The Nature of the Game (Stick Side Book 2), page 2
God forbid Dan catch him looking. He didn’t want Dan to think he cared.
By the expression on his face, Dan had been expecting to see him. At one point, he’d appeared almost afraid, as if he expected Ash to stride over and pop him in the nose.
Please. Ash almost scoffed. First, he kept his fighting for the ice. Second, he had no reason to punch Dan. What was done was done. It’d happened and he’d moved on. He’d had six years to move on, in fact. He hadn’t sat around pining for Dan that whole time like a lovesick sixteen-year-old, despite his ex-wife often accusing him of having the maturity of a teenager. Her verbal abuse was only one of the many reasons they’d divorced, not the least of which being that she’d cheated on him.
“Yo, Yager.” Fingers snapped in his face. “You in, or what?”
“Huh?” Ash faced Carlie, who’d joined him in line a minute ago. “In for what?”
“I was talking to one of the guys from the Toronto team earlier. Staples?” Carlie—Tampa’s goalie—bent to peer into a display case of pastries. “He wants to set up a friendly game tomorrow night, for those of us who are still here.”
That some of the guys on the Toronto team had shown up today to support Alex was all kinds of awesome.
“You in?” Carlie repeated.
“Fuck yes.” Anything to take his mind off Dan.
Dan, who should be in New York City where Ash had left him. Or more like where Dan had left him.
Man, they had a complicated past. Or maybe not so complicated when Ash thought about it.
How was he supposed to act right now? He didn’t want Dan to think he was happy to see him, because he wasn’t, so he couldn’t smile at him. And he didn’t want Dan to think he was angry with him—Ash had moved past that a long time ago—so he couldn’t scowl either. And avoidance never helped anyone.
If only Ash could get a handle on what he was feeling, that might help. Because, although he wasn’t happy to see Dan, there was a tiny kernel of pleasure he didn’t want to admit to, despite the fact Dan had broken his heart. And okay yeah, maybe there was some old anger and hurt, which just made him resentful that he wasn’t quite as over it as he’d thought. Add some amazement that this was actually happening, both of them in the same city for the same event, and a little bit of anxiety and nervousness thrown into the pot with the lingering confusion and shock and a whole truckload of attraction . . .
Overwhelmed. He was overwhelmed as fuck and coffee wasn’t going to help the knot in his belly.
Conflicted too. Seriously, how was he supposed to act in the presence of the ex-boyfriend who’d left him at the altar?
Okay, not altar altar. Not really. But Dan had left him at the airport with nothing but an I’m sorry, I can’t text minutes before their flight to Syracuse, where Ash had been playing in the AHL for Tampa’s affiliate, where they’d co-signed a lease for an apartment, and where Dan had secured an apprenticeship with a local woodworker outside the city who specialized in small household items.
They might as well have been married.
Maybe he was a little angrier than he’d thought. But he didn’t want Dan to know that. Didn’t want Dan to think that he felt anything for him at all.
Pleasant, yet distant. He could be pleasant, yet distant, couldn’t he? Sure. Maybe. It was probably all in the eyebrows.
It was so unfair that Dan was just as good looking as ever. Same curly blond hair falling in every direction. Same eyes the color of light maple syrup. Same lithe runner’s build. Same sleek and fashionable men’s fashion magazine outfit. The light layer of blond scruff on his face was new, but overall? On the outside, he was the same.
Ash should’ve known. Back in February when he’d met Mitch for the first time, when Mitch had looked so damn familiar . . . Not in a we’ve-met-before kind of way. More in a you-look-like-the-brother/cousin/relative-of-someone-I-know kind of way. It was the eyes: light brown. It was the smile: wide and genuine. It was the hair: curly and fucking adorable, although whereas Mitch’s was brown, Dan’s was a medium shade of blond.
But he’d never, not once, connected Mitch Greyson—his teammate and best friend’s boyfriend—to Dan Greyson—his own ex. Maybe he should have, but like Dan had said, it was a pretty common last name.
“The guys’ll have extra skates, sticks, and gear for us at the rink.”
Ash tore his gaze off Dan. “For what?”
“The game with the guys from the Toronto team tomorrow?” Carlie’s eyes narrowed. As Tampa’s goalie, he noticed everything on the ice. And off it.
Ash tried not to squirm.
“Are you okay?”
“Fantastic!” Overselling it a bit, but whatever. Ash moved forward in line. “Which rink?”
The change of subject wasn’t lost on Carlie, but he went with it anyway. “Staples’ll text me the address.”
“Who’s still around tomorrow anyway?”
“Other than you, me, and Dean? Greer, Masterson, Delaney. Mooney, I think. Everybody else flies back to Tampa tomorrow afternoon, after brunch at Dean’s mom’s.”
Brunch. At Alex Dean’s mom’s house out in the suburbs. Which meant Mitch would be there.
Ergo, Dan would be there.
Fuck his life.
Speaking of the bastard . . .
Dan’s face had regained some color, and the sweat on his upper lip had dried. His composure had returned too, and he sat in his chair, back straight, one ankle crossed over the other knee, and could be getting ready for an early lunch meeting if Ash didn’t know better.
Ash’s stomach flipped and folded as their eyes met across the coffee shop.
Carlie nudged him. “You know that guy?”
“Huh? Who? Oh. No. I mean . . .” Ash stuffed his hands in his pockets and pretended to eye the coffee selection. “Yeah, that’s, uh, Mitch’s brother.”
“Cool.” Another nudge. “Your turn, dude.”
A minute later, two coffees in hand, Ash waited for Carlie to be served. Carlie was the buffer between him and Dan. Carlie wasn’t allowed to leave.
Reaching across the table, Ash held Dan’s coffee out.
“Thank you.”
Their fingers brushed, shooting warmth up Ash’s arm, zinging into his chest. Dan smiled tightly, eyes meeting Ash’s before cutting away.
Goddamnit, why did Dan have to affect him so much?
“Mitch’s brother, right?” Carlie held out a hand. “I’m Evan Carlson. Everyone calls me Carlie.”
“Dan.”
Oh, and look, here was Mitch, plopping himself into the chair between Ash and Dan, hugging Alex’s book to his chest like he’d eat and sleep with the thing for the rest of his life. He dusted some crumbs off the table, then went to set his book down. He seemed to think better of it for some reason, because he changed his mind and set it on his lap instead.
Ash reached for it. “Can I see that?”
Mitch twisted away, scowling. “No. Get your own.”
“Seriously?” Ash forced a chuckle, determined to ignore how much Dan’s presence was making him twitchy. Good thing the AC was blasting, otherwise Ash’s damp back would’ve been patchy with sweat spots. “I can’t even look at it?”
“There’s a zillion more copies in there.” Mitch waved in the direction of the bookstore. “Get your own.”
“I’m surprised you left Alex’s side.” Alex and Mitch tended to be disgustingly glued to each other’s hips.
“He’s fine. Busy signing autographs.” Mitch stroked the book on his lap. “The line-up’s still out the door, so we’ll be here for a while. I’ll bring him a snack in a bit.”
“Was he nervous?” Carlie asked.
Mitch’s grin was sappy as hell. “Yeah. But he’s good now. Just needed to get out there and stop thinking.”
Honestly, how Alex and Mitch’s relationship hadn’t been discovered by reporters yet was a mystery. They were keeping it a secret from everyone except close friends and family, and yet, in public, they were constantly brushing hands, standing too close, and staring at each other with starry eyes and lovesick grins.
Worst kept secret ever.
“A few of us are playing a friendly game with some of the guys from the Toronto team tomorrow,” Ash told Mitch, a left-winger on his college’s hockey team. “Wanna play?”
Mitch’s mouth dropped open. “Are you serious? Because if this is a joke, it’s a really mean one.”
“Dude, I don’t joke about hockey. Carlie, tell him.”
“You joke about hockey all the time.” Carlie crossed his arms. “Like that one the other day about the fans.”
Ash grinned. “Yeah. That was a good one.”
Mitch side-eyed him. “I don’t think I want to know.”
“Sure you do. Why does a hockey team never sweat?” Ash paused for dramatic effect and drum rolled on the table. “Because they have too many fans!”
“That’s not funny,” Mitch said while Carlie rolled his eyes, and Dan . . . Dan let out a choked sound Ash chose to interpret as a laugh.
“It was a little bit funny,” Ash insisted.
Mitch punched him in the shoulder. “Were you serious about tomorrow or not?”
“Okay, that I wouldn’t joke about. Of course I was serious.”
Mitch’s smile was so big his cheeks must’ve hurt. “I gotta tell Alex!” He disappeared into the store with his precious book.
Carlie sipped his coffee and made a face. “This isn’t what I ordered. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared to the back of the line.
Leaving Ash alone with Dan. Like he knew the two of them needed to talk. Which was impossible. Ash had never told anyone about them except his parents, and Dan . . .
Dan hadn’t told anyone while they’d been together, not even Mitch, even though they’d always been close. On the day they were meant to fly to Syracuse, the plan had been for Dan to tell his parents—at the last minute so they couldn’t stop him or attempt to talk him out of it—that he was dropping out of Columbia, where he was studying business and accounting, to move to Syracuse. They’d both known that Dan’s mom would be the hard sell, that his dad would support him in anything, but Dan had been determined. Determined and confident and excited for their future together.
And then that stupid I’m sorry, I can’t text that had told Ash nothing. Ash had always assumed that Dan’s mom had somehow talked him out of going with him.
Or maybe Dan simply hadn’t been as serious about them as Ash had.
Sitting across from Dan now, all of the old hurt came back as if Dan had left him at the airport yesterday, not six years ago. The devastation. The aching sense of loss. The confusion that had left him grasping at nothing. The realization that Dan didn’t want him enough. The bigger realization that even though, for him, Dan had been the one; to Dan, Ash had just been a summer fling. Some guy he’d met who was working in Manhattan over the summer before he headed back to his AHL team in Syracuse in August. It had hurt like nothing before or since. His divorce, while anything but amicable, hadn’t hurt as much.
He didn’t let any of that show on his face, or in his posture, keeping his shoulders relaxed and his expression smooth. Pleasant, yet distant. Even his eyebrows were cooperating.
Dan had folded his shirtsleeves back, exposing forearms dusted with blond hairs that he rested on the table, hands cupped around his mug. They were nice forearms too, graceful and gently tanned. Taken together with his build, they told Ash without words that Dan still jogged every morning.
Ash took a deep breath, ignoring the dullness in his chest.
Dan cleared his throat and rubbed his forehead—a nervous tick he clearly hadn’t gotten rid of. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
Dan attempted a smile. It was a pale imitation to the one Ash remembered.
Ash checked his watch. How long would this book launch last, and when could he leave?
“How’ve you been?” Dan asked.
Fuck, even his voice was the same. It threw Ash back to the day they’d met. Stuck in that elevator, he’d known that he wanted Dan as a friend. But he’d never expected, could never have predicted, what they’d become to each other. “Good,” he answered. “You?”
Dan was nodding. “Good.”
Look at them, having a conversation like mature adults. An awkward one, but still. No, not awkward. A pleasant yet distant one.
“Are you going to Alex’s for brunch tomorrow?” Dan asked.
“Yeah. All of the guys from the team are.”
“That’s a lot of mouths to feed.”
Ash loosed real, unexpected laughter. “Yeah. I don’t think Alex’s mom knows what she’s in for.”
Dan’s smile was more real this time, punching Ash right in the solar plexus.
“Listen.” Dan cleared his throat again. “Do you want to get out of here? Go somewhere more private to talk?”
“We don’t have anything to talk about.”
“I want to explain.” Dan leaned his elbows on the table. “About—”
Ash held up a hand. “Don’t. I don’t want to hear it.”
“But—”
“Six years ago I would’ve begged for an explanation.” Had begged for an explanation—via text, email, and phone, all of which had gone ignored. “But now?” He shrugged. Now he was done with it. Now he was on the final year of his NHL contract, and he was still waiting for his club to offer him a new one—something that should’ve happened already—which meant keeping his head down and playing the best hockey he could. And getting involved with Dan again was not keeping his head down. “I don’t want it. What happened, happened. It’s done. It’s over. I don’t need to hear excuses. I’ll be right back. Need a refill.” He rose, full mug in hand. He needed to breathe, just for a minute. Needed a second without the scent of Dan’s cologne clogging his nostrils.
Why did he have to be as fucking earnest and good looking as he ever was?
Joining Carlie in line, he glanced back at Dan and found Mitch there, gesturing toward the bookstore. Dan hesitated, eyes snagging on Ash, his lips downturned, seeming to seek some sort of guidance. He blinked once and the question was gone from his face, and he followed Mitch into the bookstore.
It was probably for the best.
MAY 2003—SIX YEARS AGO
The elevator was empty. Thank God.
Dan stepped inside, pressed the button for the ground floor, and slumped against the mirrored rear wall, tugging at his tie.
Twenty years old and he was already wearing a tie. It was suffocating.
A portent of the future?
He sighed and rubbed his forehead. God, he hoped not.
The elevator stopped on the fourteenth floor and someone got in. Dan ignored them, too focused on his own misery. Seriously, this day. You’d think he wasn’t going into his third summer working at the head office of his mother’s company. He’d screwed up one thing after another, and the day was only half over.
“That’s a lot of sighing you’re doing over there.”
“What?” He glanced over at his elevator companion, a tall guy—like, seriously tall—and huge to boot, with brown hair the color of milk chocolate and eyes to match. The guy was about Dan’s age with a charmer of a smile and a messenger bag slung over a strong shoulder.
“I said you were doing a lot of sighing,” the guy said. “Bad day?”
“Understatement.”
And it got worse as the elevator shuddered, groaned, and stalled.
Oh god.
All of a sudden, Dan was six years old, visiting cousins in California with his dad. A playground, crawling through a plastic tube that led from one section of the jungle gym to another. Earthquake. Small, yet enough to cause the jungle gym to shudder, groan, and come toppling down on top of him.
He’d later learned that he’d been trapped in the plastic tube for less than an hour. At the time, it had felt endless. No window. No way out. Not enough room to sit up or lie down, so he’d been curled in the fetal position as he banged against the plastic, begging to be let out. Begging for his dad.
Small enclosures made him sweat. Elevators were usually fine—the mirrored walls made the small space appear larger than it actually was. But elevators were most certainly not fine when they were stalled between two floors, the red numbers above the floor selection buttons flickering between eleven and ten. Were they high enough that they’d die if the cables snapped and they went plunging down, down, down, past the ground floor and into the parking levels?
He folded in half and stuck his head between his legs. “We’re going to die here.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” his elevator companion said.
There was the sound of a click, and then a tinny female voice said, “Maintenance. How can I help you?”
“Yeah, my friend and I are stuck in the elevator between floors ten and eleven.”
“Can you tell me which elevator?”
“Uh, one of the main ones, but I don’t know the number. The last one on the east side.”
“Six,” Dan wheezed.
“Six,” the guy repeated. “You might want to send help fast. I think my friend’s about to hyperventilate.”
“I’ve never,” Dan huffed, “hyperventilated—” Huff. “—in my life.” He unfolded himself slightly, propping himself up with his hands on his knees.
“Uh-huh.”
“Can you tell me your names, sir?”
“I’m Ashton Yager. My friend is . . .” Dan’s companion—Ashton—bent and snagged Dan’s eyes with his own. “Dude, what’s your name?”
“Dan Greyson.”
“We should have you guys out of there in a jiffy!”
“A jiffy, huh?” Ashton stared at the elevator speaker, clearly unconvinced. “A jiffy like ten minutes? Or a jiffy like an hour?”
“Hmm, well, we’re looking into it on our end. Looks to be a simple malfunction, so maybe . . . a couple of hours?”
“How is that a jiffy?”
“How is that simple?” Dan countered.
Ashton grinned at him, seemingly delighted about something.
“Is there anybody in the building we should contact for you?” the tinny voice asked. Considering their situation, she was much too chipper.
