I grin. Gotcha. “You totally fucking snore, man.” I keep my tone light. “Like a fucking chainsaw. Why do you think I wear those little orange earplugs?”
There’s a beat of silence before he blows out a noisy sigh, and the sheets rustle as he shifts onto his back.
“Oh, fuck off, Rookie.” But his words aren’t angry. There’s a smile in his voice, which feels oddly like a victory.
We both go quiet. I should probably leave it alone and go to sleep, but for some reason, I have the urge to soothe him. To comfort him and help him figure out a solution to whatever’s got him so twisted up.
“Hey, uh, Lou… is everything okay?”
He hesitates for a moment, like he’s deciding how to answer, “Nah, I’m fine, kid. Don’t worry about it.”
Kid.
Usually, that dismissive nickname makes my hackles rise. It’s his way of putting me in a box. You’re the kid, I’m the vet. You’re the student, I’m the master.
But tonight, it’s almost like he’s using it as a shield.
“You sure?” I press. “Because you didn’t eat your cheesecake. And that’s definitely not normal.”
He lets out a short, dry chuckle, but it dies quickly.
“So, um, if you ever want to talk about anything,” I add, the words tumbling out before my brain can vet them, “I’m a pretty decent listener. I mean, I don’t talk a whole lot, so the ratio works out in your favor.”
I’m hoping for a chuckle, but my attempt at a joke falls flat since he doesn’t respond. The silence between us stretches out, tight and heavy.
Then, abruptly, he throws back the covers, nearly leaps out of bed, and charges over to the floor-to-ceiling window. His broad shoulders are scrunched up near his ears, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he paces back and forth in front of the glass like a caged animal.
“Shit, I… uh…” he stammers.
He runs his fingers through his messy hair, clenching his hand into a fist and pulling at the strands in frustration. He lets out a noise that lands somewhere between a growl and a whine.
“I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me, Tanner.”
Hearing him use my first name causes my jaw to drop. He never calls me Tanner. I’m Sinc, or Rookie, or kid. If he’s first-naming me, we’re in uncharted territory.
I push my covers back and swing my legs out of bed. The room is cold, but I ignore it, walking over to where he’s standing by the glass. I stand next to him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, but far enough away to give him space. The Calgary skyline is a grid of white lights against the cold, dark sky, but I’m not sure he’s seeing it as he stares out.
“Did you hear a trade rumor or something?” I ask quietly.
“No. It’s not—not about hockey.” He presses his forehead against the cool glass, his breath fogging up the pane. “I’m sleeping like shit because I keep having these… dreams.”
“Nightmares?”
“No,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. Suddenly, he pulls back from the window and starts pacing again, practically wearing a hole in the carpet between the window and the door.
“Not nightmares. They’re like—sexy. Except they’re not, uh, normal. At least for me—not normal for me.” He lets out a brittle laugh. “And when I wake up, I feel like I’ve committed a crime.”
Oh. Oh… Does he mean…?
“I’m thirty-four fucking years old, Tanner. I know who I am. I like women. I love women. I’ve always loved women. So why has my brain suddenly started running highlight reels of stuff that definitely doesn’t involve women?”
Well, sweet Jesus on skates. Not what I was expecting to hear. But I can’t help but feel for the guy. He’s clearly struggling. Hard.
“God, say something,” he whispers roughly. He stops pacing, standing in front of me, his dark eyes wide and pleading in the dim light. “Tell me it’s just stress. Tell me I need to get laid or sleep for a week. Give me the logic, Sinc. Use that big brainof yours and tell me this is some kind of minor glitch in my operating system or something.”
He’s begging me to let him off the hook. He wants me to dismiss his feelings so he can shove them all back into a box he can bury at the back of his closet. That would be the easiest thing. I could tell him he’s right, and it’s probably a reaction to stress because there’s a lot on his shoulders this year as one of the team’s leaders, and pressure does weird things to the brain. It wouldn’t be a lie.
But I’ve never been good at doing the easiest thing.
