He was a twenty-five-year-old virgin... a virgin’s virgin. He’d never gotten to first base, let alone scored a home run. No kissing. No nothing.
Once or twice he’d gotten drunk and had a chance with a pretty, willing girl. But both times he’d halted things, pleading a headache or an early start to the next day. It wasn’t that he believed sex—and other stuff—was for marriage. But if he did it... he wanted it to mean something. And for it to mean something, it meant caring. And the problem with caring was that it meant feeling.
And feelings were dangerous.
He gnawed the inside of his lower lip while twisting the championship ring around his finger. No one knew his secret. Not even Sully. Shit. Evenhe’dhad a girlfriend before joining the seminary.
Patch tore his gaze from Saint Anthony. While the Church might value celibacy, out in the real world, male virginity wasn’t any prize. If word leaked out, late-night comedians would have material for days. He’d be a punch line. A laughing stock.
The confessional door swung open and Sully lumbered out, suppressing a yawn. Patch rose from the pew and strode toward his friend, hoping his smirk hid his unease.
“Forgive me, Father, am I interrupting nap time?”
The priest wasn’t holding a paper, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t heard the news.
“I’d tell you to kiss my donkey, but I’m afraid you’d like it,” Sully muttered, stretching out his back muscles.
“Tsk. Tsk. You give the sacraments with that mouth?”
“Morning, Father.”
Sully nodded at the passing parishioner before slinging his arm around Patch’s shoulders and giving him a noogie. “I’m heading back to the rectory for a cup of coffee. Join me?”
Like Patch, Sully was Boston-raised, a gap-toothed Dorchester kid who’d attended Heaven’s Gate—the rival to his own Southie parochial high school Holy Cross. At first, they’d kicked each other’s asses in game brawls until both were granted hockey scholarships from Boston College. There they’d flipped the switch, becoming best friends, although still never missing a chance to bust each other’s balls.
“That depends on if you’re still chugging that instant shit?” He jerked away, rubbing a hand over the top of his head. “I don’t drink coffee unless it’s Dunkies.”
“Remind me why we are friends again?”
“You pity me.” Patch spoke the words lightly, but meant every word.
And Sully, with his priest Spidey-senses, knew it.
“Mrs. Giaccomo brought over cannoli yesterday. I’m telling you, it’s as good as anything in the North End. Come on.”
Patch managed a chuckle. “This I got to see to believe.”
Ten minutes later, Patch pushed back an empty plate in Sully’s kitchen. “God bless Mrs. Giaccomo.”
“Amen.” Sully patted his growing gut. “This parish is making me fat. The flan. The pupusas. Oh man. The El Salvadorians make magic with their pupusas.”
“Hit the ice with me sometime, I’ll whip you back in shape in no time.”
“Hmph. I hear you’ve got problems playing nice with others.”
The smile melted off Patch’s face.
“Read that you got served your first day back at practice? That’s cold.”
“That lawsuit is closed to discussion.”
“If you say so,” Sully replied mildly. “But you’re here to talk about something. So what is it?”
Patch kicked out his legs and crossed his arms. “Coach says I can start on one condition. I gotta see this chick who teaches yoga and shit.”
Sully nodded. “Go on.”
“That’s it.”
