He chuffs out a laugh. “I don’t drink anymore.”
He puts the butter saucepan in the sink and carries the popcorn into the living room. I carry the drinks. “But you drank the other night.”
His blue eyes find mine, an unreadable expression on his face, before he sets the bowl on the ancient coffee table and reaches for the TV remote. “I also drank my weight in champagne when we won the Cup. I can drink. I just choose to avoid it most times. Not because I have a problem controlling myself or anything. But because when I was sick from the chemo, it always reminded me of a hangover, and I would like to avoid that feeling again. Especially since my post-cancer body seems to get hungover after two drinks nowadays.”
“Ah.”
“So… umm…” I put our drinks on the coffee table and scoop up some popcorn as I search for the right words. “You really hate talking about the cancer, huh?”
He freezes, his hand holding the remote, finger hovering over the Netflix button. His head turns toward me. His eyes are so fucking pretty. I could stare at them all day, every day. I noticed them the very first game he came back during the playoffs last year. We hadn’t even had a chance to meet each other, but they caught my attention because they popped through the helmet from several feet away. Now, though, they seem darker than they do on the ice, and they look slightly annoyed. “I don’t think anyone would really understand. They see a guy who beat it and think I should be strutting around like a lottery winner on his way to buy a boat.”
I chuff out a small laugh. “Quite the analogy.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I didn’t win anything. I didn’t beat anything. I’m in remission. It could come back, but I can’t say that because that doesn’t fit the Rudy story they want to hear, and it would make me a pretty shitty bet for any future contracts.” I lift an eyebrow.
“Are you always worried? That it will come back?” My stomach knots at the possibility, so I can’t even imagine how he feels. Of course, he’s worried. It must feel like this thing that follows him everywhere.
He stares at the remote for a long, silent beat before he shrugs. “Statistically, they say if you stay in remission for five years, you can say you’ve beaten it. So at some point every day, I think about March 31st, 2028, because that’s my five-year mark. And then I scold myself for thinking about it, because it gives it power, again. It took so much from me, whether I’ve beaten it or not. It’s fucked with my career, my family, my finances, and my relationship, which is basically over now. So I’ll be fucking damned if I’m going to talk about it to fans or interviewers too.”
I reach for him before I can stop myself because he looks so fucking defeated. I wrap an arm around his neck and pull him into me. I hug him, hard, with just one arm, telling myself that makes it less dangerous. But he curls his head into my shoulder and wraps both his arms around my back. “I will deflect every time someone brings it up. And Landon, your relationship isn’t over. She’ll come back.”
“I don’t think Angie’s physical location is my biggest problem,” he whispers, and his breath dances across my cheek. I turn my head slightly, and his handsome face slips into focus.
“You’re bi. Big deal. You don’t have to throw away ten years with someone because of that,” I whisper back.
He licks his lips, slowly. I’m fixated on the movement, and my cock stirs to life, which is not helpful. “You’re right.” It seems like it was difficult for him to admit that. My whole body is aware of how close we are and how dangerous it is. “Can I ask you if you’re bi?”
“You can ask me anything,” I confess, which is not easy. I don’t share myself with anyone, but Landon’s vulnerability is contagious. “But I’m not bi. I’m gay.”
“But you were with Angie.”
“I can be with women. It’s not a total turn-off. But it doesn’t light me on fire. The first time I was with a guy… it was like when Dorothy lands in Oz and everything is finally in color,” I explain. I shouldn’t still be holding him, so I slowly drop my hand from his neck. “But I only agreed to the threesome so I could touch you. I’ve wanted you for much longer than I should admit.”
He blinks. “Oh.”
We stare at each other. He licks those incredible lips with the perfect cupid’s bow. “I… can’t.”
His hand moves to my knee. It just rests there, fingers splayed and soft. I rest my hand on top of his for just a second, and then I take a deep breath. “Let’s pig out and watch the show.”
Landon turns back to the TV, moving his hand from my knee to the remote again. The docu-series we’d been watching starts up exactly where we left off on the road, and I grab the bowl of popcorn and place it half on one of my legs and half on one of his. This would be a great little date night if he weren’t dating someone else and I wasn’t afraid to date anyone.
We watch two episodes, but I spend most of the time relishing the times our fingers brush, reaching for popcorn, or our thighs bump on the couch. By the third episode, Landon has fallen asleep with his head on my shoulder. It’s everything I never dreamed of. I mean, really, I’m not that guy who dreams of cuddling because I don’t do relationships. But damn, this feels great. His hair brushing against my beard and the heavy warmth of his thigh leaning against mine is lovely. I tip my head back into the sofa and let Netflix keep playing as my own eyes get heavy.
What wakes me up is my phone. It’s making that annoying sound it makes when someone is trying to FaceTime you. The only people that do that are my cousins or sister, so blurry-eyed, I pull it out of the kangaroo pouch in my hoodie and hit accept before I can see straight. Landon has been woken up, too, and he’s yawning and stretching beside me, his head still tilted on my shoulder as he groans lightly, probably from a kink in his neck.
“Hey. Do you know where…” Angie’s wheat colored hair and big brown eyes fill the screen. “Are you… is that Landon?”
“Angie?” he says groggily beside me, but as he rubs his eyes, his memory seems to come back. When he focuses on my screen again, he looks alert, and his expression is as cold as ice. “Where are you? Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving? We waited at the airport for you to pick us up. I was worried.”
“Are you asleep?” she asks, ignoring his questions. “Together?”
“I fell asleep watching Netflix,” Landon barks at her in full defense mode. “It’s been a long road trip.”
“It was four days,” she scoffs. “Grady, fell asleep too? With you? On the… couch?”
I kind of shrug and nod at the same time. “Yeah, on the couch. Opposite sides. I leaned into him to grab my phone off the coffee table.”
All lies, but they feel necessary, even though we weren’t doing anything wrong. She frowns and then turns her attention back to her boyfriend. “Why aren’t you answering your phone?”
