Page 3

Chapter Three

Josh

If I’d had two functioning hands, I would have looked up Campbell Ryan on the hockey team’s website without delay. As it was, my hand was throbbing, and all I wanted to do was get home, prop it up on a pillow, and watch a brainless movie or two.

I kicked my shoes off in the foyer, then collected up a can of soda, a bag of chips, the TV remote, and three throw pillows. They were all arduous tasks. Most of my tasks were, but I tried not to complain, thinking about Vera tumbling around in the waves. I would have been terrified. My niece, of course, took it all in stride, only upset at the drama my broken finger caused after the incident.

My phone rang at the same time the front door opened.

“Shoes in the closet!” my mom yelled as I picked up the phone.

“Hi there, Vee, how’s camp going?”

My mom and Hunter entered the room. Mom was glowering, but I held up my hand, at the same time saying, “Hey, Vee, I’m gonna put you on speaker. Grandma Nat just walked in with Uncle Hunter.”

Hunter, still dressed for his game, dropped to the coffee table and massaged his pitching shoulder with his other hand.

Without missing a beat, Vera continued to explain about how lunch worked at camp. Also without missing a beat, Mom’s scowl turned into a smile. She waited for a brief pause, usually the only kind one got when talking to Vera. “What activities are you doing? Did you get to swim? What about arts and crafts?”

Vera was off again, describing her day. I could hear my brother in the background, and Vera paused. “How’s your finger, Uncle Joshy?”

“It’s doing great, little one. I got it checked out today, and everything is healing nicely. Nothing to worry about,” I said loudly enough that hopefully her father could hear me in the background.

“Grandma, I want pizza, but Daddy says he already cooked …” Vera was off, and my mother commandeered my phone to talk to her granddaughter.

Quietly to me she whispered, “You could at least kick your shoes off into the closet.” I held my hand up as if to say, no, I can’t . Her face called bullshit, and we both knew I would do just that next time.

“How was your game?” I spoke softly as Mom and Vera continued their conversation. Mom took my phone over to the reading nook on the far side of the room so Hunter and I could talk more naturally.

“Good, we were leading, so Coach only let me pitch three innings.”

Watching him massage his shoulder, I responded critically, “Maybe that was a good thing?”

“I’m fine. I’m gonna shower up, then head over to the gym to use the hot tub. I take care of myself, Josh! Travel ball is fun and all, but I’m a junior this year. The scouts weren’t watching me today, but Coach thinks they might be once school starts. Matt says he’s sure of it too,” Hunter ended softly, his eyes to the floor.

Matt was the director of a baseball camp where Hunter had spent time over the past few summers and a trusted mentor.

“It’s fucking crazy, dude. I remember when we were kids, and you started playing; now you’re talking about the fucking major leagues.”

“Let’s not go crazy,” Hunter demurred. “ Maybe we're talking about the minors, and even then, you think Mom and Dad are gonna let me skip college?”

“It won’t be up to them, dude. Oh, hey, speaking of college, I signed up for that sports journalism class this semester. I’m sorry I couldn’t make your game today, but I want to come to a few, maybe interview you for the class. What do you say?”

Hunter, ever humble, studied the carpet again. “Sure.” We let the moment pass. “Hey, you should come to the gym with me.” I flashed my brace at him. “Your legs still work, don’t they? We could use the treadmills after I soak for a bit.”

Ugh! I had really wanted to wallow, but I’d been doing a lot of that since we’d gotten home from the beach.

“Yeah, sure, let’s go change.”

I was getting better at my one-handed skills, but Hunter was still waiting for me in the living room by the time I had put workout clothes on. I would have to remember to thank my mom. I may have scoffed when she purchased slip-on sneakers for me but putting them on was one less battle I had to face to get to the gym.

Hunter was freshly showered and back on the coffee table, a phone in his hands, another sitting next to him.

“Here. Mom said to give you this. She’s rushing to a meeting. She also said you have to be careful and not hurt yourself on the treadmill.”

“She does know I’m gonna use my feet on it, right?”

My little brother scowled at me. “Actually, I think she might be right. You have to make sure you keep your balance. Maybe you should use a recumbent bike instead.”

I pictured myself on one of the recumbent bikes, ensconced between two professors who’d made tenure sometime in the last century. For some reason, an image of Campbell Ryan slow walking on a treadmill popped into my brain. He had looked fine on that treadmill, meandering like he didn’t have a care in the world, his muscled calves and thick thighs bunching and stretching, his round ass raising and lowering in slow motion. He’d stood up straight, his back broad but hidden behind a loose-fitting T-shirt. I could imagine him blocking most of the goal with the breadth of his chest. Not that I really knew the size of a hockey goal.

His reddish-brown hair had been floppy in the front but was tighter in the back. At one point, he’d run his left hand through his hair, and that length took a minute to flop its way from the top of his head back to his face. Athlete that he was, he pumped his arms, twice as fast as his legs were walking, the entire time he was on the machine.

He’d been a sight to behold, especially when he’d smiled at me. And sure, he’d ended our time together by flirting with his physical therapist, but it didn’t mean I couldn’t fantasize about the hunky hockey player while I was completing an equally low-impact workout at the campus gym.

After we checked in, Hunter and I parted ways. “I may swim a few laps, but I’ll come find you … on a recumbent bike,” he finished slowly and emphatically, sounding terrifyingly like our mother. You know I had to call him out on that shit.

“Yes, Ma,” I said, but his phone had buzzed, and he was buried in it as he turned and headed to the indoor pool and hot tub.

At twenty-one, was I old enough to shake my head and say “kids” because that’s what I was doing when my own phone buzzed? I waited until I was situated on a bike, as predicted, nestled between two people who looked older than my dad. I hiked the seat forward, not thinking about how I was the shortest male member of my family since Hunter’d had his last growth spurt. I had Mom and Hillary beaten by about an inch or two, so that was something, and at least Vera was still shorter than me. I tried not to think about how much longer that would last. I had to look up to talk to her mother back in the day.

I started a hands-free, lazy bike ride as I fished out my phone to discover a text from my best friend.

Dev: How’s the hand?

I shot a picture of my brace and sent it to him.

Josh: About the same. Flight set yet?

Dev: Yeah.

Josh: Send me the deets, I’ll come pick you up.

Dev: You don’t have to do that. Are you even supposed to be driving? Kurt can pick me up.

Josh: Fuck off, of course I can drive. You can hook up with Kurt anytime. I’m picking you up.

Dev: I’m not hooking up with Kurt.

I could see the three dots dancing like my best friend wasn’t done with that thought, so I waited him out. My eye caught my neighbor’s gray hair, and I noticed he was biking faster than I was. I picked up my pace.

Dev: … anymore.

Josh: Whateves. I’ll see you at the airport.

I was still biking slowly enough that I could explore on my phone, and I just happened to find myself on the Hampstead University Men’s Hockey Team website.

Campbell Ryan, number fifty-nine, was a junior from Mayville, New York, a hamlet I had never heard of. I looked it up while my legs pumped away on the chill exercise bike. It was even further north than Hampstead Valley, in the western part of the state.

Campbell was at Hampstead University on a full athletic scholarship and was a recreation and volunteer management major. He was the team’s goaltender and had hopes of making it to the NHL, according to an article in his hometown newspaper from his first year of college. There was a link to another article in the HU school paper from last year, written, as it turned out, by someone I knew since we took a lot of the same classes, that concluded he had a shot of doing just that.

I stalked his socials next. Lots of pictures of him on the ice and of him and two younger boys who, based on their hair color and matching smiles, could easily be his brothers. Some of those pictures were on the ice, either in a rink or on a pond. There were a few photos of a group of college-aged kids hanging out, but not many, and none of just Campbell and another person. If his socials were to be believed, he was single and perfectly welcome to flirt with his physical therapist. Or with me , a voice in the back of my head added. I told that voice to stop living in a dream world.

Heeding it, I stopped cyberstalking Campbell Ryan and switched back over to my text messages with Devon, prepared to ask him about the internship he had applied for, when I sensed someone standing over me with a chest so broad it could have blocked the sun.

Though I wasn’t staring at his picture at that point, instinctively I turned my phone upside down on my thigh as if he had caught me doing just that.

“Hey, Josh. Did I catch you looking at naughty pictures of hot women?”

I almost laughed aloud but was able to hold it in as I looked up at him and smiled.

“Yeah, no. Definitely not pictures of hot women. That’s not my thing. But I wasn’t ogling hot guys either,” I lied. “Just texting my roommate, trying to figure out when he’s back in town.”

Campbell’s eyes went wide. You never knew when coming out might lead to a bad situation, and for a quick minute I thought about him growing up in a small western New York town that wasn’t attached to a liberal college like Hampstead. Maybe my new acquaintance wouldn’t be cool with me being gay.

If that was the case, it didn’t matter how hot he was, he could fuck right on off.

Instead, he recovered from his surprised look. “Yeah, well, you don’t need your phone when you're in the gym if you want to stare at hot guys; they're usually all around.” He thought about what he’d said. “… Or girls. Hot guys and girls … women!” He was cute when he stumbled and even cuter when his cheeks started to match the Hampstead maroon of his clothing. I motioned with my brace for him to lean closer, regretting it as I felt the dull pain I was learning to live with pulse a little more intensely with the movement.

“We’re in the retirement section here, so it’s all about the hot professors,” I joked, stretching over his shoulder to catch the guy on the bike next to me looking my way. Oops. I stayed where I was for a second, though, because fuck, Campbell smelled good, freshly showered and manly, his mixture of citrus and spice intoxicating me even as he espoused the joys of ogling women in a gym.

He gave me a polite chuckle and stood up straight.

“Well, you can stare at me, I guess. I’m gonna go grab that treadmill.” Campbell took off to stake his claim but turned and gave me the most adorable wave before placing his water bottle, phone, and towel in the various holders on the machine.

He was straddling the conveyor belt and putting in a set of earbuds when I realized what he was doing. “Wait!” I yelled, maybe a little too loudly, but I was working to be heard over the noise of multitudinous machines and whatever was already playing in one of his ears. He looked at me over his shoulder, his hair flopping as he silently questioned me. I stopped myself on the bike and was about to get up.

Campbell reached into his pocket, and pulled his hair back with a cloth headband, maroon colored to match his HU Hockey workout clothes. Instead of explaining myself, all I could do was stare at the man: his perfectly sculpted legs, the majestic expanse of his broad shoulders, and the little bit of his bangs that stuck straight up as he turned back around.

I hoisted myself up from my bike, my legs actually feeling a little burn, so I guess the afternoon had been better spent than sitting on my ass watching a movie.

I was in front of him as he started his warm-up.

“Should you be on that thing again? The PT barely let you go faster than a walk.”

“It’s fine.”

“Don’t you guys have an exercise room at the rink? My brother told me the football team has all their own equipment. Don’t you?”

“Does your brother play?”

“Nah, he’s finishing up grad school. He’s a writer. I don’t know how he knows that, now that you mention it.” I stood my ground, looking at him.

He punched the buttons on the machine, and it sped up faster than earlier in the day at the treatment center but still basically at a warm-up pace. “Fine, you caught me. I’m feeling much better. I just wanted to get a little workout in!”

“Well, let me tell you. I’m feeling the burn. No better workout than …” I turned and presented the row of recumbent bikes behind him like a spokesmodel on a game show. “A brand-new recumbent bike.” I mimicked a crowd clapping and cheering.

He laughed, but he also got off the treadmill and collected up his stuff. “Nerd.”

I’d take it. I followed behind him, realizing I was a good five or six inches shorter than he was, and watched as the older gentleman who had been next to me finished wiping off his equipment.

“All yours, Fifty-Nine,” the man said. “Looking forward to the season. You guys going all the way this year?”

“Thanks, Professor Preston. I’d never jinx it, but I’m feeling pretty good this year.”

“And your ankle?”

“Just a sprain, sir. But my buddy here is making sure I don’t overdo it.” There was that winning smile again, for me and the professor as he hiked one perfect leg over the bike and sat down.

He reached between his legs to adjust the seat, and I had to look away, the need to seat myself back on my bike more a distraction than anything. He watched the professor leave, and I watched him, his features soft and relaxed as he eased into a rhythm on the bike. He swung my way and caught me looking, but what harm could it do?

He seemed okay, if a little flustered, with the gay thing, and I wasn’t one to shy away from making my feelings known.

Besides, despite the fact that I had now run into him twice in one day, Campbell Ryan and I did not run in the same circles. I’d probably not be seeing him again.

“How’s the ankle feeling?” I asked, but he didn’t answer, staring at me instead. I watched as his gaze traveled the length of my body, feeling slightly self-conscious seated in the same position and performing the same exercise as a tall, beefy, elite athlete. Our eyes met, but he didn’t respond for a few beats.

“You should come to my party. The team’s all back, so it should be a good one.” Campbell’s eyes opened wide, like he’d surprised himself with his non-answer to my question.

I didn’t answer straightaway, and before I could, Hunter was in front of me. “Hey.” He gave a chin nod to Campbell in lieu of apologizing for interrupting, and when did my baby brother get so cool? To me he said, “You good? I’m gonna do a few minutes on the treadmill.”

“Lucky bastard,” I joked, making a point of speeding up my peddling. “Yeah, I’m all good. How’s your shoulder feeling?”

He rotated it. “All good,” he mimicked before turning and taking over the treadmill I wouldn’t let Campbell use.

“Is that your …” Campbell couldn’t finish his own sentence, and it took me a beat to catch on.

“That’s just my brother.”

“The guy getting his master’s?” Campbell sounded incredulous and with good reason. Hunter was still a teenager and looked the part even with his air of jock coolness.

I chuckled. “No, different brother.” I leaned in. “I have lots of brothers. That’s Hunter.” I nodded toward the row of treadmills. “He’s still in high school. My older brother Vance is the writer. There are three more brothers and a sister in our family as well.”

“Wow, that's a big family. I have two little brothers. One in middle school and one in high school. So he’s obviously not your boyfriend, or whatever. What about your roommate?”

“Devon” I laughed. Devon was gay, too, but he and I had never been anything but friends. “Nah, man, he’s my best friend. It’d be too weird, like fucking your brother or something.” I gave a performative shiver that had Campbell smiling at me, that big, charming, enticing smile.

“What about you? Do you have a girlfriend? A sweet, small-town girl back home? Or some hockey fan you met here? No, let me guess, you’re one of those ‘girl in every port’ kinda guys, with a list in your phone to remind you of the girl you met in whatever town the team finds themselves in.”

I was trying to joke, but Campbell looked serious. “Nah, that’s not me. I guess I’m more of a loner. I do actually live in a small town.” Oops. “There was a girl back home, but we didn’t go out for very long. She stayed there and married a guy who graduated a few years before us.” He shrugged.

“Well, maybe Diane’s your one true love.”

“Diane?” Campbell questioned, making me think I’d gotten the name wrong.

“Your PT? The one who took my mom’s class? Did I get it wrong; I thought her name was Diane?” I said.

“Oh, yeah,” Campbell said distractedly, suddenly focusing on his feet as they circled in front of him. “She’s cute, isn’t she?” His gaze shot back up to me quickly, and I felt like he’d caught me staring again. With a nervous laugh, he apologized. ”I guess I’m asking the wrong guy, huh?”

“I may be gay, dude, but I’m not blind. Fuck yeah, Diane is cute.” I hoped that throwing in a dude and a fuck yeah would help Campbell feel comfortable because the conversation had gotten strangely awkward there for a minute. He just nodded and went back to staring at his feet.

“Maybe she’ll come to the party,” he mumbled. “But you should come too. Not much going on since school hasn’t started, right? What’d ya say?” His resolve strengthened, and he reached out a hand. “Here, give me your phone.”

I hesitated, thinking about how I’d been looking him up before he walked in. He felt the need to explain. “I don’t want you to have to type.” He waved his perfectly functional left hand at me. “I’ll give you my number and grab yours. I can text you the address of the Hockey House. You should come.” He said that last part like it was a question, but was the question for me or for himself? More resolved, he finished, “It’ll be fun.”

I unlocked my phone and deleted a few web browser pages before handing it over to him. When he returned it, I had a new text message.

59: Hockey House, Friday night. See u there, Frankenstein.

A second text followed with a street address that I knew to be near campus.

I leaned toward him, and he leaned in so close that I pulled back an inch. “Sorry, Fifty-Nine, but my parents both teach literature here, so I’m gonna have to be that guy . Frankenstein is the doctor. This”—I raised my left hand—“this is Frankenstein’s monster.”

“Oh, you’re a monster, all right.” We were laughing and leaning, and I was smelling citrus and spice, and it was all very confusing.