Page 4

Had he been wrong? Had Gavin lied just because he hadn’t known any better? Because he was stupid and clueless and ridiculously hopeful?

“Did—” Gavin swallowed hard. “Did people give you shit?”

“Nothing obvious, and well . . .there was another guy on the Mavs, too. He wasn’t out either, so we had each other. It could’ve been worse, I know that. But it was that, on top of everything else. It was like I could never relax and just remember why I liked, why I loved , playing hockey.”

Gavin didn’t know what to say. “Shit.”

Zach chuckled under his breath. “Yeah, basically. It was shit. I was miserable. Course then I quit and I was miserable not playing, at first.”

He didn’t want to know what that felt like, but he did. When he’d first come out here, it had been so quiet and he’d been so alone, and the pain, already intense, had grown and grown until it was excruciating, like hundreds of nails shoved under his skin.

Eventually, Gavin had found ways to blunt it, to dull it. Until he could bear it.

“But you figured it out.” Zach was standing there, whole and hearty, looking so fucking alive, with none of the sourness of depression or sadness around him. He didn’t need to tell Gavin he was okay, but Gavin discovered he wanted the words anyway.

“Yeah,” Zach said. “Took time. But things fell into place. I finished my degree. Decided to go to grad school. And the coaching thing? That was unexpected but good.”

Unexpected, but good .

Kind of like how it had felt to Gavin when he’d woken up this morning and hadn’t known that hours later, he was going to be sharing a beer with Zach.

“Good,” Gavin said. Not sure what else he should say. Not sure what he could say. He didn’t want to take the job; he couldn’t take the job.

But the temptation tugged at him, anyway.

He drank more of his beer. Tried to think of something else to say, and just when he thought he couldn’t, his brain snagged on something Zach had said.

“So, this other guy, on the Mavs, who was out? You guys stuck together?”

Zach nodded, picking at the label on his bottle.

“You get together with him?”

Zach’s eyes shot to his, looking shocked. “No, no . God, no. Hayes is just . . .he’s my best friend. It was never like that between us.”

Hayes. Hayes .

The only Hayes Gavin could remember was Hayes Montgomery. His brain was still stuck on the fact that Hayes Montgomery was gay, but then Zach kept talking.

“Few years ago, he was traded from the Mavs to the Sentinels, so even if I’d stayed, signed the next contract, and the next contract, he wouldn’t have been there, anyway, and I’m so glad . . .” Zach trailed off. “It was just better this way.”

He didn’t sound like he quite believed it, but Gavin let that go. He understood. Sometimes things that were better—like him moving here, letting the world fall away around him—didn’t always feel awesome .

But that didn’t mean they were wrong .

“You’re still friends, though?” Gavin wanted to skirt the counter sitting between them and put a reassuring hand on Zach’s shoulder or, fuck , something. But it had been years since they’d casually touched like that, and before, when they had, everything had been totally different.

He didn’t know how to touch Zach now.

Zach smiled. “Yeah. He’s actually the one who figured out where you were.”

It was almost automatic instinct to say, well fuck him then , but then Gavin realized he wasn’t angry Zach had shown up today.

“Yeah? Well, I’m glad he knew,” Gavin said.

“You actually mean that.” Zach sounded shocked.

“I didn’t shoot you, did I?” I asked you to the porch. I invited you inside. I listened to the whole job offer.

Zach rolled his eyes. “We established already that you weren’t gonna shoot anybody. Definitely not me.”

“Fair.” Gavin cleared his throat. He still hadn’t said the words out loud. Thanks but no thanks. He knew once he did, Zach would have no reason to stay. He’d made the offer. He’d told Gavin why he’d left the NHL. There was nothing else to do, nothing else to say .

But Gavin realized that he didn’t want him to leave. Not yet.

He would eventually, of course. His life was in Portland. Zach would fly back to the west coast and he and Sidney Swift would go to that other coach, the one Swift had wanted in the first place, and hire him instead.

It shouldn’t have stung. It did .

Maybe it was that realization or maybe it was the fact that he’d be leaving anyway, regardless, so there was no harm in it.

“Hey,” Gavin said, “you should stick around. Have dinner with me.”

Zach’s eyes widened. “You eat dinner? With people ?”

Gavin wanted to tell him he wasn’t people; he wasn’t even close to people . But it was too weird, even for him, because the last time they’d even been in a room together had been four years ago.

And that hadn’t even been a room; it had been a rink.

“Not with people, no, not usually.” Though occasionally, now, he did go into the little town closest to his cabin and eat at the diner.

But that wasn’t really eating with people.

There were people around. Sometimes they said hi and smiled at him, familiar now with his presence, but it wasn’t a social event. It was just food. Fuel.

“But you want me to stay.” Zach sounded uneasy now.

“Yes,” Gavin said. Maybe he should be the uneasy one, but it felt like the most natural thing to offer. A glance at his watch told him it was past four.

“I’m sorry, but why ?” Zach burst out. “You don’t want to take the job—”

“I didn’t say that,” Gavin said, but obviously he didn’t. He didn’t .

If he went back to coaching, it would be the same, all over again. And if he went back to Portland, when everything in his life was fundamentally different now, he’d never be able to be numb again .

And the only thing that kept him alive, kept him moving, was that blessed numbness.

Zach shot him a sharp look. “You didn’t have to say no. I know you don’t want it, I knew it before I even got out of the car, but I came here anyway, and I realize now, I . . .I shouldn’t have.”

“No,” Gavin said and discovered he was rounding the island before he realized he was doing it.

Tugging Zach into a quick hug. And it was different.

Totally different than how it had been seven years ago and then four years ago.

Maybe because they’d become two different people than they’d been before.

“No, you should’ve come. I’m glad you came. ”

Zach still looked at him incredulously when he pulled back. “What the fuck,” he said.

Gavin smacked him lightly on the arm. “Language,” he teased. “You were better behaved at nineteen.”

“I was scared as fuck of you at nineteen,” Zach muttered.

“Really?” Gavin chuckled.

“ Really . You were fucking terrifying.”

“Not me, maybe. Everything was probably terrible.” Gavin sighed. “I mean it. I’m glad you came. I’m glad I got to see you.”

“It didn’t have to be me promising at least a dozen or so open-ended favors to Hayes to find out where the hell you were and then driving all the way out here for it to actually happen.” The moment the words were out of his mouth Zach looked like he regretted them.

But no. This was good. This was honesty.

Gavin had forgotten how bad—and good—the truth could feel. Like sharp blades cutting through a flawless stretch of ice .

Lancing all the aching pain inside and letting it bleed out, finally.

“I know. . .I’m sorry.”

“You’re not sorry,” Zach said. “You’re really not. Don’t say it if you’re not. I’m not . . .I’m not mad. I get it. You had to do what you had to do.”

“I did,” Gavin said softly. “I am sorry that it hurt you. Me doing what I needed to do.”

“It didn’t . . .” Zach cleared his throat.

“It did , and I’d probably be mad, somewhere inside, if you didn’t give a shit,” Gavin said, trying to laugh, because it was easier than the alternative.

And this is why he didn’t do this. Because that comfortable numbness was impossible to find right now, but he figured Jon, his therapist, whom he hadn’t seen in at least six months now, would probably tell him that was a good thing, the best thing.

That was why he’d stopped seeing him. He kept pushing Gavin and Gavin didn’t want to be pushed.

“Well, I give a shit,” Zach said, laughing too, now.

“Then stay for dinner. We can watch . . .” God, suddenly Gavin didn’t know what they could watch. Definitely not hockey. Except hockey had been the one thing connecting them, all those years ago, and now hockey was . . .well, hockey was difficult for Gavin.

He craved it, still.

Couldn’t let himself have it.

But for one night, you could .

Zach gestured towards the TV. “What do you watch?” he asked, because he was clearly assuming it wasn’t hockey. It wasn’t .

“Uh, stupid reality TV. Brainless movies. Lots of explosions.” Gavin made a boom noise under his breath and Zach laughed again, and it was easy. Well, easier .

“I can get behind that,” Zach said.

It felt natural then, to head to the fridge, find the chicken he’d defrosted. There was plenty for both of them, because Gavin hated cooking for just himself and often made enough leftovers he could skate by for a couple of days.

He pulled out two more beers, and he told himself that it was easier that way, to deal with Zach, with this new grownup, this handsome Zach, when there was a layer of booze sanding down all their newly sharp edges.

Zach agreed to chop veggies for a salad, and it felt way too normal, marinating the chicken and then taking it out onto the back patio to grill.

They ate at the counter, Zach’s leg brushing against Gavin’s once, then twice. Not on purpose, he didn’t think, but accidentally. Like he was just loose now, from the beer and the food and the company.

After, with more beer, they retreated to the couch.

Zach had hesitated when Gavin had handed him a new bottle. “I shouldn’t,” he said apologetically. “I’m driving and—”