He opens his mouth like he’s going to object, then closes it like he’s thought better, then reconsiders and opens it again. “I didn’t mean to say anything. It was a stupid, careless mistake.”
I don’t doubt that it was. I never for one second thought he went out and purposely spilled my sordid story to the school newspaper. But somehow, in some weird way, that makes it worse. Like he didn’t care. Like the most painful part of my past, a part I chose to share only with him, was so unimportant, so trivial, that it just slipped out in casual conversation.
“Whatever. The end result is the same. I’m still screwed.”
He flinches like I slapped him. For a second, a white-hot stab of guilt pierces my gut. But I shake it off. He’s got no right to feel hurt. I’m the injured party here.
Aren’t I?
“So that’s it, then?” His watery eyes meet mine.
“I have to go.” I look away, answering his question and not answering it at the same time.
“If there’s anything I can—”
“There’s not.”
I turn to go, but because this night that I think can’t possibly get any worse actually can, the door to the visiting team’s locker room swings open, and who should appear directly in my path but Chase, looking tall, dark, and imposing with his chiseled jaw and slicked-back hair and Ray-Ban Wayfarers. Who wears sunglasses at night anyway?
No one, that’s who. Except that one-hit wonder back in the 80s and the self-absorbed dick who used to be my best friend. And lover.
I would have thought most of the Hartfield guys were long gone by now. Then again, I wouldn’t put it past Chase to have been lurking behind the door until he heard my voice. He always had a bit of a stalker vibe. And a revenge streak a mile wide. I don’t know what I ever saw in the guy. Although he managed to hide the worst of his negative qualities for most of our relationship.
He lifts the stupid sunglasses to check out Kolby, and even though I’m pretty sure we just broke up, jealousy rears its ugly, green-eyed head.
“Who’s this?” he asks, sneering. “Your new boyfriend?”
I start to answer, but Kolby pipes up first. “At least he’s not afraid of who he is, hiding in the goddamn shadows like a scared little rabbit.”
It penetrates my thick skull that he’s worked out that this guy is my ex. And that he’s swearing. Taking the Lord’s name in vain, no less. In public. I’m pretty sure that means something, but I’m still too pissed off to figure out what.
Chase’s gaze goes from Kolby to me to Kolby then back to me again. “I thought you liked them big and strapping, Serrano. Guess your type changed to skinny twinks.”
My first instinct is to lash out at him, with my words and my fists. Beat the crap out of him. Scream in his face that, although Kolby might be smaller than Chase, he’s twice the man Chase is.
But then the absurdity of the situation strikes me—Chase and Kolby are both my exes now, and I’m inches from pummeling the shit of one of them in order to defend the other—and I start to laugh. Quietly at first, then louder until I’m flat-out fucking hysterical.
Chase glares at me. “What’s so damn funny?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” I manage between borderline deranged laughs, shifting my gaze to include Kolby. “Neither one of you would understand.”
Then I brush past Kolby and head down the long hall toward the door leading to the street, leaving them both behind me before the laughter can turn to tears.
24
Adam
It’s a good thing we don’t have a game this weekend, because I’m shit at practice all week. I’m shit in class, too. Except for improv class, of course, where I’m chickenshit. As in too chickenshit to show up, even though our final showcase at V and V, which counts for thirty percent of our grade, is in less than two weeks.
I do manage to shoot off an email to Professor Frost, giving him some bullshit sob story Lex helped me come up with about having extra practice to gear up for the conference championship. Frosty gave me a get-out-of-jail-free pass for this week—but told me in no uncertain terms that I’d better have my ass in class next Monday if I expect to pass. And I need to pass if I want to keep my scholarship and keep playing hockey.
I shove the last of my gear into my cubby and sneak out of the locker room. My teammates left a long time ago—I hit the weight room after we got off the ice, as if the problem with my playing is physical and not mental. But both Coach Keller and Coach Garfunkle are still in their offices, which I carefully avoid on my way out. The last thing I need is to hear what I already know—that I’d better get my head out of my ass if I want to see any ice time against U Mass next Friday.
My walk from the arena to the hockey house is gray and cold and windy, matching my crappy mood. I pull my coat tighter around my body, which helps to ward off the chill but does nothing to improve my disposition.
How long am I going to feel this way? Sure, it’s only been a few days. But I can’t stop thinking about Kolby. The way he kissed me—light and teasing when he wanted to torture me, hard, fast, and demanding when the torture got to be too much for him and he needed more. How he gripped my dick when he jerked me off, his thick, long fingers rougher and stronger and more sure than a woman’s. How he made me laugh harder than anyone I’d ever met with his silly theater superstitions and smart, swear-free mouth.
We fit together, and not only in bed, although that was pretty damn spectacular. He was the sunshine to my seriousness, the crazy to my normal, the spice to my latte. If I drank lattes. They’re more Kolby’s thing.
