Page 8

Seven

Ryder

H e called me Reckless.

I’m still hung up on the tragic nickname Knox decided on days later. He’s been away for an out-of-town game, and I’ve had the condo to myself, but training camp has been brutal, so it’s not like I’m throwing a rager every night to spite him. Nope, I just want to order a pizza from the Detroit-style pizza joint I found and soak in an Epsom salt bath so my hips and quads can get some relief from the dry land training session today. I had a cold plunge and spent time on the bike to work out the lactic acid, but that couldn’t keep up with Scotty, our trainer's regime, and I’m feeling it.

Knox is on the couch, one arm draped across his stomach, with some sports highlights show on the TV even though his eyes are closed. I freeze, my hand hovering over the side table with the keys dangling from my fingers. If I drop them into the bowl, it’ll make a shit ton of noise and probably wake him up if he’s sleeping, and that would make me a total ass. I roll my eyes for even caring, but I set the keys down gently, anyway. Look who isn't reckless all the time, jackass.

“Hey,” Knox says, eyes opening and stretching his arms out from his spot on the absurdly long couch. No wonder he got one so big, he needed an extra-large couch to be able to lie down on the thing comfortably. It’s L-shaped, so there’s a whole other section open, too, so even I could fit. He gingerly sits up, adjusting an ice pack I hadn’t noticed on his neck, and leans his forearms on his giant quads. He squints and brings a hand up to shade his eyes like the low light in the room is too bright.

“You injured or just recovering?” I ask, keeping any sort of concern out of my tone as I grab a water bottle from the refrigerator and feign disinterest. I don't care, but it bothers me to see anyone in pain, and he’s not moving right as he stands, favoring his left side.

“It’s nothing. I took a hard hit at the game yesterday. The med staff were worried about a concussion but cleared me. Just a strained trap and a nasty headache. I’ll be fine. How’s training camp?” He follows my lead and gets a bottle of water before sitting on one of the stools along the island while I lean against the counter in the kitchen.

He’s light-sensitive like he has a concussion. Why did they clear him if he still has a headache a day later? Did he downplay his injury so they wouldn't put him on an injured reserve list and pull him out of the next game?

What the fuck am I doing? It’s not my place to care about Knox or if he plays. He asked me a question, I just have to answer that.

“It’s a whole lot of work, and Coach seems to think running us ragged now will make us like each other better.” I roll my eyes. This is a brand-new team with some of the best talent in the league brought together. Having the most talented players—and some of the biggest egos—makes for a few difficulties in connecting and playing together. “If my defensemen would stop fighting each other long enough to defend me, I might have a bit more confidence in our ability to stop another team effectively. I guess we’ll see at our first game.”

“Good luck with the game, but I’m sure you’ll do great. You’ve always been an amazing player, and the team has to be good, going by the early speculation I’ve seen.”

I grind my teeth as my fingers curl around the edge of the counter, tightening until the stone bites into my skin. I swallow the shitty comment about him being obsessed with me that instantly bubbles in my throat and stay silent instead of throwing the barb. His unwavering faith and kind words despite me being a dick any chance I get kills me. I want him to fight back, say something as nasty as I would so I don’t feel like human garbage when he continues to rise above.

How can he be nice despite our history? He should hate me more than anyone. He has every right to. I’ve been horrible to him, yet he’s undeterred by my old habits that just won't die. No matter what I say that is intended to make his life a living hell, again , he somehow manages to turn the other fucking cheek. I could try to bait him, keep pushing him until he snaps, but I know Knox, and I’m betting he’s set himself some impossible goal of being the bigger person, and I’ll never measure up. Not only that, I’ve been thrust on him as some sort of charity case he has to work on and house because I fucked things up. He’s the shining example of what a person should be. The best athlete for an interview. The better man in every situation.

Ugh, it makes me want to throw up. Somehow, I have to prove to the Hydras organization, Mark, and Knox, that I’m not always a loser that runs my mouth. I can be nice . The fact that we’ve been civil for this brief conversation proves it. I haven’t said anything mean, and I’ve had nice thoughts, even if they stayed inside my head, which he said I needed to learn to do, anyway, so there’s that. I’m not going to be the one that fucks it up for once. Hell, I can even offer a nice gesture.

Take that, Golden Boy.

“I’m ordering some Detroit-style square pizzas from Via 313. I can’t decide between the extra pepperoni and the meat supreme, so I’m getting both. There will be more than I can eat if you want some.” See, easy-peasy. This Mr. Nice Guy shit is a piece of cake.

Knox looks up, surprise overtaking his features for a moment before smoothing out. “Yeah, thanks, that would be great. I won’t have to think too hard about dinner with this fucking headache.”

“I can show you some eye drills and nerve glides for neck pain and headaches, too, if you want to try them out while we wait for the pizza. I do so much vision training work I’ve figured out what helps with the strain.”

That’s two nice things. Just wait, I’ll have a W by the end of the night the way this is going. Knox doesn’t have the fucking monopoly on nice. Regular guys can do it, too.

Knox’s shoulders sag with relief as he rubs his temples. “Sure, I’ll try anything that’s not a pill at this point. I just want my head to stop pounding. It’s like it wants to split me open.”

I bite my tongue at the pounding and splitting joke that’s just right there . It’s like he’s setting me up for it to test me. Instead, I pull my phone out of my pocket and order the pizzas. This holding back the jokes and thinking before I speak thing is fucking hard, but look at me acing it tonight. We go back into the living room and sit on the couch, where I walk him through the nerve glides and eye drills like I promised while we wait. Thirty minutes of eye drills is more than enough to make anyone sick if they’re not used to the strain on their optic nerve, so I stop him even though the pizza is going to take longer.

“Feeling any better?” I settle back on the couch. It’s pretty comfortable. No wonder Knox chose to nap out here earlier rather than in his room.

Knox rolls his neck a few times and looks around the room. “Actually, yeah. It’s a dull throbbing now, and the light doesn’t feel like glass shards in my eyes.”

I cringe. Been there, and yeah, that fucking sucks. “You sure you don't have a concussion?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Guess my skull is harder than I thought.” He inclines his head toward the TV. “Want to play a round of Mario Kart?”

I laugh. “You still have that game? It's like a classic now.”

“Classic for a reason. It’s on like version eight now, and there are international competitions for it,” he retorts, standing up and getting the controllers. He tosses one to me, and I easily snag it out of the air.

“Okay, grandpa, nice story. Were the dinosaurs cool, too?”

“Damn, bro, you’re like two months younger than me and played this game, too,” he says with a laugh. “We camped out at Best Buy for a video game launch, so you can’t be hating on Mario Kart.”

“We did,” I say with a laugh. “But it was one of the Call of Duty games, so there’s more street cred there.” That was a fun weekend. We were thirteen, and it feels like one of our last good memories together. One of Knox’s older brothers took us into Detroit, and we stayed up all night with a bunch of other gamers outside the store .

“Get ready to lose on Rainbow Road, street cred or not,” he says, queuing up the infamous racetrack.

“You would pick Rainbow Road,” I say before I can stop myself. Fuck, Ryder, be a nice guy. Quick, I have to find a way to retract. “You know all the stupid shortcuts on this track,” I add.

“Just for that, you get to be Princess Peach,” he says, selecting Wario.

“Fuck your Peach, I’m picking Yoshi, he’s better.” Honestly, Yoshi is a balanced choice that will help me since it’s been so long since I’ve played. Wait, did I just make an ass-play joke without realizing it? I’m worse than I thought. Knox thankfully either doesn't notice or lets it go.

The game starts, and while it’s just a game, there’s no such thing as casual for me. I play to win, and my competitive nature is in high gear from the countdown. But I’m rusty. It’s been years since I’ve played this dumb game, and I’m used to my Xbox. The stupid Nintendo controller has the buttons in weird spots that are messing me up. Knox gets a lead right off the bat, but I get some bombs that wreck him, which allows me to get ahead. I chirp him mercilessly every time I fire off a shot that kicks his ass, making sure he knows I can keep up and keep him humble.

We go back and forth, but I manage to get the better power-ups and keep him from getting too much of an advantage. He swears whenever I send him off the track or spin him out. I’m enjoying my last lap to victory when Knox takes a fucking hidden shortcut I forgot about that puts him out ahead of me, right in front of the finish line, and he yeets me off the fucking track into rainbow space and wins the damn race.

“Take that, cocksucker! Even after you blew me up and threw bananas at me, I still won,” he gloats, whooping and doing some ridiculous celly dance that actually looks smooth because, of course, it does. There’s not much Knox does that doesn’t look effortless and perfect. “That’s what you get for hitting me with that blue shell on the apex. How’s that dick taste now, loser?” He throws his controller at me and laughs.

I toss my controller on the floor and dig my fingers into my hair at his taunts. It’s too much to be on the other side of the gay digs that take me right back to high school and put me into the irrational frame of mind that ruined our friendship to begin with. Heat courses through my blood, anger vibrating along every nerve until I feel raw, exposed, and so full of hate that the insults build too fast to even think about what I say. Everything just comes out like word vomit before I can stop the tidal wave of loathing. I turn to Knox and lash out with all the frustration I’ve been keeping at bay while trying to prove I can be nice.

“That’s such a butt pirate move taking that gay-ass shortcut. You couldn't even make it a fair race, you had to take the back door at the last minute, like the fucking perv you are. Now you’re a sore winner and want me to suck your dick, too, queer boy? ”

Knox stops celebrating and goes eerily still, his shoulders swelling with anger as he levels me with a seething glare and I know I fucked up. He points a finger at my face, and it takes everything in me not to move away from the powerful hand that is shaking in indignation.

“See, that shit right there is what we need to fix. It doesn't matter how angry or frustrated you are, you can’t make comments like that.” He drops his hand and turns toward me, his coaching voice fully engaged, and I know I’m in for one of his stupid sensitivity lessons. “You need to learn how to master your emotions and get over this immature reaction of lashing out with what you think is the most hurtful thing you can say. Because honestly, it’s not as bad as you think. Queer people have taken that word back and celebrate it now.”

I scoff at his reasoning, looking for anything to throw at him to help shield me from the inadequacy that settles on me without knowing why. I hate it. “The only reason you'd know what queer people celebrate is because you’re…oh, shit.” I stop talking, knowing I’ve said too much once again.

He swallows, meeting my eyes. There’s so much conviction and courage in those espresso depths, replacing the anger that’s quickly fading. It makes me fucking uncomfortable. I’m squirming in my skin with the turn this situation took. How were we just playing a damn video game that ended with me running my mouth again and getting grilled by Knox with another one of his annoying lessons?

“So, yeah, I’m queer.” His voice breaks a little on the word, like it’s the first time he’s used it. My heart fucking cracks, the pieces dropping into my stomach as everything I’ve ever known about him experiences a seismic shift great enough to rock me to my core.

“You’re what?” I ask, my voice grating the air. I’m stunned, grappling with the million thoughts blasting through my brain.

He shakes his head and somehow grows more determined, his face set and eyes hard as he stares me down. “You know what, fuck that. I’m fucking gay, Ryder, but I never did anything to make you treat me the way you did back in high school, or even now. So it’s time you learn some self-regulation and respect, and stop using those fucking slurs.”

“Wait…you’re gay? Since when?” I’m numb, the news has shocked the absolute shit out of me. After all my teasing, my taunts, and the bullying we both experienced, I never actually believed he was gay. He never admitted it. It was just something stupid that kids decided to latch onto because we were such close friends and people suck. I was terrified of people believing I was gay, so I made his life hell, not even thinking he could be gay.

His head drops in defeat like I'm a child who can’t learn his lesson, no matter how many times the teacher tells him. Maybe that’s just it. I’m unteachable. “Yes, I’m gay. I’ve known since I was like eight.”

“But you’re not out,” I say, feeling fucking stupid for stating the obvious, but I need this spelled out in Crayon, apparently .

“I’m not required to make a public statement to be gay, you idiot.” He leans over, rubbing his face as his knee bobs in agitation, like this conversation is making him antsy and he’s ready to be done with it. He drops his elbows to his thighs and lets his head hang so he’s talking to the floor between his feet. His words are low, rumbling when he says, “Who I want to fuck is no one’s business but the person I want to fuck, anyway.”

“But why wouldn’t you say anything?”

He groans and leans back, letting his head fall onto the couch and breathing deeply, scrubbing his hands over his hair before he’s able to look at me again. The memories and pain that are etched across his features when he does tell me what I fear before his words do.

“You made it pretty fucking clear that coming out as an athlete wasn’t an option when you and your buddies bullied me all through high school and treated me like garbage for even thinking I was gay. I knew there was no way I could come out at the professional level and expect to be treated any differently than I was back then.”

I was such a shit, and I ruined this guy’s life even more than I realized. All because I couldn’t handle the crap the same people I sided with put me through, and would have run me out of the hockey program that was my only way out of my hellhole of a life. So I had to drag him through it and make it even worse, just to make it easier for myself. I was a fucking coward. But that's why I did it. Knox has always been the stronger, more emotionally mature of the two of us. I couldn't handle the teasing back then, but I knew…Well, I thought he'd be able to let it roll right off his back, whereas I'd crack under the pressure. I've always cared about what people thought about me, but Knox just lived his life. His unapologetic confidence is one thing that drew me to him in the first place, even as kids.

That, and Knox had a support system to help him deal with it. He has all these siblings he actually liked, and the most caring parents alive. Everyone was always up in each other’s business, and they took care of each other. His mom cooked every night, and everyone always had dinner together, even his father. I had a drunk for a dad who treated me like a punching bag when he remembered I existed, and a mom who escaped Dad’s wrath by staying out of the house as much as possible with the many odd jobs she managed to find, so she was never around to stop him. It’s not like I could have told either of them about what was going on at school. Dad would have called me a fairy boy, one of his favorite insults because of how much time I spent with Knox, and told me I deserved it. Just another thing for him to be disappointed in me about. I was so relieved when he died a few years ago, despite not seeing him since leaving home. Knowing he no longer occupied the same plane of existence made me feel a little better.

Knox shifts, bringing me back to the present, but I’m still stuck, not able to wrap my head around this. “You’ve had girlfriends. You were with Harlowe Sorenson, that social media foodie chef with the thirst traps, a few years ago. ”

“Harlowe is one of my best friends. We were together, but I never slept with her. She was the first person I came out to. Not many people know.” He eyes me meaningfully, and I know he’s asking me to keep my mouth shut.

I find it pretty ironic that he would trust me with this information, given the whole reason I’m here in the first place is that I ran my mouth about him being gay when I didn’t even think he was. Fuck, this just got so much more complicated. If I’d known I was potentially outing him, maybe I wouldn't have been so cavalier with what I was saying. I don’t know, but this feels so much bigger now. This whole thing has been too serious for too long, and I need time to process this new information without facing Knox. I have to turn it around for now.

“Is this why you’re so obsessed with me?” I ask, cracking a smile to soften the threadbare joke.

“Oh, fuck off,” he says, throwing a pillow at my head. “You’re not my type.”

I dodge it easily, but stop smiling. “What the fuck, Contraire? I’m everyone’s type.”

I’m shocked he would deny me this ego boost. It would be nice to know a gay dude finds me attractive, yet he wants to bring me down instead. How mean. I guess even golden boys can play dirty.

My phone buzzes with a notification that our pizza has arrived, and thankfully, my ego is spared any further beatings.