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EIGHT

Noah

I felt like I was living in that old Genesis song about the land of confusion that Pops was always singing.

Just when I’d started to wash that man right out of my hair—all the thanks to Mary Martin for her rendition of the song in South Pacific —here he was. And he looked a hundred different shades of bewildered with a splash of desperate longing. All of it aimed at me.

Did this guy seriously not get that I needed my head in the game right now? That I couldn’t afford distractions—especially not from someone playing at being straight? Because no so-called “straight” guy I’d ever known—and I grew up surrounded by macho athletes, the real chest-thumping kind—had ever acted like that.

“Gunnarsson, are you planning to join us for this discussion of special teams or are you planning on relying on your genes to help you glide through this training camp?”

Coach Morin’s deep voice slapped me in the back of the head like an errant puck. I jerked to attention, gave Brody a dark-as-shit glower, and ground out a few words.

“We’ll talk after practice.”

With that, I skated back to the group of men kneeling at center ice, my cheeks hot with embarrassment.

“Sorry, Coach, personal stuff. It won’t happen again,” I apologized, knelt between Nik and Blake, and gave the talk about power plays my undivided attention.

We then worked on some quad passing drills, trying to hone our tape-to-tape passes as we were placed into makeshift lines. It was a simple drill, but an important one to work on, as a good power play was crucial to a good team, and the Railers’ power play last year hadn’t been great. I foresaw a lot of special teams’ drills as the roster was whittled down day by day. Two guys had been sent down to the Colts already. To condition. A nice way of saying you’re not ready. I did not want to hear that, if at all possible. I knew the odds weren’t in my favor to make, let alone stay, on the roster this season. Brody Vance was a distraction that needed to step the hell off.

I worked twice as hard that practice. I had to. When Coach sent us to the showers, I was soaked in sweat, mad at myself, and more than a little irritated with Speed Racer rocking those aviator glasses and tight jeans. When we exited the locker room, there he was, deep in conversation with the GM of the team. The fucking general manager had raced—ha-ha—down here to our practice facility to talk with the Brody Vance. That had to be as rare as creating a perfect March Madness bracket.

Brody Vance was my white whale. He stalked my dreams and my waking moments, pushing me into doing stupid things that would see me being dragged to the dark, cold depths of career failure after I had harpooned him. Not only would I drown, but my ship and my crew would be smashed to smithereens leaving poor Ishmael (Ishmael aka Nikolai) clinging to the Zamboni for dear life until the ice crew could rescue him.

Dramatic much?

Uhm yeah, drama major .

“Noah, come over here a moment. I was just talking with Brody here about you,” Paul Curtis called from his little chummy chum talk with Brody. Paul was a middle-aged man with a sports management degree under his belt and had been hired on to take us back to our glory days. Brown-hair, brown eyes, a little bit on the young side for a GM at just forty, he had a plan, as he liked to tell the press. I made my way over under the curious glances of my teammates. Paul and I shook hands as I smiled, a smile that nervous rookies wore when talking to the guy who could sell you off to another team while eating his bagel and cream cheese. “How’s your father?”

“Which one?” I asked as Brody and I exchanged looks.

“Both,” Paul chuckled as he pumped my hand. “The Railers have been an inclusive team ever since Tennant Rowe came out and made history,” Paul gushed to Brody. Brody nodded along. My hand was finally dropped. “Noah, Brody here was telling me that his niece is also diabetic. And that gave me a wonderful idea for a community outreach program. What do you think about setting up a youth hockey program for kids with diabetes?”

“My charity, 17 Racing, would be happy to donate whatever may be needed,” Brody chimed in.

What could I say? It was a solid idea. I already knew of a few non-profits offering summer camps for diabetic children.

“Sure, I’d be happy to do what I could for the program,” I said instantly, making Paul beam.

“Wonderful. I’ll leave you and Brody to discuss it. Nice to meet you, Brody. Feel free to visit anytime you’re in the Harrisburg area.”

“Will do; thanks, Paul.”

Paul clapped my shoulder and latched onto Coach Morin for a talk Coach seemed less than thrilled to have.

“He seems nice,” Brody said when he fell in by my side as we made our way to the players’ exit. “I really didn’t mean to pull you into any involvement in a charity. I just mentioned that my niece was diabetic, and how much I admired you for playing a rough sport like hockey while dealing with your illness. He kind of picked it up and ran with it.”

“Yeah, GMs are like that,” I replied, waiting for the security officer at the door to take a selfie with Brody. The midday sun broke out from behind a fat cloud to warm my face.

“You seem a bit awkward around me,” Brody said, slipping on his sunglasses and a brand new Railers snapback cap. “I’d really like to talk to you, but if it’s too uncomfortable, just let me know.”

I blew out a breath, my eyes on that puffy cloud rolling by. I turned my attention to Brody, who was in hiding-his-face-from-the-world mode. Shoulders up, brim of his cap down, shades in place.

“Look, I’m not awkward about anything., It’s you who’s all over the place. I’m just trying not to fulfill Fedallah’s prophecy is all.”

“Fedallah from Moby Dick ?”

Shit, he read classics too. Okay, this guy was too much. “Yeah, never mind. I just…” I ran a hand through my damp curls. “Look, I think we just need to sort a few things out, yeah?”

“Yeah, I’d like that. Lunch somewhere?”

I should have insisted on somewhere public, so we didn’t tumble into that maybe kissing thing he had mentioned. More kissing would be bad. I should stay away from the mouth of the whale, or I could get swallowed whole and have to spend three days in a whale gut with tons of plankton.

Great, now we’re doing a mashup of Jonah and Moby D. You need to sort your head.

“My place,” I offered instead of the public eatery, as a couple of folks from the cleaning staff began eyeballing Brody and whispering to each other. Yep, that was why I chose my place. Not because part of me was stuck on more kissing. Nope, it was totally the need for privacy. No other reason. I was being a good guy, and hockey players are known for being good guys. Pops and Dad would be proud of all my goodness. “Follow me.”

He did—in a beater Toyota Corolla. It blended in way better than that fire engine red Maserati he’d been driving. My apartment complex was back in the city, about a thirty-minute ride from Carlisle, so I had plenty of time to think on the way home about what I would say to Brody. I was going to keep it simple–no fucking whale references–and tell him that while I liked him and his dick—his dick was perfection—I wasn’t in a place to be shuttled around while some “straight” dude figured himself out. I got it, I did—working out your sexuality was tough. I'd been there, done that; Pops bought me the t-shirt.

I had my speech all planned. I was pretty good at memorizing lines quickly. I could still recite my monologue from playing Paul in A Chorus Line in high school. This short little dialog I’d worked on as Brody followed behind me like a spinster aunt instead of his Lead Foot Larry usual mode of driving would be cake. Short cake. Ha. Oh, fuck I was stupid.

I pulled into my designated parking spot, and Brody slid into the guest space beside me. The Red Point Complex was a ten-story building overlooking the river, featuring some really nice units. My standard studio was a bit small, but it offered a great view of the Market Street Bridge. It was a clean place with high ceilings and a fantastic building manager named Cameron.

The lobby was typical apartment complex with a few couches, a wall of mailboxes, and a security officer at the desk. I had made a point to get to know the people who worked hard to keep the complex safe and clean, and called out a greeting to Mark, the tall man behind the desk. He waved hello and gave Brody a once-over.

“You need to register, sir,” Mark said. I threw Brody a questioning glance. So, he removed his hat and glasses. Mark stared hard for a moment, then recognition dawned. “Oh shit…”

“I’d appreciate it if you kept my visit here just between the three of us?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Were you really caught dating the wife of the team owner?”

“Don’t believe everything you read,” Brody tossed out with a smile, but I caught a glimpse of pain in his expression. I huffed, then went towards the elevators, leaving Brody to shake hands, then jogging to catch up, his hat back on his head. I sent him a sharp look. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I jammed my finger into the red button with the six on it, confused as hell about why I felt this flare of anger over Brody sleeping with some woman. I mean, if she was the wife of someone, that was shitty, obviously. But why should I care? He’d probably slept with a thousand women, all while giving guys the side-eye on the sly. Which was what I was. A sly side-eye.

“This may have been a bad idea,” he muttered.

I turned from watching myself stew in the buffed walls of the elevator. Without thinking, I kissed him hard, right on the mouth. His body went rigid, and then, he began to soften into me. The ping of a bell and the lurch of the elevator stopping sliced into my haze enough to pull me back as the door opened. Brody stood there stunned, eyes wide, as two neighbors waited to step in.

“Hey,” I said as I exited. Brody shielded his face with his hat as we strode down the brightly lit hall in tandem, neither of us saying a word. “This is me,” I coughed out as I unlocked the door to 6-B and stepped inside. The place was tidy; the cleaning lady my father had hired when I moved in had just left. I could still smell the lemon Pledge she used to dust my coffee table. I chucked my keys onto a small table inside the door and turned to Brody, who was checking out a few family portraits on the off-white wall.

His gaze darted from the shot of me, my fathers, and my sisters at my college graduation to me. I got lost in his eyes. They were the prettiest I had ever seen on a man. Long dark lashes framed the gray. He was a little shorter than me, so he had to look up a bit. My speech dissipated. I leaned down to taste his mouth again. There was no hesitation this time. No muscles stiffening in shock. Brody “I’m Straight as a Ruler” Vance was totally into this. So into it, he spun me around as if I wasn’t five eleven, weighing in at one eighty four, and an athlete in my prime.

“More kissing,” he growled as he carded his fingers into my hair so tight it almost made my eyes water. I met his tongue stroke for stroke, bending my knees and shoving my hands up under his shirt. The skin on his back was warm, soft, and covered tight muscle. God, I loved the feel of a man’s power. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the gentle roundness of a woman, too, but there was something about this man and his rawness that made me stupid.

We took a few turns manhandling each other against the wall, my hands now on his ass as he slanted my head just where he wanted it. He leaned in to rut his cock against my hip, and I saw stars. Then, the doorbell chimed a foot from where we were groping each other.

Brody jumped back, lips swollen, dick hard, eyes glazed with lust. I probably looked the same.

“Let me…” I jerked a thumb at the door.

He nodded, then walked into my living room. Spinning from him, I peered through the peep hole to see the paperboy on the other side. Right. Yeah. Cool. I tugged my shirt down to cover my boner, fished some bills from my front pocket, and shoved the cash at little Ronnie Lewis, who gaped at the huge tip.

“For exemplary paper delivery,” I told him with a smile.

“Gee, thanks!” He raced down the hall. I shut the door, drew in a shaky breath, and turned to gaze upon the man pulling me deeper into the briny depths.

He was lost. I could relate. “I have food. We can eat. And talk. I think we should maybe not kiss again until after the talking.”

“We do seem to have problems keeping our hands off each other.” He glanced at me. I bobbed my head. “I’ve never really had this issue with a man before. I feel like I’m spinning out of control in a car I’ve never driven.”

“I get it. I feel like I’m being tugged underwater by an ivory sperm whale.” He cocked an eyebrow. It was a really attractive move on a beautiful man. I did not allow my inner voice to comment on the word sperm. Sometimes, my twelve-year-old boy managed to break free.

“Ah right, I’m your white whale,” he commented. “I like your place. My house is very different. Clinical.”

“I like my space.”

“No one comes to mine… I mean… most people are put off by who I am, or want to meet Jemima, or hang on to my coattails because of my money or…” He winced as if he hadn’t meant to say that at all. “Fuck, I have no social skills,” he added and scrubbed his eyes.

“My sisters and aunt picked it out and did the decorating.” I waved a hand at the nicely matched blue and tan sofa, armchairs, and throw rug on the floor. “When I signed my entry-level contract, I rented this place. Well, my fathers had to cosign, but yeah, it’s mine. As for your money, please, I grew up around Tennant Rowe. Tate Collins is a family friend. I grew up in a mansion with a hockey rink on the grounds, a movie theater for watching Elvis flicks, and a garage filled with pink Cadillacs and Stutz Blackhawks.”

“Good to know.”

He stared some more at the photos, but I could tell he was preparing to say something. “It worries me how young you are,” he said at last, as if he were as old as my parents.

“I’m literally seven years younger than you,” I huffed as I made my way to the kitchen.

“I’ve lived a lot of life,” he murmured, following me into the tiny food prep area. It was a sunny space, with herbs on the windowsill that Dad had to remind me to water every week.

“Not as much life as me it seems?”

“Maybe not.”

“How about we discuss some of that life,” I replied, then opened the fridge. “You good with a green goddess salad with chicken?” I asked over my shoulder.

“Sounds good.” He was an athlete. Or was. That whole retirement thing seemed odd, too; he got squirrely whenever someone mentioned it.

“Cool,” Brody said behind me as I started pulling ingredients from the fridge: kale, peppers, tomatoes, cucumber, and avocado. I grabbed some bell peppers and set them on the counter before digging through the drawer for a knife.

I could feel him watching as I moved around the kitchen, but I tried to ignore it. Cooking wasn’t exactly thrilling, but I liked it—simple and predictable. I washed the veggies and started chopping, falling into an easy rhythm as the sound of the knife hitting the cutting board filled the space.

“You have to eat more carefully, I guess. Because of diabetes?” Brody asked, leaning against the counter, his arms crossed as he watched me dice a tomato. “No huge plates of pasta?”

I shrugged. “Pretty much. It’s not that different from what any professional athlete eats. High protein, good carbs, healthy fats. Balance is key, especially when I’m training or playing.” He nodded, his gray eyes tracking every movement as if I were a puzzle he was trying to figure out. I grabbed a bowl and tossed the chopped veggies in. “It’s about timing. Eating before games or practices ensures I’ve got enough energy, but not so much that my blood sugar spikes. And then, after, I have to refuel to recover.”

I pulled out some leftover roasted chicken, shredded it with my hands, and added it to the bowl. “It’s a lot of trial and error, but I’ve been doing it long enough to know what works for me.”

Brody tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his expression. “My niece has an insulin pump. She’s had diabetes since she was two.”

“Aww, bless her.” I grabbed a handful of almonds and tossed them into the bowl, my focus on the salad. Brody sat across the counter, watching me with that quiet, curious intensity that made me feel as if I were under a microscope.

“Do you use a pump?” he asked, his gaze flicking down to where my shirt had risen, exposing a sliver of skin.

I shook my head. “Nope. Hockey’s too rough for one. Pumps are great, but they’re delicate. One bad hit, a fall, or even just getting slammed into the boards the wrong way and it could get ripped out. It’s not worth the risk; I use multiple daily injections. Long-acting insulin once a day, fast-acting before meals and as needed. It works for me.”

Brody leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter. “So, no automatic adjustments? No steady stream?”

“Nope. It’s all manual. I have to check my blood sugar, count my carbs, and decide how much insulin to take.” I smirked. “It’s like having a full-time job on top of my actual full-time job.”

Brody was silent for a moment, his fingers drumming against the counter. “Avery hates her pump,” he admitted. “She says it’s itchy and doesn’t feel normal.”

I nodded, scraping the avocado into the salad. “Yeah, I get that. It’s a lot, especially for a kid. Some people love their pumps, but they’re not for everyone. I had one for a while when I was younger, but I hated feeling like I had something attached to me all the time.”

Brody studied me, his gray eyes sharp but unreadable. “Doesn’t it get exhausting? Managing all of it?”

I shrugged. “It’s just my normal. I don’t think about it much—it’s like breathing. You just do it.”

He exhaled, shaking his head. “I don’t know how you do it.”

I smiled, handing him a fork and setting the salad bowl between us. “Same way you survived years of F1. Discipline, routine, and pure stubbornness.”

Brody huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, I guess we’ve both had to figure out how to stay alive.”

The words sat between us, heavy but unspoken. He wasn’t just talking about diabetes, and I wasn’t just talking about racing.

We just understood each other.

He nodded slowly, and for a moment, his expression softened. “You’re a good role model, you know? For kids like my niece.”

The compliment caught me off guard, and I ducked my head, focusing on the dressing I was whisking together—parsley, garlic, lemon juice, and buttermilk. “Thanks,” I said, my voice quieter than I intended.

I poured the dressing over the salad, tossing it until everything was coated. Then, I grabbed two plates and served it. When I turned back to him, he was still watching me, his expression unreadable but intense.

“All right,” I said, handing him a plate. “Dinner’s ready. No complaints about the kale, okay?”

He took the plate with a small smile, his fingers brushing mine briefly. “No promises,” he said, but his tone was lighter now as we sat at the tiny island, a tiny one for two. After filling two water glasses, we dove into our salads.

“This is really good,” he said after a few bites.

“Thanks. I took a few cooking classes in college, just trying to learn how to feed myself now that I didn’t have two parents watching every bite I ate. I like cooking and feeding people. It’s nice to see someone enjoy what you make.”

“You’re not at all like I would’ve imagined a hockey player to be,” he said, then dabbed at his chin with a paper napkin. The afternoon sun warmed the room.

“What did you think hockey players were like?” I asked, then took a bite of chicken. I suspected I already knew what he was going to say.

“Big dumb brutes who like to fight.”

“That’s candid. And totally wrong. I mean, sure, back in the old days you had goons trawling the ice just looking for a face to punch, but the game now is about speed and skill. Although, a hearty shoulder check is always a good thing.”

“So, I’m learning.”

I poked at a slice of cuke smothered in dressing. “I’m not sure where I sit with you.”

“Beside me at the moment,” he said, then gave my knee a gentle knock with his.

“Yeah, obviously, but I meant with where you are inside your head.” I looked right at him, my cuke still hanging off my fork. “I like kissing you, I do, and I could get into doing more, but I’m not going to screw up what I’ve worked for all my life over some guy who wants to touch my dick one second, then tells me in his next breath that he’s not into guys. I don’t have time for that, you know. I’m working my ass off to make the team. So, if you’re going to stay in your little cloud of denial, cool, have fun with that, but leave me out of it. My future is too important to me to expend all that mental output on a guy who won’t give me what I need emotionally.” He blinked at me as if he’d taken a puck to the noggin. “Sorry if that was too blunt, but I’ve danced this troika before. Dudes that can’t cop to being attracted to the same sex to the world but want to get their dicks sucked by a guy. So, if you’re going to keep being cagey, this lunch is probably the last time you’ll eat with me or kiss me. You hearing me?”

“You’re quite mature,” he said softly. “In many ways, you’re way more together than I am.”

“I’ve just had more time to come to know myself. I was crushing on guys when I was thirteen. And I grew up with two dads and a trans sister. Our house was Rainbow Central all year round, so when I started pinning up Jensen Ackles pics next to my Sabrina Carpenter posters, they were both like yep, we got a bi-boy.”

I smiled at the memory of how cool my fathers had been. I’d been incredibly fortunate to grow up surrounded by inclusivity.

“That’s amazing. My story is vastly different.”

“Well yeah, you dated a popstar.” He winced at that, and part of me wished I could take the words back, so I changed the subject. “Why don’t you tell me your story? We have lots of salad.” I gave his knee a bump and got a smile that made me wonder if living under the sea might not be that bad.