Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

LUKE

Rolling over, I frown at the sticky feeling across my chest. I wipe the residue away and try to open my eyes to see what the hell is going on.

Last night when I went to bed, I didn't eat or drink anything weird. I didn't have any lotions near the bed, nor should there be any reason for my body to not be like it was before.

I realized it's sweat. About the same time I realize this, my mind comes online to understand what's going on. My house feels like a furnace.

What the fuck?

Considering it's the day before our first practice, this is a really shitty reality. I need to be on my A-game. I had planned to relax and get myself geared up to start the week strong.

But now, I'm going to have to investigate why I'm living in Satan’s pits instead of the comfortable, cozy cottage I fell asleep in.

I peel the sweaty bedding away from me as I climb out of my previously comfortable resting place. It's a mess now. I'll definitely have to wash the sheets and the blankets.

Damn. I might need to spray the thing down too.

I throw on a pair of boxers and stalk down the hall. The main bedroom is in the back, but it doesn't take me but a few strides to get to the thermostat. It shows that it's a nice and toasty eighty-four degrees. I press the buttons on it, hoping it just needs to be woken up or something.

If the thermostat is like a computer, you can tap it, and things go back to normal. Like sleep mode.

Obviously, the answer is no, because all the tapping in the world doesn't change anything. The screen doesn't even flash.

Quite frankly, it's a bit frustrating.

While I've lived on my own for ages, I didn't control the thermostat or anything. I had others come in and make sure the place was running right. If things went wrong, my assistant fixed it before I ever noticed.

Now that I'm in a new place and trying to get my bearings, I find I have no one for backup. Life is not as simple as it once was.

I was so focused on the game and sponsorship deals and everything else under the sun that I barely learned any handy life skills or how to take care of my home. And before I became a professional hockey player, I had money and a family that used said money to outsource everything.

So now I stand, drenched in sweat, in my underwear, staring at a screen that I don't know how to fix. I stomp back to my bedroom and pluck my phone off the charger.

It says it’s only eight a.m. Knowing that I likely won't reach anyone because it's a Sunday, I pull up a web browser to do a search.

As I suspected, everything is closed. Every store. Every repairman.

Even ones that are further away are shut down. All except for one .

Thankfully, the guy answers on the second ring. “Hey there, how can I help you?”

“I'm hoping you can help me,” I admit with a sigh. “Something's wrong with my air conditioner. It's out, and I woke up to my house being eighty-four degrees. I really need to get this fixed as soon as possible.”

The guy whistles. “I'd love to help you, but something like that's going to take more than a day. I was about to head out, so you only just caught me.”

I slap my palm against my forehead. Why in the hell did he answer the phone if he was done with work for the day? I just feel like I've been given false hope only for it to be crushed.

“Listen, money is no object. I'll pay you triple your rates if you can come out. Whatever you need, I can do it. I'm good for it. I'll go get cash if you want.”

Not sure how I would get that much cash, but I’ll find a way.

The man is quiet for a minute before he groans. “Listen, I'm real sorry about this. I really do have to pass. There's a Bulldogs game today, and if I don't take the missus, she's going to get a bit ornery. She's got a thing for that Aries fellow, you know? All that Spanish blood gets her going. I usually benefit too.”

I pull the phone back from my ear and stare at the device. I'm not sure what in the hell just happened. Did this man just tell me that his wife is attracted to a football player, and he uses it to his advantage?

Sure, I've heard stranger things in the locker room, but I was calling this guy to help me. I was trying to hire him for a job. His explanation only makes me feel worse because now I'm out of options.

“Thanks anyway,” I mutter, then hang up. My palms rub against the scruff on my cheeks as I scrub them over my face. I'm usually a clean-shaven guy, but I was so exhausted yesterday, and I slept in this morning. Now I'm dealing with the aftereffects.

The reminder that I need to shave also gives me the opportunity to take a shower. Maybe some cold water will help. I feel disgusting, which isn't aiding my mood in any way.

Twenty minutes, one cold shower, and a halfhearted set of affirmations later, I step out into the living room, phone in hand as I pace the space. I know what I have to do, I know who I have to call. I simply don't want to.

Not because of anything other than it's just adding to the temptation of wanting him.

These past couple of days at work have been trying for me. I get glances of Timothy everywhere. He's in the office working with Jake or he's running around with some of the support staff. He's with the trainers discussing schedules or down in the locker room dropping off towels. The man is literally doing everything at the job besides what I thought his actual job was, which is to be an assistant to the owner.

Or is it that Jake doesn't have any need for him to be assisting him?

I'm not sure, but it leaves me unsettled. I don't like seeing him push himself so much. He's a tiny thing. And despite clearly having the energy for the level of work he does, it's not something I want for him.

He should be taking it easier and only doing the tasks he's assigned. Everything else is bullshit.

I'm not brave enough to say that to Jake's face, obviously. Though I don't think Timothy will last forever at this rate. If push comes to shove, I’ll speak up.

I make it only a few more minutes before I cave. Dialing his number is hard. And when I get him on the phone to explain what's happened, it becomes even harder.

Like I knew he would, Timothy promises to come to me as soon as possible. He asks me a couple of questions about the unit itself, then tells me he'll be here shortly.

I don't know how he's going to get to me because he's clearly not driving. However, I don't get a chance to ask because he hung up. If I need to drive to go get him, I'm more than capable of doing so. In fact, I should have just asked him where he lives so I could go get him.

Of course, that sounds creepy now that I think about it.

Why did it make more sense in my head?

Maybe I should call him back and offer to pick him up? Would that upset him?

Dammit. I don’t know what to do.

In the midst of my lone argument, time moves on. It's not long before he arrives carrying a stand-up fan and a toolbox. It’s not what I expected at all.

Not only is he way overdressed for someone holding the barely held together toolbox, but also the fan is almost as big as he is.

Once I usher him in, he plugs the fan in and puts it to oscillating. It doesn't cool the room down immediately, though the second it blows air on me, I feel a tiny bit of relief.

Timothy shakes the toolbox, rattling the tools inside. “I'm here now. Let's get to work."

I nod as I motion for him to move towards the unit on the wall. He takes a look at it, muttering softly under his breath. I stand back, careful not to get in his way. I don't know anything about this stuff, and if he's as good as he claimed the last time we talked, I have a feeling I would just be a burden.

As I'm watching, he abruptly stops and turns his gaze towards the hallway. I follow his line of sight as it goes up.

"Aha," he says as he takes in whatever he finds. Turning to me, he asks, "Where's your attic access?"

Given that I've had a few days to explore the place, I know where the pull-down ladder is. It's in the garage, strangely enough. I lead him out there, and then, of course, because I'm too curious not to, I follow him up into the attic.

When I reach the top of the stairs, he's already taken off across the area. I can see him moving towards a big, raised platform. It's not high up, but it is large enough to be noticeable. He opens the toolbox and begins tinkering with whatever it is. I move closer, perching on the other side of it to watch his every move.

As if he knows I'm curious, he begins to explain the process. "This here is your attic fan," he tells me. “They're pretty standard in these older houses, replacing central AC and heat. I suspect the unit that was on the wall is more of a temperature gauge than it is an actionable air conditioning system hookup. I didn't see anything to indicate that you have that.”

I shake my head. "How did I not notice this before? The thing is massive.”

He shrugs, not once looking up at me. “A lot of people don't. If you are here and acclimated to the temperature, then there's no reason for you to be able to tell it’s there. But once it stops working, and the house isn't as cool, then you have problems.”

“Well, yeah. I woke up covered in sweat, feeling like I was being roasted alive.”

Only then does he glance up. “I'm sorry. That had to be uncomfortable.”

I shift at his gaze. He sees far too much.

For someone who looks so meek and timid, there's a depth to him that leaves me wanting more.

He continues to work silently, his movements steady and sure. I want to ask more questions, things that have nothing to do with his attic fan or about his ability to fix stuff.

Things like what he enjoys and what he does for fun. I want to know why he wasn't already doing something on a Sunday morning when other people are clearly preoccupied. I want to know if he's from Bellport or if he moved here when he was older.

The questions are endless.

And while I could ask him, I don't. It would be opening a door to so much more than I am prepared for. So much more than I know what to do about.

After working for a while, he pauses to roll his sleeves up. I nearly growl at the movement, my body aching to step in and help him strip the whole fucking shirt off.

I have to bite my lip to fight the noise that wants to come out.

To distract myself, I think of how odd it is to see someone so fancy working on a large piece of machinery. Though from everything I've seen so far, he knows what he's doing. It would be foolish of me to underestimate him simply because of how he dresses.

I, for one, know what it's like to try and keep up appearances with your clothing. I've sworn to do it for years. And when I was able to find my own style, it was often a direct correlation to my mood.

Sad equals dark colors. Happy calls for lots of patterns and bright fabric. Angry means red head to toe.

Looking down at myself, I notice the soft pastel colors I threw on while I waited for Timothy to arrive. My mind immediately goes to thoughts of peace and contentment, how I feel at ease. I think that's exactly how Timothy makes me feel. I don't question things when he's around other than to want to know more about him. And I don't feel as unsure about my choices to come to Bellport because if I'd never come, I wouldn't have met him.

We might not be anything more than acquaintances, but that's enough for me for now.

Eventually, Timothy gets it sorted out. When he cranks the attic fan on and the blades begin to whirl, I see how I would have missed such a powerful piece of equipment. It's damn near silent.

When we go downstairs and step underneath it, I can feel the breeze it creates. With how small the cottage is, it would have no trouble keeping me cool.

Timothy wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead. I move to the kitchen and pour two glasses of ice-cold water.

“Here you go,” I tell him.

He chugs it down, then wipes his mouth. I've barely had a sip of mine, so I hand it over. He demolishes it too.

I want to tell him to slow down so he doesn't choke. If I had a sippy cup, then it wouldn’t be an issue.

His toolbox sits on the table, so I glance at it to prevent myself from staring at him again. I see the words "Timmy's Tools" engraved on the top. I would have missed it had I not been trying to avoid eye contact.

“Timmy?” I ask, then turn my head towards him.

He blushes. “My grandpa was Timothy too. I was named after him. Grandma called him Timmy. Those are his tools.”

He looks like he has more to say, but I don't press him. Sadness comes over him when he talks about his lost family. Sure, there's happiness there too, but I can tell the pain still lingers despite being years since his passing.

Mine is fresh and hurts like a bitch. I hate the idea of Timothy ever hurting this way.

As I move with him towards the front door, I almost want to ask him to stay. I feel like I owe him something for his time. He is worth more than two glasses of water.

Just as I'm about to ask him to stay, I get a whiff of a smell so sweet that it halts me in my tracks. I know that scent anywhere.

It's honeysuckle. My mother's voice echoes through my head.

She had a propensity for knowing the meaning behind things, whether it be names or flowers or colors. She understood so much about life at a complex level. I think it kept her sane whenever my father proved to be a cold partner.

I recall her telling me what honeysuckle symbolized.

New love. Hope.

I want to think of it as a sign from her, a sign that she's looking down and telling me, “This is where it all starts, son. He could be someone you get to keep forever. Someone who balances you in a way you need.”

So, with feigned confidence, I stop him as he reaches for the door. "Hey Timothy," I ask.

He turns, looking over his shoulder. "Yes?"

I refrain from fidgeting when I say, "Would you like to stay for a while or maybe cook some breakfast or something? You may have already eaten, but I just—I feel like waking you up and having you come over this early is a lot. I would like the opportunity to make it up to you, to say thanks.”

His face, which had been growing into a smile before, dims. Something about me saying it was in thanks changed his mood.

Was he hoping it was for a different reason? Maybe he has feelings for me too that he's fighting?

It's almost too much to hope for.

And yet, I can't stop myself from envisioning a future with him in it. One that moves past the lines of me as coach and him as Jake’s assistant.

I want a future with Timothy. I just have to be the right man for that role. And we both have to be confident enough to take the next step.

Daddy’s trying, sweet boy. Please be patient with me.