Page 9

Eight

Knox

R yder took me coming out better than I expected. True, it was on the heels of one of his typical homophobic tirades and an epic blowup of his short temper that he can’t quite keep under control, but the actual coming out part wasn’t too bad.

I could tell he was trying hard not to fuck things up before we played video games, too. The offer to order pizza for dinner and showing me those eye drills was a huge olive branch and a step in the right direction for him, even if they are the bare minimum of human decency. Baby steps from a chronic asshole are all I can hope for. It was good to see him making an effort when he could have been reticent to any sort of change and set on acting like a pernicious jackass for as long as possible.

The eye stuff he showed me made a huge difference, too. He reminded me to repeat the exercises before bed, and my headache finally went away. I woke up without the stiff neck and pounding in my skull I’d had for the last forty-eight hours. It felt amazing to finally get a good night’s rest. He didn’t have to give two shits about me when I was feeling horrible, and I believe in positive reinforcement.

“Good, you’re back from practice,” I say when I walk into the condo after my own practice and find him lounging on the couch with a bowl of cereal. I don't usually eat on the couch, but instead of calling him out for that, I’ll let it slide for now. “We’re going to work on controlling emotions in public today. That mouth of yours is going to get a workout in restraint.”

He closes his eyes tightly and shakes his head. “It’s really hard not to take the bait and crack a gay joke when you leave the opening right there,” he says, sounding pained. “ That mouth of yours is going to get a workout ? Come on, Golden Boy, do better.”

“No, you do better, Reckless. The world is full of opportunities for you to make jokes in poor taste. The marker of comportment is not making the joke even when it’s set up perfectly. Rise above it,” I say with faux cheer, pointing my index fingers up.

He sneers at me. “You’re seriously the worst. Why do you insist on removing all the fun from everything? Humor is a great way to enjoy life. You should try it sometime.”

“Get up, we’re going to volunteer with a foundation that does great work. We’ll leave in five minutes, so master your emotions and that mouth,” I say, walking past him toward the bedrooms so I can put my bag down and change quickly.

“What if I have plans and don’t want to go with you?” he calls to my back.

“Too bad. Mark said your time is mine when it comes to making over your image and getting your emotions interview-ready. You’re going with me. If you’re good, we can stop and get ice cream on the way home,” I tack on with forced enthusiasm, like he’s a child just to poke him a bit.

“Hey, those aren't the fighting words you think they are. I like ice cream, Golden Boy!” he shouts. “Now you owe me ice cream.”

I close my bedroom door on that demand and change. When I return to the living room, Ryder is standing by the door, running his hands through his longish, silky hair that always looks a little wild, cereal bowl gone. I was joking, but it looks like ice cream is a good enough motivator and can be his positive reinforcement for today.

“Let’s go,” I say, trying not to look too closely at, or let him get to me with his pretty hazel-green eyes, that floppy hair, and his stupid tattoos that peek out from the sleeves of his T-shirt. He has half sleeves on both arms that stop just above his elbows with swirling clouds of black ink, but I’m not sure what the tattoos are .

“You gonna tell me what we’re doing now?” he asks as we head for the elevator, sliding on a backward baseball cap to contain his messy hair. It doesn't help make him less eye-fuckable, and that’s a problem. I don't want to look at Ryder like that. I need to keep my lust in check where he’s concerned.

“We’re going to volunteer at an organization I work with a lot called the Elysium Garden Project. They plant gardens in urban spaces and give locals jobs, teach business skills through produce stands, and feed the community. We’ll be working with kids today. Elysium focuses a lot on youth in the communities they plant gardens in, knowing the skills they build can help break the cycle of poverty and get these kids out of some bad situations. A lot of these kids have it rough,” I explain as the elevator takes us to the garage.

Ryder is quiet as we walk to my SUV. He grew up like a lot of the kids he’ll meet today. Absent parents working hard to keep a roof over their heads, or treated badly by them when around. He slides into the front seat as I start the car and looks over.

“What exactly are you trying to teach me with this excursion? I do plenty of volunteer work.” He looks straight ahead as I drive us to the garden.

“It’s not about the volunteer work, that’s just a bonus. These kids will push your buttons. They’re not always nice and don't always want to be there, kind of like you.” I give him a wry smile that he doesn’t return. “So instead of snapping at anyone, you’ll have to work to control your emotions and think before you react.” I leave him alone for the remainder of the drive to let that sink in.

We arrive at the garden site, and I see Paige Olsen, the founder of the Elysium Garden Project, waiting at the gate, greeting the kids and adults working today.

“Knox, it’s so good to see you,” she says, wrapping me in a hug when Ryder and I walk up to her. “I didn’t expect to see you much during the season, what a treat to get you and Ryder at one of our newest gardens. The kids are going to love it.”

“I didn't realize you knew Mrs. Olsen,” Ryder says to me, looking between us.

“Oh, please, call me Paige,” she says to Ryder. “Mrs. Olsen is reserved just for my husband to call me, otherwise, it feels too dowdy. I’m not even thirty.” She laughs and waves us into the garden.

“I’ve been working with the foundation from its inception, so I’m close with Paige and Hayes. They didn’t become hockey franchise owners until recently, so we go way back,” I explain to Ryder, who is looking confused about my connection to the wife of one of the billionaire brothers who owns the Hydras hockey team.

“He’s also besties with Harlowe, my sister-in-law, and he’s friendly with Ainsley, who is dating Payton, so that’s a triple connection to team ownership. Careful, Ryder, Knox is well-connected to the big guys,” Paige adds with a smile. “We just love Knox. ”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Ryder says, looking at me nervously. I laugh at his discomfort. It’s about time he realizes I also have some power here, not that I’d ever use it to fuck with his career. He can do that well enough on his own.

“What can we do for you today, Paige?” I ask.

“This is a new neighborhood for us, so the kids are still wary. It’s been a struggle to get their cooperation. If you could help Abel teach them about running the produce stands, counting money, making change, weighing vegetables, and also get some produce boxes made, that would be so helpful,” she says. “They always seem to love working with you, Knox.”

“It’s my pleasure, and I think they like Elysium more than anything. I’m just here to help.” Paige waves as she heads to a tool shed, and we split off.

I lead Ryder to the produce stand, which is actually a freestanding storefront. When we walk in, Abel, a familiar face with the garden project, greets us and waves us over to a few tables covered in various produce boxes, scales, bags, and cash registers, all ready for us.

“Good to see you, Knox. Looks like you brought a friend this time?” the veteran gardener who moves around the foundation’s sites asks. A handful of curious faces, ranging from early teens to probably twenty, stare at us with varying shades of interest, some trying to hide it more than others.

“Right back at you, Abel. This is Ryder Kingston, the goalie for the Hydras hockey team here in town. He’s going to help us out today,” I say, making the introduction. Ryder waves .

“You guys are freakishly tall,” one boy in a worn black hoodie with floppy dark brown curls says. He has to be about fifteen, but he’s small for his age. He might be acutely aware of it to make that kind of statement.

“Or you’re just freakishly small,” Ryder says immediately. I elbow him in the ribs discreetly and look over, catching his eye in warning. He bites his lip, and holy hell, I know he’s doing it in embarrassment, but it looks a little too mischievous and sexy for his own good. I turn my attention back to the kid in the hoodie.

“What’s your name?” I ask him.

“Samuel,” he says, flicking his curls out of his eyes with a head shake.

“Well, Samuel, it sounds like you and Ryder here have something in common to work on today. While that’s an accurate observation, sometimes there are these things called intrusive thoughts that don't always have to be spoken out loud or can be phrased differently. I wouldn’t mind if you asked me how tall I am instead,” I say gently with a smile.

The kid’s cheeks turn red, but he doesn’t shut down at the correction, which is good. He’s teachable. Ryder, I’m not sure.

“Okay, how tall are you?” the kid asks.

“I’m six feet six inches tall. Ryder here is six feet four inches tall, but there are guys on both our teams who are under six feet and are absolute beasts. What about you, my man, how tall are you?” I ask.

“I’m five-four,” he says quietly. “But I’ll probably be six feet, easy. My mom says my dad was big, and I’ll have a growth spurt.” He looks up with fire in his eyes. I was right about this subject being a bit sore for him.

“Sure you will,” another boy says, and laughs. “You ain’t hitting six feet. Your dad was probably some short bald dude. You’ll be lucky if you grow any more at all. You’ll be little your whole life.”

“You don't know that,” Ryder says, moving next to Samuel and staring down at the other kid, who is closer to six feet. “Why does height matter so much? Do either of you want to be a basketball star or a defensive lineman? Because that’s probably the only place where your height comes into play.” He puts his hand on Samuel’s shoulder and looks over at the mouthy kid again. “But if Samuel here wants to play, his height won't stop him. Greatness comes with passion and commitment, not a measuring stick. Besides, if any of you want to work in sports and not play, there are so many opportunities available. You could be a sports agent, a physical therapist or team doctor, a reporter, a trainer, a sports statistician, do public relations or social media for a team, be an equipment manager, or work at an arena or stadium, just to name a few.”

Samuel looks up at Ryder with appreciation before he stuffs his hands in his hoodie pocket and plays off the whole interaction like it didn’t mean anything. Ryder playfully knocks his shoulder with his fist and holds it out for Samuel to bump. Samuel pulls a hand out of his pocket and bumps Ryder’s fist.

Well, look at that. Ryder stepped up and stopped a bit of bullying and taught his own valuable lesson. He can learn after all. I swallow the proud lump in my throat and clap my hands together.

“Okay, who wants to learn how to make these dang scales work right? Because I know the first few times I tried them, they messed me up good,” I say to the group to get us back on track.

We spend the next few hours arranging the produce stand, hanging out with the kids, and teaching them how to work the cash registers and count back change in different amounts since that seems to be tricky in the age of cashless purchases. I notice Ryder spends a lot of time with Samuel, getting him to open up, and they chat throughout their time setting up the produce. I’m glad to see him taking an interest and investing in the kids. They need it. So does he.

We also make produce boxes to deliver to families and seniors identified in the immediate area who want fresh produce. Ryder is remarkably on his best behavior, and aside from some good-natured teasing comments back and forth with the kids, he doesn’t rise to any of their bait. He also leaves me alone and doesn’t try to get under my skin. On the ride home, he finally talks to me again.

“That Samuel kid has it rough. He opened up a bit when we were stocking the shelves. No dad in the picture, and his mom works a couple of jobs. He’s at the garden to try to make some extra money to help her out and get food for a little brother who stays with a neighbor.”

“A lot of the kids who come to the community gardens have stories just like his, or worse. We just give them a safe place to learn some new skills and make sure they get paid for any work they do and take home food for their families,” I explain. “There’s even a weekly class at the garden sites that teaches canning so the veggies last longer. Okra and cucumbers seem to fly off the shelves when they're pickled around here.”

“Samuel also mentioned he gets picked on a lot because he’s small and wears the same hoodie every day,” Ryder says, looking out his window and gripping the door handle as his knee bounces.

“How’d that make you feel?” I ask, tone neutral.

“Oh, is this a therapy session now in addition to a lesson about controlling my emotions?” Ryder snaps, pulling his hat off and dragging a hand through his hair.

“I was just asking because it seems like you need to talk.”

“It pissed me off,” he grumbles. “And that made me feel like a hypocrite,” he admits.

Holy fuck, that’s huge for him to say. I remain silent, not wanting him to stop if he’s in a sharing mood. But he stays quiet. I pull into the parking lot of a small shopping area and find a spot.

“What are you doing?” Ryder asks, looking around at the random assortment of shops and storefronts.

“We’re getting ice cream. You earned it,” I say casually. Positive reinforcement at its best. I get out of the car and make my way to What’s The Scoop, a little family-owned ice cream shop I found a few years ago that makes its own ice cream. Ryder falls into step beside me.

“I thought you were joking. We’re actually going to get fucking ice cream?” he asks.

I hold the black lacquered door open for him to enter the old-fashioned style ice cream parlor. It has a black-and-white checkered floor, a rich walnut beadboard display case that takes up a good portion of one side of the shop, and lots of small tables and chairs for customers. The whole place smells like waffle cones and sugar, making my mouth water.

I follow Ryder as he approaches the display case and checks out all the flavor options. It’s pretty overwhelming. “Everything is homemade and amazing. It’s the creamiest I’ve had.”

He turns and raises an eyebrow at me. “Ignoring the obvious creamy joke, just so you know.”

“It doesn't count if you tell me you’re ignoring the joke that could have been made, you idiot,” I say, rolling my eyes. He laughs, and it sounds good to hear his genuine laugh, without any animosity coming from it like shrapnel.

We each sample a few flavors before deciding. Ryder orders the chocolate chip cookie dough in a waffle cone. I get the butter pecan in a waffle bowl, because why not? I’m not about to eat ice cream while driving, so I find a table in the back that looks barely big enough for both of us, and sit, ready to enjoy an indulgent treat after extolling the virtues of fruit and vegetables for hours.

“What if people think we’re on a date?” Ryder asks as he looks at the table and two chairs. “This feels an awful lot like a date, Golden Boy.”

“Oh, don't flatter yourself, asshole. I wouldn’t date you even if you wanted me to,” I say around a spoonful of my ice cream as I raise an eyebrow at his stupid remark.

“Are you serious?” he asks, sitting heavily in the chair across from me. “You wouldn’t date me? Why not?” He sounds kind of hurt and put out by the notion. “I’m objectively attractive, I’m in shape, I have a good job, I can fuck like a winner. I mean, I always leave women satisfied, so the same is likely to be said if I ever decided to go the other direction, and I have a wonderful personality with the best sense of humor.”

I point my spoon at him. “You think you’re such a catch, but what you really are is an egotistical jerk who thinks too highly of himself and too little of everyone else. No thanks. Not my type.”

“You say that, yet you were obsessed with me, admit it, Golden Boy,” he presses, leaning over the small table, giving me an evil grin.

I lean toward him until our faces are so close that our noses touch. He stays still, but his pupils dilate and his smile drops, obviously uncomfortable. Good. Maybe he’ll realize I’ll call his stupid bluff if he pushes too hard, and he won't like the prize for his stupid game .

“You think being friends meant I was obsessed? Get over yourself, Reckless. You were like a brother to me and I’m not into that, even one I’ve cut off because he became the most intolerable dick. Now, you’re just a lesson to teach.” I sit back calmly and take another bite of my ice cream to remove the smell of him from my senses. He smells like cologne, all cedar and sandalwood, mixed with his sweat and sunshine from working in the garden. I shouldn't like it so goddamn much.

He sits back in his chair and contemplates his ice cream like it’ll give him all the answers. He finally takes a bite and swallows before he looks at me again, and there’s calculation in his eyes.

“I bet I know your type.”

I sigh. “You don't have to bet anything. My type is someone who listens. Who considers my feelings. Who wants to be with me more than anything. It’s not that hard, and it’s not about a physical look like you think it is. It goes so much deeper than that for me.” I go back to my ice cream, a little embarrassed that I just told that to Ryder of all people. The last thing he needs is to know those truths about me. But knowing him, he’s going to think I’m joking or telling him those things to throw him off.

“I’m onto you, Contraire. I see your game. You think if you keep denying that you’re into me, I’ll go easier on you. Not a chance, Golden Boy.” He takes a decisive bite out of his waffle cone and chews aggressively to make his ridiculous point.

I shake my head and know there’s no convincing him otherwise. He can believe whatever he wants. I’ll keep ignoring him when he tries to push my buttons or get under my skin, and he’ll see it’s all a futile exercise he’s wasting his time on.