My thoughts turn to Monroe, and I don’t attempt to stop them. Let me overthink myself out of this obsession.
Monroe is good with Jamie; I can give him that. He’s patient and kind. Jamie and I still haven’t had the talk I promised, but I’m determined to do it before that hopeful gleam in Jamie’s eye dims to something else.
It’s harder than I thought, though, to carve myself open for my son. To let him in. I have a solid track record of not letting anyone in, but you can’t keep your kids out. Hell, he has a permanent place in my heart, always has, and the idea that I could keep him out is laughable.
But this is a secret room inside me, a place I never felt I needed to share, because by not being my dad, the room could stay closed. I huff a sigh.
Hockey and Jamie and my mixed feelings have always been there, and this moment was always coming. I need to be delicate with Jamie; I have to find the words to make him understand how I feel about hockey. It was almost too easy to explain to Monroe, though.
Monroe. Again.
Monroe is not what I expected. The media portrays him as a playboy of sorts, and I can see that side of him. His smirk is sin itself, and I’m sure it’s not hard for him to get someone into his bed. But it’s also a side that seems to belong to a much younger man than the one I’ve gotten to know. Maybe it isn’t age. Maybe it’s maturity.
I sigh, shading in my sketch.
I like to think that at the end of the day, I’m honest with myself. And the honest truth I’m struggling with today is that I’m attracted to Monroe. I can cover that all I want with worries about Jamie slapped up like wallpaper over a bad paint job.
That’s not the problem, though. Attraction is easy enough. I see attractive people every day.
It’s that I wanted to kiss him that night by the truck. I wanted to taste his lips, to feel what his skin felt like against mine, under mine. I wanted to turn that smirk into surprise and that surprise into pleasure.
And that’s a problem.
I’m not oblivious to sex or desire. Over the years, the few nights of the year that Liz or her parents took Jamie overnight was plenty to scratch that itch. Or when he was staying with a friend, now that he’s older. Chicago is a short train ride away that’s made sex when I want it easy. Uncomplicated.
But Monroe is complicated. I’ve never done complicated. Never been attracted to complicated. Even if we put the hockey issues aside, although those aren’t small, Monroe would never be kept at arm’s length. Oh no. He’s a get to know you down to the marrow kind of guy.
I can’t imagine a world where the type of relationship I had with Liz would ever fly with Monroe.
Nah.
I think back to the times he’s been up in my space—not because he didn’t see the bubble I keep around me. His smirk is enough of a tell. Nope. Monroe wasn’t looking at the bubble. He was looking at me.
And the bubble be damned because he couldn’t care less.
I should run from a guy who can see me like that as far as the east is from the west.
Except.
Maybe I like it a little bit.
My body heats, all the way to my face, which flames so hard I can feel the burn in my cheeks.
Do I have a crush on Monroe?
I sigh, finally looking at my sketch.
It’s an arm, drawn to break out of the ice block we’re given to carve from at The Freeze. The bicep is strong and the hand wraps around a hockey stick held up in victory.
I stare at the shading, the tendons rendered in graphite. The long fingers. The scar over the knuckle of the ring finger.
That’s Monroe’s arm.
Shit.
***
“Dad?”
