Page 10

Nine

Knox

R yder was great with the kids at the Elysium Garden yesterday, connecting with Samuel, but also getting through to some of the other harder-to-reach boys who picked on him. I think Ryder’s unique perspective, having been on both sides of the aisle with bullying, allowed him to reach both audiences, and they appreciated him meeting them where they were, using his humor constructively and even some teasing that didn’t delve too far into making fun of them. I want him to stick to that kind of thing, where he considers the impact of his words and actions, so I’m making my mama’s lasagna as a thank you.

The rich aromas of garlic, Italian sausage, and homemade marinara waft around me. I have a kitchen towel slung over my shoulder as I cook and earbuds in my ears, listening to a hot-as-fuck gay hockey romance audiobook Harlowe told me about when she found out Ryder was staying with me. She’s a fucking instigator and said this could be the perfect forced proximity situation Ryder needs to realize his homophobia is just years of pent-up sexual frustration that needs to be taken out with me.

She’s crazy. Ryder is straighter than a ruler and just as inflexible. Her fantasies have no business in my life, but I treat her book recommendations like gospel. The girl knows her smut, and we’ve been sharing books for years since I told her I used to read my mama’s romance novels.

I’m practically sweating from the spice in the book as I layer lasagna noodles with a ricotta mix next to a pot of meat and marinara sauce that smells incredible. There’s even a tray of garlic bread prepped and ready to go into the oven, but first, these men have to have their fuck it moment, throw caution to the wind, and give in to their forbidden love because they’re teammates.

“Who are you cooking for?”

“Oh, fuck!” I jump and spin, pulling the earbuds from my ears. “I didn’t hear you come in. You scared the shit out of me.” I lean against the counter, head hanging between my shoulders as I take deep breaths to bring my heart rate back down from the scare. I turn off the audiobook and swipe away the app so it doesn't accidentally start playing while some dude is getting a cock shoved in his ass or something. Just what Ryder would want to hear after learning that’s what I want more than anything.

“Is this your normal weekday afternoon activity? You make a family-style meal for one?” he asks, the snark entering his tone so easily.

Damn, he doesn’t even have to try, the asshole just appears. I take a measured breath and pray for patience. After all, this is to reward his good behavior at the garden, even if he’s being a little shit now.

“I felt like my mama’s lasagna, and since she’s several states away, I’m the one who has to make it if I want the real thing. Besides, it’s even better the next day, so it’s good for leftovers. You’re welcome to have some if you’re hungry. It’ll be done in about an hour.”

It’s an easy answer to a simple question, but I have ulterior motives. I know Ryder loves my mom’s lasagna. Not only is this positive reinforcement and a peace offering, but it’s also a reminder of our friendship and the many years we spent connected at the hip, where he was as close as a brother to me. Our conversation at the ice cream parlor yesterday got me thinking that maybe I need to remind him of what it was like to be such close friends that we felt like brothers. Maybe he’ll be slower to react and more willing to work with me if he remembers what he lost when he decided to let his emotions rule him.

My mama is one of the best people I know. She treated Ryder like another kid, never batting an eye when he showed up for dinner, just setting an extra place at our already crowded dining table next to mine and telling him to help himself. It didn’t take us long to realize Ryder’s home life wasn’t as easy as he made it seem. Mama could guess and fill in the blanks, and seemed content to step in where his family lacked.

Ryder’s mom worked two jobs to keep Ryder in hockey while his dad worked at a local manufacturing plant and made a valiant effort to drink himself to death when he wasn’t working. I’m pretty sure Ryder’s dad called him a disappointment every chance he got, but he never told Ryder what he was failing at; the goal always moved somehow. Ryder spent more time at my house than his own to avoid his dad, I’m pretty sure, not that he wanted me to know that. The few times I stopped by to ask him to play and ran into Mr. Kingston were enough to figure it out for myself. I heard him yelling at Ryder each time, throwing things in the house, calling him a fairy boy, telling him he’d made a huge mess, or getting mad about something that didn't seem important. That and the bruises. Ryder was good about hiding them, but there’s only so much you can do when your arms have constant hand marks, and he had a few too many black eyes that didn't come from hockey.

I remember my mom and dad talking about it a few times when they thought we couldn’t hear. They hated seeing Ryder hurt. After that, he spent the summers and school breaks with us, went to church on Sundays with us, and my dad took Ryder to hockey practice and games more often than not. They said hockey was his way out, and they’d make sure he’d get it.

I didn’t just lose my best friend when Ryder pushed me away in high school. My family lost a son. They knew something happened between us, but I couldn't tell them what was going on, just that we weren't friends anymore because I didn't want them to think badly of Ryder. It was my burden to bear, not theirs. They were so proud when he got a scholarship to play hockey and later was drafted. I know they miss him.

“Ah, aren't you sweet,” he grumbles, pulling me from my reminiscing as he turns from the kitchen and stomps away toward his bedroom.

“You can just say thank you, you know,” I call after him. “It doesn't have to be a battle every time you open your mouth.” I shake my head as I stir the marinara and ladle the sauce over the lasagna.

When I hear his bedroom door close, I lean against the cabinets and try to breathe through the tightness in my chest. What is this? Sadness? Nostalgia? I don't even know, but I hate it. Ryder is the one who fucked things up between us. I'm just trying to live my life. But what kind of life can I possibly have if I can't even be my true self in public? The honest voice in my head surprises me. And has no place in the kitchen with me while I make a thank you lasagna for my frenemy who kind of took care of me when I was feeling shitty, then was only kind of dumb when I came out, and was nice to some kids down on their luck when we were volunteering .

Wow, the bar is really low. I shake my head at myself. Get some fucking standards, Contraire.

When Ryder comes back into the kitchen a few minutes later, I think I have my shit together. Until I take one look at him, and the rational thoughts fly right out of my head as all the blood in my body rushes south. He’s in loose gray joggers that do obscene things to his ass and leave nothing to the imagination in his dick department. The man is packing and doesn’t like wearing underwear at home, it appears.

He’s also shirtless, showing off the tattoos that decorate his arms, upper back, and part of his chest. I can see them more clearly now, and realize they’re some depiction of Greek mythology, I think, because of the winged horse, mythical beasts, the columns, battle helmets and spears. Maybe Achilles, even? There’s an arrow about to strike one of the warrior’s ankles on his shoulder.

I shake my head. The black and white art is beautiful, enhancing his muscular body even more. What the fuck is he trying to do? Make life even harder for me? Before I can tell him to put a shirt on and stop being a cocktease, he opens his mouth and reminds me why I don’t find him attractive. Okay, not that attractive.

“Is that a fucking goldfish?” he asks, walking toward the island and bending to look at the glass bowl housing a small orange fish with a big fan tail. Ah, he finally noticed our new little friend .

“Appears to be,” I answer, putting the lasagna pan into the oven and setting a timer. Just ignore the hot as fuck hockey goalie with delicious muscles doing a—are you fucking kidding me right now? He’s doing push-ups against the island. Because, of course, he would find a way to show off that insane chest and those arms of his even more, probably because I told him he’s not my type and he wants to prove me wrong. Look away. Nothing to see here, folks.

“What the fuck are you doing with a goldfish?” he asks, straightening up and crossing his arms over his chest.

Why is he doing this to me? His biceps are bulging, and his chest is so broad. The man is giving Henry Cavill a run for his money, and he’s even hotter with the intricate ink decorating his skin. I’m such a slut for good body art, and Ryder has gorgeous pieces. Shit. No, I’m not looking at Ryder’s tattoos, his chest, or his arms. Or anything else.

“Nothing. I’m going to flush it down the toilet the first chance I get,” I reply without thinking, collecting my used dishes in the sink, trying to appear nonchalant as shit about murdering a fish I care nothing about because a hockey god is standing in my kitchen, distracting the ever-loving hell out of me.

“Why’d you even bring it home if you’re just going to flush it?” he asks, tapping the glass and watching the little fish swim in circles. “She’s kind of cute, with her puffy lips and big, vacant eyes that remind me of influencers or Hollywood actresses. It sucks, living your entire life in a tiny bowl for all to see, no privacy, everyone speculating about you. I hate that feeling.”

Do. Not. Look. At. The. Muscles. This is Harlowe’s fault. She gave me the hockey romance audiobook, and now I’m all hopped up on gay romance where they secretly pine for each other until they can’t take it anymore. I shake my head, remembering he asked a question.

“One of my teammates’ kids won it at a charity fundraiser we were at today, and he didn’t want to take it home, but she freaked out. He told her I’d take it to a goldfish farm instead. So that’s what I’m doing as soon as I finish dinner. Fishy gets to swim to the farm.”

His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline as he slaps his palms against the granite on either side of the fishbowl. “You of all people, with your talk of comportment and respect, all your kindness matters lessons, and watch what you say attitude, are going to murder a fish?”

I shrug as I soap up the dishes and start to scrub them clean. “Fine, I’ll dump it into the lake or something instead.” He’s getting worked up about this fish. It’s pretty fucking cute. I like seeing him care about something other than hockey, or fucking with my life, for a change.

He throws his hands up and stalks around the island toward me in outrage. “How dare you! It’s a domestic goldfish, you cold-blooded killer, it can't make it in the wild.” He pokes me in the chest, but he’s not the only one who’s a solid wall of muscle, and I don’t even rock back. “We’re keeping it,” he says with finality. Did his eyes just flicker back to my chest? Huh, that’s interesting. I file that away to think about later.

I look down at him with calm disinterest, careful not to fuel his hysteria. No negative reactions to his bad behavior. Only positive reinforcement for good actions and words. Besides, I like that he felt comfortable touching me despite knowing I’m gay. With him parading around in his slutty sweats and showing off shirtless, tattooed muscles, and now touching me, it’s like he wants me to find him attractive or something. Usually it's gay guys who want to know the straight guy finds them attractive, like they can be the one exception, or turn them. Not that I’ve experienced the phenomenon before, but I’ve done my research and spent plenty of time anonymously participating in online spaces to explore my sexuality. I didn't realize it could work the other way and a straight guy would be this adamant about me finding him attractive. And Ryder seems to think I’m into him, which I’m not.

I sigh and shut off the water, drying my hands with a dish towel while considering his irrational distress over the damn goldfish. “Fine, whatever, but you’re taking care of it if you want it to stay so badly. It’s your fish now.”

He leans back on the counter and smiles in victory. “That’s fine. Goldie and I will have a beautiful life together.”

I cross my arms and give him a look. “Goldie? That’s the lamest name anyone could have come up with for a fish.”

“No, it’s not. She’s named after Goldie Hawn, who was a total smoke show back in the day. She was awesome in Overboard. ”

Damn, he’s really into this name. I tip my head back and let out a laugh that booms through the kitchen. When I look at Ryder again, I think I catch a tiny shiver.

“Overboard? Shut the fuck up, man, that’s some chick flick shit right there. Are you sure you don’t have something to say to me? Because it would make sense why you’ve always been such a hater.”

He points a finger at my face for the taunt. “Fuck you, asshole. Kurt Russell is the G.O.A.T. in that movie, and he’s one of the manliest men there are, so don’t call it a chick flick, and put some respect on it.”

“Kurt Russell? Maybe if you named Escape From New York, or even fucking Miracle because you’re a hockey fan boy or something, but Overboard?” I say. He gives me a withering stare before I continue. “Fine, the fish lives in your room. I don't want to smell the weird fish water in the kitchen.”

He shakes his head. “No way, we need to get a tank with a filter that runs all night so it’ll fuck with my sleep. Goldie Spawn will stay in the living room instead.”

I look down but can’t fight a smile. This fucking man. I swear he will be the death of me, whether from anger or exasperation. “Whatever, man, as long as you’re the one taking care of it.”

“Her, Knox, Goldie Spawn is a HER. Learn to use your damn pronouns.”

“Jesus.” I can't stop the chuckle that escapes me. He’s too fucking funny, even if he’s being a shit on purpose and using the lessons I’ve been trying to teach him back on me. At least his humor is funny in this case and not hurtful. “If only you cared as much about how you came across in interviews and what you say when upset as you do about this damn fish, you’d be set,” I say, throwing up my hands.

“Have the interviewers ask me about Goldie Spawn instead of game losses, and I think it would be fine,” he muses seriously.