3. Nate

THREE

My apartment was sparsely decorated.I'd bought it on a whim, adding the property to a list of places that sparked some kind of an idea on my first viewing, only to be abandoned and gather dust. "Increasing in value," all my financial advisors said.

I didn't care. My lifestyle wasn't lavish. I didn't fly in private jets or spend months globetrotting. If I didn't earn another dime for the rest of my life, I would still live a comfortable life. And there would be something to leave to Beckett someday.

Those were the thoughts that roamed through my head as I sat on the flat black-and-gray sofa, looking at the pitch-black screen of the TV hanging from the wall across. Around it, almost indistinguishable from the soulless light gray walls, were the abstract paintings the previous owner had left behind. Dull hues splattered across the canvas sparked nothing in me except confusion. Perhaps that was the point.

I didn't dwell on the weird art. This was a place near Northwood and more than enough for sleeping in. I did little more than that in here. Mixing myself a drink in the evening was the extent to which I used the state-of-the-art kitchen. Judging by how well maintained it was, I suspected the previous owners weren't chefs either.

My nights were often restless, if not totally sleepless. Every sound would wake me up. My dreams were vivid and brimming with anxiety. My eyelids, heavy throughout the day, would be lighter than feathers in the middle of the night. Closing my eyes would be an invitation to the thoughts that inevitably alerted my senses. The memory of being broken never really left my mind. It lingered and tainted every other thought. And when I entertained it, trying to face the memory full-on, it only tempted worse things to join it. Is this what you've done with your life, Nathan? That was my own voice speaking. An empty apartment, a cold bed, and a companionless life. Well fucking done.

I wondered why I thought of this so much lately. Perhaps the absence of hockey left a vacuum I didn't know how else to fill. Then again, one in the string of therapists had recently told me that my career might have just been a distraction. Without it, I had nothing else to keep me from facing the things that bothered me my entire life.

I lay in my bed, awake and bored out of my mind. It was well after midnight. I had a staff meeting early in the morning, but it wouldn't be my first meeting after a sleepless night.

More out of boredom than desire, I picked up my phone and swiped through Grindr. I didn't know why I had the damn thing. The few times it had resulted in something had been fun at the time, but they only ever left me feeling empty afterward. They reminded me that a meaningless hookup was the best a guy like me could hope for. I had spent so long in the closet that the daylight burned my eyes whenever I peeked out of it.

There were quite a few active profiles in the area. Swiping up, I was immediately exposed to the countless profiles that looked exactly like mine: no name, no photo, and the undesirable age that ended most conversations before they even started. Those few that moved beyond a polite greeting would end as soon as I shared a picture of myself. Catfish, they'd say. Try passing as someone less known, asshole, they'd say. And so it went like a carousel. The world's sexiest man couldn't get laid. What a fucking joke.

I must have passed out because when I next blinked, my phone was on my bare chest, and the first hints of light against the dark sky were announcing a new day.

After giving up on sleep, I walked out of my big, barren bedroom, passed through the huge living room, turned on the TV for some background noise, found a sports channel running an old hockey game with new, live commentary, and went into the kitchen to prepare some coffee. While it brewed, I showered and shaved, wondering why I bothered, and returned to the kitchen with a towel tied around my waist and wet footsteps on the floor behind me.

When the game blended with the silence of the apartment, becoming just a meaningless buzz, my chest grew so tight that I decided I couldn't spend another minute in here. The compulsion to run away sprouted from the tiny seed instantly. I dressed and stuffed my duffel with gym clothes, grabbed my car keys, wallet, phone, and work stuff, and almost ran out of the apartment.

The nearest gym that was open twenty-four seven was at Northwood's campus, although it was empty through most nights aside from a few insomnia-ridden students from time to time, so I went there to burn off the energy that had once gone into rigorous drills and epic games.

I hurried from the staff's parking lot to the gym as if someone was chasing me, but the campus was devoid of people. At five in the morning, even the partygoers were sprawling on spare couches in fraternity houses.

The silence at the gym meant nothing to me. After changing into workout clothes, I plugged in my earphones and kicked things off with a leg-breaking run on the treadmill. Sweat soon broke out all over my body, my lungs burned, and my vision blurred. After I spent the excess energy running, I made the rounds on the machines. The gym was incredibly well equipped for a college facility. Then again, Northwood was an athlete-printing machine. Each year, their graduates went on to fill the ranks of all the national leagues. From hockey to water polo to the good old football and baseball teams, Northwood forged them all.

I pushed my body to the limit this morning, although my limit was nowhere near what it used to be. The weeks I had spent in recovery had weakened me. It was the longest time I had gone without exercising since college. Maybe even longer. I couldn't remember a time when I hadn't been working out. The vanity that had existed in me in my youth hadn't waned with years. If anything, it had grown stronger.

After my clothes were drenched with sweat and my muscles burning, I returned to the locker room. I peeled off the sweaty clothes and rubbed the spot where my collarbone had been broken. I didn't feel it exactly. There was nothing to feel. It had healed well enough that I could play without any major risks. Plenty of players recovered from similar injuries and continued their careers. Not me, though. Not me, when the injury was not the thing that had plagued me. It was the softness that came with age, the slowing down in reflexes by a millisecond that some commentators who had never held a stick in their hands judged to be crucial. They taunted me loudly to step away, leaving me no choice.

The face that had once adorned the covers was a poster child for overstaying your welcome now.

I tied a towel around my waist after stepping out of the shower. In the silence of the locker room, I never expected someone might be present until I left a wet trail between the shower and the lockers. When I rounded the corner, I saw him from behind. My wet footsteps alerted him a second before I cleared my throat, and Carter Prince turned his head over his shoulder with a little frown that melted away as soon as recognition set in.

"Coach," he said as a greeting.

"Hey, Carter." My voice was deep but soft. "What are you doing here so early?"

The kid had a light hoodie on and a pair of knee-length shorts. His gym bag was on the bench on the far side of the locker room, a key to his locker dangling from his hand. "Looks like you were here first," he said in a voice so light that I imagined he was teasing me somehow.

"I'm not a college student," I said.

Carter gave a little snort that was softened by the playful look that followed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I don't need to sleep that much," I tried explaining.

Carter crossed his arms on his chest and mock pouted. "Are you suggesting all students party every night and need to sleep in when they can?"

"I wouldn't dream of it," I said, allowing a hint of a wolfish grin to reach my face.

Carter's gaze dropped down my wet torso, and I abruptly realized I was practically naked. I wondered what the locker room etiquette was between college coaches and players. We'd both been in locker rooms all our lives — that was twice as long for me as it was for Carter — but never in this capacity.

When Carter lifted his gaze to my eyes again, there wasn't a trace of awareness that he had just examined my torso in plain sight. Or, if there was some awareness, there was no shame to point to it. His expression was still the same light smirk he always wore, his eyes were big and brown and warm, and his dimples were there in hints, if not in reality.

"I'm glad you didn't stop working out," he said, acknowledging his actions without the slightest trace of guilt. His tone was compassionate, but compassion from a nineteen-year-old kid was possibly the last thing I wanted. "Some guys would have given up."

I clenched my teeth and swallowed hard. I had given up. Even now, I wasn't sure I was working for something. "Old habits," I said in a much more airy voice than I'd wanted. "When you're my age, you'll see how hard it is to unlearn the behaviors that defined your life."

"Oof," Carter said as if witnessing someone who'd just stubbed their toe. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you're ninety."

I narrowed my eyes a little and looked at this guy. "I was older on the day you were born than you are now. You'd be smart to listen to me."

He cracked a smile again. "Suit yourself, Coach."

He sounded like I insisted on acting old. Then again, this kid couldn't know what it was like. He didn't see the landscape change around him. And he definitely couldn't imagine the weight of years when your age is dragged through all the magazines that had once touted you as a man in his prime. The thing about being in your prime is that it passes, but you remain. I'd never seen it coming, this life that followed.

Carter looked at the row of lockers, and his eyebrows lifted. He closed the distance to the locker, pushed the key into it, and then opened the door. I stood still. Our lockers were near one another, and I wasn't about to take my towel off in front of a kid who played on my team. And I wasn't going to do that silly dance of dragging your underwear up your legs while keeping the towel around your waist, either. I would wait.

The decision bit me in the ass a moment later. Carter grabbed the bottom edge of his hoodie, and it flew over his head, revealing a sculpted torso only the true athletes could achieve. The definition told a story of someone who'd been thrust into this at a young age. He'd begun his transformation in middle school, I knew, but this guy next to me was nothing like the kid I had entertained at Dana's parties. Turning slightly away from me, Carter showed off his back. His broad shoulders and defined lats made his torso triangular. The trapezoids from his neck to his shoulders were steep enough to attract attention.

I swallowed and held my breath. As Carter pulled his shorts down, I looked away. It was one thing to notice an athlete's definition and another to look at him changing. He'd turned away from me for a reason. I wasn't going to violate that.

As I turned my back to him, I looked for my locker's key in the pockets of the sweaty shorts I held in one hand. When I found it, I faced the lockers and opened mine, acting busy. In the periphery of my vision, however, Carter wasn't moving at all.

Rummaging through my locker, I battled my indecision. To change or not to change? It was almost laughable. My gaze darted briefly to my right, seeing clearly that Carter was now facing me. He stood still in his underwear. Though I didn't let myself look, I couldn't escape noticing that they were dark green with a white waistband.

Following my glance, I turned my head and looked into his eyes, my hands resting on the edge of the locker. Even without looking, I could tell his pecs were rounded and firm, his stomach ridged with abs, and his waist narrow.

"I always thought they photoshopped you a little on those magazine covers," he said. I wasn't sure if he was joking. The frown that creased my brow prompted a laugh from him. "I figured they had to. They do that to models, you know?"

"I'm not a model," I said, voice dry for some reason. The tension that soared in my chest was probably not proportionate to the tension in the room. This was just a kid letting his mouth run wild. It didn't mean anything. Even so, I would rather have avoided talking about my body with a nineteen-year-old guy in the locker room while wearing nothing but a towel.

"And it looks like they didn't airbrush you, either," he said, broadening his smile.

"Carter." I tried to firm up my voice. Paranoia had been running unchecked in my head since the accident, and I was beginning to worry that Carter had some suspicions. As if anyone would still matter which gender you're sleeping with. Your career is over, old man. My face stiffened at my own thoughts.

Carter cut me off before I could tell him to stop. "I'm trying to say that it's inspiring, Coach. You want us inspired, right?"

I licked my lips clumsily. Why was it so hard to get my thoughts in order? I must have dehydrated myself during the workout. "I suppose I do."

"You're doing a good job, then." He put his hands on his hips. Was he showing off his biceps? They constricted even though his gesture didn't seem to ask for it. "I work out nearly every day, but I don't think I can look like that. Not with my routine, at least."

The kid's just looking for advice, I told myself before letting my gaze run over his body. "What's your routine?" I asked coolly. If I didn't act scared of seeing an attractive person, it wouldn't be weird. I crossed my arms, and Carter looked at my arms.

"Short cardio warm-up, then the three-group split," he said. "I mostly do free weights unless I have to use the machine. It helps with core strength and stability." He went on to describe a fairly standard workout routine that any personal trainer might devise for their clients. He tracked the weights religiously and measured the results in an elaborate spreadsheet that he promised to show me, even when I insisted it wasn't necessary. He targeted particular muscle groups when he felt they weren't getting enough attention.

Throughout it all, I struggled to keep my eyes on his face. Often, he would turn around and press his fingers on a certain spot on his back to show me what he felt was wrong. Once, he hooked his fingers at the bottom seams of his underwear and pulled them up, explaining what he disliked about his quads. His hand sometimes moved over his abs, but he didn't seem to notice it. And when he took a step toward me, asking me to put a hand on the outer side of his chest, I leaped back like a demon he sprinkled with holy water.

"It's not necessary," I blurted, my heart rate spiking. "Your routine's fine, Carter. Do you consume enough protein?"

He pulled a step back and took a moment to gather himself. He licked his lips, and I hated how shiny they were afterward. "I do. I track that, too. I try to be in a big calorie surplus every day with the macros the app calculated, but I'm not growing like I used to."

I tightened the grip my arms had on my torso and sighed. "There are a few reasons why the growth slows. I'm not a nutritionist, by the way, but it sounds to me like you're wasting some of your reps. It'd be wiser to cut down on fancy stuff and stick with the basics." After a moment of hesitation, I said the more important thing, not because I wanted to but because he needed to hear it. "There's nothing wrong with the way you look, Carter. You're young and healthy, and you're built like an athlete. Your performance won't be any better if you bulk up, and I don't think you have secret bodybuilding ambitions." If anything, the kid's got artistic ambitions, I thought. "I believe you're imagining most of what you think your body lacks. And purely for aesthetic reasons. Am I right?"

His lips tightened for a moment so brief that I wasn't sure it had even happened.

I let him off the hook and spoke on. "You look fine, Carter."

"You think?" I wished he didn't sound so insecure just then. Two words, but they shoved a dagger into my chest. How do you prove to a nineteen-year-old that he's attractive when he's convinced otherwise?

"Don't let your insecurities dictate your life, kid," I said. "Your body's perfect as it is."

I regretted those words when Carter's face turned a shade more pink. "Don't call me that, Coach. Not you." He smiled before turning to his locker and pulling out a pair of very short shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt. As he dressed, we let the silence creep in, and it was a relief. In my imagination, the green training attire combined with his red cheeks made him look like a rosebud.

I didn't know how to talk to these young guys. I didn't know which things not to say. Hell, I barely knew the language some of them spoke these days. Carter spoke like an old-school guy, but I'd still embarrassed him.

I had to remind myself that he was, after all, just a college freshman, despite being an old soul with an affinity for the arts. I also had to remember that he was a gay kid who'd come out to a lukewarm reception in his own home. That must have affected the way he saw himself. God knew I had been riddled with insecurities my entire life because I felt this driving need to compensate. The sense of wrongness in my desires had caused a lifetime of fighting to feel like I was good enough.

When he was dressed, he looked at me again. "I better get started before the crowd arrives," he said.

"That's why you're here at the crack of dawn, huh?" I slowly lifted some of my clean clothes out of the locker.

"Not a fan of big groups," he said and moved to pass by my side. He slowed down, shoulder to shoulder, although he was nearly a head shorter than me. "Thanks for the chat, Coach. It helps."

As he walked away, I stayed wondering whether I'd embarrassed him at all or if the talk helped. Or was he just polite? I didn't know much about anything, I decided, and finally put some underwear on. My phone dinged with the unique notification sound that made my heart leap. Fucking idiot! I'd forgotten to silence it this morning after browsing that goddamn app, and now some Grindr user was hitting me up. I looked over my shoulder, but Carter was gone already.

My days were generally uneventful. Today was no different, aside from running into Carter Prince in the locker room, for which I reprimanded myself later. If I had any sense in my old head, I would search for another gym to visit in my insomnia-fueled escape from boredom. Coming to this one was like asking for problems.

And while I kept Carter firmly out of my thoughts for most of the day — charting out this season's plans with the assistant coaches was a good distraction — it was harder to ignore him during the drills. Seeing him in his full gear, moving swiftly between the players, and exhibiting a great deal of Dana's unique moves and traits tickled some images from our dawn encounter. Having to keep my eyes on his body as he glided across the smooth ice certainly didn't help me forget what he looked like in those green boxers.

At the end of the day, I returned to the soulless apartment to mix myself a drink. It wasn't a cocktail I'd ever tried to make before, but it would do. Based on whiskey and with a few similar smoky flavors and a coffee bean, it wasn't my favorite. I swiped through my notifications while sitting on a tall chair and leaning against the kitchen island's counter. The subtle lights in the room were comforting to my eyes, but the blinding blue light of the screen caused a throb of headache in the front of my skull.

One of the notifications was the damned Grindr ping from this morning. Some random guy with a profile as empty of personal information as mine had dropped me a photo that I shouldn't have opened. Rolling my eyes, I blocked the guy and scrolled around. The red dot indicating visitors made me tap on it instinctively, and I scrolled through the profiles that had checked me out. Not that there was anything to look at here. Instead of any dirty or creative nickname, my profile simply displayed my age, height, and weight. I debated removing the latter two because they were pointless identifiers to me. Superficial decisions about not dating anyone under six feet or of a certain weight were the fastest way to bore me to death and kill the conversation. Then again, I wasn't dating anyone, so I couldn't claim to be the authority on how people should do it.

I just knew I didn't care for people who were exclusive about something so irrelevant.

I stopped scrolling and almost choked on a sip of my shitty attempt at a new hobby. My hand jerked away from the phone like it was a venomous viper. I stared at the square picture of a visitor to my profile and counted the hours to get the time stamp.

It was Carter.

Without opening his profile at all, I saw his head and torso photographed in front of a mirror. He had that cheeky grin of his and a daring look in his eyes as if to tempt me to hit him up. Not me, exactly, but the visitors. And he had looked at my profile sixteen hours ago, around when we had been in the same gym. Just the two of us.

My heart pounded, and my mouth burned from whiskey. He could pick me out even if the gym had been brimming with college students. Thirty-eight years old, six foot four, a hundred and ninety pounds. God dammit. I was a tragically stupid man. Had I seriously thought those numbers wouldn't be enough for someone who knew me to put the pieces together? Besides, we had been the only two people in the locker room and the entire gym, aside from the girl who worked at the desk and was unlikely to pass herself as a middle-aged man on a gay hookup app. Simply seeing that I was ten feet away from him would have been enough for Carter to identify me.

Breathe, I snapped at myself. It was hard to obey that simple command when my chest collapsed. As if a piano dropped on my head, I was completely stunned.

Before I could think about it, I tapped on Carter's profile, forced myself not to hesitate to look at the large gallery of images he had posted, and blocked him immediately. I would not look at a student of mine. Not even if he was the most attractive person I had ever seen. And especially not since his visit to my profile obviously only meant he had discovered the truth about me.

I walked my mind back to the drills. The grins he shot me between his turns were nothing unusual. He hadn't dropped any hints that he knew.

Even so, I didn't want to attract his attention. If he looked for me here, he wouldn't find me. With time, he would begin to doubt if it had even been me. But just to be sure, I removed the remaining information from my profile.

I'd had a lifetime of hooking up discreetly and protecting my name and brand from the truth that would lose me far too many fans.

Envy glimmered deep in me. It soured my insides. These boys were lucky. I was happy for them. I was. But twenty years ago, I couldn't have imagined being so free with kissing a guy in front of a crowd or, God forbid, posting my half-nude photos on a hookup app without an attempt to hide my identity.

Carter should have been smarter than this. There were nasty people out there who'd find a way to use this to embarrass him and belittle him, hinder his rise to stardom, and hurt his father. No, not the last one, I scolded myself. Nobody should change how they live to suit their parents.

But he still needed to be careful.

He was young and beautiful. He had the best years still ahead of him. If he wasn't careful, he could make a blunder with the wrong person. He risked not just his career or reputation but his health and his mental well-being.

And I was in no place to give him advice. Not only would I not reveal to him that he'd discovered the truth, but I was an aging closet case who was in no position to lecture anyone. I'd let my life run me over. What were my words worth to someone who was living his life on his own terms?