He took the tiniest step closer to Joel. Joel backed up against the brick wall. His eyes didn’t leave Quentin’s. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes wide.
“What do you want?” Quentin whispered. “You said I don’t know. So, tell me.”
“Quentin,” Joel breathed.
“What do youwant?”
Joel just shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Goddamn it, Joel,what do you want?”
Joel cried out in exasperation. “Fuckinghell, Quentin, you don’t know when to quit.” Then he seized Quentin’s face in both his hands and kissed him on the mouth.
When Quentin had been a junior in college, he had to have minor surgery on his ankle. It wasn’t anything serious, mostly a preventative surgery to keep him from later injury, but they’d given him full anesthesia to simplify things and keep him from feeling pain. While he’d been knocked out, hesworethat he had been able to watch the surgery while it happened, as if he was floating above his body. He could see himself unconscious on the table, see the tools they used to cut into him, and fix the tendons in his ankle. He would swear later that he’d had an out-of-body experience, though no one really believed him.
When Joel kissed him, it was almost the same feeling. Almost like Quentin floated out of his body and watched as Joel pulled him closer, as Quentin, wide-eyed and shocked at first, melted into the kiss, gripping Joel’s hips, pressing his body to Joel’s. The kiss was hungry, hot, and deep, and Quentin’s hand skated up beneath Joel’s shirt, as Joel’s head fell back against the bricks and he moaned. The moan did something feral to Quentin, and he licked a line from Joel’s collarbone to his ear.
“Tell me,” he whispered in Joel’s ear, “what you want.”
Joel let out a gasp, then, and broke apart from Quentin. “Quentin, I…” he whispered. He stared at Quentin, his cheeks flushed, his lips pink and swollen from kissing. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m so sorry.” He slipped out of Quentin’s grasp.
Quentin watched in dismay as Joel hurried out of the alley and cast one look behind him. “I’m so sorry,” he called over his shoulder, and then pulled his cap low over his head and disappeared into the night.
Chapter 13
Quentin
For three weeks, Quentin didn’t hear anything from Joel. During the first few days of silence, he texted Joel daily. He asked if Joel was okay and asked him what was wrong. He apologized, though he wasn’t sure how he’d messed up. Joel had kissed him first, not the other way around. He didn’t know what he had done, and he was sorry. He had come to appreciate his friendship with Joel, and with some distance, he realized that it was obvious he felt more for Joel than just friendship.
During those three weeks of silence, he threw himself into hockey. They had a busy schedule, so it wasn’t hard to use the game to distract himself. He played every game like he had something to prove. He was vicious on the ice, unstoppable, and sometimes a little brutal. He tolerated nothing less than perfection from his teammates and from himself. When they lost games, he was angry, more at himself than at his teammates. He tried not to take his anger out on his team, but more than once, he let his anger get the best of him. He got in multiple fights on the ice and spent more time in the penalty box in those two weeks than he had in his entire career beforehand.
His coach, Bogdanovic, asked if he was okay. It was obvious that something was wrong. Quentin blew him off, said that there wasn’t any problem, and Bogdanovic said that Quentin had better figure outwhatwas wrong or he’d be benched for a bit. The behavior he was exhibiting wasn’t appropriate for a captain. Quentin knew it, and he felt like he was letting his team down.
There was no one he could talk to so that he could process his emotions. He was hurt, that was the root of the problem, hurt that Joel just left. He was confused, and he was afraid. He didn’t know how to work through all of the emotions on his own, and it scared him.
Two weeks after the game against Tampa Bay, the Minutemen faced off against Ottawa, back in Boston. Quentin wasn’t in a good headspace for that game. He was sloppy on the ice and missed multiple shots. He felt like he was letting his team down. He couldn’t concentrate, and when they lost the game 1-0, he personally felt like he had let his team down.
He threw his helmet when he was back in the locker room after the game. Henri caught it in midair, tossed it back to Quentin, and glared at him.
“Something crawled up your ass anddied,” Henri said, “and it’s stinking up the entire arena. You’re coming over for a late dinner tonight, and we’re going to talk, okay?” He spoke with a low voice, so that no one else in the locker room could hear them, but the steel in his gaze left no room for questions. Quentin knew that Henri was right. Quentin had acted unacceptably, as a player and as a captain, and probably as a friend. Henri had called him out on it, and though it made Quentin angrier in the moment, he knew it was the move of a good friend.
“Okay,” he said, and sighed. “I’m sorry.”
Henri just shook his head and went to the showers. Quentin avoided the gazes of his teammates, feeling lousy about his bad behavior.
He sat on the bench by his changing stall and rubbed his forehead. His thoughts felt stormy and impossible to control. He could normally clear his head well before games, but he hadn’t been able to recently. Whenever he closed his eyes, he was back in the humid alley in Tampa, kissing Joel and wanting to do more than just kiss.
How had he missed it this entire time? How had he not seen what he wanted? He wanted Joel. HeneededJoel. Everything that had irritated him about Joel had been things that attracted him to the pop singer. Joel was beautiful, talented, smart, funny, and sexy. Quentin wanted him and needed him the way he wanted and needed hockey. Joel feltvital. And Joel had run away.
His thoughts spun. Joel had kissed him first. Surely, Joel wanted Quentin, too. Did that mean Joel was gay? Joel Beckett, the world-famous pop star. Did it mean that he liked Quentin, too? That he desired Quentin the way Quentin desired him?
The thoughts hurt, spinning around his mind, taking up all the space, pushing out anything else.
He groaned in frustration, stripped off his gear, and stalked to the shower, where he hoped the hot water would wash away some of his confusion. He stood under the hot spray until his skin was flushed and tender, and then dried himself off, dressed, and went to his car. He waved off his teammates who were trying to cheer him up. Maybe it was rude, but he needed space. They could tell something was wrong, but they didn’t know what, and he didn’t feel like he could tell them. They didn’t know the truth, they didn’t really knowhim, and he didn’t know what he’d even say. He didn’t know what he’d say to Henri, either. Henri was his best friend and the most logical person for him to come out to, but he was afraid of it. He knew Henri would receive it well and that he could trust Henri, but he’d kept the secret of his sexuality for so long that it felt like a betrayal of trust. He regretted not trusting Henri sooner.
When he arrived at Henri and Cort’s apartment building, he sat in his car for ten minutes, staring at his steering wheel and barely blinking. He felt like shit. He wanted to know what Joel was doing, but after the first three days of Joel not responding to his messages, he had tried to go cold turkey. He hadn’t texted Joel, hadn’t looked him up online or on social media, hadn’t checked the news. He didn’t even know what city Joel was in right now for his tour. It hurt too much to look. He didn’t want to know if Joel was out there thinking about him, too, or if Joel had already forgotten him and moved on with his life. He didn’t know which idea would hurt worse. Quentin couldn’t imagine that Joel could so easily forget him.
Finally, he mustered up the courage to go up to Henri and Cort’s building. He rang the buzzer for their apartment. Henri let him up and then opened the door. His hair was still damp from his shower at the arena, and he wore a gray Crownbridge University sweatshirt and ripped jeans. His face was neutral.
