“Look, Lou, I can’t tell you it’s only stress,” I say, keeping my voice low and steady.
He flinches slightly but keeps holding my gaze as he stands in front of me, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths.
“Normally, stress might make you dream about missing the team bus or trying to play goal without your skates. Stupid shit like that,” I say. “Stress makes you grind your teeth. It doesn’t make you question who you are.”
“I’m thirty-four fucking years old.” His voice is almost pleading. He runs his hands over his face and steps back to the window, looking out at the skyline again. “I know who I am. No one goes to bed straight one night and wakes up queer the next morning. That’s not how it works.”
“Says who?” I ask softly.
He snaps his gaze to mine in the reflection.
I take a step closer. I’m treading on dangerous ground here. I haven’t told a soul in this league about my sexuality. About the fact that I’m more interested in the wine, not the label or the shape of the bottle it’s in. I’m not sure I want to hand that information over to the guy whose job I’m chasing, but I can’t stomach the thought of leaving him hanging out there all alone after basically coming out to me.
“You think there’s a deadline on figuring out who you are?” I ask. “Like you have to file all your paperwork by age twenty-one or the government comes after you?”
He lets out a shaky breath. “Feels like it should be filed by thirty-four.”
I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile. “Look, Louis. Just because you find a new room in the house you’ve been living in for thirty-four years doesn’t mean the whole place is burning down. Maybe it means you have more rooms than you thought.”
Louis doesn’t answer. He stares out the window at the steam rising from the buildings.
I step closer, laying my hand on his bare shoulder, attempting to reassure him. I half expect him to shrug me off and make a joke, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he surprises me by letting out a long, ragged exhale and leaning into my touch. He rests his forehead against the cold window glass and lets out a big sigh.
“I guess I thought that part of my life was figured out already,” he murmurs. “But I guess my sexuality is one more thing I don’t have nailed down yet.”
“Hey. Would it be such a bad thing?” I ask gently. My hand is still on his shoulder, and I squeeze gently, trying to offer him as much support as I can.
He takes a deep breath. “No. I don’t think so. Not really. I mean, obviously, Rylan’s my best friend, and I don’t give a shit who he loves. I’m so happy he found Jamie. And my family is completely fine with it—that’s no big thing. I think it’s fucking me up because it’s not something I ever considered. Even after I found out about Ry. It never crossed my mind that I might be… queer. It’s an adjustment, I guess.”
“I get that,” I say, because I do. “A big change in how you see yourself can throw you for a loop.” My voice has droppedan octave, and I realize I’ve been tracing slow circles against the warm skin of his shoulder with my thumb.
“Wait,” he says, lifting his forehead off the glass and looking at me with wide eyes over his shoulder. “Are—Tanner, are you…?”
His voice trails off, like he’s not sure how to finish his question. I pull my hand away from his shoulder and clear my throat, looking down for a second before snapping my eyes back to his. I refuse to be ashamed of who I am.
I nod. “Yeah. I’m pan.”
The air in the room changes instantly.
Louis turns his body, shifting so he’s facing me.
And suddenly, this conversation isn’t about Louis’s identity confusion anymore. The world narrows down to the two feet of space between us.
His dark eyes search mine, wide and vulnerable, and then, as if gravity is pulling them down, his gaze drops to my lips, and his breathing quickens.
My breath hitches. Shit. This was not part of the plan.
I could close the gap between us right now and take his mouth. He wouldn’t stop me. He wants me to—I know it right down to my bones.
My pulse hammers in my throat. The memory of his hand holding mine when he helped me up this morning flashes through my mind. Fuck, I want to taste him.
His tongue darts out, moistening his lips, and suddenly, I’m very aware that my dick is hard as a rock.
This is a horrible idea. Beyond horrible. He’s spiraling, he’s exhausted after not sleeping properly for weeks, and he’s just experienced a huge revelation about himself. He’s emotional and reaching for me because I feel like the only solid thing he can hold on to right now.
Kissing him would be a really fucking dumb thing to do. And I don’t make dumb mistakes.
