I missed Wes. I miss him every time he’s on the road, and all I wanted to do tonight was reacquaint myself with the man I love, preferably in the form of wild, sweaty sex.
The man I love. Even now, the phrase sticks in my mind with damn near wonder. I didn’t freak out when I realized last summer I was bisexual, and I’m not freaked out about it now. It’s not the wordmanthat fascinates me in that sentence, butlove. The way I feel about Ryan Wesley…it’s something I thought existed only in the movies. He’s my other half. We complement each other in more ways than I can count. When he’s in the same room, I’m focused on him, and when he’s gone I walk around missing him.
There’s an old quote my mother once painted on a ceramic platter.Love is friendship set on fire. I get it now.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not pissed at him.
I watch as he shovels enchiladas into his mouth. His gorgeous gray eyes are fixed on the TV screen, but I know he’s not paying attention to the show. The tension in his broad shoulders would be imperceptible to anyone else, but I see it clear as day, which causes some of my irritation to dissolve.
He hates this as much as you do, my conscience whispers.
Fuck off, conscience. I’m having a pity party, here.
Blake, on the other hand, is loving life hard. Hooting at the screen when a particularly badass action sequence comes on, sucking on his beer like he has no care in the world. Of course he doesn’t. He’s in his third year with the team and rocking it out on the ice, according to the quick Google search I conducted when I ducked into the bedroom to find a shirt. And most importantly? He’s straight. He doesn’t have to hide who he’s sleeping with or introduce his live-in partner as his “roommate”. Lucky bastard.
A bitter taste fills my mouth as I remember that in the eyes of the world, Ryan Wesley is also straight. My boyfriend has appeared on dozens of “Hockey’s Most Eligible Bachelors” lists. At every game there’s no less than five women holding up signs with clever come-ons directed at him—Dyin’ for RyanorWesley is the Bestley. Or not so clever ones—I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABIES, #57!!
Wes and I laugh off all the female attention he gets, buteven though I know there’s no danger of my very staunchly gay boyfriend dipping his toes in the pussy pool, all the hungry looks he gets still grate.
“Je-sus,” Blake crows. “Those tits are fan-fucking-tabulous.”
The lewd observation jerks me back to the present. The unwelcome present. On the screen, one of the female characters has just gotten naked—gotta love Cinemax—and I’m not going to lie, her breasts are incredible.
And since I’m supposed to be Wes’s harmless, straight-as-an-arrow roomie (and already being ruder than I should to his teammate), I decide to offer my own two cents. “They’re amazing,” I concur. “That actress is smokin’ hot.”
That gets me a slight frown from Wes, and just like that, my annoyance returns. Seriously? He’s letting his teammate crash our evening and he’s pissy that I find an actress attractive?
Blake takes my contribution to the conversation as a sign that we’re best friends and turns to me with twinkling green eyes. “You like blondes, huh? Me too, bro. You seeing anyone?”
From the corner of my eye I see Wes’s shoulders stiffen again. So do mine, but that could also be because the armchair I’m sitting on is ridiculously uncomfortable. Five minutes in that thing and your whole body feels like it went through a medieval torture rack. Plus, I’m ninety-nine percent sure someone died in this chair. Wes found it on the curb and then neglected to get rid of it even though I keep asking him to.
Next week this fucker is on thecurb.
The chair, I mean. Not Wes.
“Not really,” I answer vaguely, which brings another frown to Wes’s sexy lips.
“Playing the field, eh? Samesies.” Blake runs a hand through his brown hair. He’s really good-looking. And he’s huge. At least six-three and bulky as hell. “Who has time for relationships in our world, right, Wesley? Feels like our whole life is stepping on and off a plane.”
Wes grunts something unintelligible.
“I have no idea how Eriksson and the other guys do it,” Blake continues. “I’m exhausted during the season, and I’msingle.” He mock shivers. “Imagine having a wife and kids. That’s, like, terrifying. Do you think that’s how zombies are created? Like it’s not some craz-o virus, but just being so dead-ass tired that eating brains suddenly seems like a good idea?”
I can’t help but snicker. I get the feeling that Blake Riley could carry on an entire conversation with himself. Which is pretty much what he’s doing right now, seeing as how neither Wes nor I are saying a goddamn word.
After the current episode ends, Blake swipes the remote off the coffee table and clicks to play the next one without asking if it’s cool. He also cracks open another beer.
The ball of resentment in my throat is the size of a hockey puck now. It’s past nine o’clock. I need to be in bed by ten or else I’ll be dead on my feet tomorrow morning. If I don’t get at least seven hours of sleep, my brain goes all insomniac on me like Edward Norton’s fromFight Club. Hell, I kind of wish my lifewasFight Clubright about now. Then I’d have a good excuse to haul Blake Riley off my couch and toss him out on his ass.
But I can’t. I promised Wes I’d keep up appearances at least until the end of his rookie season. Coming out now would only hurt his career, and I’d rather take a bath in a tub full of glass shards than be the one to cost Wes his dreams.
So I sit in the death chair and pretend to care about the TV.I feign interest in what Blake is babbling about. I even chuckle at some of his jokes. But when ten-fifteen rolls around, I no longer have the luxury of keeping up appearances.
“I need to turn in,” I tell them, rising to my feet. “Gotta be at the arena at five-thirty in the morning.”
Blake seems genuinely disappointed to see me go. “You sure you can’t have another beer?”
“Maybe another time. ’Night, guys. Nice meeting you, Blake.”
