Page 2

Tyler Julian Stone

I ’m a firm believer that a man with a rooftop pool is never truly alone, but as I float on my back in the Sunday afternoon sun, I realize there’s a difference between not being alone and not being lonely.

The distinction feels particularly keen on a perfect, late-summer Portland afternoon. The sun is warm but not brutal, the sky so blue it hurts my eyes, and I have a couple of great friends on their way over with snacks to keep me company. Knowing Steph, they’ll be yummy snacks, too. Healthy, but yummy.

Still, I can’t stop brooding about the sexy redhead who put me in the penalty box for the indefinite future.

Maybe we should take a break for a while.

The words are still echoing in my head two days later, making me uncharacteristically cranky.

I’ve been dumped before, and it’s not like I haven’t done my share of dumping, as well.

Hell, if I’m being completely honest, I’ve been the dumper more often than the dumpee . Apparently, my winning personality and lack of major red flags are real “tie that man down and pressure him to put a ring on it” fodder for the modern single woman. I can’t blame them—I’m adorable, loyal, and only rarely pick my nose while driving—but I don’t like being rushed into things.

Especially things as serious as an engagement.

I was glad that Remy wasn’t a commitment-minded woman…at first. Now, I find myself wishing she would wake up, smell the coffee, and awaken to what excellent boyfriend material I am.

Instead, I’ve been put out to pasture, a bull set loose in a field of beautiful single cows, all desperate for my schlong, but the only heifer I want to bone has jumped the fence and departed for greener grass somewhere else.

Remy would hate that metaphor, I think, as I swirl a sad hand through the crystal blue water. She would not appreciate being called a heifer or the fact that I’ve assumed all the other single cows are desperate for my schlong.

Even though it’s true…mostly.

Being a good-looking pro hockey player with a winning smile does have its perks, even if I’m not feeling very perky right now.

I suddenly find myself wishing there were some rowdy kids in the pool, splashing me while they play, or that the nearly-deaf woman from the third floor was in a lounge chair gossiping loudly with her daughter on the phone. Anything to take my mind off my own depressing thoughts.

But the pool is completely deserted.

I’ll never understand why more residents don’t take advantage of our posh and swanky oasis, twenty stories above the Portland sprawl. The rooftop pool area can easily accommodate thirty people, but most days it’s just me up here, drifting around on my floatie.

People really seem to hate fun, a fact that’s always baffled me. Fun is good. As far as I’m concerned, it’s one of the reasons we’re here. Whoever put us on this planet wouldn’t have given us a gift like the capacity to have fun if they didn’t want us to use it. Same with sex.

And just like that, I’m back to feeling sad and mourning the loss of Remy’s incomparable pussy.

“Hey there,” a deep voice sounds from behind me. “Nice floatie. Pink is your color.”

I paddle around to see Tank and Stephanie emerging from the stairwell door, his arm around her shoulders, and both of them looking disgustingly happy. Tank carries a six-pack of craft beer in his free hand, while Stephanie balances a large tote bag filled with our afternoon snacks on one hip.

“Thank you,” I say with a grin, sliding off my inflatable flamingo and striding through the shallow water to the side of the pool. “Glad you made it. I was beginning to think you’d been snarled up in traffic. The construction downtown sucks ass this summer.”

“It’s awful,” Stephanie agrees, setting the bag on one of the tables beneath an open umbrella. “But I have to confess, it’s my fault we’re late. We were giving Piggie a bath after he rolled in something nasty in the park, and then…we got distracted.”

The look they exchange makes me both happy for them and vaguely nauseated. My best friend and his yoga instructor girlfriend are sickeningly in love, the kind that makes single people develop spontaneous lactose intolerance from the sheer cheesiness of it all.

I haul myself out of the pool, water cascading off my body as I grab my towel from the lounger nearby. “Distracted, huh?” I tease as I join them in the shade. “Is that what you horny bastards are calling it these days?”

Tank grunts, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “I plead the fifth. Here, have a beer. It’s a coffee porter. Maybe it’ll put some hair on your chest.”

I accept the peace offering with a grin. “Aw, thanks. But sadly, I think I’m doomed to remain relatively hairless. Too much Swedish on my mother’s side.”

While I crack open a cold one, Stephanie arranges a spread of vegan delights—hummus with veggies, some kind of quinoa salad that looks way more appetizing than quinoa has any right to, and a plate of cookies that I know from experience are simultaneously healthy and delicious, a magic trick I appreciate now that camp is underway and good nutrition is more important than ever.

“So, what have you been up to this weekend?” she asks, shooting me one of those knowing looks she specializes in. The woman sees far too much. I blame all the meditating. It can’t be good for a person to meditate that much.

I take a long pull of my beer before answering. “Oh, you know. The usual. I lifted. Brunched. Hit a decoupage class at the craft co-op.” I don’t mention spending most of last night staring at my phone, drowning my sorrows in pricey dirty vodka martinis while forcing myself not to text Remy. “Living the bachelor dream.”

Tank settles into a chair, a subtle frown creasing his forehead. “Yeah? Then why do you look like shit?”

“Wow, thanks, pumpkin.” I run a hand through my still-damp hair. “You sure know how to make a guy feel special.”

“He just means you look more tired than usual,” Stephanie translates, her voice gentle as she hands me a plate. “Everything okay?”

I shrug and pretend to find the patio tile suddenly fascinating. “Yeah. Good. Just first week of training camp hangover, I guess. It’s hard being old.”

Tank grunts again, a co-sign grunt this time. “It is. The rookies are hyper as fuck this year. I have to pound an energy shake with extra espresso before afternoon practice just to keep up.”

“Same,” I agree. “I’d think they were juicing if they weren’t all so fucking wholesome. Grammercy is on that organic grind, and Bellamy doesn’t drink anything fun. Alcohol or caffeine.”

“Yeah, they suck, but that doesn’t explain the sad,” Tank says, motioning to my face. “Behind the eyes.”

Thankfully, I’m saved from further interrogation by Stephanie surging from her chair with a fretful groan. “Oh no, I think I’m going to—” She slaps a hand to her mouth before bolting toward the bathroom near the stairwell.

Tank and I exchange a concerned glance before he hurries after her, leaving me alone with my beer and my thoughts, neither of which is particularly good company at the moment. Coffee porter isn’t my favorite. Neither is being called out on my less-than-immaculate vibes.

I tell myself that my eyes aren’t sad—they’re just a little hungover—but I’ve never been great at lying to anyone, least of all myself.

A few minutes later, my guests return, Stephanie looking a little unsteady but no longer green beneath her golden-brown skin. Tank has his arm around her waist, supporting her like she might float away if he lets go. For a guy who spent most of his life avoiding emotional entanglements, he’s transformed into the most devoted partner I know.

“You okay, Steph?” I ask.

“I’m fine,” she says, a smile quirking her lips as she glances up at Tank. “I’m just a little…off. But it’s nothing a few crackers won’t cure.”

There’s a moment of silent communication between them, the kind that makes my chest ache with a longing I’m not ready to examine too closely.

It also sets my “something’s up” detector to beeping.

“What’s going on with you two?” I ask, glancing between them. “I smell secrets.”

“I think that’s the vegan feta cheese,” Tank says. “I told her to leave it out of the salad. It smells like feet.”

“It does not,” she says, swatting his chest with a laugh. “It’s fantastic. Especially with fresh tomatoes. You’ll see.” To me, she adds, “And yeah, we do have a secret. We weren’t planning on telling anyone just yet, but…”

“But you’re special,” Tank says with a teasing roll of his eyes. “And we won’t be able to keep it a secret for long, anyway. I’m sure someone as tiny as Steph will start showing sooner rather than later.”

My eyes dart between them, landing on Stephanie’s still-flat stomach, my heart skipping a beat as I connect the dots.

“Holy shit,” I breathe. “You’re pregnant?”

Steph nods, her eyes bright. “Yes, but just barely. We just found out on Friday.”

“Guys! Bring it in!” I pounce on the happy couple, wrapping them up in a slightly damp hug, making Tank stiffen and Stephanie giggle. Stepping back, I add, “Congratulations. I’m so happy for you. What amazing news. Put me down for a crib or a stroller or something. Whatever you need.”

“Slow down, we aren’t anywhere close to buying baby stuff yet,” Tank warns, but the happiness radiating off of him is a beautiful thing to behold.

“But we appreciate it,” Stephanie says, leaning into his side, giving him a quick hug. “Now, let’s eat! Apparently, if I don’t consume something every hour on the hour, I get sick.”

We settle back around the table, the mood lighter now. Stephanie nurses a bottle of water with her food, while Tank and I work on our beers. We discuss their baby plans— they still need to set up the nursery in their new apartment, find more help for Stephanie at the yoga studio before the due date, and figure out the best timing for their impending marriage to make sure Steph and the baby are covered by the best health insurance possible.

Each subject feels more intimidatingly adult to me than the last, despite the fact that I’m older than both of them. It makes me wonder if I’ve Peter Panned too long and am about to find out what happens when the grown-ups leave Neverland—and me—behind.

“So,” Stephanie says as we reach a lull in the conversation. “Now that we’ve shared our big news, want to tell us what’s really bothering you? Might it have something to do with Remy and whatever we interrupted on Friday afternoon? Are things getting serious between you two?”

Tank lifts his hands in surrender. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to tell her. It just kind of slipped out.”

“But we won’t tell anyone,” Steph rushes to assure me. “Not ever. We’re a safe space for anything you want to disclose or discuss. Remy does come to hot yoga sometimes, but I rarely see her at the stadium. And no matter where I see her, I promise to keep my mouth shut.”

Great. Now I’m imagining Remy at hot yoga, all sweaty and bent over in tight spandex.

That’s not helping the sad at all.

I sigh. “It’s fine. No worries. But sadly, there’s nothing to discuss. She put me in time out for the foreseeable future. Said she needed to focus on work and everything else she has going on. Which I get, I totally do… I just…”

“You’re just into her,” Tank says, direct but not unkind. “Really into her, if you’re willing to keep risking Coach finding out that you’re banging his daughter and gutting you like a big blond fish.”

“Yep, looks like it.” I take another swig of beer. “But it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t feel the same way. She’s made that clear by telling me to buzz off. Multiple times. This is only the latest installment in the ‘Go Away, Stone, No More Remy Kisses for You’ saga.”

Stephanie exchanges a look with Tank that I can’t quite decipher. “I mean, maybe that’s the case,” she says carefully. “But maybe not. Sometimes people push others away because they’re scared.”

“Remy’s not scared of anything,” I counter with a snort. “Except maybe germs. She’s kind of a neat freak.”

“Everyone’s scared of something,” Stephanie insists. “And if she keeps coming back for more after she’s pushed you away…”

I drain the last of my beer. “Maybe,” I finally admit. “But if she were going to change her mind and decide I’m worth keeping around long term, it would have happened by now, right? At this point, continuing to hope would just be sadistic. Or masochistic? Which one means I’ve got a hard-on for pain? I always forget.”

“Masochistic,” Stephanie supplies. “And you could be right, but it might be worth a serious conversation, you know? Just to clear the air and get some clarity on where you both stand?”

I pull a face. “Ugh. Serious conversations give me hives.”

“But sometimes they’re necessary.” Tank leans forward, fixing me with that intense stare that intimidated me a little bit when I first met him, back when we were rookies together in Seattle. “Have you ever told her how you feel?”

I roll my eyes. “I mean, no, not flat out. But I haven’t exactly tried to hide it, either. It’s there, right in front of her face, if she had any interest in seeing it.”

“So, you’re expecting her to read your mind,” he says, arching a judgmental brow. “Sounds like she’s not the only one who’s scared.”

“Hey, that’s not fair,” I protest. “She’s made it clear since day one that all she wants is casual sex. No strings attached. She spelled it out for me in big, bold letters. Dumping feelings on her when I knew exactly what I was getting into and agreed to the terms ahead of time would be a dick move.”

“Would it?” Stephanie asks. “Or is it more of a dick move to hide how you feel and pretend fuck buddies is still enough for you when it clearly isn’t?”

I scrub a hand over my face. “Fuck, you ask hard questions.” I glare Tank’s way. “You, too. She’s rubbing off on you.”

Tank’s lips hook up on one side. “I hope so. She’s smart. And perceptive.”

“And I’m perceiving now that you need a swim break,” Stephanie says, granting me a much-needed reprieve. “Just think on the hard questions. And know we only push because we care and think you’re great.”

Tank grunts. “I don’t know about that. A great guy would have brought more than one floatie.”

I grin. “Go look in the men’s bathroom, smartass. I just put them in there so they wouldn’t blow off the roof if the wind picked up. There’s a lobster for you and a frog for me, and I’m going to give Steph my flamingo because she’s the nicest and the prettiest and deserves a floatie with no bathroom germs on it.”

“Aw, you’re the sweetest,” Steph says, rising to her feet. “I’m headed for my flamingo, then. It’s getting hot.”

After grabbing our pool toys, Tank and I join her in a long float. The conversation shifts to safer topics like training camp and whether the new Bucky the Badger retro merch line is cool or creepy. (I say, both.) But my mind keeps circling back to Tank’s accusation.

Have I been expecting Remy to read my mind?

I mean, I think I’ve been pretty obvious about how important she is to me, how much I care, but maybe I’m wrong. Or maybe she thinks I’m like that with all my casual lady friends, and she’s nothing special.

But she is.

But what if I’m not special to her? What if I come clean and she winces and lets me down easy, ending this on-again-off-again thing between us for good?

For the first time in my life, the prospect of rejection is enough to stop me in my tracks. I’ve always gone after the things I wanted, full throttle, but Remy isn’t a thing and this whole situation is so fucking complicated.

By the time Tank and Steph head out, the sun is beginning to set. I take Barb, the best chihuahua in the whole world and my sweet baby fur princess, out for her evening walk and feed her before sinking into a lounger on my private deck. As the evening light above the city skyline turns from pink and gold to a darker orange, I do some serious soul searching.

For as long as I can remember, hockey has been my number one. Every decision, every sacrifice, every relationship or lack thereof—all of it has been in service to the game. Now, with retirement looming on the horizon after this season, I’m facing a future without the one thing that’s given me purpose and focus for so long.

But watching Tank and Stephanie today, seeing the way they look at each other, the future they’re building together...

I want something like that. I want it as much as I did at the beginning of the summer, when I decided it was time to push Remy for what ended up being our one-and-only disastrous date. And yes, it was scary, almost getting caught by my teammates, but there will come a time when that won’t matter. In nine short months, I won’t be a Badger or one of her dad’s players anymore.

Would that make a difference to Remy? If I dare to point it out?

I’m still sitting there in my now-dry suit, marinating in indecision, when my phone buzzes on the small table beside my lounger.

I reach over, thinking it might be Tank.

Maybe he and Steph forgot something or just want to say thanks for a fun afternoon.

But it isn’t Tank or one of my brunch buddies or Sheila from the crafting co-op texting to see if I want to start the beginning crochet class series next week.

It’s Remy. And she’s in trouble if her text is anything to judge by.

She shoots me a highway name and mile marker along with— Phone about to die. Also about to be run over by semi-trucks and can’t get the jack in the right place to change my flat tire. Please come. SOS!

In a heartbeat, I’m out of my chair, dashing into my bedroom to throw on clothes as I text— Be right there!

And I will.

As fast as my secretly smitten legs and Range Rover can carry me.