Chapter 12

12

Max

I haven't moved since Luke quietly closed the door behind him on his way out of my apartment. I feel sick—skin too tight and blood pounding too forcefully through my body. Objectively, I know the walls aren't moving, but it feels like they are; it feels like I'm being penned in from all sides, overwhelmed and unable to think beyond one single fact: Luke knows.

Shakily, I leave my room and stride over to Marcos' door. It takes a full thirty seconds of knocking before I remember that he's not here and my stomach plummets. Hands shaking, mind a tangled mess of confusion and shame, I sway dangerously as the dizziness becomes so intense my vision swims. I need to get out of here .

It takes me an embarrassingly long time to tug on my shoes, and I don't even bother trying to tie the laces with my trembling fingers. Stepping outside, the pressure in my chest eases but my mind continues to spin. Barely aware of what direction I'm going, I put my feet to the pavement and just walk.

I feel disgusting and violated. I feel the same way I felt when I woke up in the hospital, disoriented and in pain, listening as somebody explained a trauma I couldn't even remember. Disproportionately, this feels worse. Luke was supposed to be safe. Luke was perfect and now I wonder if any of it was even real. A small, barely there voice in my mind tries to remind me that I know it was real, that I know Luke , but it's meaningless. A car horn sounds and I flinch, coming back to myself enough to look around at my surroundings.

I'm on campus. It's dusk, and apart from a few stragglers leaving the library, I'm alone. I stand there, a ship unmoored and teetering on a choppy sea. Barely even conscious of making the decision, I turn until I'm facing north and continue walking. I don't stop until I reach the house, raise my fist and knock. The pressure in my chest has increased, and the dizziness has returned tenfold. I'm just wondering if I'm going to be sick when the door opens wide and Coach Mackenzie's tall form swims into view.

He says something, but it's garbled like I've got my head underwater. Pressure on my arm has me looking down, shocked to find long, pale fingers wrapped around my elbow. I try to blink away some of the moisture in my eyes, but the world remains hazy.

"I don't feel good," I say, and the hand on my arm turns into one wrapped around my back. Coach raises his voice, shouting something indiscernible and I flinch, not expecting the volume.

I lean into him, letting him take my weight and then immediately feel bad about it. Coach is tall, but slight. I'm too heavy for him to carry comfortably. Somebody grips my other arm and I'm directed to the couch; my breathing sounds ragged.

"Is he hurt?" A voice I don't recognize asks urgently. Coach crouches down in front of me, hands cupped around my face before running them down over my chest and arms.

"I don't know, I can't tell," he says, voice tight. "Max, what happened? Are you hurt?"

I shake my head, still trying to breathe through painful lungs and think around my panicked brain. Distantly, I know what's happening and that I need to calm down, but it feels impossible. I feel like I'm dying.

"I'm calling 911," the other man says, and I shake my head, violently.

"Anthony, wait."

"Nico," the voice warns, but Coach Mackenzie looks up and over my left shoulder, silently communicating something I'm too wrecked to comprehend.

"Take a deep breath through your nose, Max, do it now," Coach tells me, and I obey, immediately. "Hold it for one…two…three…good, breathe out through your mouth. Again. In through the nose, one…two…three…out through your mouth."

I do what he says, listening to the familiar cadence of his voice as the pain in my chest slowly eases. His hands are on my face again, forcing me to maintain eye contact with him as he talks to me. There is a hand on the center of my back, big and warm, rubbing circles between my shoulder blades. I feel better, while also feeling like I might cry, because apparently this is the person I've become.

"One more time," Coach Mackenzie says, and I do as he says, watching the room spin into view as the dizziness subsides. "Are you hurt, Max? "

"No."

"How did you get here?"

"I walked," I tell him, and his eyes widen slightly. He watches me, cheek compressed where he is obviously biting it. I see him glance over to the right, a silent plea for help. The hand on my back hasn't stopped moving, and when I hear the voice again, I make the connection I was too sick to make before.

"He's freezing," Anthony Lawson says, and Coach nods, relieved to be presented with a problem he can fix.

He stands and I close my eyes, listening to the soft footfalls and focusing on the soothing motion of the hand on my back. Coach has barely left the room before he's back. I open my eyes as a blanket is wrapped around my shoulders, looking up at his worried face.

"Thanks," I tell him, and clutch the blanket tighter around me. It's soft and I really am cold.

"Anthony," Coach says, running a hand along his jaw, "would you mind giving us a moment?"

"Of course," is the reply, and I watch as he steps into view, brushing a hand across Coach Mackenzie's lower back as he passes. "I'm going to make you something hot to drink, kid."

Coach watches him as he leaves the room, before taking a seat on a coffee table in the center of the room. He seems far away and I turn my head to take in the surroundings for the first time; the room is set up strangely, with all the furniture pushed against the walls and that coffee table hovering in no-man's land.

"Max," Coach leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, drawing my attention away from interior decorating and back to this ridiculous situation I've created, "it's just you and me. Anthony is in the other room and can't hear what you say. Nor does he know about the conversation you and I had a few weeks ago."

I nod, already understanding where this is going and why he's reassuring me of that.

"Please tell me what happened," he requests, and the familiar taste of shame coats my tongue. Here he was, enjoying a rare night together with his partner, and I'm ruining it.

"I, uh…I got into an argument with someone and I guess…I don't know. I went for a walk and I was all in my head and I guess…I guess I panicked. I don't know how to explain it Coach, it just felt like the fucking world was ending and I couldn't think . I'm sorry for coming here."

"I'm not," he says succinctly, but frowns and looks down at the floor between his feet. "The sun is going down, and it's a cold evening; you don't have a coat on, Max."

He sounds concerned, adding yet another layer of guilt to my already full plate. "I'm s?—."

"No," he cuts me off, eyes steely, "do not apologize. I shouldn't have said it like that—I'm not upset, only worried."

I nod, because worry couldn't be plainer on his face. He sighs, leaning forward as he tries to close the distance between us. His hands are clasped tightly together, as though he wants to touch me but is aware of the possible repercussions of this.

"I probably shouldn't be here," I realize. "You could get in trouble."

He opens his mouth, closes it as he thinks for a second, and then proceeds more carefully. "Possibly. But that's not important. What's important is that we make sure you're okay. Do you want to talk about what happened?"

"Not really," I share a small smile with him, shrugging. " But I think I might need to, if you don't mind listening. I…you remember I told you about Luke?"

"Yes."

"Well, we've been together for a little while now, and things are—were—good. Great, actually. He's great, you know? But tonight he accidentally…I found out that he's known about what happened the entire time we've been together. He knew about the…roofie situation," I finish, lamely, unable to say the word ‘rape' directly to Coach's face. Once was quite enough for me. "He knew, and he didn't say anything, and now the way he treats me makes perfect sense."

"How does he treat you?"

The question catches me off guard. I tighten the blanket, clasping it together below my neck as I try to keep the heat in. "Oh, uhm…I guess he treats me like I'm special. Or, that's the way he makes me feel, anyway."

"That doesn't have anything to do with what happened," he says instantly. "You are special."

"You don't get it, he's…too nice. Too perfect. He never does anything without asking for permission first, and he doesn't ever initiate…things," I stumble, perfectly aware that I'm an adult and shouldn't be uncomfortable saying the word ‘sex' to another adult. "He feels sorry for me or he's trying to fix me. There's no other explanation."

Coach sighs, sadly, and rubs a hand over his face. Linking his fingers back together in his lap, he looks over toward the kitchen. "Max—did you know that I'm blind?"

"What? No, you're not," I say indignantly. The left side of his mouth pulls upward into a partial smile.

"I am. I've been legally blind since I stopped playing hockey." He pauses, giving me a second to digest this information. "I don't tell people because I don't want them to treat me any differently, and, frankly, because I don't like saying the words out loud." He points at the doorway leading to the kitchen. "I have to rely quite heavily on him: I can't drive, or navigate around unfamiliar places well. Do you think he helps me do those things because he feels sorry for me?"

"No."

"No," he agrees. "And I'm not trying to insinuate that the situation is precisely the same, Max, but I know better than some how difficult it can be to separate fact from the narrative we create in our minds. You're worried Luke feels sorry for you—pities you—because something terrible happened to you, something nobody should ever have to experience. But he should feel bad, Max, because somebody taking advantage of you is horrifying. Does that mean that he's only with you because of misplaced self-righteousness?"

"No."

"No," he agrees firmly.

"I guess…I don't know, I just sort of freaked out because he knows and I would never have told him, Coach. I wanted us to be separate from…that."

"I know," he says gently.

"I felt blindsided, and then all of a sudden the only thing I could think about was how… good … Luke is, and how I don't deserve him, and maybe he's only with me because I'm a charity case."

Coach Mackenzie reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. "Christ, I'm not qualified to unpack a single thing you just said," he mumbles to himself, and I give a bark of surprised laughter. He looks up at me and I smile, apologetically.

"Sorry, Coach. "

"Max Kuemper, I want you to listen when I tell you that you are nobody's charity case, and nothing that happened to you in the past predicates what you deserve now. I don't ever want to hear you say that again. You don't deserve a single thing that has happened to you, and if I ever learn who did that to you—." He halts, backpedaling before he verbally threatens a student. "Well, I'd have a chat with them, anyway."

I laugh. "Good save, Coach."

He stands, and I wonder if that's my signal that I've overstayed my welcome. I get up, but before I can slide the blanket off, he's pulled me into a firm hug. I decide to take advantage of it, no matter that he's my coach and we're in his living room and this is probably breaking a dozen school rules—I rest my cheek on his shoulder and dig my fingers into the shirt on his back, holding on as tightly as I can manage. He passes his hand down the back of my head and neck, repeating the motion slowly each time he reaches the top of my spine.

My fingers hurt from how hard I'm gripping his shirt, and I know I should be embarrassed to be hugging him like this. Mostly, though, I'm just intensely grateful that he's here, that he let me inside and that he's not pulling away.

"Sometime this week, Max, I think we should work together and find you somebody to talk to," he says, the words pitched low and private, just for me.

I squeeze my eyes shut. He's right that I need to speak to a professional—the events of this evening have proved that. I wish, though, that I could just talk to him. "Okay."

Knowing that I'm really pushing the boundaries of his kindness now, I unclench my hands and lift my face off his shoulder. He releases me, eyeing me seriously through narrowed green eyes. I pull the blanket from my shoulders and loosely fold it before handing it back to him.

"Thank you."

"We'll get you something of Anthony's to wear. You won't fit in anything of mine," Coach says decisively, eyeing my bare arms and tossing the blanket onto the couch. "Speaking of, let's not deprive Anthony any longer of the chance to take care of you."

He gestures for me to proceed him to the kitchen. "What do you mean?"

What he means is abundantly clear the second we walk into the kitchen. Anthony Lawson has been busy, and if I hadn't been so wrapped up in myself, I might have already noticed the smell of food cooking. While Coach Mackenzie and I have been talking, he's been in here, cooking enough breakfast to feed a family of six. He smiles when we walk in, dark eyes tracking from me over to Coach and looking him up and down as though to assure himself he's all in one piece.

"Anthony, this is Max Kuemper," Coach introduces me, as calm as if we're meeting for the first time and not after I had a mental breakdown on their doorstep.

"I know exactly who you are," he says, pulling me into a friendly, one-armed hug. "You're the kid I'm going to be shutting down in a few years."

"Won't you be retired by the time I'm there?" I ask, and he laughs.

"You watch your mouth," he says good-naturedly. "Have a seat and help yourself, plenty of food to go around, although I make no promises about it being edible."

Coach Mackenzie chuckles softly, and I awkwardly take a seat at their table. He sits down next to me, stretching his legs out and pushing a plate toward me. There is a navy-blue hoodie hanging off the back of Coach's chair; he pulls it into his lap and raises his voice to address his partner.

"Anthony, Max is going to borrow this, all right?" He hands me the hoodie.

"Sure, it's all his."

"Thanks," I mutter, feeling both sheepish and stupidly grateful. I put it on right away, cold again now that I've left the blanket in the living room.

"Don't mention it," Lawson says as he sits down across from me and starts spooning heaps of food onto his plate. I do the same, not wanting to seem rude even though I'm the farthest thing from hungry.

They fall into easy conversation, bringing me in so seamlessly one would think we have dinner together often. It's nice, seeing them together like this—Coach Mackenzie more relaxed than I've ever seen him during practice, and Lawson effortlessly making him smile. I've seen him smile more in the last fifteen minutes than I have the entire time I've known him, and it's kind of blowing my mind.

I offer to do the cleaning after dinner, but Coach Mackenzie waves this off with a stern look that has me biting back any further arguments. Hovering uncertainly near the doorway, I wonder if I should finally say my goodbyes and head home. I've already taken up so much of their time and kindness, the debt already too big for me to repay.

"I'll head out, Coach. Thank you, again, for letting me…talk to you."

The pair of them look over at me, twin expressions of confusion on their faces. Coach Mackenzie recovers first, frowning at me. "I thought you walked here."

"I did. "

"You're not walking home, it's nearly ten," he says resolutely.

"I'm going to give you a ride," Lawson puts in, smiling at me. I flush, tugging the sleeves of the borrowed hoodie down to cover my hands.

"Really, it's okay, I don't want to cause any more trouble."

"It's no trouble. Do you want to go now? You don't have to—you can hang out for as long as you'd like," he says, but I shake my head. I'm so tired—so unbearably tired. I want to go home and sleep off this awful day.

"If…if you don't mind, I think I'm ready to go."

Lawson sets down the towel he was using to clean up, wiping his hands on his jeans. "I'll go grab my keys, and be right back down," he says, clapping me on the shoulder as he passes. I look over at Coach Mackenzie, leaned against the counter watching me.

"I'm still not exactly sure I know how I feel," I admit, thinking about Luke and grimacing.

"Take some time to think about it," he suggests, and I nod. "And you'll come by my office this week, right?"

"Yeah," I nod, stomach tightening with a fresh set of nerves as I think about having to talk to a therapist about all of this. Christ, how embarrassing .

"There's nothing to be embarrassed about, Max," Coach says, because apparently, he's a fucking mind reader. "Everyone needs a little extra help at some point, and whether you believe it or not, you are somebody who is worthy of care."

Lawson steps back into the kitchen, and I clear my throat, nodding another silent thank you to Coach Mackenzie. He walks with us to the front door, where Lawson presses a kiss to the top of his shoulder as he passes; I watch them unashamedly, drinking in the familiarity and relaxed affection between them. Way to go Coach Mackenzie , I think, as I watch Lawson's muscular back disappearing down the sidewalk toward his car.

I've barely clicked the seatbelt into place before I worry that I should have asked if Coach would ride with us. I know of Anthony Lawson, but I certainly don't know him as well as I do Coach—what do you say when you're alone with an NHL All-Star and one of your heroes?

"I watched the game last weekend, against Penn," he says, putting the car into reverse and using the back of my seat to turn around. "That snipe was impressive. Not sure even I could have caught it, and that's saying something."

I laugh, and he grins over at me. There is something of Luke in that grin—crinkled dark eyes and runaway hair falling over his forehead; someone who might cause a little mischief, but he'll get away with it because he's cute and knows it. I try to shut this down, though, because thinking about Luke hurts.

"Thanks. I wish Carter was still around to practice with—he never let me get away with anything."

Lawson chuckles, softly. "No, he wouldn't. Hey, do you have your phone with you?"

"Oh," I pause, feeling at my pockets. "Shit, no, I don't. I don't have anything. I think…I think I must have walked out without it, sorry."

"Okay, no worries. I want to give you our new address, just in case." He pulls up to a stop sign and I wordlessly point to the left; he clicks the blinker on. "Nico and I found a house not too far from here, but we'll be on campus for a few more weeks."

"Oh, well, congratulations. You don't…I mean, you don't have to give it to me. Isn't that against the rules? Rule #1 of being famous: never give out your home address? The only reason we all know it now is because he's in the faculty housing."

"Well, yeah, but Nico's hockey kids are probably going to be the exception to that rule. He's a big softie."

"Mm. Exactly the way I'd describe Coach," I deadpan, and watch Lawson's smile grow. "Take the next right and then stay on that road for a bit. I'm over in those apartments by the park."

"Cool. Do you live alone?"

"No, I have a roommate, Marcos. He plays baseball."

"Boring," he grunts, making me laugh. Oh yeah, he definitely shares a few personality traits with Luke . "Is he home?"

"No, I had plans with…no, he's not home."

Lawson nods, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. His voice is casual as asks: "Do you want to be alone? Because if not, we can work something else out."

"I'm just going to go to sleep," I tell him, which doesn't answer the question but hopefully saves me from having to do so. The truth is that no, I don't want to be alone. I want Luke's chest pressed against my back and his face smushed against my neck, the way he was the last time he slept over at my place. I want to hear him say ridiculous things and look pleased with himself when I laugh. Mostly, I just want Luke. But you can't have Luke, because you yelled at him and told him to leave .

"All right," Lawson replies, though he sounds unsure. I point toward my building as we pull into the parking lot of the complex and unclick my seatbelt. He does the same, sliding out of the car and shutting the door before I can call him back. "Do you have your keys? "

I sigh. "No. I just fucking walked out, I guess. Door is unlocked."

Embarrassed, I cup a hand over the back of my neck and rub at the fine hairs there. Lawson, completely unperturbed by my earlier insanity, merely smiles and gestures for me to lead the way. He trails me as we walk up the steps; holding the apartment door open for him, I click on the entry light and watch as he performs a quick visual inspection of the main room, as if he's checking for burglars.

Stepping into my bedroom, I find my phone right where I left it on my desk and bring it back out to him. No messages from Luke, but I know it was too much to hope that there might have been. You asked for space and he's giving it to you, don't be a hypocrite. I hand the unlocked phone to Lawson, silently.

He goes to my contacts first, typing in his name as well as the title of #1 Goalie before adding his number; the ache in my sternum eases, just slightly. After finishing with his own, he goes to find Coach Mackenzie's and updates the address. Handing the phone back, he looks around again, obviously uncertain about leaving me here alone.

"Do you need anything?" He asks.

"No, thank you."

"But if you did," he points to my phone, "you can call Nico or I."

"Right," I nod, trying to show my willingness to do so. He doesn't look appeased. "I'll be all right. Like I said, I'm just going to sleep. Maybe take a shower."

"All right," he says, taking a step toward the front door. "Make sure you lock this behind me. And?—."

"Call you if I need anything," I finish, and he grins. "Thank you, again, for everything. For dinner and… ev erything. For driving me home. I really appreciate it, and I'm sorry for hijacking your evening."

"There's nothing to apologize for." He steps out the front door and points back at the handle. "Lock that."

I watch him go as he jogs back down the stairs, waiting until I see the cut of his headlights through the dark before I close and lock the front door. True to my word, I immediately strip down and leave my clothes in a pile on the bathroom floor; cranking up the heat, I step under the stream, close my eyes and lean my head against the cool tile, letting the water beat down my back and unknot my muscles. I stand there until the water runs cold.

Putting on my SpongeBob pajama pants—and trying not to think of Luke as I do it—I crawl into bed and curl up on my side. I see what Luke means now, about needing a body pillow to trick himself into thinking another person is in the bed with him; already, in the few short weeks we've been doing it, I've come to rely on the steady weight of him beside me at night.

It takes me hours to fall asleep. When I do, I'm unsettled—waking up and falling back asleep in fits, pajama pants rucked up on my legs like I was restless. It's a relief when the morning comes and I can get out of bed. My body feels heavy and exhausted, and I wish I hadn't tried to sleep at all. No sleep would have been preferable to the variety I got last night.

I check my phone as I make myself a pot of coffee. There is a text from Marcos, and none from Luke. Locking the screen, I tip my head back and close my eyes.

Fuck .