Phil Easton needed a caretaker.Ben needed to not pay out the eyeballs for accommodation.
Maybe he could kill two birds with one stone.
Ben turned up at Easton’s house three hours later with his suitcases packed and in hand.It was a dickishly confident move, but desperate times called for dickishness.If Easton couldn’t be talked into an in-home caretaker, Ben would check into the nearest Super 8.He’d already broken his lease and left the apartment, thankful he’d chosen a month-to-month and could fit all his possessions into two bags.
Easton took five minutes to answer the door, and when he did, he leaned heavily on one crutch.His T-shirt had a stain of what could be either dried blood or barbecue sauce on the chest, and he hadn’t shaved.It didn’t necessarily make him less attractive, but Ben didn’t like the look on him.As a man who owned three suits that more or less fit and hated wearing ties, Ben’s style usually compared badly to Easton’s.His walk-in looks were a little retro, plaid suits with checked shirts and elbow pads, but they looked good.And he experimented with skinny ties and vests and all sorts of things Ben couldn’t be bothered with.Right now, with Ben still dressed for work in a button-up and slacks, they would both be more comfortable if they traded outfits.
When he saw Ben, Easton groaned.“I told Tom I was fine.”
“And he didn’t believe you, rightly so.”
Easton’s mouth compressed to a thin line.“So you’re going to, what, babysit me?”
Ben scoffed.“You’re a grown man, Easton.It’s all right to need help sometimes.”
“Little odd to be getting it from my coach.”
Right.Just because Ben didn’t see himself as a real hockey coach didn’t mean other people knew he was faking it.
“You can look at it as a mutually beneficial situation,” Ben responded.“My apartment’s being renovated, and I need somewhere else to stay anyway.”
“Huh.”Easton looked him up and down.“Always figured you for the suburban house, two-door garage kinda guy.Space for the wife and kids, y’know.”
A hysterical laugh threatened to escape Ben’s throat.“Nope, not for me.Are you gonna let me in, Easton?”
“Phil.”
“Huh?”
“If you’re gonna be staying here, you should call me Phil.”
“Ben.”
“Nice to meet you.”
Ben glared at Phil.He would not be having any cutesy shit.Straight guy bro-flirting was not on the agenda.Not if Ben intended to win the battle of not staring at the view of his firm pecs swelling under his T-shirt.
Phil hobbled into the house, and Ben picked up his suitcases and followed.Right away, he could see what Crowler had meant.The air tasted stale, as if Phil hadn’t managed to open his windows in the last day or two.A pile of plates rested on the coffee table, neatly stacked but still dirty.The pillow and blanket thrown over the back of the couch sent a pang of sadness through Ben.He’d been there more than once himself.
“Thanks for this,” Phil said belatedly.“Last time I hurt my knee, my wife—ex-wife—was here.I forgot how much easier she made things.”
Ben hummed in something that could be heard as sympathy or curiosity, a skill he’d perfected over a hundred interviews, but Phil didn’t continue.Instead, he hobbled toward the left.
“So here’s the kitchen.It’s the only place I could get the architect to put a darn wall in downstairs.I get a grocery delivery on Tuesdays.If you let me know what you need, I can add it to the list.Over there”—he gestured with the crutch he wasn’t leaning on—“is the living room, aka my den of sadness.There’s a home gym and a bathroom to the right, and the bedrooms are upstairs.”
He glanced over at Ben, challenging, but Ben hadn’t gotten this far by being easily cowed, not even by hot hockey players.
“Come on, then.”Ben set down his suitcases and walked up to Phil.He gestured for Phil to sling an arm over his shoulders.
The height difference worked to their advantage.Phil was tall enough to lean easily on Ben, and Ben was solid enough (some might say pudgy enough) to easily support some of Phil’s weight.For all he’d shown up because Phil couldn’t manage by himself, it took them less than three minutes to get up the stairs, and neither of them had lost their breath doing it.When he had to let go, Ben regretted the efficiency.He didn’t want to stop touching.Phil was a long line of heat against his body.He smelled of stale sweat and faintly of some sort of hair product, and Ben found himself inhaling deeply.
Ben forced himself to step aside.No objectifying the hockey players.Their jobs did that for him already, literally.He could name to the decimal point how many millions of dollars it was worth Pulvermacher to have Phil break his body for the team.Phil didn’t need it from him too.
“Thanks,” Phil said.“So, down the hall on the right are the guest rooms.The only one with sheets and stuff is the first room.It has a door to the en suite bathroom in the master right here.We’ll be sharing.”
“That’s fine.Do you need help with showering?”
Phil remained silent for a suspiciously long time.
