Page 36 of King of Pain

Chance excuses himself to go to the bathroom. And as they’ve done on countless occasions since I met him, my eyes betray me, trailing after him and locking on his backside.

Jesus.

“That is definitely a hockey ass,” I mutter under my breath, immediately wishing I could slap the words back into my mouth. What is wrong with me? And who does he think he is, strutting away all cool and confident, just slinging that ass all over this fine establishment? He’s going to knock a beer pitcher off someone’s table.

I take another swig of my beer, trying to shove the thoughts away. This is fine. Totally normal. Just a guy appreciating another guy’s… athletic build. Nothing to see here.

When Chance slides back into the booth, he tops off our beers with what’s left in the pitcher. There’s an ease about him tonight, like he’s getting settled into his life here.

I admire it.

“So,” I start, curious about the spark I’ve noticed in him lately. “How are your classes going? You’re taking art, right?”

Chance lights up, his blue eyes brightening as he leans forward. “Yeah. I mean, the general classes blow, but the art classes have been… incredible. I didn’t even realize how much I’d love it. Painting, especially. There’s something about pouring everything you’re feeling into a canvas—letting the brush just move with whatever comes out of you. It’s therapeutic, you know?”

I nod, watching him talk with so much passion. It’s infectious. “I can tell you’re into it,” I say. “You’ve got that look people get when they’ve found something they’re meant to do.”

“Maybe,” he says with a small, thoughtful smile. “I don’t know if I’m meant to do it as a living, but it feels right for right now. It’s helping me figure out who I am, piece by piece.”

I stay quiet, letting his words settle. There’s something inspiring in the way he talks about his passion, like he’s discovered a whole new part of himself.

“What about you?” Chance asks, shifting the conversation. “How do you feel about this being your last season playing football?”

I take a sip of my beer, thinking it over. “Honestly? I’m grateful for it. Football’s given me a lot. Discipline, a way to escape, a way to channel things. But I’m not devastated that it’s ending. I’ve been preparing myself for this. It’s just time.”

Chance nods, his expression soft. “That’s a good way to look at it. Not everyone gets to leave something like that on their own terms, you know?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m lucky that way.”

There’s a pause, comfortable but weighted, before Chance asks, “What about your family? Do they come to your games? Are they close by?”

I hesitate, the familiar knot forming in my chest. “I don’t really talk to my family,” I admit, keeping my voice steady. “We’re not… close.”

Chance’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t push. “I get that. Sometimes family can be complicated.”

I take a deep breath, deciding to offer a little more. “They didn’t protect me from something they knew about. Something they could’ve stopped. And they don’t have any remorse about it. In fact, they blame me. I don’t have space in my life for them.”

The weight of the words hangs in the air between us, but Chance doesn’t look away. Instead, he nods, his gaze full of understanding. “That’s fair. You’ve got to protect your peace.”

I’m not quite sure why, but I find myself opening myself up to him without even realizing I’m doing it. It feels natural. Comfortable. I’ve never experienced that. Not even Jen has beenable to pull the things out of me that Chance has in a few short weeks.

I clear my throat, wanting to steer the conversation somewhere lighter.

“How are you liking it at Devil Records,” I ask.

“It’s pretty fucking great, actually. I’m surrounded by vinyl and… beautiful things.”

And he’s got more sauce in his eye, apparently.

“And Jen’s a character,” he continues, “what is she studying?”

“She’s finishing law school. That’s why we needed you. She can’t work as many shifts this semester,” I say. “But yeah, she’s been hell-bent on becoming a lawyer since she was a kid.”

Chance lets out a low whistle. “A lawyer? Yeah, I feel sorry for anyone caught on the opposing side of her counsel.”

I chuckle. “She’s going to be a force for sure. She graduated high school at sixteen so she could start her pre-law undergrad early.”

Then, I give him a smile and tease, “She’s wicked smaht,” in my worst Boston accent.