Page 21

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Remy

I lean my forearms on the railing and watch as Grayson walks his way slowly along the beach, occasionally bending down to pick up a seashell. I’d come inside to shed my wetsuit and replace my surfboard, but am enjoying a quiet moment of watching before I join him. He’s not wearing a shirt, and even from a distance I can see the color staining his skin. Only a handful of days under the West Coast sun and he’s three shades darker than before. It makes his blue eyes pop even more under his dark hair, and I’ve gotten addicted to snapping pictures of him. I want photographic proof for when he’s gone and I’m back in Canada. I want to be able to remind myself how he looked under the California sun.

Straightening, I make it halfway down my porch stairs when I hear my phone ringing. Doing an about-face, I jog back inside to make sure it’s not anyone important. When I see the screen, I fumble the phone and almost drop it .

Amanda.

I want to let it go right through to voicemail. Other than a handful of texts talking about nothing more serious than hockey stats, we haven’t talked since the papers were signed. I haven’t stalked any of her social media, and if she’s reached out to Alex, he hasn’t mentioned it to me. I should really just ignore this call.

But those three years of marriage, and years of friendship before that, have me pressing the green button and bringing the phone to my ear. Like a creep, I sit there silently, waiting for her to breach the silence.

“Ree?”

The nickname has goose bumps breaking out on my arms, and a sick, slimy feeling settling in my gut.

“Hey, Amanda,” I’m finally able to unstick my throat enough to say.

“How are you?”

“Did you need something?” I ask, realizing I sound like a massive dick, but unable to stop the words. I’m terrified that my perfect vacation with Grayson is about to be shattered into a thousand pieces.

“I drove by your place yesterday and noticed that the lights were on. Are you home?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think?—”

“I’m not stopping by, Ree, relax. I just…well, like I said, I saw the lights and it reminded me that I wanted to talk to you. Are you doing okay in Calgary?” She pauses, and I hear her inhale deeply before she continues in a quieter voice. “I’m not calling to try and get back together. This isn’t a we made a mistake call.”

I relax a tiny bit, but not enough to keep the mistrust from my voice. “Calgary blows. It was fine before Grayson got traded, but now it’s just terrible. I’m going to refuse an extension and end the season as a free agent.”

“Wow, that bad? I was surprised Brody left when I heard. He seemed like one of those that was going to retire with them.”

“Mm,” I hum noncommittally, unsure of whether I’m at the point where I can talk about Grayson with her yet. “What about you? How’s work?”

We chat for a few moments about nonsense things: work, weather, and hockey. The conversation is so stilted and awkward, it’s exhausting. I feel like we’re both trying too hard on something that should be simple. After we deplete our store of small talk, a painful silence falls between us. I walk over to the window and stare down at Grayson. He’s strolled almost to my property line and is crouched down, digging something out of the sand.

“Amanda, I’ve got to go.” A pause, as I consider what I want to say. I promised myself I wasn’t going to hide Grayson, though, even obliquely. If I’m going to be in this relationship, I need to be comfortable telling people. “I’ve actually got company.”

“Oh,” she says, and though she sounds surprised, she doesn’t sound angry. “That’s good, Ree… Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I think I owe you an apology for how I spoke to you the last time we were together.”

“You know what they say: what happens in the divorce, stays in the divorce.”

She laughs. “Nobody says that, and no, it doesn’t. Seriously, I’m sorry. I was frustrated and I took it out on you.”

“You were also right. ”

“Well,” she says, but kindly leaves it at that. Both of us remember, though, so nothing more really needs to be said.

“You know I did love you, right? I realize now it was not the kind of love that should have led to marriage, but it was love nonetheless. You were my best friend before we went and ruined it with kissing.”

She laughs again, snorting a little bit and making me smile. “Kissing doesn’t usually ruin things. We were shockingly incompatible, though, weren’t we?”

“I uhm…I did some dating after we separated and it turns out I’m ‘shockingly incompatible’ with the majority of people.” She’s silent, waiting for me to either clarify or change the subject. It’s the perfect segue into telling her about Grayson, though, so I soldier on. “I’ve only actually felt head-over-heels attracted to one person. Ever.”

“And this is the ‘company,’ I’m assuming?” Amanda asks, an excited lilt to her voice. This is the Amanda I miss—the one who was my friend and staunchest supporter. The one who would never begrudge me happiness, even if it means it’s not with her.

“Yeah. It’s early, but… I really like him and I’m happy.”

“Good. You deserve to—wait, what? Did you say ‘him’?”

“Yeah.” I wait, fingers clenched tight around the phone and eyes firmly on Grayson. I’m torn between wanting to hang up and join him, and finishing what I started with this conversation.

“Oh, Ree.” She sighs, and she sounds so sad, I immediately know where her head is at.

“I’m not gay. It’s not like I was using our marriage to pretend and be someone I’m not. It’s just this guy that I like. It’s just Grayson.”

“Grayson Brody,” she fills in, and I hum an agreement. “ Wow. He seems nice—is he nice? When he does post-game interviews, he just seems so kind. Stoic. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him lose his temper on the ice.”

“No.” I grin at her assessment, reminded of the nights we used to sit up and watch games together. “He’s very…steady. And nice, yes. Very nice.”

“Wow,” she repeats. “I’m happy for you.”

She sounds like she means it. I smile, leaning my forehead against the glass and closing my eyes. Of course she doesn’t care that I told her I’m seeing a man right after we broke up. She only cares that he’s kind.

“Thanks. I’d better go though, Amanda. He’s going to think I got lost.”

“Of course. Thanks for taking my call. Good luck on the rest of the season—I’ll be watching.”

Leaving my cell phone in the kitchen, I jog down the stairs and across the sand. Hearing me coming, Grayson turns and smiles as I approach. Before I can say anything, he holds out his hand.

“Look,” he says.

Lying in his palm is a fully intact sand dollar. I brush my fingers carefully across the surface, wiping off the excess sand. I’ve lived in California my entire life and never have I found one in such perfect condition. I glance up at Grayson to find him smiling at me, eyes shining bright against his tan.

“Holy shit. I’ve never found one this good before.”

“I stepped on it! I can’t believe it didn’t shatter. How cool is that?”

“Very cool.” I curl his fingers over it, sharing his smile. Christ, he is handsome. “Amanda called while I was inside. That’s what took me so long. Sorry to leave you out here. ”

“It’s no trouble,” he murmurs, dropping his arm to his side and eyeing me. “You okay?”

The warmth I feel has nothing to do with the sun. Only Grayson would hear that I was talking to my ex-wife on the phone and, instead of getting jealous or defensive, would wonder if I was all right.

“I’m fine. I told her about you.”

“You did what? ” he asks, dropping the sand dollar in surprise. I crouch, picking it up and tucking it into my pocket for safety. The poor thing was already stepped on once—it won’t survive twice.

“I told her about us.” He stares at me. “She’s happy for me. She said you seem nice.”

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “I can’t believe you told her. I…well, I guess I thought you might have to work up to it. Practice on a few people first, before telling the important people.”

“I’m going to tell everyone,” I say firmly.

He looks happy at that, and we stroll back to the house with arms slung loosely across each other’s waists. Tomorrow is our last day here, and I know I shouldn’t let the thought of leaving ruin being here, but I can’t help the bite of sadness when I think about it. These last couple of days have been perfect. Easy.

Even when we were doing something as simple as sitting on the couch and watching the All-Star Skills competition, it felt precious and infinitely more enjoyable with Grayson there beside me. We move together so seamlessly, the jump from friends to partners doesn’t seem like a jump at all. It feels like this is the way it was always supposed to be, and we’re only now catching up.

Even with him beside me, I can’t help but catalog all the ways I’m going to miss him when we’re separated. Like the way he uses my shower products and smells like me all day, or how the sun shines on his dark hair and highlights the lighter brunette strands. I’m going to miss the way he gets annoyed that I leave the toothpaste uncapped and the way he looks standing in my kitchen cooking me dinner. Mostly, I’m just going to miss Grayson.

“What’s that face for?” he asks, squeezing me closer to his side and peering down at me.

“I’m sad we have to leave,” I admit.

“Me too. But time always goes by faster this side of All-Star. And once I win the Stanley Cup, we’ll be back here and it’ll be like we never left.”

I roll my eyes so far back into my head that I see brain. “Don’t make me laugh. You won’t even make the playoffs, let alone touch the Cup.”

He laughs and we argue about teams, stats, and playoff predictions all the way back to the house. It’s a good-natured argument, and succeeds in pulling me out of my sudden glum mood. I see what you did there, Gray.

But, as time is often wont to do, the following day seems to pass twice as fast as all the previous days, and by evening I’m sitting on the bed and watching dejectedly as Grayson carefully packs his suitcase. When he finishes and zips it up, wheeling it over to wait in the corner, I damn near burst into tears. I don’t want to leave; I don’t want Grayson to leave; I really don’t want to have to go back to goddamn Calgary and my goddamn piece-of-shit teammates.

“This really fucking blows,” I tell Grayson. He grimaces.

“I was half hoping my flight would get delayed,” he admits, sighing and taking a seat next to me on the bed. Immediately, I lean against him. “But I’ve got to get back if I don’t want to be scratched for the game on Wednesday. And so do you.”

I huff because he’s right and I hate that he’s right. “At least we still have tonight.”

“I hope you didn’t have any hopes for sleeping,” he says, snaking an arm up the back of my T-shirt. “Because I’ve got a few ideas on how we could make the most of our time…”

It’s fucking snowing when the Uber drops me off at my apartment in Calgary—big, fat snowflakes, falling lazily and turning everything monochromatic. It would be pretty if I wasn’t in such a foul mood.

Leaving my now soaking wet shoes to dry by the front door, I toss my bag on the bedroom floor and strip down. Taking the hottest shower I can manage, I try to thaw out under the water. It was only a few days away, but somehow my body has already forgotten how damnably cold it is here. When I’m as warm as I can be, I get out of the shower and dress in a pair of sweatpants and another of Grayson’s sweaters that I stole from him. A quick stop to crank the heat in the apartment, and then I’m crawling into bed and calling Grayson.

“Hey.” He picks up on the first ring as though he was staring at his phone and waiting for the call.

“Miss you,” I say, unable to help myself. It’s been less than twelve hours and already I feel like somebody carved a massive, Grayson-sized hole out of my chest. The next few months are going to be very, very long.

He sighs. “I miss you, too. On a scale of one to ten, how cold are you right now? ”

“Gray, we aren’t on a basic scale of ten. It’s way beyond that.” I flip the camera around and zoom in on my bedroom window so he can see the slow meander of snowflakes falling outside. Disgusting. “See? It took forever to get home because the roads were shit. The weather is shit, everything is just shit. I hate it here.”

“I wish you were comfortable enough to tell me how you really feel,” he says, trying and failing to keep the laugh out of his voice.

“Tell me how it is in Colorado.”

“Terrible. Practice was good and it was nice to get back out on the ice, but it’s hard to come back here after spending a few days in your little slice of heaven.”

“Hard to beat the beach life.” I nod. “Hey, did I hear that Jake Lancaster is out for the rest of the season? An alert popped up as soon as I landed. What the fuck happened?”

“He’s entering the player assistance program,” Grayson says, voice low. “They told us at skate this morning and are going to make a more generalized announcement later to the public. It’s not official that he’ll be out for the rest of the season, but…it’s a possibility, so they’re playing it safe.”

“Fuck, poor guy.”

“Yeah. Did Z pick you up from the airport?”

“Hell no. I barely made it to the airport to get to Cali when he drove. The weather is way worse today, I figured I’d be safer in the hands of a random Uber driver.”

He snorts. “True.”

We chat a little longer, but eventually have to pack it in and try to get some rest. Grayson has a game tomorrow and I have practice; the first days back from break are always hard, no matter where you went or what you did. Physically, I know I’ll be okay. Mentally, not so much. The absence of Grayson behind me in bed has me tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable or stay warm without his bulk weighing the mattress down and radiating heat.

I show up to practice the following morning in a mood fouler than I thought possible for myself, bags under my eyes, and a throbbing ache behind my left eye. I ignore everyone as I walk through the locker room to my stall and toss my bag inside. Zolkov hasn’t arrived yet, so I go through the motions of changing without talking to a single soul until Gordon takes a seat next to me.

He’s fully dressed in his goalie gear other than his helmet. His stall is on the opposite side of the room from mine, which means he probably came over for something specific. I wait.

“How was California?” he asks.

“Perfect.” There’s a slight bite to my tone that I can’t seem to control. I honestly have no idea which of my teammates follow me on socials, but if they do, then they saw I was visiting home, and that I was with Grayson. He was in every single picture I posted, and only an idiot could look at those pictures and not connect the dots. “You did good at All-Star.”

“Thanks. It was my first time being invited; mostly I was just trying not to embarrass myself.”

“You didn’t.”

I wait, wondering if there is a point to this conversation or if he’s just trying to be friendly. Zolkov joins us before anything more is said, slapping me on the back as I get my chest guard adjusted.

“Stoney. Gordo,” he greets us, rolling his head like he’s got a neck ache and sitting down to pull off his shoes.

“Hey, Z. ”

“Did you miss me, while you were gone?” he asks. Gordon snorts.

“Like a hole in the head,” I respond, using one of my mom’s favorite idioms. Gordon chuckles and Zolkov grins at me, winking. He knows exactly why I didn’t miss him—or anyone—while I was in California.

Practice ends up being exactly like every first skate back after break. Half of the guys are well-rested and fired up to play, while the other half are still nursing hangovers from the weekend and have shitty attitudes. I fall somewhere in the middle, as my shitty attitude has nothing to do with hockey, really, and I’m happy to be back on the ice even if I do wish I could be doing it literally anywhere else.

Gordon, without any break at all since he was participating in All-Star Weekend, is on fire. He shuts down every attempt on his goal during scrimmage, and I can see the wide smile on his face even through the mask.

“You’re bad for morale,” I tell him, skating up to him as he pushes his mask up and waits for Coach to finish rotating a few of the lines.

“Not my fault you all forgot how to play.”

“Keep this up tomorrow, yeah? I don’t want to have to work too hard.”

We restart play in Gordon’s defensive zone, which means my team is on the attack. I take the face-off across from Petterson, who seems to be taking the scrimmage a little too seriously, if the sneer on his face is any indication. I win the draw and move into position on the wing. Zolkov takes a shot, but Gordon clips it with his blocker—of course, the fucking All-Star—and I move to intercept the rebound.

Before I can, I’m slammed off of my feet so hard, my head cracks against the ice and pain lances through my shoulder and chest. Disoriented, I roll onto my back and try to get air back into my lungs. Contact practice means we are allowed to play rough and simulate actual gameplay. It doesn’t mean we actively try to bring down our teammates.

“What the fuck,” I manage to gasp, still unsure of who hit me, but pissed about it nonetheless. Rolling up onto my knees, I lock eyes with Petterson, who’s standing next to me, stick held loosely in both hands.

Just as Zolkov skates over, Petterson says: “Forget this is the big leagues, faggot?”

A whistle blows two sharp reports as our assistant coach skates toward us, yelling about the rules of engagement in practice games. I tune him out, eyes locked on Petterson. He spoke quietly enough that only he and I, and possibly Zolkov, heard him. He smiles benignly at me.

“Stone!” The AC puts a hand on my shoulder. “You good?”

“I’m good,” I tell him, even though it hurts to breathe and there is a simmering heat burning low in my gut. Coach stands up, pointing a finger at where the captain’s C would sit on Petterson’s chest if he was wearing his game jersey. I tune out the dressing-down Coach gives him, keeping my gaze on his and not bothering to hide the smoldering anger.

I try to stand up, but a firm hand on my shoulder pushes me back to kneeling.

“Catch your breath,” Zolkov says.

“I’m fine.”

At least, I think I am. Getting hit that hard when you’re not expecting it is worse than when you can see it coming. I’d collided with a teammate on the ice during a game once, and felt like I’d run myself straight into a brick wall. Both of us were pulled from the game, and my teammate ended up being sent to the hospital. The burning in my neck and the sharp pain in my ribs has me wondering if fine is truly the best descriptor.

Eventually, Coach decides Petterson’s had enough and he skates off, red-faced and pissed. He yells at us to reset in Gordon’s zone. Instead, I push to standing and skate into Petterson’s personal space. He grins like this is exactly what he was hoping for.

“Looking for an apology, princess?” he sneers.

I bring my hands up and shove him roughly back. He stumbles a bit, so I do it again until his back comes up against the boards. Immediately, I press a forearm to his neck and shove his head back against the glass. Without turning my head, I can feel the presence of someone behind me, but something tells me it’s Zolkov and I don’t need to worry. Petterson tries to throw me off, but I dig my skate in and put a knee into the inside of his leg where there is light padding. He grunts and slips a little, leg buckling.

“You got something you want to say?”

“Tougher than your boyfriend, huh? He must be the woman in the relationship.”

Another whistle is blowing as one of the coaches picks up on what’s happening. Nobody has interfered yet though, even though I can feel the stares of my teammates on the back of my neck. Good. Enjoy the show, fuckers.

Putting pressure on the inside of his knee again, I rotate my hips and throw him to the ground. He was already unsteady, so he goes easily, unable to break his fall. I’m so close I can hear his breath whoosh out of him as his back hits the ice. He gets his gloves off first—clearly anticipating where this was headed—and yanks me down by a fistful of practice jersey. I drop my gloves as well, just as he tries to get a right hook in, but it glances off my helmet.

“No,” I hear Zolkov say from behind me. “Let them.”

Even though fans love them, hockey fights never end up looking as exciting as they feel. Every fight I’ve been in, I’ve seen the replay and been embarrassed by how ridiculous I look. There is also the understanding that you aren’t setting out to murder your opponent, which in this case, doesn’t apply. I’m seeing red and the blood is pumping in my ears in tune to the word faggot . He didn’t have the balls to say it to Grayson, but obviously didn’t have any qualms about me—the smaller and weaker man.

The fight probably lasts for less than a minute, but feels like five. Blood is splattered across the ice and Petterson’s nose is swollen to twice the size it was before. My knuckles are already raw from hitting his helmet accidentally, when I was aiming for his ugly fucking face.

Zolkov pulls me away.

“That’s enough,” he says into my ear, just as Petterson rolls over and spits onto the ice. Zolkov pulls me backward, arm tight around my chest.

“Talk about Grayson again, and I will fucking end you,” I say, making sure everybody in the rink can hear. I’m looking at Petterson when I say it, but the words are for everyone. I hold up my hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m good, Z.”

He lets me go immediately. Turning around, I leave the equipment I lost in the fight and skate toward the bench. Coach shouts at my retreating back, but I don’t even break stride as I step off the ice and walk to the locker room.