I thought about last night, about messaging Jacks, and about the conversation that had kept me awake long after I got home and ended with “Night, Skyler.” I chuckled at how stupid I was, checking my phone forty-seven times since waking up, hoping for a notification that never came.
What the fuck was my problem? Jacks was a dude, some guy I met. Sure, we joked and chatted like long-lost childhood friends, but that was all it was, a connection with another guy about guy stuff that was very typical of guys.
Somehow, in that moment, all that made sense in my mind. I may never understand how.
“Something like that,” I said.
Practice dragged on for another brutal hour. By the time Coach released us, my legs felt like jelly and my brain ached. I’d pulled it together enough to avoid further public humiliation, but barely.
The locker room was filled with our usual post-practice chaos. Guys stripped off gear, headed for showers, and chirped at each other about mistakes and close calls. The smells of sweat andmusk-soaked equipment hung thick in the air, familiar and grounding, if a bit disgusting.
“Rough day, Cap?” Murph dropped onto the bench beside me, already half undressed and sounding oddly sympathetic. There wasn’t even a hint of his usual mischief in his tone. “Coach looked ready to bench you.”
“He wasn’t wrong. I was garbage out there.”
“Eh, we all have off days. You’ll bounce back.” Murph yanked off his skates and wiggled his toes. “Big plans tonight? You should get laid. That always helps. Or are you gonna mope around your apartment being sad and mysterious?”
“I’m not moping.”
“You’re a little mopey.”
“I have a date, fuck you very much.”
Murph’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh yeah? With who?”
“Girl I met at a charity thing a few weeks back. We’ve been hanging out between roadies.”
“The pharmaceutical rep? Hot blonde, drives the Tesla?”
“Yeah, Brooke. That’s her.”
“Nice.” Murph nodded. “She seems cool. Where are you taking her?”
“That Italian place on Harbour Island. The one with the good wine list.”
“Ooh, fancy. You must really like this one.”
I shrugged, hoping the gesture looked more casual than it felt. “We’ll see.”
The truth was I’d been dreading this dinner all day. Brooke was great. She was beautiful, whip-smart, and funny. She had a successful career and didn’t take any of my hockey bullshit too seriously. On paper, she was perfect.
But every time I thought about our next date, my stomach clenched in a way that had nothing to do with anticipation. I’d never been in love, but I was pretty sure stomach cramps weren’t what it was supposed to feel like.
I showered, changed, and headed for the parking lot. My phone sat heavy in my pocket. I pulled it out, scrolled to my messages, and stared at the conversation with Jacks. Our exchange from last night was still there. He’d seemed surprised to hear from me, but he’d also been funny and quick, matching my energy in a way that felt effortless.
I wanted to text him again, maybe ask what he thought about my stomach-flipping issues with Brooke. Gay dudes were supposed to have some sixth sense about dating, weren’t they? Some genetic code that unlocked women in ways straight guys could never figure out?
The urge was so strong it almost startled me. Iwanted to tell him about the disaster practice, ask about his day, maybe get another Space Duke update.
I wanted to hear him laugh.
And I wanted to see those little typing dots appear and know he was thinking of something to say back.
Shit. That felt weird. Just thinking those things felt . . . weird.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Then I shoved the phone back in my pocket.
