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FIFTEEN

Fifteen Years Ago

MARCH

Snow is thawing into slush outside their hotel in Connecticut. The Brutes have just finished up a five-game road trip, where they picked up four points and secured their playoffs slot. And Jethro only let in one goal tonight, so he’s in an uncommonly good mood.

He looks around the lobby, seeing a beer in every one of his teammates’ hands. They’re all in a partying mood, even if they’ll be getting up at four a.m. for the bus ride home.

Clay, ever the social director, has brought his PlayStation to the hotel bar, and he’s bribed a bartender to let him set it up with one of the bar’s TVs. Jethro watches with amusement while Clay organizes a tournament—with brackets drawn on a napkin—for a driving game called Track Wars .

Jethro doesn’t volunteer to play, but Clay puts him down as his partner anyway. Jethro isn’t much of a gamer. He’s never had the cash for a console and doesn’t understand the controls super well.

Clay’s competitive streak is clearly annoyed with him. “Fucks sake!” he crows after Jethro’s car gets totaled yet again. “You have to downshift when the skid starts. See?” He reaches around Jethro’s body and drags his thumb onto the right button. “Hit these both at the same time , or we’re gonna lose in the first round.”

Jethro, conditioned to listen to whatever Clay says, gives the move a try. “Cool. Thanks.”

“Aww, look at you two!” crows Trey Duckson. He’s a very stupid defenseman for whom there’s no shortage of terrible nicknames. “You cuddle like that at home, too? So fucking gay.”

There’s instant laughter, and Jethro goes ice cold inside.

Clay releases him and straightens up, but Jethro tenses. This is the second time Duckson’s made a comment like that, and Jethro wonders what Clay will say.

“Oh no!” his roommate bellows. “Is Fuckson jealous ? Do you need a hug, too?” He throws his arms open and staggers, Frankenstein-style, toward the asshole.

“No! Shit.” Duckson smacks Clay away with the hand that’s not holding a cheap beer. “Just saying—all the love in the world can’t make your boy a champion. Jetty is hopeless.”

Your boy . Something uncomfortable slithers inside Jethro’s chest. He can feel eyes on him, and it stings like a bad sunburn.

“Not as hopeless as that thing you call a beard.” Clay lunges, trying to get a handful of the untrimmed nightmare on Duckson’s chin. “Oh God, it moved . I think there’s a family of possums in there.”

Everybody laughs again. Everybody but Jethro. No matter how skillfully Clay skated around Duckson’s comment, Jethro’s still heavy with dread.

Not Clay, though. He claps his hands. “Okay, kids. Who wants to play next?”

Jethro forces himself to turn and pass the controller into someone else’s waiting hands. Then he excuses himself to go up to use the bathroom in their room, and somehow never makes it back downstairs.

A few hours later, he hears Clay enter their hotel room. It’s past midnight, and they’re getting up at four. In spite of the late hour, Clay stops by his bed. “Jetty, you okay?”

No . He really isn’t. And for the first time ever, he ignores Clay and pretends to be asleep.

Owing to a very long bus ride and the general air of exhaustion, Jethro is able to nurse his discomfort without Clay noticing.

Clay seems his usual self when they finally get home—moving around the kitchen, pulling things out of the fridge to see what’s still edible. Sniffing the milk. Then he declares a state of emergency and drives off to the grocery store.

Jethro doesn’t offer to help. He lays on the sofa, feeling hollow inside.

Somehow, these past few months, this apartment has become his favorite place on the planet. Good food and hot smiles from Clay. No judgment about anything. And, fine, all the sex he’d ever need. He’s enjoyed it all without questioning it too much, like a hungry dog wolfing down a steak before someone snatches it out of his jaws.

But now reality presses in. This…thing between them. It isn’t just a frantic scramble in the dark anymore. It got bigger without him really noticing. It can’t last—he’s always known that —but it’s just now dawning on him that it could end really badly.

As soon as he hears the purr of Clay’s German car, he gets up and hurries into the bathroom. He starts the shower and scrubs the bus ride off his skin. He unpacks his suitcase and puts his dirty laundry into the bag. When he emerges to head out for the laundromat, Clay is whistling to himself at the stove.

By the time Jethro returns with clean, folded clothes, the apartment smells like roasted garlic.

“Hey,” Clay says from the sofa. “I already ate, but there’s a plate for you in the oven.”

Jethro feels an uncomfortable heat behind his breastbone. “Thanks. Wow.” There’s a plate for you are words he rarely heard in his life. His mother seemed surprised each day when her kids got hungry for dinner. And annoyed when she had to do something about it.

He puts the plate on a tray that Clay bought for this very purpose and joins Clay on the couch. But he sits a healthy distance away. They watch an episode of something, and Jethro registers almost none of it. He’s thinking too hard.

He steals glances at his roommate, watching the way the TV light plays across his attractive profile. What is it about that guy? Why does his husky laugh echo inside Jethro’s chest? All the other people in Jethro’s life seem dull by comparison.

Sitting here, in their shared space, Jethro always feels a contentment he can’t quite name. A sense of belonging he’s never experienced before. It scares him, how much he’s come to rely on these quiet moments together. How much he craves Clay’s company, his attention, his touch.

Like a plant turning toward the sun, he can’t resist the guy. Fooling around has only made their friendship stronger. To Jethro, the weirdest thing about it is that it doesn’t really seem weird.

The fact that he and Clay get off together would seem awfully fucking weird to other people, though. He knows this. Which is why Jethro keeps to his end of the sofa even after he’s finished his chicken. His brain just won’t shut off tonight.

Finally, Clay pauses the show. “Okay, what the hell? Are you just going to sit over there and worry?”

Shit . Jethro doesn’t have anything smart to say. As usual. So he says nothing.

Clay doesn’t let it go. He turns to Jethro with anger in his eyes. “Are you really going to let the dumbest man in hockey ruin your night?”

Oh boy. Clay is pissed . And Clay is never pissed at him.

“Come on,” Jethro finally argues. “You can’t tell me that you like people talking about us.”

“But they’re not . It was one stupid comment.”

Jethro rubs his forehead. “I don’t get it. You’re the worrier. You’re the one who thinks up ten new things that could go wrong every day before breakfast. Ten reasons we’ll be stuck forever in the minors. Like that ref with the grudge? And Coach breaking up with another girlfriend? You’re always ready to declare a disaster. And you seriously don’t think the biggest risk is really…” He gestures helplessly. “ Us ?”

The blow lands. As Jethro watches, the fight drains right out of Clay.

Clay drops his head back onto the sofa and stares up at the ceiling. “Look,” he says in a low voice. “You want me to move out? If you’re so worried, I’ll tell the guys that my trust fund payout went up, and I wanted my own space. Just say the word, and I’m gone.”

This is not just a threat. He can tell Clay means it, and the idea is deeply unsettling. “I didn’t say that , did I?”

“Either you’re worried or you’re not,” Clay says tightly. “Which is it?”

A sick feeling rolls through Jethro. He’s so confused right now. Clay is everything to him. But they’re cohabitating in a fantasy world, where it doesn’t matter who you fuck.

In the real world it does, though. Everyone knows that.

“Maybe we should live separately next season,” he hears himself say.

Clay doesn’t look at him. He just picks up the remote and restarts whatever it is they’re supposedly watching.

Jethro puts the tray on the coffee table. He should get up and do the dishes.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he does something really weird. He tips onto his side and rests his head in Clay’s lap, uninvited.

For a moment, nothing happens except a few more lines of cheesy dialogue from “How I Met Your Mother.” But then Clay’s hand drops into his hair. Jethro closes his eyes when Clay begins to run his fingers through it.

Jethro shivers. It only takes another moment until he relaxes under the gentle touch of fingertips running along his scalp, and Clay’s thumb stroking the sensitive skin at the back of his neck.

He knows this can’t last forever. It really can’t.

But maybe just a little while longer.