31. 31

31

Ant Decker

This is a mistake. The longer I stand at the McGuire’s front door without ringing the bell, the clearer it is to me. It’s Christmas Eve. It’s been five days since Robbie got concussed and four days since he told me I didn’t have to spend Christmas with his family if I didn’t want to.

His exact words were, “You don’t have to come, Ant. I want to spend the holidays with you, but I’m giving you an out because my family knows me. They really know me, so I can’t rule out the fact they might see us together and know something’s up. If you come, I’ll do my best to hide it, but I can’t promise they won’t see the way I look at you and know who you are to me.”

I’ve had plenty of time to think about what he said. Yet here I am, staring at an ornate handmade wreath, armed with a sack of presents I’ve spent days buying for people I don’t know on one shoulder and a massive, poorly disguised art deco lamp in my hands. Even wrapped in two rolls of paper, it looks exactly like what it is.

Bodie appears at my side. He’s wielding a bag of gifts of his own and is even more breathless than he was the other day. “Hey. You good? I’m good. How do I look? Do I look okay?”

Bodie’s not bad looking, especially if you’re into straight guys with fuckboy faces and Labrador retriever vibes. He’s a little overdressed and pasty from stress, and personally, I don’t think the mustache he’s attempting to grow is doing him any favors, but it’s too late to mention any of that.

“You look good,” I say. “Just stop panting like that and try to act normal.”

He nods like a bobblehead doll and tries to slow his breathing. It makes it worse.

Robbie swings the door open before I have time to ring the bell. He’s wearing beige linen pants and a forest-green top. The top is linen too. Soft, luxurious fabric that clings to his chest and arms, showing the clear outline of muscle and the tiny buds of his nipples.

It takes me a second to organize my thoughts, but as soon as I do, I cross the threshold and step into a house that looks like the set of a family sitcom and smells like gingerbread and mulled wine .

The McGuires come tearing out of the kitchen to greet us. They’re wearing Santa and Mrs. Claus headbands, respectively, and exude the energy typically seen in five-year-olds who have recently consumed two gallons of pure cane syrup.

Bodie knows them well, so he knows what to expect. He doesn’t skip a beat. He throws himself into their arms and bounces around with them in sheer jubilation. It’s clear at a glance that these are people who enjoy celebrating the holidays in a very big way. I somehow get dragged into the fray and find myself jostled around from person to person. I shoot Robbie a worried look, and he mouths, “Just go with it.”

All movement and most of the noise come to an abrupt stop when Beth clears her throat on the landing. She’s dressed like the heroine of a Hallmark movie. Small-town second-chance romance, if you get my drift. Her sweats are loose-fitting but cling to her narrow waist. She’s paired them with a tight, white crop top that shows a hint of her midriff. Bodie was right. She’s absolutely beautiful. She has long dark-blonde hair and the same eyes as Robbie. The expression in hers is different though. Robbie’s eyes are soft, endless pools you drown in if you look into them for too long. Hers relay a clear message, and that message is this: fuck around and find out—I dare you.

Stacey would love her. She’s one of those women who has her shit together. The kind of woman I want to be friends with as soon as I meet her.

Beside me, Bodie is showing early signs of hyperventilation. He emits a horrible gurgling sound, so I give him a solid thump on the back. It jolts him to his senses. He stumbles over to Beth and embraces her, lifting her off her feet and swinging her around in a broad arc. The entire time, he smells her hair like it’s something he needs to keep living. When he puts her down, he says her name reverently three times in a row.

Robbie gives me a knowing look. “See? Fun, right?”

Despite myself, I have to admit it is fun. Or at least it would be if I could get past the unfamiliar, deeply unpleasant churning in my belly. It’s kind of like apprehension mixed with fear. And hope. And maybe some kind of yearning. Some kind of want.

It’s a horrible feeling that gets ten times worse when I’m able to identify it. I want these people to like me. All of them, but Santa and Mrs. Claus especially. It’s a pathetic realization that makes me sick. It only grows stronger when I remind myself how unlikely that is. First, we’ve got my whole personality to contend with, and second, we’ve got the fact I’ve treated their utterly perfect son like shit for the past four or five years.

Bodie and I are shown to the living room, where we unpack our gifts and put them around the tree. Mr. McGuire potters back and forth to the kitchen, checking on the meal and the rest of us laze around the fire and chat. By that, I mean Bodie and Robbie chat. Beth drifts in and out of the conversation, unable to stay focused when the conversation turns to hockey. Every time she drifts, Bodie changes the topic to include her.

It’s actually pretty sweet. This guy is giving new meaning to the term whipped.

Dr. McGuire talks now and again too, but mostly, she observes the spectacle as it unfolds and spends quite a bit of time observing me in particular.

The weight of her gaze takes my apprehension and rachets it up by two or three hundred percent.

By the time Bodie and Robbie head to the kitchen to see if Mr. McGuire needs help with dinner, I’m a bundle of nerves. My feelings must be showing on my face because Dr. McGuire says, “Are you okay there, Ant?”

“I was just jealous,” I say in a rush, dimly aware that I’m answering a question she didn’t ask. “Of Robbie. You know, that stuff I said. It was just optics, mainly. For the press, you know. Clickbait! That’s what it was. A-and also the jealousy…b-because he’s so good.”

It’s clear I need help. So much help. I’m just not sure what the best type of help is for whatever it is I’ve got.

Dr. McGuire rests her chin on the back of one hand and takes me in with such seriousness that it feels like she’s in the process of making a complex diagnosis. She smiles when she arrives at one. She’s a medical professional, though, so of course, her smile doesn’t give much away.

I can’t tell for sure how serious my condition is, but it sure as hell feels like it might be bad.

My ass starts to sweat, and I’m overcome by the insane urge to blurt, “I’m crazy about your son.”

I manage not to, but it’s a lot harder than it should be.

“That was some hit you put on that player who took Robbie out last week,” she says when I’m milliseconds from throwing myself onto my knees and confessing everything, purely to make my gut stop churning. Her expression changes suddenly and completely, eyes dancing with mischief, and I remember Robbie telling me he has two fun parents.

She’s fucking with me.

This woman is fucking with me, and she’s wearing a Mrs. Claus hat while she does it .

There’s nothing to confess because she already knows. She knows everything, and I’m pretty sure it’s not because of how well she knows her son. It’s me. It was my face when I saw Robbie when I got here. It’s the way I smiled when he hugged me.

It’s not the way he looks at me that gave us away. It’s the way I look at him.

She asks me about myself and my family and listens intently when I speak, cataloging the information into a vault as though it’s important. As though it matters to her.

She tells me about herself and her husband and what Robbie was like as a child. She says he was a sweet boy who used to pick flowers from the garden and give them to her when she’d had a bad day. When he couldn’t find flowers, he’d bring her a stick instead. Apparently, she still has a collection of them in a box in the basement.

She tells me Beth used to beat him up when they were little, and when he got bigger and stronger than her, he didn’t let on that he’d changed. He kept letting her win. “For all I know, Beth still thinks she could take him, and he’s a professional hockey player.” She laughs.

“Well, who knows? Maybe she’s right.” I chuckle. “I sure as heck wouldn’t mess with her. ”

Yep, that’s me, Ant Decker, using words like heck instead of hell to impress a guy’s mom. Jesus.

Dr. McGuire tells me Robbie had more trips to the ER than the average kid, but that, in retrospect, she thinks that might have been because they used to drag mattresses into the living room and the four of them would sleep downstairs together when they got back from having him stitched up. “I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was probably inviting the exact behavior I was trying to avoid. Either that, or it was because John and I kept thinking it was a good idea to let them slide down the stairs in cardboard boxes.”

“He loved being your kid,” I tell her. “I think he’s sad sometimes that his childhood is over. Sometimes, he wishes he could go back in time and have one more hot chocolate night with you.”

Her eyes mist up, and like that, it’s official. The tests are back. The results are in.

Dr. McGuire and I both know my condition is terminal.

Mr. McGuire calls us to let us know dinner is ready, so we head to the dining room together.

“I’m going to need you to back me up on something, Ant,” she says conspiratorially as she links her arm with mine. She looks pleased with herself, and I have a feeling that’s something that should worry me.

“Will do,” I say with gusto.

The table looks amazing. The tablecloth is a dark burgundy with a fleck of gold glitter running through it. There’s an extravagant fresh garland running down the middle of the table with candles and baubles dotted around it, and we each have a handwritten name card next to our wine glasses. Whoever wrote my name card drew an amateurish little ant next to my name.

“Sweetheart,” says Dr. McGuire to Robbie, “Ant and I were just talking at length, and we both feel strongly that you should use a cage helmet for at least four weeks when you take to the ice again.”

Robbie’s face scrunches into a clear, silent, “Huh?” as he searches my face for evidence that I agree with this line of thinking. When he doesn’t find it, he says, “But mom, a cage doesn’t provide any more protection than a half-visor does.”

“What nonsense. Of course it does. You took a hit to the chin that would’ve been blocked by a cage.” She nudges me lightly on the arm to get me talking. “It’s essential. It’s a matter of health and safety as much as common sense. ”

“Er, yeah, h-health and safety, Robbie,” I stammer when she looks up at me expectantly.

“If you ask me,” continues Dr. McGuire, “it’s a complete mystery why it’s even legal to play without one. I mean, for heaven’s sake, players are required to use them at college-level, and then, when they go pro, and things get well and truly dangerous, they plonk a half-assed, open-face helmet on professional players? It’s ridiculous. It needs to be changed. I’ve been saying so for years. Did you get a chance to talk to your coach about it yet, Robbie?”

“Uh, no, Mom. Coach doesn’t really like me. I don’t think he’d go for it.”

Dr. McGuire flinches and bristles notably. “Don’t be silly, sweetie. Everyone likes you. Talk to him. Tell him I’d feel more comfortable with it if you don’t want him thinking it’s coming from you, okay?”

Beth snorts but manages to disguise it by taking a sip of wine. “Yeah, Robbie,” she says, “Tell him your mom wants you to wear a cage helmet.”

“I’ll wear a cage helmet if you do, Robbie,” says Bodie.

Fuck. The little kiss-ass is trying to get in his future mother-in-law’s good books.

“So will I,” I say with far more enthusiasm than I feel .

Dr. McGuire is quietly pleased. Her mission has been a success.

Dinner continues without any further incident. It’s a loud, decadent affair that consists of people talking over each other and then pivoting to listen to each other in a way I’m not used to. The McGuires move around each other with well-practiced ease. They seem to have an innate ability to know when what someone’s saying matters, and they hold space for it. The give it their full attention, and a second later, ridiculousness resumes seamlessly.

Robbie is right. His family does know him. It’s not hard to work out why. It’s because he’s the same at home as he is when he’s with me, when he’s on the ice with our teammates, when he’s talking to fans and people he doesn’t know. He’s the same everywhere. All the time. There’s no masking. There’s only one authentic version of him.

Knowing that makes it hard not to touch him because I feel the same way about him here with his family as I do when we’re alone. The longer the meal goes on, the harder it becomes. He’s sitting beside me, so close I could kiss him if I leaned over a little. For the first time in my life, I want to. I want to put my arm around a man’s shoulders in front of his family. I want to let my hand wander up the back of his neck and tug the tiny hairs that grow there, and when he smiles, I want to kiss the smile lines near his eyes because he belongs to me and I belong to him.

I want it so much that my right hand unconsciously floats toward him unless I use every ounce of my concentration to stop it.

After dinner, Robbie suggests we play a board game. Now, between you and me, I’d rather gouge my eyes out and put them out for the birds to eat than play board games, but something about sitting on the floor around the coffee table, mildly inebriated, and playing with Robbie McGuire doesn’t feel like the worst thing in the world. Especially not when he nods at Bodie as he and Beth set up the board and says, “Just wait till you see this, Ant. Bodie goes from teddy bear to grizzly in under two seconds when he loses at board games. It’s unreal. It’s like he becomes a totally different person.”

Maybe it’s the wine I had with dinner or the two helpings of dessert, but the thought of seeing Bodie lose his shit is enough to entice me.

We settle on Pictionary, which is a relief because it is, in my humble opinion, the lesser evil of all board games. When Robbie’s parents see how the teams have paired up, Robbie with me and Beth with Bodie, they give each other a couple of overly obvious furtive glances, seemingly passing a message back and forth between each other, and then plead exhaustion and head to bed early.

Bodie is borderline delirious about the fact he’s been teamed up with Beth, and he’s making no attempt to hide it. He’s over-smiling and laughing too loudly. Best I can tell, he’s trying to get Beth on board to do a very, very cringey victory handshake every time they win a point. From the way he describes it, it’s one of those handshakes that resembles a full-bodied hug more than anything else.

Bizarrely, the more we play, the more it becomes clear that Beth doesn’t seem nearly as opposed to the idea as she should be.

Things quickly get out of hand. Three professional athletes are playing this game, so to say it’s competitive would be a gross understatement. Even though Bodie has morphed into a rabid, frothing-at-the-mouth creature I’ve never seen the likes of before, there’s a real chance Beth is more competitive than the rest of us put together.

The two of them together are off-the-charts. Alcohol flows freely and artistic talent diminishes steadily. Every time Beth and Bodie win a point, their victory celebration gets a little more elaborate. It no longer involves a handshake at all, just the kind of hug that requires you to take a little runup and throw yourselves at each other.

Bodie looks increasingly overjoyed and bewildered, and he takes longer and longer to recover and put Beth back on her feet each time. The interesting thing is Beth seems to be in no hurry to get down either.

When a massive argument erupts between Robbie and Beth, and they resort to furiously Googling the rules of the game and yelling them at each other, I tap Bodie on the arm.

“Dude,” I whisper urgently, “I think you’re in with a chance. Shoot your shot.”

“What? Wait, really? No, I can’t do that. Can I?”

“Do it!”

“How?” His eyes are wide with terror. “Tell me. I need a plan.”

“I dunno, bud.” I shrug helplessly. “Girls aren’t my thing. I know jack about what they want.”

Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.

This is exactly why I don’t like board games.

Or spending time with very nice people.

Happiness goes to my head and makes me do stupid things.

Bodie’s head flicks from side to side, his gaze landing on Robbie, then me, and back on Robbie. It takes a few seconds longer than if he were sober, but he gets there eventually. His eyes and mouth form three perfect circles. “You and Robbie? Is that a thing? Is that why you’ve stopped punching each other? Are you serious right now?”

“I don’t know,” I hiss. “Are you going to be cool about it if we are?”

God. I’m so drunk.

“Course I’m going to be cool about it. Are you kidding me? I’m dedicated to the enemies-to-lovers trope, bro. It’s like my favorite one.”

“Really? I thought you’d be more of a fan of he falls first.”

He dissolves into a dopey-ass laugh. “Yeah, you got me there. I like that one too…and best friend’s sister. Phew. I’m a big fan of that one.”

When Beth and Robbie stop yelling suddenly, Beth pulls Bodie aside and lays out a new game plan. From where I’m sitting, the plan looks about as serious as your average plan to overthrow the government. Bodie’s face is lined deeply in support, and his teeth are bared. He can’t draw for shit, but he’s ready to channel Picasso if that’s what it takes to get this girl. In his drunk state, he’s convinced that a victory at Pictionary is what’s needed to change the course of his life .

The weird thing is, I have a feeling he’s right. Or at least not completely wrong.

“Robbie,” I whisper, cupping my hand to his ear. “We have to throw the game.”

“What? No! No fucking way.”

“Yes, fucking way. Look.” I tilt my head toward Beth and Bodie. They’re standing close to each other and there’s a charged space between them. A little spark of electricity that darts back and forth, a spark that only happens when something has changed between two people who’ve known each other for a really, really long time.

Robbie sees it too.

I’m pretty sure it causes him physical pain to lose on purpose, but he does it. We both do. The game winds down, and we gracefully concede defeat. And by that, I mean the board is tipped over and pieces are sent flying into the air.

“We make a good team, Thoms,” says Beth, bobbing her head slowly.

“Yeah, we do,” agrees Bodie. He looks at me, and I see his bottom lip quiver slightly. I give him a clear, deliberate nod to encourage him. You’ve got this, bud . “I’ve always thought we make a good team, Beth.” His voice cracks badly. “You may not know this about me, but I-I kind of had a crush on you when we were kids.”

“Oh,” says Beth, “I knew. But you know what it's like. These things usually pass, so I’m sure you’ve grown out of it now.”

“Um. Nah. I didn’t grow out of it. It didn’t pass.” Bodie swallows so hard this jaw clicks. “It got worse. Way worse.”

“Is that right?” Beth smiles, leaning over and stroking Bodie’s patchy mustache with a single outstretched finger. Bodie is completely frozen, a deer in the headlights that couldn’t move even if he wanted to. He’s not breathing and has the glazed look of a man who has been tasered. “I like this,” she murmurs, outlining his top lip. “Not many guys can pull it off, but you really can.”

Welp. I never said I understood straight people.

I tap Robbie with my foot and eye the stairs. “I think maybe we should go,” I suggest.

We say goodnight and start heading upstairs.

“Night.” Beth waves us off absently and trills, “I’m a little distracted by Mustache Man right now, but don’t even think we aren’t going to talk about whatever this”—she waves a spiral motion in our direction—“is.”

Robbie and I run up the stairs laughing like idiots, bumping into each other when we get to the top of the stairs and laughing about that too. We have our arms around each other and are struggling to walk in a straight line. Neither of us has our faculties together enough to work out that we’d be able to walk better if we let go of each other.

“I think your mom knows about us,” I mumble as I nip lightly along his jaw, working toward his mouth.

“My dad definitely does. He pulled me aside in the kitchen and gave me a thumbs-up and said, ‘Ant is a very nice boy.’”

I pull away, look into Robbie’s beautiful face, and squeal, “He did?” dragging the words out for so long they merge into a single, inexcusable sound.

Oh, don’t you worry. I heard it, and it was terrible. I’m going to cut alcohol out of my diet starting tomorrow. Don’t think I won’t.

I put my things down in the guest room when I arrived, but when Robbie opens the door to his bedroom, my overnight bag is on the floor at the end of his bed. “Did you move my things to your room?" I laugh from my belly. "You’re so unserious, Robbie.”

Oh, how I wish I could stop. The problem is, these McGuires are all really sweet people. Being here with them has gone to my head. Like a sugar rush of sorts. Truth be told, I’m not even sure Robbie’s the only unserious person in the room anymore.

It’s been an unbelievable day. A really good day. I look at Robbie and don’t see a trace of anxiety.

I swear to God, this guy. His entire family just found out he’s banging a dude, and he hasn’t blinked. Not once.

Something about that, combined with the fact I’ve found myself in his childhood bedroom, is intoxicating for reasons I can’t quite explain.

Maybe it’s because the room feels like him. It smells and looks like him too. The walls are painted army green and are plastered with framed hockey jerseys from every stage in his career. Little boy jerseys signed by his junior league teammates and big boy ones from his college days. There are pucks, taped and labeled, stacked on his shelves, and there’s a collection of old sticks leaning against the corner near the window.

I feel like I’ve slipped through a crack between the past and the present. Being here with him, laughing and kissing and shushing each other a little too loudly, feels like something that’s happened before. To some other, younger version of me. A version that existed before I learned about hate and mistrust. Before I learned never to let my guard down .

We take turns removing the other’s clothes and fall onto the bed in nothing but our underwear. I land on my back and Robbie crashes on top of me. It’s an exuberant landing that makes us bounce and does nothing to stem our helpless laughter.

“Shhhh,” I say as we both dissolve into a fresh wave of giggles. “Your parents will hear u—”

He cuts me off with a kiss. A long, paralyzing kiss. The kind of kiss that packs a punch and sinks to the back of your head and makes you thank God you’re already lying down. The kind of kiss that makes you think this is what all kisses should be like. The kind of kiss that feels like what you thought kissing would be like before you ever kissed anyone.

An only kiss.

The only kiss I’ve ever wanted this much.

Robbie is holding himself up on his elbows, but his weight on me is still solid. Heavy. Hard. Our bare legs wind together, course hair scouring skin as we struggle to get closer to each other. Our bellies press against each other, warm skin melting into warm skin.

He rocks his hips as we sink into another only kiss. His lips are soft and gentle on mine. Sweet and honeyed, a taste I can’t get enough of. His body is strong and hard. He’s hard in his underwear too. So am I. It’s electric where our cocks meet, a hard, relentless pressure with nothing but a thin layer of cotton keeping us apart. We start moving together without really meaning to. We move like we’re floating or treading water. Like it’s the most natural thing either of us has ever done. Our hips lock, and we groan as we sandwich our dicks tightly between our bodies. Need blooms, a quick, savage swell that steals my breath and makes us move harder and faster to sate the growing hunger we pass back and forth between each other.

At first, it’s foreplay. A gentle, almost haphazard stimulation designed to arouse us. A lazy, greedy thing that comes before something else. Something bigger. Something better. And then it’s not. There’s a shift, a change that’s as real and visceral as a gear lever shifting down, an audible grind that slows time when it happens.

It’s not just foreplay anymore.

This is it.

This is how we’re going to come. We’re too far gone. We’ve wanted each other for hours and hours and we’ve gone as long as we can without touching.

Robbie reaches down, fumbling as he pushes his underwear down to mid-thigh. He pulls mine down too. Badly. He does it roughly, yanking them down without coordination and only managing to get them out of the way enough to give us the skin-to-skin contact we crave.

I hiss when our naked cocks touch. It’s hard and hot where our bodies collide. His shaft juts against mine, butting against me repeatedly, a dull impact that sends sparks up my spine. Our cocks start to dance, sliding over and under each other. I grab at him, fisting big handfuls of his ass cheeks as I try desperately to climb under his skin. Robbie raises himself off me a little more and starts thrusting in earnest. We both know we don’t have long. He knows it, and I know it. Neither of us can hold back. His hips undulate against mine in a graceful, erotic movement that lets me know exactly, precisely, what Robbie McGuire looks like when he fucks.

Hot.

Robbie McGuire looks hot when he fucks.

“Hot,” I rasp as I start to flail beneath him. “So hot. You’re so fucking hot, Robbie.”

He does look hot. He looks so goddamn hot that my climax isn’t a climb or even a struggle. It’s a forgone conclusion. It’s a decision that’s made before I get there. Unequivocal. Unnegotiable. He takes me with him, holding me and not letting go, looking into my eyes as his smile falters and turns to an open-mouth grimace. We plummet over the edge together, shaking and laughing in each other’s arms once the space between us is hot and wet and our bodies have stopped spasming.

He throws himself onto his back next to me and sighs loudly. His lips curl up in a way that gives me a feeling I know what he’s going to say before he starts talking. “So, are you ever gonna let me fuck you, or what? ’Cause I’m telling you, Ant, I want to put my dick in you more than I want air.”

I don’t skip a beat. “Don’t you mean your clit?”

He swats me and starts laughing again. A soft, bubbling brook that spills out of him and drizzles all over me.

“I don’t care what you call it,” he says reasonably. “As long as you say my name when it’s inside you.”

Oof.

It’s late, and I’m packing for my next block of away games. Packing, packing, packing. Always fucking packing. I do most of it on autopilot, but I have a bad case of post-Christmas blues slowing me down.

I did the right thing by coming home tonight. We have an early flight tomorrow morning, and I have a lot of shit to get sorted before I leave. Bodie left the McGuires when I did, and I can promise you, that man would not have left that house unless it was absolutely essential.

I felt for the guy. I’ve never seen a clearer expression of terror on anyone’s face than on his when he waited for Beth to come downstairs this morning. It was clear something had happened between them the night before because he was completely unable to speak or tear his eyes off the stairs as he waited for her. I guess it was one of those were we just drunk or is this something situations. It was eating him up.

When Beth finally blessed us with her presence, she shlof-shloffed over in her slippers and fluffy robe to where Bodie was sitting, turned her back on him, and dropped into his lap as if it was something she’d always done. She folded her arms and legs into him. He didn’t skip a beat. He wrapped his arms around her as if that was something he’d always done too.

His smile didn’t fade until it was time for us to leave at the end of the day.

Once I’ve zipped up my bag and checked my flight itinerary, I head downstairs.

I love my house. Always have. It’s a great house. Tasteful and stylish, it’s been featured in a bunch of décor magazines, so it’s definitely objectively nice. It’s just that it’s a lot quieter here than it was at the McGuires. Tonight it feels a little echoey and empty, lacking in personality almost.

Fuck it. It’s too designer-y, isn’t it?

Speaking of design, Robbie loved the lamp I gave him. He really loved it. He wasn’t pretending or being polite. He was so excited. He looked like a kid when he unwrapped it, all big-eyed and spluttery with happiness. The McGuires liked the massive block of Belgian chocolate I got for them, and Dr. McGuire wasted no time putting to use the set of oversized bone China mugs I bought to go with the chocolate.

Mr. McGuire tilted his head far back and said, “Who’s up for some chocolat ?”

“Don’t start,” said Beth, but of course, they started and didn’t stop for a good long while.

In the middle of the fray, Robbie pulled me aside and handed me a small, badly wrapped gift. He watched intently as I opened it, hands drifting toward mine in a subconscious attempt to help when I struggled to free it from the yards of tape he’d used.

I knew what it was, of course. A circular disk roughly one inch thick and three in diameter. There was no question it was a puck.

I knew that .

I didn’t know which puck though. I’d never have guessed that in a million years.

Even now, looking at it as it rests in my hands, I can’t believe he gave it to me. A battered black rubber round with a strip of tape wrapped around it with faded block letters signed.

I gasped and clamped my hand over my mouth when I deciphered the letters. Danny LeGrange. My mouth remained open beneath the palm of my hand for several long seconds, and when I managed to close it, my eyes were stinging and there was a strange, unpleasant ache in the back of my throat.

Robbie looked at me with such a sweet, hopeful expression that I threw my arms around him and kissed him on the mouth right there and then.

Now I’m home, and he’s still there. And I have to fly out tomorrow to play fucking hockey while he’s signed off for another week.

It sucks.

What sucks even more is how sober I feel now that I have some space from him. Strong pangs of confusion and discontent cramp in my lower belly. If it wasn’t so late, I’d call Stacey and tell her what I did when I got out of the shower this morning. I doubt she’d believe me. She’d probably think I’d been taken over by an alien species or something.

How else could one possibly explain the fact that when I got out of the shower this morning and saw the vanity mirror in Robbie’s bathroom was all fogged over, I took it into my head to show off my artistic abilities? And in case you’re wondering, I don’t have artistic abilities.

Still, that didn’t stop me from leaving a drawing on his mirror for him to find tomorrow morning. A heart and a little ant similar to the one on my name card at the dinner table on Christmas Eve.

The me that was intoxicated from spending the night with Robbie McGuire in his childhood bedroom thought it was a hilarious thing to do. A silly, fun thing. A super unserious thing. Sober me is seriously considering driving over to the McGuires later tonight, breaking and entering, and wiping the fucking ridiculous drawing away. I’m aware I’d be risking getting arrested or gaining a criminal record, but I think that might be better than leaving it there.

To distract myself from the hell I’ve brought upon myself, I scroll through Robbie’s TikToks. My body jerks, and I sit a little more upright when I see he’s uploaded a new video .

No!

What is he thinking?

Surely he can’t think he can get away with this? TikTok will ban him outright for posting shit like this. I doubt they’ll even give him a warning. I bet they’ll just delete his entire profile and tell him there’s absolutely nothing he can do to restore it.

I watch the video again a few times to ensure it’s as bad as I think it is. It is.

He’s in bed. Naked. Okay, fine, not naked. He has his sheet over him. Cool white cotton covers his hips and pools at his waist. The lighting is low. Soft and ambient, casting long shadows that highlight every line and dip on his belly as he breathes in and out.

A thick round of muscle swells on his upper arm when he pushes his hair out of his face. A careless movement that’s sinful all the same.

He rolls onto his side and looks at the camera as if someone’s in the room with him.

As if it’s a person.

As if it’s me.

He blinks lazily and says, “I’m lonely without you.”

The comment section is out of control. Comments and likes are coming in faster than I can read them. I scroll through a bunch. They’re thirsty as hell, but they’re mainly lighthearted and fun.

I’m about to call it a night when I see it.

A video by the girl who always tells Robbie she loves him and to check his DMs. Her tone is different this time. Short and to the point.

“Anyone have any idea why Robbie looks at number eight like this?” she asks. She’s stitched her video to a still from a recent game. Robbie and I are sitting on the bench. Our legs are open, knees touching. I’m looking straight ahead, with my glove obscuring my mouth as I speak. Robbie has his head turned toward me. His lips are parted slightly and he’s looking up at me with soft eyes. Sweet eyes. The softest, sweetest eyes I’ve ever seen.

My entire body goes cold. Not just cold, ice cold. Blood drains from my face, turning from liquid to solid as I sit, hand clamped over my mouth as I watch in horror as people start liking and commenting on the stitch.