2. Carter

TWO

My fingers pluckedthe guitar strings independently from my mind. My thoughts drifted, but my hands knew what they were doing. They also knew they would rather be traveling up and down the octaves of my piano, but we'd left that back home. "You won't have time to mess around with that thing," Dad had informed me the first time I had mentioned the possible challenges of transporting my piano. "Dorm rooms don't have enough space for those things. And your roommate won't have the patience to listen to it." He'd told me I would only attract trouble if I took the thing with me.

My roommate, Ron, was far more patient than Dad had predicted. And the room was much more spacious than what he'd described. And, for the win at three in a row, it turned out I had way more time than he'd claimed. In fact, all I had was time.

The weeks of warm-up drills with Coach Partridge and my gym routine were all I had on my agenda until the semester officially began.

So I sat in the shade of an old chestnut tree behind the team house where most of the Titans lived, ass on the stone table and feet on the matching bench, my guitar resting on my knee, fingers working while my mind wandered.

"I bet girls love you at parties," Ron said.

For a moment, I thought he was sarcastic.

"I wish I could play like that," he said.

"Do you play at all?" I asked.

Ron shrugged. "A few chords. Nothing that'll get me laid."

I snorted. "Guitar's not getting me laid, dude."

Ron leaned back on the flat bench that didn't have a backrest, his head leaving the shade, sunlight setting his light hair to glow. He closed his eyes and let the sunshine warm him up. "Then you're doing something wrong."

"Yeah?" My mouth also worked without any input from my head. My mind was miles away. There had been times I would get like this over dinner, and Dad would wear the most peculiar frown you'd ever seen. "Where did you go?" he would ask. To be honest, daydreaming wasn't something my dad could wrap his mind around.

"Girls love guys who can play a guitar," Ron claimed.

I strummed abruptly and looked at Ron. "This guitar player doesn't love girls, though."

Ron shrugged without any other reaction. "I don't think it's gender-specific."

I snorted. Hopefully, I wasn't accidentally seducing my roommate. "I'm not sure I agree," I mused quietly. For one thing, nobody cared what I did in my free time. So long as I practiced and exercised, ate well and studied, I was free to tinker around with music or doomscroll until my eyes popped out. Nobody said a word. "I prefer piano," I said for no reason at all. I wasn't bragging, and it didn't make me any cooler. In fact, I said it just because it was true.

My fingers worked the strings, and a mournful ballad wrapped itself around us. It was nothing I had composed before. Tunes sometimes came to me in the middle of practice. It was a great way to unplug and let my head be empty for a bit. I was aware that other people tended to play real music for the same effect. Me? I couldn't sit still for that long without drumming my fingers anxiously against some nearby surface. So I played the music for myself.

"That's nice," Ron said. "Who's that?"

"Huh?" For a moment, I thought he was asking me something else. I blinked and shook my head. "No idea."

My roommate laughed. "Are you kidding me? That's not improv, is it?"

It really wasn't that big of a deal. And I said that to Ron.

"You're so wrong it's not even funny," he said. "Ever played for a crowd?"

The snort that burst out of me was so full of contempt that I reminded myself of my father. "Please."

"I'm not joking, dude," Ron said. "You should do some open-mic night or something."

"Yes, because who doesn't love a sad, slow-burn ballad over their fourth beer following a wannabe stand-up comedian? I think I'll pass." I shook my head dismissively, even though Ron's eyes were still shut, hands folded behind his back.

My friend hummed to the tune I was making up, so I intentionally changed the harmony to mess with him. He opened his eyes and shot me a scolding look. "The way I see it," he said slowly, "we've got four years to get all the embarrassing stuff out of our systems. When we're in the NHL, that shit's gonna have to go away."

I laughed out loud. "As if pros don't do a bunch of embarrassing shit behind the curtains."

"You won't get a shot at playing for a small crowd in a bar when you're famous," Ron said. He looked at his phone and hopped onto his feet. "Time to go." He pressed his fist against my shoulder in passing, picked up his gym bag, and walked away.

I'd done my training early this morning. With several team houses brimming with athletes who hoped to build careers in various sports, the campus gym was often crowded, and I preferred solitude. Early hours were the best, while other students were still snoring in their beds.

My phone vibrated on the stone surface of the table. I picked it up and hesitated for a moment. I had been in such a good mood.

Leaning over my guitar, I swiped the screen and pressed the phone against my ear. The open palm of my right hand pressed the strings to silence the accidental sound I made. "Dad," I said.

My father called me every few days to check in. "How are things, Carter?" The truth was, he didn't have much going on since he'd retired. He had never had other interests beyond hockey, so his days were now spent lounging in expensive recliners in pretty locations.

"Not that different from two days ago," I said, trying for a light tone.

If I'd succeeded, it flew over Dad's head anyway. "You're training hard, son?"

"Yep," I said, my gaze drawn to the bright blue sky of the summer midafternoon. A few puffy white clouds sailed across the vast blue canvas. Fall wasn't even in our vocabulary yet. These were the best days to be alive.

Dad held his breath for a moment. I could hear the absence of his breathing. Then, as he exhaled, it was almost a sigh. "Are you taking this seriously, Carter? I can never tell."

"How much more seriously do you want me to take it, Dad?" I asked, my temper soaring. I had to squeeze my eyes shut to rein in the anger. "I'm training every day. Ask Nate if you don't trust me."

"That wouldn't be appropriate," Dad said in a tight voice.

I wondered if he was telling the truth. Weren't they each other's oldest friends? Hadn't they always been full of stories of their early years as college friends, rivals playing for different NHL teams, and finally teammates for the rest of Dad's career? I knew Dad had filled Coach Partridge's ears with his plans for my future. "Then you simply have to trust me," I said.

Dad's silence lasted for a few heartbeats. "Very well, Carter. Is there anything you need? Anything you lack?"

My piano, I thought. "Nope." Why was it so hard to constantly go over the same conversation? Each time we spoke, my answers were shorter, my voice tighter, and my words more clipped. "It's all good, Dad."

He lingered a few moments longer, telling me he loved me and was proud of what I'd achieved, and then he hung up. It left me wondering what exactly I had achieved, but I wouldn't ask him that. All my life, there was a stick in my hands and a puck before my eyes. All my life, my father's stardom shone so brightly that it made everything in my life pale.

I hopped off the stone table and walked into the house. It was a colonial revival structure with a spacious, open-plan ground floor. A kitchen and a kitchen island took up the left side from the entrance, and the vast living room that was hardly used was on the right. In the back and upstairs were rooms for Arctic Titans to share, two per room, and downstairs, in the basement, was the true common room. Vintage arcade games, worn-out furniture, a gaming console, a minifridge stocked with beer, and a big soccer table were just the tip of the iceberg. Guys gathered there nearly every evening just to hang out.

I went to my room upstairs. Most of the occupied rooms faced the backyard, but Ron and I were given one of the rooms on the other end of the house, facing the front. We had a view of the campus, one house in a line of many.

The room was pretty big. I could see what things I would move around to make space for my imaginary piano. With annoyance zinging through me, I marched to the window, opened it, and sat over the frame with one leg dangling outside. A part of the front deck's roof extruded a little under my hanging leg. With my guitar on my knee, I plucked the strings loudly.

"You're going to fall out," someone called from a distance.

My nose wrinkled, and I repeated the tune louder. As the hackler neared the house, I realized it was Coach Partridge. Nate. All my life, he had simply been Nate. He was the star winger to others, but to me, they were all just Dad's buddies from when I was small. I rode this guy's back when I was a kid. "I'm really not," I shouted back.

"I wouldn't bet on it," Nate said, pausing a pace away from the lawn. He had to squint against the sun shining directly into his face. The brightness of the sunlight suited him. Even from up here, I could see he was a tall man. His brown hair was cropped short and textured in a way that I could distinguish the locks. The sides were faded so high that a good part of the sides of his head was shaved smooth. I knew that if he were to grow his hair, it would look almost the same as Beckett's thick, wavy locks. "Got a particular reason for pushing your luck?"

"I'm not an adrenaline junkie looking to get high if that's what you're asking," I said. I could speak a little more quietly now that Nate was nearer. I ran my fingers over the strings as if to accompany my words.

Nate lifted his hand to scratch the back of his head. The short-sleeved, well-fitting T-shirt revealed his stiff biceps, muscles contracting as he moved his arms. "You're giving me anxiety, Carter."

I snorted but stopped myself when his hand moved away from the back of his head and gently rubbed the area above his pecs. His broken and healed collarbone. I threw my leg back inside the house and set the guitar on the floor before leaning over the window. "Are you looking for Beckett?"

"Yeah," Nate said. "Uh, thanks for…not falling out."

I laughed out loud. "Wait there. I'll tell him you're here."

I was sure Nate inhaled sharply to tell me not to bother, but I was gone before he could say a word. I found Caden in their room, who told me Beckett was in the shower. I wasn't sure why that made me giddy, but I decided to entertain Nate in the meantime.

As I stepped out of the house, Nate was still standing a foot away from the lawn. "Come inside, Coach. Beckett's gonna need a minute."

Nate narrowed one eye against the sun and hesitated. "Ah, I don't think I should…" He stepped forward. "That's your space, guys."

"And I'm inviting. It's scorching there," I insisted. "I'm pouring a glass of cold water." Leaving the door open, I walked back to the fridge and filled a tall glass with ice before pouring water over it. By the time I was done, Nate was still hesitating, and I wondered if I would have to go outside to drag him. I was perfectly comfortable doing that, seeing how he'd carried me on his shoulders in Dad's pool when I was six.

As I took a step toward the door, he showed up. He was a towering presence in any room, especially since I was not particularly tall. I was ever so slightly above average in most ways that didn't matter and very below average in one way that mattered to a lot of people, but it felt good to stand near a man of his size.

With the kitchen island between us, I pushed the glass across and folded my arms on the counter, leaning in. Nate seemed like he was made of tension, but it appeared in the shape of masculine gruffness. He gripped the glass that was wet with condensation and had a few long sips before setting it back on the counter. His biceps bulged with disproportionate exertion. "Thanks," he said in a deep, quiet voice.

I was perfectly comfortable in the silence that followed, unlike our guest. He looked around, turning his head left and right, letting me take the full view of his profile. My gaze dropped to his shoulders. They were broad and round, a perfect example of an athlete's physique. He was still working out, no doubt. It made me wonder what his stomach looked like. It sparked images of his bare back the way it existed in my imagination.

"Nice place," he said. "Do you like it here?"

"It's only been a couple of weeks," I said. "But I do. So far."

"I bet the crowd can be a little too much, huh?" Nate looked into my eyes. His were dark brown, smoldering like hot coals. He was all seriousness and broody looks. It took away nothing from the appearance that had had him on the magazine covers as the world's sexiest man several times throughout his long career. Some of those had come out long before I could be a judge of such things, but others had come out at the perfect time to solidify this crazy, fluttering feeling in my stomach.

I would never admit this to anyone, but I still had the most recent cover. It was upstairs, and it featured Nate Partridge partially dressed in his hockey gear, except that his torso was all bare flesh, and the look on his face was pure determination, like he would leap off the page and grab you by the throat, then make you his plaything.

Instinctively, my feet moved until my thighs pressed together behind the counter, rubbing against each other.

"I didn't know you could play guitar," Nate said, his tone a little more relaxed.

It's my favorite thing in the world, I thought. "It's nothing. Everyone needs a hobby."

Nate raised his eyebrows skeptically. It figured. He was like my dad in that way. I had never known him to have an interest beyond hockey. Sometimes, it felt like they were all part of a cult. The dedication they displayed was otherworldly. Some admired it. Then again, those who admired it blindly had never been strong-armed into following the same path.

"Are you still in touch with my dad?" I asked idly. It had been a long time since the last visit, but Nate still played after Dad had left the NHL.

"We talk," Nate said, shrugging. It was such a straight-guy gesture that it nearly made me chuckle.

"I used to see you so much more often," I said.

Nate shook his head. "You know how it is. Life gets in the way. Truth be told, I don't think there'll ever be a time when we're not in each other's lives." He meant my dad, but the words sounded way too good not to savor for a moment.

"He's really worried that I'm not pulling in my weight at drills," I said.

"There's nothing he should worry about. I wouldn't let you slack off any more than I would Beckett." Nate crossed his arms over his chest. It was a great pose. I wished I could snap a photo for my little hidden gallery.

"How lucky we are, the kids of the greats," I joked.

"Don't look at it like that, Carter," he said. "You have raw talent I haven't seen in a long time."

So they keep telling me, I wanted to say, but Beckett showed up at the top of the stairs while I gazed up at his uncle with wide eyes. I couldn't help it. My eyelids simply knew not to obscure my view when Nate was around.

"Uncle," our team captain greeted Nate. "Sorry I kept you waiting."

"Don't worry. Prince kept me entertained." Nate shot me a grin, reverting to a more coach-like speech pattern. I felt more like a fool than a prince, no matter my name. "Ready?"

Beckett said he was ready for whatever they had in mind, and the two men walked away. Nate shot me a look over his shoulder, thanking me for the water and company.

I drummed my fingers against the smooth surface of the kitchen island, then dragged my ass back to my room. Crashing into the bed, I swiped and tapped the screen of my phone, found the secret gallery, and scrolled through the images of the single most attractive man I had ever seen. These were all publicly available photos, of course, from his long career and the many, many public appearances.

One after another, I swiped through them. Nate Partridge in full hockey gear like a young god or Nate Partridge advertising an expensive underwear brand. In winter attire or nothing more than a pair of swimming shorts, it was all my new coach. My dad's best and oldest friend. The gruff, straight dude who had known me since before I could walk.

I'd always had a thing for the unattainable men. Young, cocky guys didn't interest me. Especially not when Nate Partridge was aging like fine wine, growing hotter every year.

I had had a crush on him since I was sixteen, just before Dad left the NHL, and their relationship became more long-distance. In the years that followed, seeing Nate on TV and online never failed to send flutters through me. It also never failed to squeeze my heart with melancholy.

Here was a guy who would never notice me. He was drop-dead gorgeous, tall, broody, hot as the fires of hell in which I'd burn if I tried some foolish thing, and kind on top of it all. Despite witnessing me sprout from a child to a young man, Nate never patronized me. He never spoke to me like I was a foolish kid. Seeing me play my guitar didn't earn me a lecture about wasting my time when I could be doing extra drills.

I scrolled through my gallery. Over the years, I had collected more photos than was strictly healthy. I didn't care. Viewing the difference between the photo and the real thing always thrilled me. And coming across some of the hotter photos he'd done for the thirsty fans always turned me on, my legs pressing together on their own, thighs rubbing, fire blazing in my groin. Fuck. The things I would let him do. The things I would do for him…

Despite the fact that my crush on him was only a little over three years old, Nate had had an impact on me since forever. His body, when he was a lot younger and slimmer, had triggered my sexual awakening. A particularly raunchy set of images had been swirling around the internet for a cologne campaign. Some geniuses imagined that putting Nate Partridge into the bottom half of a Roman soldier's attire would sell the manly scent they had produced. It worked like a charm, making me desperate to own the cologne and, more importantly, slamming me with the realization that I wanted men in all the ways that mattered.

After stumbling through the years of discovery, my heart returned to the man who'd started it all.

Some years later, after a few bad hookups and a tiny number of good ones, I knew nothing would ever cure me of my feelings for this man. He would always be the leviathan in my life. The monument to sex appeal and the embodiment of desire. He would also remain an unattainable wish that I would carry to my grave.

I might as well flirt my ass off around him. It's not like he'll notice me, I thought.

And what if he noticed me making moves? I would look as ridiculous to him as an ostrich, performing my little seduction routine and hoping for a laugh. It wasn't like he would take me off the team. Besides, even if he did, would that be such a loss? I couldn't remember the last time I'd been on ice and loved the game. Not the way all the other guys did. The burning passion to play and win was so visible on their faces. All I had to offer was that raw talent they went on and on about.

For the first time in my life, I was away from Dad and near Nate. For the first time ever, I could dream of shooting my shot, even if I didn't have the balls to do it for real.

Ron was wrong.

I didn't need four years to make bad decisions. I would get mine out of my system by the end of the semester.