25. BILSON

TWENTY-FIVE

BILSON

It’s a rare three days off where we don’t have a game, practice, or any charity events to show up to—we only have to get our weights and cardio in to keep our bodies warm for our next game day—and I figured it would be the perfect opportunity to come as many times as possible.

But Miles has gone radio silent, isn’t replying to my texts, and I’d like to think it’s because he’s spending time with his folks, but I’m not one hundred percent on that.

I think he’s avoiding me, and I can’t help wondering if it’s because we kissed.

While I loved it and regretted not doing it sooner, I get the impression it was too far for him. Maybe it’s made his denial harder to ignore, and if that’s the case, I should give him space.

A revelation hits me. I want to see Miles, but I can acknowledge his feelings and need for space. Is this … what growth feels like? Am I all cured of my neglect issues? Are dicks so magical they can fix all my emotional baggage?

As clear as day, my therapist’s voice enters my head and says, “And you think Miles is the one in denial?”

Ugh. Okay, so fine. I still have those issues and probably always will, but this is at least what I’d like to call a breakthrough.

But it also means that I can’t do what I want, which is get in my car, drive over to his place, and kidnap him.

It’s only now that I’m realizing I don’t have any other friends in Nashville. The team is great, and I’ve felt welcomed, and we gel on a professional level, but neither Miles nor I have made an effort to be real friends with any of them. Maybe it’s time that changed. Dennan and Aleks back in Seattle became more than teammates. They were my friends—my Seattle family, if you will—and I haven’t even tried to have that here because I’ve been too distracted by Miles’s ass. Or his mouth. His hands …

And there I go again, tempting myself to get in the car and drive over to see him.

Nope, nope, nope.

So I take out my phone and scroll through my contacts and click on the first teammate’s name I see: Adin Finch.

Me:Is the team doing anything tonight? I’m BORED.

Finch: Shouldn’t you be relaxing and doing nothing because you don’t have kids to chase around? Please give me your life! I would kill to be bored.

Me: Just clarifying here, you’re not threatening to kill your children, are you?

Finch: Okay, no. They’re exhausting, but I love those little monsters. You should see what Stoll or Jorgensen is up to.

Me: You could always come out with us so you get a break from the kids?

Finch: And have my wife fry my balls so I stop creating spawns of Satan? We have a deal. Anytime I get more than one day off during the season, I’m on diaper duty.

Me: Again, clarifying … your kid’s diapers, right?

Finch: … What is wrong with you?

Me: I told you. I’m BORED. Don’t blame me for my brain thinking inappropriate things when I don’t have anything to occupy it.

Finch: I’m starting to see why you and Miles get along so well. Ask him to go out with you.

Ergh. Hitting me where it hurts.

Me: I think he’s having family time too. Though, I really hope his parents don’t change his diapers. Do you know anyone who’s a full grown-up who is close with their parents? Do you think they’re in a cult? Do we have to save his soul?

Finch: I showed my wife your messages. She thinks I need to save your soul. So, where are we going? I’ll message the other guys and we’ll go for drinks.

Yes, I win.

Me: You pick a place. I haven’t been out much yet.

Finch: You’ve been here since September. What have you been doing?

I know Miles is the wrong answer, even if it’s the right one.

Me: Being lazy.

Finch: Meet us at a bar called The Ranch. It’s all country and very Southern.

Sounds like a great homophobic time.

But I forget that no one knows about me, not even Miles. I haven’t told him I’ve realized that having sex with a man has never been a big deal to me. I joked about doing it to join the Collective for real, but maybe that wasn’t completely joking when the words were genuine. Not that they’d ever make me do it, but if they said I had to, I would’ve. That’s not straight-thinking behavior.

Ever since I was younger, I’ve always had the whole marriage and kids equals complete life. Having that woman next to me, being “the man” of the family, and providing.

It’s taken me until now to realize how bullshit that whole societal expectation is. I was never happy doing that, which is why when any of my wives brought up the topic of kids, I’d say I wasn’t ready. Because deep down, I thought if I wasn’t happy in my marriage, no way would bringing a kid into the world fix it. I had visions of becoming distant like my parents, and being a hockey player and always on the road, it would be easy to neglect them.

It’s not until this very moment that I realize … I don’t want children. Why have kids when I won’t be able to spend time with them? Why would I bring them into a world where I would do to them what my parents did to me?

I’m just full of revelations this week.

Being a well-rounded person is depressing.

So fuck it. I will go out with the team, ignore the ass-backward Bible Belt view of people like me, and forget about real life for a bit.

Me: See you there.

Okay,the Ranch isn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. There isn’t even one single Confederate flag in here.

There’s line dancing in the bar, a mechanical bull toward the back, and beyond the restaurant is a corridor that leads to a battle-axe-throwing place next door. It’s like a playground for adults.

When I arrive, Finch and Stoll are already there, and it’s not long after I get in that more guys filter through the doors.

I’m in the middle of ordering drinks for those who are here when more come through, so I end up ordering pitchers of beer to take back to the table. Or tables, now that it’s filling up.

I want to ask if anyone thought to invite Miles, but I’m giving him space. Space, space, space. It would probably be nice for him to bond with the team though.

When I get back to the guys and put the pitchers down, I ask, “Did anyone invite Rook?”

Finch pulls back. “You didn’t?”

“Yeah,” Jorgensen says. “We figured out of any of us, you would. We’re actually surprised you didn’t arrive together.”

“We’re not tied to each other.” Lies. I can see why he’s ignoring my texts.

“I got you,” Stoll says. “He said he’d come later after he’s had dinner with Mommy and Daddy.”

My lips turn up. That’s such a Miles answer. I kind of love that he has no shame in his closeness with his parents like some guys might. But at the same time, that love for them is what’s holding him back, and that kind of sucks.

“So,” Finch says, “this entertaining your squirrel brain enough?”

“Definitely. I don’t know what to do first. Axe throwing, line dancing, or the mechanical bull.”

Finch rubs his chin. “If I were you, I’d do the ax throwing first since you can’t do it if you’re drunk—who would have thought drunk dudes and sharp objects could be dangerous? Actually, you and ax throwing might be dangerous in general, so maybe skip that one. You should ride the mechanical bull after you’re drunk so you can’t feel anything when you hit the mats. Ask me how I know how much that fucking hurts. So⁠—”

“Line dancing it is. Who wants to come out there with me to make fools of ourselves?”

Half the guys decide to follow me, and apparently, our lack of grace on the ice also carries over onto the dance floor.

At least we can laugh at ourselves. The rest of the world will, too, when Stoll films it and sends it to the team’s social media manager.

Good ol’ wholesome team shenanigans? It’s a viral magnet. “Look! The giant men who fight on the ice also line dance!”

We’re only at the bar for about an hour when Miles breezes in.

He’s so cute with his blond hair sticking out underneath his beanie, his large puffer jacket making him look twice as wide as he normally is.

He makes his way over to us and ditches them immediately.

I pour him a drink into one of the extra glasses and slide it over. He doesn’t even look at me as he mutters, “Thanks,” and takes a drink.

See, he is ignoring me, he does want space, and I’ve ruined a good thing by kissing him. Though, in my defense, it was him who asked me to. Maybe it was a test, and I failed.

I’m torn between wanting to talk to him about it and wanting to continue to give him the breathing room he needs.

I stand. “Fuck it. I think I’ve had enough beer to numb my ass when I fall from that thing. Who’s with me?”

Stoll jumps up, taking out his phone. “Oh, this is so going up on the team page too.”

Somehow, falling off a mechanical bull and embarrassing myself on the internet is preferable to talking to Miles and having him end things.

Look at that. I can’t even have a casual fling without smothering them to the point of pulling away.

Needy, neglected Cody strikes again.