We talk about our lives, sticking to topics that feel easy, ones that might come up in a trivia game about ourselves. Our routines. The food we like. Nothing about our pasts or how we got here. Nothing with potential landmines.
We’re both, unsurprisingly, boring. Our routines are our lives. We don’t have much time or make much time for people or activities outside of hockey. I survive on coffee. He’s powered by protein and greens. It should be dull, but somehow, everything feels easy. Like, he understands why I spend every night watching game film without me having to explain myself. Like, he would enjoy curling up on a couch and spending hours dissecting a team’s weaknesses and how my players could exploit them. If only he weren’t one of those players.
But, no. We need him. The Yeti is a different team now that he’s there. I need Beckett Kane on my roster. It’s just too bad that I also appear to want him in my life.
“Rewind that,” I say, my eyes following the Blizzard’s center as he delays on the zone entry and drags the winger out of position.
We both lean toward the laptop at the same time, and our shoulders touch when we reach for the trackpad.
My breath catches. I can smell his soap, feel the warmth of his skin where it touches my bare arm.
“Sorry,” I apologize, and he quickly pulls back. I clear my throat, rewinding to the start of the play.
When I lean away, I realize we’re closer than we were before, our shoulders almost touching. It’s close enough to feel like something without it being anything.
I don’t move away.
Neither does he.
“Do you see it?” I ask, taking in his profile as he tracks the center again.
Beckett exhales slowly before reaching out and tapping the space bar to pause the film. “He likes to bait the D-men. Slowsup just enough to make them bite and pull them out of their gap.”
I nod. “He runseveryentry through that hesitation move. We can pick it apart if you guys see it early enough.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t catch it until now,” Beckett comments, the look on his face something close to admiration.
I grin. “Well, to be fair, it is my job to catch it. Not yours.”
This—us—feels easy. Too easy.
Beckett pauses, a soft smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “You should do that more.”
“What?”
“Smile,” he answers, and his thumb, as if controlled by an entirely different being, slowly traces a line down my cheek, leaving a trail of tingling flesh in its wake.
He quickly removes his hand, a look of horror flashes across his features, and the sudden loss of contact hits me in my chest—a place I hadn’t known was hollow until he momentarily filled it with his touch.
I reach out and hit the space bar, restarting the film and unnecessarily pointing out the way their goalie drops too early.
We fall into an easy analysis of the play, discussing their team in a way that feels much more enjoyable than any other strategy session I’ve been in with my coaches.
Finally, we make it through all the film, and, unable to put it off any longer, I start to gather my things.
“You know,” Beckett says, massaging the back of his neck, “this has been a lot of fun. I didn’t… Well, I didn’t realize how lonely I’d been.”
It feels like an echo clanging through me, so I offer him the only thing I can—my truth.
“Me, too.”
We’re both silent as I close the laptop, and I wonder whether he’s regretting confessing that to me. If he thinks he said toomuch, or if it feels like someone understands him for the first time in a long time. Maybe forever.
“We should do this again sometime,” I offer, turning back from the door I just opened.
Beckett nods, and I swear he’s fighting a smile. “Whenever you want, Finley.”
Once I’m in my apartment, I lean against the door, my heart racing like I just sprinted two miles rather than slowly crossed the few feet between our apartments. And as I stand there, all I can think about is when I’ll get to do it again.
