Page 30 of King of Pain

Okay, then. One step forward, two steps back.

“Don’t be sorry. About any of it,” I tell him. “I like that you asked. How about we get Little G here back to the apartment?”

He gives me a soft smile, and we start to head back. “So, did you name this guy Guinness because he’s a chocolate lab, because you like to drink Guinness, or because you’re Irish?” he asks as we reach my door.

I turn to him and simply reply, “Yes.”

As we step back into the apartment, I turn to Ant, hands in my pockets, rocking back on my heels. “Speaking of Guinness, you want a beer?”

He hesitates for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

I grab two bottles of a local IPA I picked up, pop the caps, and hand one to him. He takes a seat on the couch, looking around, taking it all in. “Nice place,” he says, taking a sip as Little G hops on the couch and curls up right next to him.

The sight elicits a pitter-patter in my chest.

“Thanks,” I say, sinking into the armchair across from them. “So, what’s your story, Ant? I know you’re a football stud. You’re on a full scholarship, right?”

He nods. “Yeah. Full scholarship. I’m a tight end.”

I raise an eyebrow, fighting the urge to aggressively agree. “Is that so? Planning to go pro?”

He laughs, but there’s a touch of something sad in it. “Nah. I’m good enough for college, but pro ball isn’t in the cards forme. Hasn’t been since I was a kid. Bad leg injury. It slows me down just enough to make the difference. But I love the game, and it pays for my education, so I can’t complain.”

I nod, admiring the way he talks about it. There’s passion in his voice, even if he’s resigned to the limits of his situation. “What’s your major?”

“Double major in Sports Management and Marketing. Figured if I can’t play professionally, I’d funnel my passion into athletes who are fortunate enough to get paid to play the sport they love. I have a very specific vision, though. I’ll work my way up, but eventually, I want to open my own agency. And I won’t be taking on just any clients. I don’t care how long it takes me to build my dream, but when I do, I will only represent pro athletes who are good human beings and give back to the communities that support them. I don’t just mean writing checks to charity. I want to rep people who truly want to enact change.”

“Woah,” I say, my jaw practically on the floor. “That was quite the break-down of your future. I love that you’re so fired up about what you believe in and you’re using it as a moral compass for your career. You don’t see that a lot. It’s refreshing.”

“Thanks,” he replies. “Sorry if that was over the top. I do get fanatical about it. So, speaking of sports…”

I look up as Ant gestures with his beer at the photo of my high school hockey team in Boston.

“Yeah, I’ve been playing hockey my whole life. Played since I was six all the way through high school then joined a club team after,” I tell him. His eyes light up with what looks a little like mischief, which is not something I’ve seen from him yet.

“Hockey? That’s intense. Not as intense as football, but still. Didyouever think about going pro?”

I shrug. “Nah. Of course I had dreams when I was a kid, but I wasn’t quite good enough to go after it. But I still love the game—wait, did you just say football is more intense than hockey?”

“And there it is,” he says through a laugh. “You hockey guys.” Then, in the most ridiculous tone he can muster, he mocks, “‘Our sport is the hardest, our fans are better, our sport is the most expensive, we take harder hits’…blah, blah, blah.”

And then the fucker grins at me.

I sit there for a moment, mouth wide open, just staring at him in disbelief. I fall back in my chair and laugh until the corners of my eyes are wet. And fuck, if it hasn’t been a while since I’ve been able to do that.

“You continue to surprise me, Pacini,” I say, watching him carefully. Then, deciding to take a chance, I add, “Speaking of surprises, that was quite the scene with the priest at the shop earlier. Do you know him? What did he say to upset you so much? If I’m prying, feel free to tell me to fuck off.”

Ant’s expression sobers, his posture stiffening slightly. “Uh, it was nothing,” he says after a moment. “I thought he was delivering a message from people I never want to hear from. But… I think I might have been overreacting. He was staring at me through the window after closing time a few days ago, so it put me on edge seeing him again.” He exhales slowly, his shoulders dropping as he adds, “Even if it was something, it’s not anything I’m ready to talk about.”

“I can respect that,” I say gently. “But if you ever need a friendly ear, I’ve been told I’m a good listener.” Trying to lighten the mood, I grin and add, “It’s just one more thing hockey players are better at.”

That earns a genuine laugh from Ant, the tension in the air breaking as his full lips shift into a smile. Just like that, the conversation is back on track, the heavy moment receding into the background.

We go back to sparring over our respective sports for a couple of hours, trading stories about practices, games, and the injuries we’ve both racked up over the years. The conversation flowseasily, and before I know it, we’ve gone through a few beers each. I glance at the clock and realize how late it’s gotten.

“I shouldn’t drive,” I say, leaning back against the couch. “Not after those beers. I’m sorry, I should have paid closer attention. You can crash here if you want. The couch is fairly comfortable. We could have another beer before sacking out. Or I can call you a car on my ride share account. My treat. I did promise to get you home.”

He hesitates, chews on it a moment, then nods. “Thanks. I’ll take that beer. And a pillow.”