Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
“That’s not true,” he protested.
“Love, you know it is. You have things to figure out—your sexualité, for one. How would you explain me? Would we pretend to be friends? I’m gay. I’m out. I could pretend. I could go into the wardrobe again, but—”
“Closet,” he corrected flatly.
“Yes. I did it for many years, and I’m good at it. But that’s not—how do you say?—healthy. For either of us. I think you need to finish this chapter yourself. Finish your season, play without fear. Don’t worry about the press looking over your shoulder, looking for scandal. Don’t let anyone take this chance from you, because it may be the last one you have. Next season may or may not come. All you have is now, and hockey is your now. Not me.”
Riley worked his jaw from left to right, then bit his bottom lip and looked away. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”
“No apologies. There is no reason to say sorry.”
“I shouldn’t have put you on the spot. Your life is here.” His voice hitched and my heart lurched on cue.
“For now…yes.”
“Are you going to open that restaurant with Nolan?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. He offered me forty percent in the diner.”
“Oh.” He licked his lips and nodded like a puppet on a faulty string.
“That’s not the reason, Riley.” I tightened my grip on his hand, my eyes glued to his. “It’s not about my job or your job. It’s not about the distance. It’s about healing and growing and becoming who you are on your schedule, on your time. There’s no rush, mon cher. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here for you. Always.”
His Adam’s apple slid in his throat. “Fuck. So…this is it.”
“No, this is…until next time.”
We stared at each other for a long moment. Nat King Cole gave way to Elvis Presley’s mournful blues, and suddenly it was difficult to see through the sheen of tears. I blinked as I stood and pulled him into my arms, hugging him close.
I wanted to tell him I wasn’t ready to let go. I wanted to tell him I’d been dreading good-bye for weeks now. I wanted to tell him he’d brightened my life, made me laugh and think and dream, and…love.
And yes, that was the crux of it all. I loved him.
This wasn’t just want and desire. This was love.
It hadn’t presented itself in a neat bow on a single occasion. It was an accumulation of days and hours and minutes, revealing pieces of ourselves, showing scars, and sharing dreams. He was in my veins now. I’d witnessed the fear he couldn’t quite hide at the thought of losing hockey.
But it wasn’t over, and he didn’t have to choose.
They say when you love someone, you set them free. But they never tell you how much it hurts.
And it hurt.
13
RILEY
My body had a weird way of insulating me from pain. On the ice, I tended to go numb in the place I’d been struck, and if I could breathe through the worst of it till my other organs and synapses kicked in to compensate, I was usually fine. But hey, I played hockey and pain was part of the game.
Hockey players got up when they were knocked down. We wrapped bruised ribs, put Band-Aids on gashes that needed stitches, and if we could get away with it, we played with broken bones and concussed heads. Maybe that was why this two-month hiatus had hit extra hard. I relied on my body to do what I’d trained for…and it had failed me once. And again tonight.
My heart fucking ached in my chest. It felt as if I were bleeding out on the carpet, and one wrong move might send me to my knees.
God, I probably looked pathetic. No, I was pathetic. Had I really thought he’d want to take me on? I’d hoped he did, but I hadn’t thought this through ’cause I was terrified that I wouldn’t get the answer I wanted. And I didn’t.
But Jean-Claude had been right to ask the bigger question: did I actually know what I wanted?
I clung to him like a piece of gum on the bottom of his shoe, daring him to pry me off of him as I buried my face in the crook of his neck. I searched for nuances in the moment—the smell of his cologne, the whoosh of wind against the window, the strains of holiday music in the background—something to ground me and remind me that I could stand on my own.
After a few minutes, I stepped aside, unsure and awkward. I didn’t know if I should start cleaning the dishes or suggest finishing dessert, though I was pretty confident I’d puke if I tried to eat another bite.
Jean-Claude saved us with a sweet smile, took my face in his hands, and kissed me with everything he had. We left the dishes, the dessert, and the music, and made our way upstairs.