Page 16

Nate

I watch my friend perform a sloppy box step, laughing and grazing his hand over the hip of his dance partner, and will myself to join.

I need to snap out of it and go have some fun.

I love going to bars like this—the ones with dirt and peanut shells on the floor, and the tables pushed against the wall so people can dance in front of a stage for live music.

Spinning the soda I’ve been nursing, I scan the room.

My eyes catch on a pair of guys standing against the far wall, bottles dangling from their fingers and heads leaned in together.

They’re standing close—a lot closer than two pals would stand—and even as I watch, they get nearer.

They’re a couple, I realize, and feel a soft stab of jealousy.

I shouldn’t be staring at them, but I can’t seem to make myself look away.

It’s not like this is the first time I’ve seen a pair of men on a date, but it feels like a sign after I’ve spent the entire evening thinking about Marcos.

Hell, I’ve spent the entire summer so far thinking about Marcos .

I’ve texted with him daily since I got here.

Usually, it’s nonsense things like pictures of the mountains, or the puppies that were born a week ago.

This morning I sent him a selfie with my uncle’s horse, Buster, and was shocked when he sent one back.

Over a month and a half of texts and pictures from me, and today was the first time he’d sent a return selfie.

Tearing my eyes away from the guys across the room, I pull out my cellphone and bring up the photo, stomach clenching and fingers tingling as I look down at Marcos’ face.

His black hair is sort of janky on one side, like he sleeps primarily on the left, and there is a soft, sleepy look on his face like he’d woken up and the first thing he did was send a picture to me.

He’s holding a coffee cup awkwardly in the frame, and I can see the narrow line of his collarbone disappearing into the meat of his shoulder.

I can practically feel the unease seeping through the picture, as though he’s not used to taking selfies.

The photo made me feel weird this morning, and it’s making me feel weird now.

I’d thought distance would tamp down some of the raw desire, but if anything, I think it’s been worse.

I’m at a fucking bar filled with beautiful men and women, and all I can think about is the way Marcos’ hip bones jutted out from his flat stomach when he’d stood naked in my bedroom.

The song changes, and I glance up when I hear one of my friends whoop his delight.

I smile—the man loves Cody Johnson. Leaning back against the wall, I try to decide what I should do.

Marcos and I aren’t together. There’s no reason for me to abstain from hooking up with someone else.

Nothing but the swooping, empty sensation of wrong when I think about it.

God, I wish I could just talk to him. Maybe when I get home tonight I’ll give him a call.

Even if he doesn’t want to engage in another round of phone sex, I’d like to at least hear his voice, and maybe talk to him about all the things I’m confused about right now. Namely, him.

My buddy calls my name and windmills his arm in an attempt to get me to join them. Raising my drink in acknowledgment, I remain where I am. I’m just not in the mood. My phone distracts me for a second, when it buzzes and sends my heart lifting up into my throat. Maybe it’s Marcos.

It is not Marcos.

Micky

Hey, are you busy? I wanted to call you, but I’m sure you’re busy. It’s fine though, I can talk to you another time. I don’t want to bother you.

Grinning, I tip back the rest of my soda and leave it on the bar top as I walk outside.

I don’t bother letting my friends know where I’m going—they’ll find me if and when they need me.

It’s at least twenty degrees cooler outside than it is in the packed bar, and I take a moment to breathe deep of the fresh air before wandering over to my truck and opening the tailgate.

Hopping up to take a seat, I call Micky.

“Hey, Nate, sorry,” he answers immediately, sounding stressed.

“I’m never too busy for you, pal, what’s up?”

“So, something crazy happened. I rented a room near campus for the summer, and I’ve been working at the local rink, right?” His voice is tense with excitement, like he’s been waiting all day to tell me something.

“Right. I remember you mentioning to me you were doing that. ”

“Right,” he agrees, sounding a touch more eager and less nervous now. “So, the other day Coach Mackenzie called me, which, you know, freaked me out.”

I smile into the phone. “Naturally.”

“But guess what—he wanted to see if I was around for the summer because he wants to do some extra clinics with me and Carter Morgan!”

I whistle, long and low, kicking my feet into the open air beneath the truck bed.

Micky sounds breathless with delight, and I feel a surge of affection for Coach Mackenzie.

Micky rarely gets attention, and doesn’t think he deserves it.

By offering him special treatment, Coach Mackenzie is showing him he’s worth the effort.

“Dude, that’s fucking great! Good for you. Carter Morgan is a fucking beast, you’re going to learn a lot.”

“We had our first session today, actually. It was really good. I did bad of course, but Carter seems okay. I wasn’t as nervous, like I get when Lawson comes to practice.”

“You didn’t do bad.” I roll my eyes. “Did you have fun?”

“Oh, yeah. A bit. Carter didn’t talk much, and Coach Mackenzie had us do some drills and stuff.

Mostly, Coach just left us alone and it was me and Carter working together.

He had some good suggestions for me.” Micky puffs out a hard breath, voice calmer now that he got his news out.

“Maybe this next season I’ll actually be good. ”

“Hey, you know what we should work on for next season? Not saying shit like that,” I admonish him crossly. I really hate it when he talks like that, as casual as anything, as though he’s not talking crap about himself. About my best friend.

“I’m not as good as?—”

“Micky, I swear to all that is holy. ”

“All right, all right. Sorry. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you about Carter. How’s Montana?”

“I’m glad you’re getting to play with him, he’s a cool guy. That’s nice of him to volunteer his time over the summer. Or, is Coach paying him?”

“Oh, no.” Mickey laughs. “They were sort of fighting about that. Coach wants to pay him for helping, and Carter was mad about it. He told Coach he was there to support the team because he wanted to be, and offering him money was offensive.”

I snort, imagining Coach’s face when Carter said that. “Sounds about right.”

“Yeah. Anyway, you didn’t answer my question: how’s Montana?”

“It’s fine,” I tell him noncommittally, tipping my head back and trying to see the stars around the light from the bar. “I’ve been helping my uncle break some horses. At the end of the summer we’ll ship them down to Texas.”

Micky makes a soft noise of distress. “You’re getting rid of them?”

“Well, we can’t keep them all, Mick. We have to make money somehow. Most of the horses we work get sold, but we do keep some. This will probably be the last year I can ride Southern Comfort before she retires, so next summer I’ll get to break one for myself.”

“Your horse’s name is Southern Comfort?”

“One of them. She was born as a racehorse but found her calling as a rancher. Racehorses always have weird-ass names, and we buy quite a few that didn’t make it on the track. She’s a good old gal, though. Smoothest ride I’ve ever had, and nothing spooks her. ”

“Do you need me to give you and Southern Comfort some privacy?”

“You’re a comedian, my friend.”

“What’s wrong, Nate?” he asks suddenly. “You sound bummed.”

I pause. I am bummed, but it’s not as though I can tell him it’s because I’m pining after a pretty baseball player I hooked up with a couple times. I’m not ready to tell anyone, but I’m also not the kind of person who goes around lying to their friends.

“Nothing’s wrong, buddy,” I assure him. “Just got some stuff I’m trying to figure out.”

“Are you sure? You really don’t sound right. You haven’t made a single joke this entire time. Are you sick? Actually, if you are sick, I’d rather not know, because I’m not sure I could handle the stress of knowing.”

I laugh. “I’m not sick. Not dying. Nothing is wrong. Honestly, I’m just in my head about some personal stuff and I’m trying to work it out. Nothing bad, I promise. And you know I’ll end up telling you eventually, I’m just not ready yet.”

“Okay. I’m sorry.” He sounds so sad, I immediately feel bad.

“Don’t be sorry. Hey, tell me about the book you’re reading. I know you’ve got a stack next to your bed.”

He huffs a soft laugh, and I hear the soft rustle of pages in the background. It makes me smile—he’s probably sitting on his bed right now, a book in his lap and a pile of them waiting on the nightstand.

“I’m reading a book about gardening in the Arctic.”

“Is…is there gardening in the Arctic?” I ask, completely thrown by that .

“Yes! I picked this one up at the thrift store when I was raiding the dime book bin, but it’s actually really fascinating! You could borrow it if you wanted.”

“I’ll just get the Cliffs Notes version from you,” I respond quickly. “What else did you get?”

“Uhm, let’s see. They had a couple classics— Dracula and Dorian Gray —so I got those. I also got a book about dinosaurs—no, before you ask, there aren’t any pictures—and then a book about gay hockey players.”

“Like, a biography about Troy Nichols? Holy shit, is Coach Mackenzie in there?”

“No, no.” He chuckles. “It’s fiction. A romance. There’s pretty much an entire subgenre of romance devoted to hockey, and this one happens to be about two men. I haven’t read it yet.”

“Mm,” I hum, biting my lip. Am I a gay hockey player now? Maybe I should read that damn book—get some insight into what the fuck is going on, and what I’m supposed to do now. “Maybe I could borrow that one when you’re done. No offense to Arctic gardeners, but gay hockey sounds a lot more exciting.”

“I’m telling you, the gardening is fascinating. But yeah, I’ll read it and let you know. Where are you, by the way? It sounds like you’re at a party.”

“A bar. A couple of my friends are inside, line-dancing their way into the pants of the local ladies.”

“Oh my god , Nate.”

He’s blushing—I don’t even have to see his face to know it. I grin, because that scandalized tone was what I’d been shooting for. “Sorry.”

“I can let you go if you want to go have fun. I just wanted to tell you about Carter, since I know you played together. ”

“Nah, you’re good. I’m not feeling it tonight, so you’re giving me a good excuse to hide outside.

” Scooting backward in the truck bed, I stretch my legs out and lean against the rear of the cab.

Tipping my head back and closing my eyes, I settle in to listen.

“Tell me about the gardening in Antarctica.”