“Which way is it now, Cap?” I ask, twirling in place, but then I wobble, and suddenly the darkness doesn’t feel so freeing; terror rips through me as my legs slip out from underneath my body.
“I got you,” Reid says, his large arms wrapping around my chest, lifting me up before I hit the ground and setting me upright. I breathe him in, and my head spins like when you’re at the dentist and they put that mask on you and ask you to “try to relax.”
“Fuck, that was close,” I say through ragged breaths, my fingers clutching his wide biceps as my heart races so hard it’s thumping in my ears.
“I think we can call it quits here,” he goes on to say, and then, before I can protest, his soft fingers slip under the blindfold at my temple, lifting it up. Bright light obscures my vision for a second, and then there he is, wide brown eyes sparkling under the overhead lights of the ice rink, peering down at me.
I swallow the lump that’s risen to my throat.
“Yeah, umm, the classes will be starting soon.”
“Right, the classes,” he repeats, his gaze moving to my mouth for the briefest of seconds before whatever bubble we were just in pops, and he releases me and skates three paces backward. “I think it’s safe to say you trust me out here. I should get on; I’ve got to meet with the physio today.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Just not twenty-five anymore,” he laughs, waving back at me as he turns and leaves. I collect the last of the flags and head out too.
On the way home, I pass a florist called You Grow Girl. It’s one of those hipster places that looks like it’s been here forever, vines actually growing along the trellis of the upper-floor condo cascadingdown to frame the door, and out front is always a collection of flowers. Today, pride of place is an enormous display of sunflowers. They bring an instant smile to my lips.
My father is always getting my mother flowers, not only for special occasions, but just because they make her happy. Reid could do with a little more happiness. I wonder if he likes flowers. I was trying to think of a way to say thanks for camp, and now today too. Yeah. I think flowers would be nice.
I duck inside the shop to place the order and realize I have no clue what his address is, so I message White for it.
WHITE: You aren’t going to have like a giant trailer of horse manure delivered to his door, are you?
LUKA: NO! Who would even do that?
WHITE: I’m sure I saw something online about it, somewhere.
LUKA: I can tell you there is zero chance of that. I just want to send him a thank you. You know, something to say sorry too, about the game.
WHITE: Okay, but if he comes to practice telling the guys about someone sending him a box of glitter that exploded when he opened it, I am ratting you out.
LUKA: What sort of shit are you watching online?
White sends Reid’s address, and I place an order with the florist to deliver eight sunflowers to his place. I figure if they make me smile, maybe they can do the same for him.
“If you just want to fill out the card, I’ll go collect your order. Ace will be back soon to collect the last run, so you’re just in time for a same-day delivery,” the sweet girl behind the counter says, handing me a small white card and pen.
Fuck. What should I write? Thanks for the training camp. No. Maybe thanks for not having me kicked off the team when I was a total dick during the last game? Again, no. Crap, okay, how about just thanks for everything? Yep, that’ll be good. Simple enough to not be weird and friendly enough to be real. I sign off underneath with an L, and slip the card into the small white envelope just as the florist returns.
“So, what do you think?” she asks, holding up the bunch of perfectly yellow sunflowers surrounded by at least half a dozen sheets of white tissue paper.
“Beautiful,” I tell her, and she blushes like it’s a line she’s heard used on her before but never tires of hearing. Only I really am talking about the flowers. Sure, I am bi, and I’ve had girlfriends in the past, but being in the NHL is hectic enough without having to try towork in a new relationship. I don’t know how any of these guys manage to date and get married and have families with everything else going on. Reid is almost thirty, and I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen anything online about him being in a relationship, so maybe not all of the guys have it figured out.
“Oh, we should probably include one of those vases too. I don’t know if he’ll have one to put them in. Maybe that green glass one you have there,” I say, pointing to the one I want on the shelves behind her.
“He’s one lucky guy,” she replies as she reorganizes the flowers in the vase, and I don’t correct her. It’s nice having someone think I’m that guy. The one who sends flowers. I mean, I guess I kind of am. Only these are totally platonic flowers. A friendly thank you. Nothing else. No matter how hot his growly face is.
Chapter eight
Reid
“I’mhome,”Icallas I drop my keys into the bowl by the door. Benji made it in middle school, and Mom acted like it was the best gift she’d ever received. It’s misshapen and lumpy, but carved around the edges are five stick figures, one for each of us, and in the bowl itself he inscribed the word “family,” so I can sort of see why.
“Yo, Dad Bro, you got something you want to tell us?” David calls from the kitchen.
“Nothing much has changed since I left this morning,” I call back.
