Page 63 of Next Season

He was beautiful by candlelight. His cheekbones could have been carved out of marble, and his eyes were bright with humor and happiness. Fantastic food, amazing sex, and a renewed sense of purpose made him glow. It was hard to believe this was the same man who’d come to Elmwood to heal. He’d had a haunted aura of someone on the verge of losing a war, but now…he’d won.

“I don’t know how you did all this. Unless your minions did the work and you’re taking the credit.”

“Hmph. It was all me.”

Riley grinned as he slid his foot along my calf. “Thank you. It was delicious, but why’d you do all this?”

“You deserve a proper send-off.”

He went still. “Oh. Like a last supper or something.”

“That’s not it, but I—”

“Have you thought about coming to Seattle?”

“It sounds…magnifique.”

“Oh, fuck. I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear that.” He sighed theatrically. “Look, I know it’s not a matter of packing a bag and hopping the next flight, but let’s put this on the calendar and not leave it for Christmas.”

“Christmas?”

“Yeah, I’ll swing by when I visit my family over the holiday. I’ll be busy next week—medical evaluations, press conferences, and my first game back. I won’t get any playing time, but I’m so ready to be there, ya know?”

I nodded and did my best to make my lips curl into something resembling a smile. “I know.”

“We have a stretch of home games the second week of January. I can show you the city, take you to the finest restaurants. Do you think you can get away?”

I swallowed hard as I set my wineglass on the table and leaned forward to cover his hand. “Riley…I can’t go to Seattle in January.”

He frowned but recovered quickly. “February is good too. The weather will still suck, but—”

“I’m not coming with you, Riley.”

He lowered his fork, his brow furrowed unhappily. “You…you just said—”

“That it sounded wonderful and amazing,” I interrupted, pushing the pavlova aside to lace our fingers. “It’s not that I don’t want to…I do. I’d follow you to the ends of the Earth, but you’re not ready for this.”

“That’s not true,” he protested.

“Love, you know it is. You have things to figure out—yoursexualité, for one. How would you explain me? Would we pretend to be friends? I’m gay. I’m out. Icouldpretend. I could go into the wardrobe again, but—”

“Closet,” he corrected flatly.

“Yes. I did it for many years, and I’m good at it. But that’s not—how do you say?—healthy. For either of us. I think you need to finish this chapter yourself. Finish your season, play without fear. Don’t worry about the press looking over your shoulder, looking for scandal. Don’t let anyone take this chance from you, because it may be the last one you have. Next season may or may not come. All you have is now, and hockey is your now. Not me.”

Riley worked his jaw from left to right, then bit his bottom lip and looked away. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“No apologies. There is no reason to say sorry.”

“I shouldn’t have put you on the spot. Your life is here.” His voice hitched and my heart lurched on cue.

“For now…yes.”

“Are you going to open that restaurant with Nolan?”

I shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. He offered me forty percent in the diner.”

“Oh.” He licked his lips and nodded like a puppet on a faulty string.