10. Smitty

Ihad a crush on my neighbor and I went to high school every day. I couldn't decide if I was regressing or had unwittingly stepped into an alternate universe. Not that it mattered. I really fuckin' loved my new life in Elmwood. I mean, c'mon…there was little to no stress, everyone was friendly, and the guy across the street gave unbelievable hand jobs and BJs.

I didn't give Bryson a chance to put any distance between us after our foosball happy ending. In the spirit of reminding him that we could keep things light and friendly, I continued my role as the mildly odd new guy who collected flyers in town and wedged them in his doorjamb along with a treat. Apple fritters and a coupon for donut holes from Henderson's Bakery, a sponge and five dollars off your next car wash at Cooper's Car Cantina, and my favorite…a dog bone with a brochure for a new dog-walking business a few seniors from the high school had started.

This was how it worked—Bryson would bring the flyer and the treat du jour to my house, and ask why I'd left junk on his doorstep. I'd shrug innocently and invite him in for a beer, ramen, or foosball. The second I closed the door, we'd be all over each other, humping and grinding, bouncing off the walls and tearing at clothes in a mad effort to be skin to skin.

We never lasted long. Anticipation messed with my stamina. That was my story, and I was sticking to it. Just the thought of touching Bryson set fire to my veins. I burned for him—the scent of his cologne, the feel of his cock pressed against mine while I sucked his tongue and squeezed his ass. I wanted inside him again, but I wasn't in a hurry. It was enough to get to know him…the man behind the perfectly ironed shirt and pressed khakis.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd been this hyperaware of another person. I thought about Bryson all day long, looked for his car in his driveway, listened for his name in town…

Yeah, people talked about him and they had nothing but complimentary things to say. Bryson was a great guy, an amazing dad, a wonderful friend. But it seemed like they all had an idealized notion of who he was. C'mon, no one was perfect. And though it was cool that he was widely regarded as an exemplary parent and citizen, I wanted to know the real Bryson.

So, I did something I hadn't done in for-fucking-ever and asked questions over after-work barbecued chicken and foosball games.

Bryson liked the color red, but he didn't own a single piece of red clothing. He liked to swim, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd been in a pool…or to the ocean. He loved Star Wars, apple anything, full moons, and had a weird affinity for the number three. He loved Fleetwood Mac and U2, hated pistachios and olives. Oh, and he liked puzzles.

Apparently, I was a puzzle. My habit of littering his doorway with random treats and literature baffled him.

"You know I don't own a dog, right?" Bryson had huffed, leaning across the foosball table.

"I'm willing to overlook that fault."

"You don't either," he'd pointed out, swearing when I scored.

"Until a few months ago, I was on the road too much. I'll definitely get a dog…or a cat. Or both soon. What's your excuse?"

He'd frowned. "I don't have one. I like animals, but I have a low-key fear of not being a good pet parent."

I'd scored again, then set my hands on my hips and scoffed. "You? How could you be bad at it? You feed your dog, walk it, play with it, and boom, you got a friend for life. Cats are even easier. They just want food and to be left alone."

"Did you have pets growing up?"

"Always. My dad was a big ol' softy. He loved to rescue the so-called scary dogs who ended up at kill shelters or were abandoned on job sites. We had German shepherds, Rottweilers, boxers. I take it you didn't grow up with a pet."

"No. No one was home to take care of one."

"What about you?" I'd asked. "Weren't you home?"

"They forgot I was there most of the time too."

There was a story there, however, deep-diving into childhood trauma would only fuck with our light and fluffy vibe. Besides, I was mildly afraid he'd turn the tables on me, and I definitely didn't want to talk about my past.

"Yeah, well…do yourself a favor and get a damn dog. Best three out of five?"

My reservationsabout small-town living kicked in after school was underway in September. It was one thing to run practices in a tricked-out new rink in an empty architectural marvel and quite another to dodge hordes of teens in the hallways and deal with stressed-out teachers with plastic smiles pretending to be stoked to be back on the job.

As for me, I'd never worked at a high school. My exposure to teens was limited to summertime. Everything was fun in summer—especially hockey. You could be goofy and lighthearted in a way that wouldn't fly during the season. I'd only ever been concerned with my own ability to play great hockey in the fall. I worked on me, for me…always. This would be different.

And challenging. These were teenagers, for fuck's sake. They had curfews, negligible hygiene, and a host of worries I couldn't relate to like homework, crushes, and social media bullshit.

Truth time…I wasn't sure I liked adolescents, but even if I only stayed for two months, I had to perform. The boys were looking for leadership, and Riley needed a coach worth a damn.

Week one was a repeat of the last week of summer. Good but not great. They were distracted, and the only kid who consistently tried was Denny.

Funny enough, Denny was the one who worried me most. He might have been the best player, but hockey was a team sport and he was so quiet that I had to remind him to speak up and help direct the action on the ice.

Week two was better. The drills were cleaner, the effort was there, and they seemed to be building a rapport. Tim had moved on to quoting The Terminator, Micah was still playing instruments on his stick in between plays, and Harry brought Rice Krispies Treats to practice. But they were also learning their positions and getting better at handling the puck. Best of all, every single one of them was skating faster.

Call me crazy, but those little wins made coaching rewarding.

By week three, I knew I wasn't going anywhere.

I liked Elmwood.

I liked the people and the cadence of small-town life. The quaint scenery, fresh air, and lack of skyscrapers and Starbucks were everything I didn't know I wanted. And I really freaking liked my new job. It was basically extended summer camp in an idyllic setting where hockey ruled. What wasn't to love?

The program was still in flux, which meant the coaches on hand would be spread thin until some key positions were filled. No doubt it would be chaotic and stressful, but it sounded so much better than sitting behind a desk, wearing a suit and a fake smile.

I still had an apartment and things to deal with in Toronto, but no one needed me there. My lease was paid through January, and the job I had lined up could be done by anyone. I wasn't a necessary component to the network's success. But here…I felt as if I could make a difference.

"You're serious? You have no idea how thrilled I am to hear that," Riley had enthused. "Do you need to think about this or?—"

"No, I'm sure. I have to let the network know, but I can do that by phone, so…yeah, I'm in."

Riley had squeezed my elbow and followed it up with an impromptu bro hug. "This is great news. Welcome to the team, man."

Yeah, I liked the sound of that.

I'd always thrived on teams. Everything good in my life had started from a team. My teammates had been like brothers to me, my coaches had been surrogate parents. The structure, the discipline, the daily affirmation had been a foundation to success for me. Maybe it was time to give back.

I figured Jimmy would love to know that my stint at his summer camp had inspired me, but uh…not so much.

"What are you doing, Smitty?" He sighed.

"Coaching, dumbass."

"Why? And Vermont? Dude, I looked up that town you're in and I know the program at Elmwood Rink is doing well, but I couldn't find it on the fucking map."

I high-fived a student in the quad and crossed campus to get to the street on my way home. "Yeah, yeah, it's small. But it's a great?—"

"I'm sure it's nice. I'm just worried that you're wasting your talent, that's all."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Jimmy. I'm coaching, not feeding ducks at the lake all damn day," I huffed.

"I know. Please take this the right way…I just hope you're not running from real life, that's all."

There was no right way to take that, so I told him to fuck off and hung up. I liked my choice, and I didn't want to hear any negativity—especially not the kind that might be a teensy bit true.

I shoved my cell into my pocket and spotted Denny fussing with the chain on a rusty bicycle that had to be older than my dead grandma.

"Hey, there. Need a hand?" I asked, stopping at the bike rack.

Denny glanced up with a start and shook his head. "No, it's okay."

He gave off a strong "please move on and let me deal with this alone" vibe, but that wasn't me.

"Your chain is twisted." I dropped my bag on the ground and crouched to get a better look. "It's about to snap."

"It's fine."

I held the chain wheel still while he tried to wrangle it into place. It seemed like a hopeless cause to me, but he eventually did it.

"Nice." I stood and caught myself from wiping my greasy hands on my joggers. "How long do you think that'll stay put?"

"Three blocks," Denny replied, hiking his hockey bag over his shoulder.

"So…you do this whenever you ride this thing?"

He gave a casual shrug. "Yeah."

"Might be time to retire it."

"It was my dad's bike," he said as if that explained everything.

That was more than the usual two- or three-word phrases he usually gave, and it was even a little personal. His father had passed away. Of course, this was a special bike.

But Denny obviously didn't have anything else to say about it. He hopped on the bike and nodded, and probably would have been halfway down the street if I hadn't grabbed the seat.

"Hang on. I have a question for you." I scrubbed my hand over my jaw and blurted, "The team needs a captain. I think you have the potential to make a great one. What do you think?"

His surprise was evident. "Uh, I—um, it's not…"

And now he was visibly agitated.

Nice move, Paluchek.

"Hey, it's cool. It's just something to think about. No pressure."

Denny nodded and tore away in a flash.

I narrowed my gaze as he rode off, more curious about the kid than ever.

On the plus side, he'd spoken to me and it was more than one sentence or a grunt. I'd take that as a win.

I walked to the hardware store to buy some extra brushes for the paint I'd purchased last week and on a whim, stopped by The Milligan Company on Beech Street.

"Hey, Tracy, is your boss in?"

"Yes, he is! I'll let Bryson know you're here." Tracy swiveled in her chair and spoke into her headset. "Come on in. This way."

I followed her through the maze of rooms, stopping outside Bryson's office.

"Thanks," I said.

"No problem. Can I just say…we're so thrilled you're staying. The Hawks are going to have a great year. I can feel it!" She squealed in delight and squeezed my arm, practically skipping on her way back to her desk.

Bryson ushered me in and closed the door. I hesitated for a moment before pushing him against the nearest wall and slamming my mouth over his in a brief but passionate kiss. We were both panting for air when I released him.

"I've been thinking about doing that all day," I growled, sweeping a hand through his hair, loving his hot and hungry gaze.

He straightened his collar and cleared his throat. "So…you're staying?"

I snorted in disbelief. "How does everyone know? I just told Riley at lunchtime."

"Oh, you na?ve soul. News gets around mighty fast in these parts." Bryson crossed his arms and perched on the corner of his desk.

Uh-oh.

I'd been stiff-armed so often that I recognized all the signs. Crossed arms, crossed ankles, careful smile. Hey, at least he'd kissed me like he wanted to suck my tonsils out.

If I had to guess, I'd say Bryson was conflicted. On one hand, I knew he liked me…and my dick. But he gave off strong "stay in your lane" vibes I associated with super casual fuck-buddies. I could do that. I wasn't interested in a relationship, which made me the definition of a complication-free zone.

I didn't know how to assure him of that without having a weird conversation about intentions.

Yuck. That sounded…awkward.

"I should have known," I snarked. "I was going to leave this on your doorstep as a hint, but I happened to be in the neighborhood and time is of the essence."

"What's up?"

I shook the bag from the hardware store and flashed a devilish grin. "I want to paint the living room, and I need an elf."

"By elf you mean…"

"A helper. I bought an extra brush just for you. I can't live with that yellow and feel good about myself, so will you check with the owner to make sure it's cool? But even if it's not, I'm still doing it."

Bryson furrowed his brow. "Uh…I don't know how to paint."

"I'll teach you." I stepped between his open thighs and flattened my palm over his cock as I bent to nip his bottom lip. "Wear something comfy. Pizza's on me."