“Thanks for this,” I tell him as we weave through the flow of people going about their day. “You could have just kicked me out of the room, but I appreciate you coming along.”
“I can’t just kick you out,” he says. “That would be considered a dereliction of duties.”
“I’m pretty sure babysitting the team rookie isn’t your job, though.”
“Eh. It’s not not my job.” He shrugs and slips his hands into the pockets of his down coat.
I chance a longer glance at him. He’s wearing a bright blue toque with a Mules logo on it that brings out the silver gray of his eyes. And his cheeks, which are exposed to the cool air, are rosy in an enticing way. As for me, like a true northern Midwesterner I’m wearing my beat-up UDub hoodie and long, loose athletic shorts. I fit in perfectly with the locals.
I bump my shoulder against his. “I guess even making it to the NHL still doesn’t get a Texas boy like you used to the cold.”
“No.” He laughs. His breath leaves him in a cloudy stream. “The only time I like the cold is when I’m on the ice. And it’s only because I’m working so hard I’m no longer cold.”
I shake my head at him. “Then why did you suggest this walk?”
“Two reasons,” he says, and bumps me now, mimicking my move earlier. “One, you were driving me nuts pacing around theroom.” He bumps me again. “And two, if you think we’re spending this entire walk outside, you’re dead wrong.” He points forward towards a white building with two bronze lion statues posted sentry out front.
“What’s that?”
“The Art Institute.”
Ryan
Bless this glorious warm building filled with endless works of art. Inside here I can take my hands out of my pockets. But also inside here I’m feeling a weird urge I can’t quite wrap my head round. The urge to stroll hand in hand with Brandon while looking at paintings, sculptures, and ancient artifacts.
Like I said, weird. I barely know him. He’s practically a stranger and yet I’m feeling myself drawn to him more and more each day we spend together. Which is every day. Because hockey is a fulltime, 24/7 job. A non-stop endeavor with rare days off, that we almost always spend with, you guessed it, more hockey players. But not once in all these years, not even before I made it to the NHL, have I ever wanted to hold one of their hands.
I put my own hands back into my pockets. Better to be safe than sorry.
“So,” I say, looking over my shoulder to check out Brandon. He really has gotten quite good looking in the last eight years. His eyes are bright, his cheeks are rounded, but his jaw has filled out well with new, defined angles. Yes, his hair is a mess, but it’s also kind of cute the way it curls and flips around the edges. There’s something forever youthful about him that I think will be with him for his entire career. It’s not innocence. It’s more that he’s wholesome. Yeah. That’s it. He’s like every Midwesterner’s dream son. A good boy. The type of guy who shovels the elderly couple next door’s driveway without asking and refuses to take any money.
He stops studying a centuries-old Japanese tapestry to look at me. “Were you going to ask me something?”
I swallow. How long have I been staring? And now I have to think of something to ask. Scrambling, I land on the one thing I know we can talk about forever. Hockey. “Err, yeah. What was your draft day like? I know your mom and dad had to have made the biggest deal.”
“Oh, God.” He shakes his head and laughs. “You have no idea. Well, I guess you do have an idea, but they were worse than you could even imagine.”
“I doubt that,” I say, remembering how Momma B and Big Mike were there when I got drafted. Sure, Ander and I were in the same draft class, and we got selected three picks away from each other, but still. They were there. More than I can say about my own family.
As soon as the Bouchards realized my parents weren’t there, well, to say that they treated me like I was their own son would be an understatement.They even included me in the celebratory dinner they’d booked for Ander, making it about the both of us instead of just him.
My face falls at the memory. I should have kept in touch with them better. I should have made more effort. Outside of the Mules, the Bouchards are the closest thing to family I’ve had since I left home at sixteen, and I’ve completely ignored them.
“What’s that look for?” Brandon asks.
“Nothing.” I shrug, then put a smile back on my face. “Just thinking about your parents.”
“They went so overboard for my draft, treating me like I was going to be a first-round pick instead of a late third rounder. I mean, seriously, we could have just stayed at home and waited for a call from the comfort of our couches with coffee in our hands, but instead, they insisted we fly to Las Vegas for it to be there in person when my name was called.”
“That’s sweet, though.”
“I mean, yeah, it is. But they also spoke over me the whole time, and no one listened to me when I explained to them I wasn’t going to get drafted in the first roundlike Ander.”
“He did set the bar high.”
“Too high,” Brandon says. He stops walking again and turns to look back at me. His eyes are huge and full of delight. “Oh God, and the worst was when Ander said he wanted me to be drafted by the Blizzards.” He shakes his head, laughing. “Could you imagine anything worse?”
I tip my head at him. “Could have been Toronto.”
