30. 30

30

Ant Decker

Bodie scampers after me at the end of practice, matching each of my strides with one and a half of his own to keep up with me. “So,” he says breathlessly, “I hear you’re coming to the McGuires for Christmas.”

“What? No.” I stop moving and spin around to face him. “I’m-I’m not going to the McGuires for Christmas. Why would I…? Look, no. There’s no fucking way I’m…”

Bodie seems to know something I don’t. Either that, or he has the same knack McGuire has for looking at me in a way that starts manifesting shit around me. “Well, Robbie says you’re coming, and Mr. McGuire has already filled a stocking for you, so….”

It seems clear that in the world of Bodie Thoms, a filled Christmas stocking is easily on par with the rule of law. An entirely fictional law, obviously, but one that appears to dictate my comings and goings come the twenty-fifth of December .

I’m deeply concerned about the matter, but it’s hard to focus the full scale of my angst on it because Bodie won’t fucking stop talking. “Anyway, glad I caught you,” he says. “I wanted to have a word before Christmas about something important. It’s about Beth. Robbie’s sister. Um, so, Robbie doesn’t know this, but I kind of have a crush on her.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, I, uh, well, crush probably isn’t the right word. I’ve pretty much been in love with her since I was twelve years old. That’s when I met her.” His eyes glaze over so badly that if I were a better man, I’d pull him aside and tell him he looks stupid. “I was in the seventh grade. I went to Robbie’s house after practice one day, and there she was, standing on the landing, looking down at me. Her hair was down, and she was wearing this pastel-pink sweater, and…”

“Isn’t it like a major crime against the bro code to crush on your bud’s sister? ’Cause I’m pretty sure it’s a well-documented no-no.”

“Well, yeah, no, it is, but… technically , the bro code states that if you’ve known a guy for more than twenty-four hours, his sister is off-limits forever, unless you marry her. So…it’s fine, see? It’s all good.” A goofy fucking senseless beam lights up his face, and he lo wers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Because I’m going to marry Beth.”

“Uh-huh.” I bob my head thoughtfully. “And what does Beth have to say about this little plan of yours? Is she on board with it?”

“Um, no. She doesn’t know about it yet. It’s…a surprise.”

“Hope she likes surprises, in that case.” I give him another once-over. He’s still talking a little faster than normal and his eyebrows are raised into two high arched curves. He seems nervous. “Why are you telling me all this anyway?”

“Because, well, here’s the thing, Decks. I know we’ve never been all that close, but we’re bros. At least, I think we are. And, and, I just wanted you to know how I feel about Beth, and I wanted to say…please, don’t like her. I mean, you can like her as a person, she’s great, so why wouldn’t you? Obviously, you can like her, but please don’t like her like her.”

It’s a commitment I’m confident I can make without regret so I give it to him. “Fine, I won’t like her.”

“No, no, you need to give it some serious thought. You can’t just say it off-hand. You need to really prepare yourself for when you meet her because I swear, Ant, that girl, God, she’s beautiful. ”

I look down at Bodie again, this time with an overwhelming sense of pity.

And compassion.

I feel for the guy. I really do.

Our tastes might be different, but damn, I relate.

I know all too well what being susceptible to McGuire beauty can do to a man.

“Have you lost your mind?” I’ve just arrived at Robbie’s house. I’m here uninvited. I came directly from practice. I’ve parked on the street, and for once, I’m not at all concerned about it. I barge inside before he’s fully opened the door. “You told Bodie I’m going to your mom and dad’s place for Christmas? What the fuck, McGuire? Why did you do that?”

His brow creases in confusion. “’Cause you are coming. We’ve talked about it.”

Okay, okay. Slow down. Don’t panic. Don’t look directly at him.

Just explain the situation to him calmly.

“Robbie,” I say, deepening my voice to hide the terror, “I can’t spend Christmas with your family. ”

He looks down at the small bunch of green grapes he’s holding in one hand and leans against the arched doorway that leads to the living room, calmly plucking a grape off the stem and popping it into his mouth, masticating thoughtfully. “How come?”

“Oh, you know, ’bout a hundred reasons.”

“Name one.”

I’m not a relationship guy. This thing between is supposed to be casual. I’m not good with parents or people in general. We’re both neck-deep in the closet, I think, to name a few.

“Because your parents won’t like me,” I hear myself say. I’m as surprised as he is by the admission. “I’ve been a dick to you for years, Robbie. I can’t just turn up on their doorstep and act like none of that happened.”

“Oh.” He waves me off with his free hand. “Don’t worry about all that. I’ve already explained it to them.”

“W-what did you tell him?”

He pops another grape into his mouth, catching it between his molars and holding it there for a second before chomping it in half. “Told them you were jealous of my talent. Said you were threatened by it but that it’s cool ’cause you’ve apologized, and we’ve moved on.”

Oh my fuck .

“You did what?”

“You’re welcome—just be sure to stick with the story when you meet them.”

Aghast isn’t something I feel very often, but I’m definitely feeling it now. “I am not saying I was jealous of you.”

He looks at me thoughtfully. “I think you should. It might do you some good to admit it.”

I close my eyes and speak slowly and clearly. “I’d rather die than say I was jealous of you, okay? I’d rather pick out a suit and casket and die.”

“Hm,” he says, pressing his lips together. “Well then, let’s just hope what happened at the end of our last game was enough to make them forgive you.” I freeze, hoping against hope that I misheard him. I didn’t. Of course I didn’t. Of course he’s watched the rest of the game. He’s McGuire. When has he ever let me get away with anything? A prickly heat rises up my neck, crushing my windpipe and making it hard to breathe. “They saw what you did after I got hurt, Ant, so you scored some major points there.”

I’ve watched the game too. I’ve watched it over and over, trying to convince myself it wasn’t that bad. But it was. There were cameras all over. Behind me. In front of me. There was a clear shot of my face right before I did it. I’ve never seen myself look like that. I had my eye on the player that swung at Robbie. Green number three. My eyes were black with rage, simultaneously focused and unseeing.

I looked dangerous.

I saw red.

I’ve watched every playback I could find of what happened. They’re all equally as bad. As soon as number three got the puck after Robbie was taken off the ice, attack codes were launched and deployed. I was a missile. A rocket of unbridled fury aimed straight at the man who hurt Robbie.

I imploded on contact. I’ve never hit a guy that hard before. He hit the board. His arms flew out to his sides and his stick clattered onto the ice on impact. It hardly sated my rage.

The fight that erupted was cataclysmic. I dropped my gloves and went somewhere I hadn’t been before. Somewhere out of control. A place where all I could see was Robbie McGuire lying unconscious on a white slab. A place where, for the first time in my life, I didn’t pull my punches. Not even a little bit.

I was outside of myself, but the guys had my back. All of them did. The entire team piled on without question and started swinging as if it were their fight.

It was carnage .

I spent the rest of the game in the sin bin.

The worst of it is, I don’t regret it. Not even a little bit. Not even now, knowing full well Robbie knows what I did. And why I did it.

He puts another grape in his mouth, holding it between his front teeth and offering it to me. I take it, sweeping it out of his mouth with my tongue. I take much longer doing it than strictly required to retrieve a single piece of fruit from someone else’s mouth.

He holds me close as I chew and swallow and starts kissing my neck. “It was really romantic, Ant.”

“It wasn’t romantic. It was deranged.”

He grins like a fucking idiot. Like someone who can’t tell up from down. Like someone just as deranged as me. “That’s what made it so romantic, baby.”

He kisses me again, his mouth so sweet and warm I forget I’m mad. I forget where I am. I forget everything that isn’t the feel, taste, and smell of Robbie McGuire.

“So,” he says when we come up for air, “are you ever going to tell me why you started being a dick and spouting all that shit about me? ’Cause I thought we were cool. When we met at that juniors camp, I thought we got along fine. I’ve thought about it a lot, and I know I must have done something to piss you off, but I’ve never managed to work out what it was. ”

I must still be drunk from the kiss. Or from the fact he’s standing so close to me and his face and eyes are so open. So honest and hopeful. So fucking accepting.

“I was a shit, okay? I’m still a shit, but I might have been even more of a shit back then.” He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me with those eyes. A hazel-green dream that melts bone and brain matter. I take a deep breath and tell myself not to say it, but it’s no use. I already know I’m going to because this man makes me weak. So weak, there’s a part of me that actually wants to hear myself saying dumb shit like this to him. “It wasn’t you. It was me. There were scouts at that camp, remember? On the last day? There were three of them there. They were there to watch me.”

He narrows his eyes and searches for the memory. He finds it. “I remember.”

“It was the single biggest thing that had ever happened to me. At the time, I was convinced it was my shot. My one shot at the life I wanted. And I fucked it up.” I look at my feet and shake my head. Even now, after all this time, I feel disbelief when I think of that day. “I fucked it up royally because of you.”

“Me?” His eyes stretch in incredulity. “What did I do? ”

“It wasn’t your fault. I already said so. It was me. I fucked up the biggest game of my life because of a boy on the other team.” I try to make eye contact, but I can’t hold it. “A blond boy. A beautiful blond boy. A left-wing who moved like the wind.” His mouth parts and he blinks quickly. There’s still a clear question in his eyes. A big question. I’m dying inside, but I’ve come this far, so I may as well spell it out for him. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you, Robbie, and I hated myself for it.”

He puts his arms around my neck, slinging them loosely so there’s enough space between us that I’m able to see him clearly. Or as clearly as I’m ever able to see him with that face and the way the light bounces off it.

“Told you I was a shit,” I say, dropping my head onto this shoulder. “It’s okay if you’re mad. I get it. I deserve it.”

“Maybe I’ll be mad later, but for now, I don’t know…I kind of think it’s romantic too.”

He releases me and puts the last of his grapes and a small tangle of stems down on the entry table. He gives me a little lopsided grin and drops his pants in one easy motion.

“What do you think you’re doing? ”

“Taking my pants off,” he says as he steps out of them, shrugging a shoulder. “Have to, how else are you going to get your dick in me?”

He’s still wearing his top, the V-neck hemp one he wore to his housewarming a couple of months back, but he’s pantless. Half-nude, half-dressed. It’s a combination of fabric and skin that confuses my senses. Both lethally sexy and so fucking cute I want to reach out and squish him.

“What did I tell you about not exposing yourself to any more impact? You have a concussion, Robbie. You’ve been signed off for two weeks. You hit the ice so hard yesterday that your brain literally bounced around in your skull until you blacked out.”

“I know, I know, but hear me out.”

I swipe my fingers hard down either side of my nose and wipe the sweat from my brow. I know him well enough by now to know that nothing I say will stop him from saying what he wants to say.

“What if we take me upstairs and prop me up on a mountain of pillows. We can arrange them around me like a throne. I’ll lie on my back with my legs open and won’t move a muscle. I swear. I’ll just lie back and take what you give me. No impact at all. ”

“Absolutely not,” I say. “No sex for at least forty-eight hours.”

“Whyyy not?”

“You know why not, the rise in blood pressure is why not.”

“How about a nap with lots of cuddling then?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter as I follow him up the stairs.