Keep up the good work, she’d said, as if it were that simple. I couldn’t flip a switch and go back to hating him, but I could avoid getting pulled into that kind of moment again. I had to remember it was only pretend.
Except I didn’t hate Pack. I’d spent years convinced I did, but a few days together had blown that apart. It wasn’t hate I felt; it was the ghost of what I’d wanted back in college.
I’d wanted him. Not just sex, buthim. The feelings crept up on me before I knew what they were. Pack had been the person I trusted more than anyone. Somewhere in the middle of all our shenanigans, I fell for him. There was a big problem, though. Packy was straight, and the more I wanted something else, the more girls he dated.
Then I met Kayla. She was beautiful and funny, and even though I already knew deep down that I was gay, I dated her anyway. She wasn’t the person I wanted, and the sex was more like a chore than physical relief. We lasted a few months before she dumped me, saying I obviously wanted something else.
I was terrified of losing the distraction. Without her, who knew what I might say to Pack? Trying to save face, I told him I’d broken up with her.
A few weeks later, he slept with her. I hadn’t just lost her; I’d been betrayed by the person I actually loved. Furious, I started the fight in the locker room, and we were both jerks for the rest of the year. After we left for the HFNA—him to the Warriors, me to the Condors—we never talked about it again.
Now we were supposed to smile for the cameras while I pretended I didn’t remember every almost-moment we’d shared.Fuck it.I picked up my phone, typed a message, and deleted it. Tried again. Deleted that too. Finally, I settled on something safe.
NICO: Marissa’s a trip, huh? See you next week.
His reply came faster than I expected.
PACKY: Can’t wait. Try not to miss me too much before then.
The sarcasm was as subtle as a slap to the face, but was there something else underneath it? Sometimes people tell you what they really think when they don’t realize what they’re doing.
Fuck that, and fuck me. Was I losing it again? I couldn’t let him have the last word, so I typed a reply.
NICO: Am I what you dream about, Paquette?
Three dots appeared, and another message came through.
PACKY: Wouldn’t you like to know?
I stared at the words too long, trying to figure out what they meant. No luck. Thinking about him had worn me out so much I was incapable of higher thought, so I went to bed.
Sleep didn’t come easily. How the fuck had life gotten so complicated just as things were looking good?
11/
packy
The doorbell cutthrough the quiet like a ref’s whistle. I’d only been staring at the ceiling anyway, replaying the Atlanta trip on a loop in my head. Someone started knocking, and since sleep wasn’t happening, I dragged myself out of bed. I stumbled to the door in boxer briefs and a T-shirt.
The FedEx guy was already heading back to his truck when I called out. He jogged back and handed me a thick envelope.
“Sorry about all the noise, Mr. Paquette. This is from the HFNA, so I figured it might be important.”
“Thanks.”
I scrawled my signature and took the package inside. When I ripped it open, a glossy booklet slid out:Tips for Making Quick Interactions Matter to Fansby Marissa Helms.
Scoffing, I tossed it on the hall table and headed for the kitchen. The coffee maker gurgled while I stared out the window at my snow-covered garden. Something about the angle of winter light cutting through bare branches took me back to Michigan mornings after practice. Nico and I would talk trash as our laughter echoed off the brick buildings. Sometimes, we shoved each other into snowbanks and laughed even harder.Afterward, we’d head back to the dorm, exhausted but grinning anyway.
I gripped the counter. I’d been fighting memories like this all night. Not the ones about the fight and what came after, but from before it, back when I thought nothing could touch us.
When the coffee finished brewing, I poured a cup and sank onto a barstool. Even after downing half the mug, I couldn’t keep track of all the thoughts competing for space in my head.
In Michigan, Nico and I had been inseparable. I thought again about how we used to sneak into the rink after hours. With no coaches yelling or teammates raising hell, there was only the sound of blades on the ice, and our chirps echoing off the empty stands. When we were ready to fall over, we’d lie on the ice and stare up at the rafters. Those nights were some of the best of my life.
One night before winter break of our second year, we went at it especially hard. I saw an opening and went for it, but Nico read the move and cut me off. We collided at full speed, and our sticks clattered to the ice as we went down in a tangle of limbs.
I land on top of him, and for a moment, neither of us moves. His chest heaves beneath mine, and our breath fogs in the cold between us. Our faces are so close I can see the dark ring of his lashes. Shit, he’s beautiful. I should push up and make a joke or something. I need to get off him, but my body doesn’t want to. We stay there, trapped in each other’s eyes, locked together by something I don’t understand.
