15. Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

Cody

Since we came back from California, everything has happened at the speed of lightning. From one day to the next, the Lions have gone from being a team people had stopped talking about unless you lived in Aurora to being on every sports anchor person’s lips. The Lions bite back. New kid with the puck. Did you hear the roar, too? The different reporters go out of their way to come up with something genius when referring to our team. Last night on CBC, it was former NHL player turned reporter Brett Rodriguez who asked, ‘ Where the puck did Cody Mitchell come from, and how come he didn’t get here sooner? ’

As a result, I have a gazillion unanswered calls from my mom, and texts to ‘ Call me back, Cody. I spoke to… ’ It’s been three days since we got home from the road trip, and I haven’t called her back yet. I know how the conversation is going to go. She probably already has some interviews lined up for me and, as my agent, she’s already thinking of potential commercial contracts. I just know it. The only time my mom has any interest in me is when there’s something in it for her. When I played in the AHL, she asked me on a weekly basis if I’d heard anything from the League . I know she won’t rest until the name Cody Mitchell—and Karen Mitchell, hockey mom extraordinaire—is on everyone’s lips.

When Luke and I get back to the condo, I decide to face the music and FaceTime with her. Luke throws me one of his easy smiles as he heads for the fridge for the infamous snack number two . If he skips it, he’ll be cranky all afternoon and the only thing that helps is if I promise to watch Love, Simon with him later. Things have been strangely normal between Luke and me since we kissed. But we’ve gotten close. Perhaps closer than I’ve been with anyone since Leo. It feels like I’ve always known Luke; everything about him so familiar to me by now that I can predict most things he says and does.

Like right now, when he’s headed for his snack and I know that in exactly 3, 2, 1 , he’s going to ask me if I want something, even though he knows I never eat right after practice.

“Bro, you want somethin’?” he peeks out from behind the door to the fridge. See?

“Nah, I’m good,” I smile back. “Gotta call Mommy Dearest back.” I wiggle my phone back at him.

“Oooohhhh,” Luke coos warningly. “She mad?” He mock-shivers and I can’t help laughing.

“Worse,” I chuckle, shaking my head at him as he starts putting stacks of boxes out on the kitchen counter, along with a wide variety of condiments I didn’t even know existed. “She’s…” I trail off because I know my mom’s modus operandi. When she wants something, she starts out sugary sweet, which is the tone of her texts now. “Nice,” I wince.

“Oh, shit,” Luke laughs. “We hate nice parents.” He winks at me. I know Luke has a very different relationship with his parents. They’re coming to the game tonight, and they speak over FaceTime at least a few times a week. I stick out my tongue at him while I murmur, “Shut up.”

We haven’t talked about the kiss. We’ve gone back to how things were pre-best kiss ever . Our routine is the same every day and there’s at least some comfort in that because I don’t know how Luke feels about that night, but I’m a fucking mess. At random times during the day, I find myself brushing my fingers along my lips, recalling the sensation of his soft mouth against mine. The way he hummed into my mouth. The intense smell of him engulfing me, the heat from his body wrapping around me.

It gets even worse at night when my head hits the pillow and the world goes quiet. It’s not that I hate being ace—I’d come to terms with it a long time ago, just like I’ve accepted being gay. There’s nothing I can do about it and if I could, I know I wouldn’t want to change it, anyway. Because then I wouldn’t be me. No, being ace is who I am. But that doesn’t mean that it isn’t a lonely place to be some days. When the talk centers around hookups and sex in the locker room, I feel like I’m on the outside looking in. I know that according to statistics, I’m hardly the only ace person I know, but it’s still something very few people actually talk about. There’s still this underlying notion it’s unnatural to not want sex. That there’s something wrong with you.

After I broke up with Leo, I started going to an ace support group down at the community center and it helped me a lot. Although all of us identified as ace, we were still very different and at various stages of coming to terms with being ace. It helped to talk and listen to people who were going through the same turmoil as me. It made me feel less alone and less wrong . Maybe I need to find a group in Aurora if there is one. Maybe there’s one in Denver. After kissing Luke, old feelings of inadequacy and doubt have started surfacing, and I don’t need that right now, not when things are finally going my way.

The thing is, when I lie alone in the dark, I can’t help but hope for the first time in a long while. And hope is such a stupid thing. I know that. And yet, people never lose hope, right? It’s such a fundamental part of being human. To hope. And I hope. I hope the reason Luke has never had sex is that he’s asexual, too, and just hasn’t realized it yet. Because I really want to kiss him again. And touch him. And hold his hand in mine. I want to cuddle up next to him when we lie on the couch at night watching Nick carry Charlie into the water screaming from the top of his lungs, ‘ I like Charlie Spring in a romantic way and not just a friend way !’ I want to imagine that it could one day be me. Finding someone who’s just right for me. And the more time I spend with Luke, it’s not just someone anymore, but him I see when the world goes quiet, and I close my eyes.

My phone buzzes in my hand and I shrug at Luke, who’s currently putting together a massive sandwich, stuffing lettuce and tomato on top of a bun that’s already spilling over with turkey.

“Oh shit,” I groan, looking at the screen, my mother’s name showing. She’s going to call the police or the National Guard unless I call her back soon.

“May the odds be forever in your favor,” Luke salutes me, cackling, while I flip him the bird, before heading for my room, Luke singing ‘ Let’s Hear It For The Boy ’ accompanying me down the hallway.

Leaning against the headboard, I scrub my hands along my face a couple of times, inhaling deeply. When I feel like my heart has settled down enough to keep my voice steady, I pull up FaceTime and call my mom. Of course, she answers immediately, her blond ponytail bouncing from side to side as she power walks down the sidewalk from our house to what I assume is her favorite juice bar or nail salon.

“Well, finally, hon,” she flashes me a bright smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. I think she’s trying, though, because something weird is happening across her Botox forehead. “I was startin’ to worry about you, baby,” she purrs.

“Hey, Mom.” I wink at the screen, offering her a small smile.

“Awww, look at you, baby.” She purses her lips in a concerned pout. “You look so tired.” And there it is. When she talks to me like that, when she looks at me with concern in her eyes, I can almost imagine that she cares. That she is, in fact, worried about me, Cody—the person. Her son, Cody. But I know she’s not. Genuinely worried about me, that is. She sees me as an investment. I know that.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” I shrug, my fingers toying with the comforter.

“Ready for the game tonight, sweetie?” She jogs across the street, greeting someone in passing.

“Yes,” I reply, trying to keep my voice peppy without a trace of doubt or uncertainty. My mom will sniff it out in a second if I project anything else than I was born ready!

“Good, good.” She smiles, stopping in front of the entrance to a coffee shop. “You know you gotta look out for that number 10…” she drones, and I tune her out like I always do when she starts offering advice. “You can’t lose focus, honey. You tend to lose focus in the third and that just won’t do against a team…” I nod at the screen. I never lose fucking focus. If I get any more focused, my fucking head is going to explode. From the second my skates hit the ice to the moment the buzzer sounds, I’m the poster child for focus. “… on the 28 th . So, you won’t be able to come home during the All-Star Week.” She pauses, looking at me expectantly, a semi-impatient frown between her brows.

“Sorry, what?” I mumble, blinking my eyes at the screen. My mom looks like she’s about to say something, but then she seems to catch herself, plastering a worried expression on her face, smiling overbearingly.

“Awww, you poor thing. You need to rest, honey. Are you gettin’ enough sleep?” She tilts her head, a silent question in her eyes. You better not be messing up our dream.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I offer. “But Mom, you were saying something…” She interrupts me as she opens the door to the coffee shop.

“Yes, baby. You won’t be able to come home during All-Stars. Remember we talked about that? Comin’ home?” I shake my head. I have zero recollection of that, but I might’ve agreed to it during one of my mother’s guilt trips that I’ve forgotten about her, now that my career is taking off. I usually zone out when I talk to my mom, so there’s probably a lot of stuff I’ve agreed to over the years.

“Oh, okay. That’s fine, Mom,” I nod. Thank God I won’t have to go home to Arizona. Relief courses through me. I haven’t been home since Christmas, which was a shit show because Mom’s deadbeat boyfriend dumped her on the 22 nd and went back to his wife and 2.5 kids.

“Matt invited me to Cabo,” she nearly squeals. I have no fucking idea who Matt is. Probably her latest in an endless line of boyfriends who promise her the world and all she ends up with is a broken heart and a maxed-out credit card when she goes on a post-breakup shopping spree. My mom doesn’t drown her sorrows in food or alcohol like other people do. She’s too controlled for that. No, she shops until she drops, or the bank closes her card, whatever comes first. That’s her longtime cure for a broken heart. In theory. I bet my mom doesn’t have one—a heart.

But I know the drill, so I play along, telling her what I know she wants to hear.

“Oh, that’s nice,” I offer her a smile that lacks any kind of enthusiasm. Mom doesn’t notice though, because she’s already mentally in Cabo, sipping drinks by the pool, Boyfriend-of-the-Month Matt promising her the world.

“I wish we could spend time together, sweetie. I hope you’re not too disappointed.” She pouts, batting her eyelashes like a ten-year-old and not a woman in her forties.

“Nah, that’s okay, Mom. Really,” I say, hoping to wrap this up soon. I want to take a nap before the game tonight. We’re playing against the Enterprise Eagles, who’ve been ruthless this season, not losing a single game since November.

“You suuure?” she purrs, one octave away from full-on baby talk. My mom is ridiculous when she attempts to be nice and caring. It’s like it’s against her nature. Like a cat trying to swim. She just doesn’t have it in her, and it looks awkward and pathetic when she tries. To an outsider, she may pull it off, but I know better than anyone how she can easily turn, showing her true nature.

“Of course, Mom. You deserve to have some fun. You work so hard.” The words taste sour on my tongue, my jaw aching from smiling.

“You’re the best!” she squeals, throwing me her million-dollar smile. “Love ya, baby.” She purses her mouth and sends air kisses my way before she ends the call.

With a sigh, I collapse into the bed. As tension slowly leaves my body, I close my eyes, my heart beating in my ears. Thank God she isn’t coming out. “She’s going to Cabo,” I repeat quietly to myself. “Thank you, Matt,” I chuckle. “I owe you one.” I won’t have to go home .

There’s a tap on the door frame, Luke holding a plate with a ginormous sandwich tower in front of him.

“You good?” he frowns.

“Yeah, everything’s fine. I… I’m not going to my mom’s for All-Stars. She’s gonna be in Cabo.”

“Oh, yeah?” he enters the room and walks toward me. Placing his sandwich tower on my bedside table, he sits down on my bed, the mattress dipping from the weight of his body. The scent of his body wash wafts toward me, and I briefly close my eyes. “So… you don’t have plans that week?” I open my eyes to find Luke looking directly at me. Well, at my lips. He tilts his head, his brown eyes coasting up to mine as he scrunches his nose.

“Nope,” I shake my head, popping the P. Luke’s eyes remain fixated on mine and I feel like both looking away and leaning forward. He shifts on the bed, maneuvering to lie down next to me. When our arms brush together, I realize how close he is, the warmth from his body throwing me back to that night on the rooftop. He licks his bottom lip, his voice with an edge of drowsiness to it when he speaks.

“You could…”

“Yeah?” You could kiss me, Luke, my stupid mind infers.

“…come home with me,” he says softly, a smile in his eyes that catches my heart and threatens to run away with it. “To Lancaster,” he adds, leaning in, his lips so close to mine now that I can feel the phantom kiss from that night.

“What?” I mumble, my brain mush as I focus on Luke’s lips. Were they always this pink? Was there always a small birthmark at the right corner of his mouth?

“You could come home with me. During the All-Star Week,” he looks at me curiously. “Stay with me at my house.” He bumps my shoulder casually, but there’s nothing casual about the electric current running through my chest.

“You want me to come home with you?” I repeat in disbelief.

“Yeah. Why not?” He throws me his easy smile.

“But…” I search for the words. “What about your parents?”

“What about them?”

“Won’t they… I mean…” I would never invite anyone to come home with me. First of all, I don’t even know where home is and second, I wouldn’t want to subject anyone to my mom.

“They’d love to have you,” his eyes glow. “I already told them everything about you. Dude, you gotta come.” He grabs my shoulder, shaking it fondly. “Please,” he bats his eyelashes, and I can’t stop the laugh from tumbling from my lips. Before the words even leave my mouth, I find myself nodding stupidly.

“Sure. I’ll come!” As soon as I’ve spoken the words, Luke jumps up from the bed and starts bouncing up and down next to me.

“Yes! We’re gonna have so much fun, Mitchell!” He continues to jump up and down like a kid in an amusement park, excited about what comes next. “I gotta call my parents,” he grins at me broadly. Then a frown appears between his brows. “I forgot! They’re here tonight! We can tell them then.” We. He stops bouncing up and down, brushing a hand through his wavy hair. “Shit, I’m tired,” he groans. “But I gotta eat first.”

I’m laughing too, the last remnants from talking to my mom evaporating with every look, smile, and word from Luke. I shake my head at him.

“Go eat.” I reach for his ankle and pull him down and he lands halfway on top of me, his right elbow hitting me on the jaw. I wince mid-laugh, feeling Luke’s hot breath against my chin. The weight of his body on top of mine feels foreign, but still so very right. Like somewhere, someone measured out exactly what the perfect weight would be. For Luke on top of me. And they got it just right.

“Sorry,” Luke murmurs, his hand reaching for my chin, his fingers whispering against the exact spot where he hit me. I swallow. It’s like all the air has been sucked out of the room and there’s only the sensation of his skin against mine, the soft pressure from his fingers as he brushes against me. “You okay?” The question is loaded, and I think we both realize it at the same time. However, our reaction is so very different as Luke leans in against me while I place my left hand on his chest and push him away.

If he’s hurt or confused, he doesn’t show it. His face is unreadable as he sits up, my hand still resting against his chest, his heart thumping beneath my fingers. I don’t know, I want to say. I don’t know if I’m okay. But I don’t say that. Because things are already complicated enough, and I have a lifetime of experience in willing myself to be okay. At least on the outside. So, I draw on that experience, forcing myself to put up a front, as I smile at Luke.

“Yeah, I’m good.”