and trying to sleep, but he’d tried for almost three hours to no avail and was tired of his own thoughts.
He knocked again.
Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap—
The door flung open. “What?”
Ash grinned at Dan, the kick in the gut at the sight of him still unwanted, but not unexpected. He wore a bright red onesie of all things. It even had footies. Ash swallowed a giggle—Dan already had murder in his eyes.
“It’s two in the fucking morning,” Dan growled, curls a mess, eyes squinting against the hallway light.
“Come for a run with me.”
“No.” By the tone of Dan’s voice, Ash suspected he really meant No, I will not go for a run with you in the middle of the night, you asshole, are you crazy?
“Please?”
Dan flung the door closed.
Ash caught it before it slammed in his face and entered Dan’s darkened room, only to find his potential jogging companion crawling back into bed. His very large, very long, very comfy-looking bed.
“Dude, you got a California king.” Ash shut the door behind him, plunging the room further into darkness. The only light came from the bathroom, the door of which was halfway closed. “Mine’s just a double, and my feet hang over the end.”
“Swell,” Dan said, already under the covers.
Ash lay down on the other side of the bed.
“What are you doing?” Dan asked.
“I’m bored.”
“How is that my problem?”
“You’re here, I’m here . . .”
“That doesn’t answer my question.” Dan rolled onto his side, facing Ash, eyes closed and blankets up to his chin. “Unless you’re here for a booty call, in which case I could be persuaded.”
Surely he was half asleep and hadn’t meant to say it, but either way, Dan’s words sent heat through Ash’s veins. The space between them went taught, crackling with life and energy.
Where would they be right now if they’d stayed together?
A dangerous thought, that.
He poked Dan in the nose.
One eye slitted open.
“I’m hungry,” Ash declared.
The other eye opened. “I could eat.”
Dan followed him upstairs to his room so he could throw on a pair of sweats over his running shorts. And socks. It was chilly at night in the B&B. No wonder Dan was wearing a onesie.
Dan was still knuckling the sleep out of his eyes when they reached the kitchen. Ash turned the lights on, making Dan groan and wince.
Opening the large refrigerator, Ash scanned its contents. It was packed to the fullest but he wasn’t sure what they could eat without leaving the owners short on something. “What should we have?”
“Anything but cauliflower pizza.”
Ash snorted a chuckle that turned into a full belly laugh. He couldn’t say why he’d gone to Dan in the first place, but he was glad that he had.
Nothing in the fridge appealed, so he rooted through cupboards, then the pantry until he found—
“Mm, yum.” He held up a package of chocolate chips.
“Ooh, nice find.”
They divided and conquered, Ash gathering the dry ingredients, Dan the wet ones. It was as familiar as it’d ever been between them. That disgusting cauliflower pizza hadn’t been the only thing they’d cooked together, and the ease with which they danced around each other as they gathered ingredients was like déjà vu mixed with a blast from the past sprinkled with a dash of how-did-this-happen.
Unsettling. He might as well have been dropped into Dan’s tiny kitchen in Herald Square.
“You know,” he said, “if you added little Christmas trees to your onesie, you’d look like a Christmas decoration.”
Dan retrieved the carton of eggs and the butter from the fridge. “Mitch got this for me as a birthday present a couple years ago.”
“As a gag gift?”
“Doubt it.” Now he was going through cupboards on the other side of the kitchen. “Mitch is a pretty good gift giver. He must’ve known I’d love something like this. As soon as fall hits, my feet get cold. Ah ha!” A little bottle of vanilla joined the eggs and butter on the island. “He got me a clamp kit for Christmas last year, and I haven’t had the heart to tell him that I gave up woodworking a long time ago.”
“Why did you give it up?” Ash asked, double-checking the recipe on the back of the chocolate chip package. Brown sugar, white sugar, baking soda, flour. He found them all in the same cupboard. Awesome.
“It wasn’t—”
“Working out,” Ash finished for him. “Yeah, you said that last time I asked. But why wasn’t it working out?”
“I . . .” Dan found mixing bowls, a wooden spoon, and various sizes of measuring cups and spoons. “After you—” He took a deep breath. “After I—” He inspected the measuring cups, maybe checking their capacity, but didn’t seem to really see them; he laid them all out in front of him and then stacked them inside each other again. “Woodworking felt like . . .”
Ash stole one of the measuring cups and measured out the flour. “Like a chore?”
“No. Never that. It was an escape from everything.”
What is everything? Ash wanted to ask but instead said, “Why give it up, then?”
Dan measured out the wet ingredients into a separate mixing bowl. “I felt like I didn’t deserve it.”
“What?” Ash’s head snapped toward Dan at that. What kind of bullshit was this? “What are you talking about?”
“I hurt people,” Dan said, suddenly finding the mixing bowl super interesting. “I felt like I didn’t deserve to be happy.”
“That’s an extremely fatalistic attitude.” Felt like, Dan had said. “How do you feel now?”
Dan’s mouth opened, and Ash could read it all over his face, how he was seconds away from changing the subject. Disappointment swept over him, surprisingly thick for someone who claimed he didn’t want anything to do with the man in front of him.
Lies. He wanted everything to do with Dan, this Dan, who was so different and yet exactly the same as the Dan Ash had met six years ago.
But Ash knew he’d never trust Dan with his heart again.
Dan reached for the egg carton. “I feel like I’m going to make some changes in my life.”
Surprised by the candor, Ash said, “Like what?”
“Well, for starters, I want to get back into woodworking again. But I’m sort of . . . directionless at the moment, half living in New York, half not. I need a workshop to make things, and until I settle down, that’s . . .” He waved a hand. “Up in the air.” Pushing his bowl of mixed wet ingredients toward Ash, he then took the dirty dishes to the sink. “I feel bad using the chocolate chips without asking Marion.”
“There’s six more packages in the cupboard,” Ash told him, adding Dan’s wet ingredients to his dry ones. “But if it makes you feel better, I’ll go out first thing and buy a replacement.”
Dan smiled at him over his shoulder. “You’ll be the only one up first thing on a Sunday morning.”
“Will I? You don’t run on Sundays anymore?”
“Nope. It’s my sleep-in day.”
“But we have to work off these cookies.”
“Maybe you do.” Dan turned off the water and dried his hands on a dish towel. “Not me. I’m not reporting for duty.”
“I’m not reporting for duty.” Ash finished mixing everything and found a baking tray.
“It’s sort of like that, isn’t it, though? Ashton Yager reporting for duty, Coach. What plays are we practicing today and how many games can I expect to play this season?”
The chuckle took Ash by surprise. “Shut up and help me with this. Besides, it’s more like, Ashton Yager reporting for duty, Coach. Whose ass can I kiss to stay on this team?”
“Stay on the—What?” Dan’s brow furrowed as he carefully placed a ball of dough onto the baking tray. “Are you being traded?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so. My contract’s up at the end of this season, and I haven’t heard anything from the club about a new one yet.”
And I might never since the entire world will know about my sexuality in less than thirty-six hours. He didn’t tell Dan that, though he wasn’t sure why he held back.
“There’s still time, though, right?” Dan said. “The season’s barely started.”
