17. Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

Cody

Luke doesn’t stick around after practice, but hurries out of the locker room like the ground is on fire. I don’t have time to ask him where he’s going, but we usually ride back together after practice. I don’t blame him if he’s avoiding me. Not after the shit show last night. What the fuck was I thinking, confessing to him I like him and want to kiss him, and then blowing him off like that? Stupid . That’s what it was. So fucking stupid.

“Where’s he off to?” Riley nods at the door as he pulls an extra-large Snickers bar from his gym bag, his wet auburn hair dripping down his black Billie Eilish T-shirt. It looks at least two sizes too small, the fabric stretching ominously across his pecs and broad tree trunk arms. Maybe it’s Katie’s.

“No idea,” I mumble, zipping up my bag and closing my locker.

“No? I thought you two were attached at the hip,” he winks at me as he tears the chocolate bar wrapping open with his front teeth.

“We’re not,” I bite him off a little harsher than I intended because it’s true. We spend most of our free time together. I’ve gotten used to being around Luke 24/7; his easy-going demeanor filling my days with smiles and an unprecedented lightness. Still, it annoys me that Riley seems to have noticed, too.

“Whatever,” he shrugs, stuffing half the Snickers into his mouth before holding out the rest toward me. “Want some?” he munches, as I scrunch my nose in disgust. You don’t share chocolate bars. You just don’t.

“Nah, I’m good,” I decline. “I prefer Reese’s anyway,” I add, pulling on my parka.

“Of course you do,” Riley smirks knowingly, licking his fingers.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” There’s a glimmer of mischief in his eyes and somehow it feels that I should know what he’s hinting at.

“Nothing, man,” he shakes his head, pulling the gym bag across his massive chest. “You just strike me as a Reese’s kinda guy, is all,” he grins. Then he salutes me and heads for the exit. Jesus. Is it just me, or is everyone acting weird today? I pull out my phone from my sweats pocket and pull up my text thread with Luke.

Me: You eating in tonight?

I hope he doesn’t think I’m overstepping, but we usually cook together and tonight it’s my turn to come up with something from the team nutrition plan and shop for groceries. The last thing I want is to come off as a jealous boyfriend. Boyfriend. Right. After last night’s epic mess-up, I’m sure whatever budding feelings Luke may have had for me have been squished at the root. No one wants to be with a guy who says one thing and does another. What I did last night was inexcusable. Telling Luke that I like him like him, and wanted to kiss him was just an utter disregard for his feelings. It wasn’t only stupid because it can jeopardize our friendship and the team dynamic—it was also selfish to send him such mixed messages. I have no business entertaining any ideas of pursuing anything with Luke. He may think there’s a possibility that he’s ace, but as far as I’m concerned, he’s off limits. I just need to get the message across to my stupid heart.

My phone pings as the screen lights up with a new message.

Luke: I’ll be home later.

Okay…? We don’t have a game tonight, and usually we would just hang out for the rest of the day at home, vegging out in front of the ginormous flat screen, me ogling Luke when he isn’t noticing. Maybe he’s meeting up with someone? I don’t know if he has other friends outside the hockey team that he hangs out with. Or if he… dates . I mean, from the looks of it he doesn’t, but maybe last night’s… No. I’m not going to go there. I won’t let my thoughts run rampant and create all sorts of scenarios that may or may not be true. I’m not going to let my mind do that to me and take me to that all-too-familiar place where I feel small, insignificant, and unworthy. For all I know, he’s seeing his folks off at the airport.

Hurrying out of the arena, I half-slide and half-walk across the ice. It’s freezing cold again today, and I blow at my hands as I contemplate how to spend the rest of the day. It’s tempting to just drag my tired ass home and cuddle up with Netflix and some hot cocoa, but I know myself too well. If I do that, I’ll only dig myself deeper into a funk. It usually doesn’t take long for my stupid mind to convince me it’s better to just avoid the world. That the world is overrated and that I don’t need anyone. That’s Martyr Cody talking, though, and I don’t need that.

Instead, I decide to drive down to the community center and ask around if they know of any LGBTQ+ groups and if I’m lucky, maybe even an ace group. I would hate to have to make the drive all the way into Denver if there’s one locally. Regardless, I need to talk to someone like-minded. Someone who’s going through the same as me. Someone whose face I don’t want to suck.

The community center is right across from the Aurora Elementary School and next to the library. I circle around a few times before I find an empty parking space. The city center is crowded at this time of the day since it’s only 11 am. After parking my truck, I run across the street, heading for the entrance to the community center. It’s one of those bland buildings that was added to a historic building in the 70s or 80s. You know the kind—gray concrete blocks standing out like an eyesore against the classic red bricks of the large library building. I don’t know why architects thirty or forty years ago thought that this would be a good idea from an aesthetic perspective. From a practical point of view, yes, but it looks horrid. There’s very little positive to be said about concrete, but at least it looks like the community center made an effort.

Across the front, a large mural adorns the once-gray front, and flowers in various sizes and colors are painted on both sides of the entrance, a large sunflower swaying over the shorter plants. I like it. It looks… welcoming and inclusive. I feel myself smiling, my funk slowly dissipating as I open the door.

Inside the foyer is a large board with two rows of headers. As I step closer, my gaze runs over the various headers until I find what I’m looking for. A blue arrow points to the left, so I walk in that direction down a long hallway. The walls are also decorated with flowers, intermingled with various posters advertising after-school programs and sports. As small as Aurora is, the town seems to have a strong sense of community. I like the idea of kids having a place to go. So much of my childhood was spent in loneliness and if it hadn’t been for hockey, I would’ve had nothing to add meaning to my life.

Once I reach the end of the hallway, a set of double glass doors opens into a large common area. Above the entrance is a large painting of a rainbow and beneath the familiar letters are painted in different colors, too. I instantly feel at home. These are my kind of people. My tribe. Memories of the first time I read the letters on a similar sign at a community center in Phoenix wash over me. I was so scared back then. Freaking out, basically. It wasn’t because I had acknowledged that I was gay that I was afraid. No, it was the deep-seated fear that I wouldn’t fit in there either. That I wouldn’t be gay enough. Because already back then I had a notion that there was something else too. But after a day spent at the center, talking to a counselor and some of the other kids, I knew that I’d come home. Not only as a gay eighteen-year-old but also as someone who was maybe asexual. Yes, there was a word for it. I was still confused and scared, but at least I was no longer alone in that feeling. And that mattered more than anything.

As I turn around a corner toward a large reception desk, a group of kids are playing a board game at a small table surrounded by bright blue couches. They’re joking and squealing loudly whenever someone throws the dice. They look around their early teens to maybe eighteen. Music is playing quietly from a pair of Sonos speakers, some mellow rap. Smiling, I turn toward the reception desk.

I recognize his voice before I see him. The deep tone with the melodic tilt at the end as he asks a question. The breathy edge to his pronunciation.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, his brown hair flowing in all directions as he nods, sending a waft of his familiar body wash my way. “Twenty-two,” he continues, his broad shoulders lean, his legs slightly spread as he bounces on his feet. He’s nervous. I can tell. Fuck, I know him so well by now. I know that he’s smiling, too. I can hear it in his voice. I bet he’s throwing the receptionist one of his winning smiles that could thaw a mid-sized iceberg. A sting of jealousy courses through my chest because, in some stupid version of my pathetic life, I’d convinced myself that those smiles belonged to me. Only me . If I can’t have him, then I can at least have his smiles. He doesn’t have to know that I’ve claimed them for myself.

“And you’re looking for a support group?” The twenty-something blond taps on her computer while she looks at him. I already hate her. Who the fuck can type without looking at the keys? He nods, shifting on his feet again, adjusting his gym bag over his shoulder. “An asexual support group, right?” She continues typing. Her words hit me like a freight train, rattling me to my core as I remain frozen just inside the door.

“Well, I don’t know if I’m asexual, but I know someone who is and I think I may be too and I think I wanna find out if I am,” Luke blabbers, his head looking from side to side. I stay where I am, transfixed by his words. This was the last place I thought he would go. To think that I even thought he was going on a date. When in fact…

“There’s one every Thursday evening from 8 pm to 10 pm. And then every other Saturday from 10 am to 12 pm,” the receptionist says as she writes something down on a Post-it .

“Does it cost anything?” he says, his voice barely audible.

“No,” she continues to smile. “All courses and groups are for free here at the community center. We don’t want to keep anyone from showing up, you know?”

“What about donations?” he says.

“Donations are always welcome,” she smiles. “There’s more information on our website on how to support the center through donations.”

He nods as he accepts the Post-it. I inhale deeply, taking a few steps toward him. The receptionist continues to smile brightly at him, and I want to scratch her eyes out. Or just tell her to back off. But of course, I don’t. Instead, I just murmur, “Luke?”