Page 19

NINETEEN

Fifteen Years Ago

APRIL

The Brutes are on a tear. Game five of the first round of playoffs is a blowout, which means they’ll advance to the next round. When the third period ends, the scoreboard says 4-0, and the skaters pile onto each other at center ice, like a pack of smelly puppies.

Clay scored twice tonight, and he’s planning on scoring again when he gets home later. Because Jethro had a shutout and will totally want to celebrate.

He can’t help it. His eyes lift to find Jethro at the other end of the scrum, laughing and spanking Laytner’s ass with his goalie glove. His expression is more playful than Clay has ever seen it before.

Smiling to himself, Clay pats a few more backs as he heads for the bench to collect his stick. He’s stopped by their coach. “Powers—my office after you shower? I need a word.”

“Sure, Coach,” he says automatically. But a familiar prickle of anxiety runs up his spine. They just spanked this team, and they’re off to the second round of the playoffs. So why does Coach look grumpy?

He heads for the showers, trying and failing to figure out what might be wrong. Clay hasn’t broken any rules. Well, not the written rules…

Hell . This can’t have anything to do with Jethro, right? They’ve been careful. Haven’t they? A locked door is a locked door. Although the cheap hotels where they stay on the road might have flimsy walls.

Shit . If there are rumors about the two of them? Jethro will lose his mind.

He cuts his shower short and hastily dries and dresses. He waves a comb in the direction of his overgrown hair and weaves through the celebrating bodies in the dressing room toward the coach’s office.

Outside the door, he pauses for a moment. He drops his shoulders and lifts his chin before knocking. “Coach?”

“Come in.” Coach is sitting behind his shitty little desk. The team’s facilities are third rate, like everything in the bottom rung of professional hockey.

But Clay wouldn’t trade it for anything, and now he has to wonder why Coach still looks pissed off. He takes the empty visitor’s chair and waits.

Jethro is on a high after the win. Like everything is going well for a change. He follows his teammates to the Interstate, one of the few bars in Busker that stays open until midnight on weeknights.

“Yo—Jetty! Where’s your better half?” asks Laytner.

He hears the little dig about the way he and Clay are always together but ignores it. Glancing around the bar, he says, “Dunno. Clay’s gotta be here somewhere.”

Except he isn’t, which is super weird. He checks his phone, but there aren’t any calls or texts. So he shoots him a message.

Jethro

Hey! Dude. You okay? You got a flat somewhere?

No answer.

Yeah, that’s strange. Clay would never bail on a celebration with the team. He’s worked his ass off this season to shake up the dressing room and form a connection with every last guy. It’s sort of obvious that Clay will be an assistant captain next season.

If he’s not here, something must be very wrong.

“He must’a picked up a girl already,” Duckson says with a snort.

“Right?” someone agrees. “Pretty-boy face. Nice car. Two goals tonight. I’m surprised we ever see him at the bar.”

“Yeah,” Jethro says with an awkward chuckle. But he feels sour at the thought. Which is weird, right? Clay can pick up some girl if he wants to. Just because the two of them are kind of…

He can’t finish that thought without getting uncomfortable. There’s no name for what they are to each other. Well, they’re roommates. And teammates. But there’s no additional word.

This is exactly the kind of thing he isn’t supposed to be dwelling on, because nothing good can come from it.

Except now he’s suddenly dwelling on it. He gets another beer and tries to make conversation. He watches Duckson challenge Boyer to a game of darts.

All the usual smack talk goes over his head tonight as he keeps glancing at his phone, wondering where Clay is. He still hasn’t answered any texts. Which could mean one of two things.

Maybe Clay did take a girl home to their apartment. That’s never happened before. It’s awfully easy to picture, though. Clay has that kind of nice-guy charm that puts women at ease.

He shouldn’t care. He really shouldn’t. And, yeah, if Clay is going to ignore his team and ignore his texts, he must be with a girl.

Unless it’s the second thing. Maybe he got into a car accident or some other awful bind.

Jethro puts down his beer and walks out of the bar. He gets into his junker and turns the key, listening to the rough engine warm up. Then he drives five miles back to the apartment building and parks beside Clay’s BMW.

Okay. Well. Clay did make it home. That’s good, right? So why does he suddenly feel ill?

With wary slowness, he gets out of the car, grabs his hockey bag out of the trunk, and walks up to the building. Lamp light filters from the blinds, which are always kept closed because… Because of what passersby might see if they glanced into the window on any given night.

So, yeah, there’s no way for him to see inside, and that’s why he’s standing here, key in hand, feeling uncomfortable in a dozen different ways.

Finally, he opens the door and steps inside. Clay’s hockey bag has been dropped unceremoniously by the front door, which is unusual. Jethro’s discomfort redoubles.

Clay suddenly emerges from the dark little corridor to their bedroom, alone and fully clothed.

“Hey!” Jethro says brightly, mood immediately brightening. “You didn’t come out to the bar. The guys were asking for you.”

Clay folds his arms across his chest, his face doing something complicated. “Yeah. Uh…” He looks down at his feet. “I got some news.”

“ Oh .” Jethro mentally pivots, the way he’s had to do his whole life.

News is like that. You come home from kindergarten one day, and your dad is gone—all his clothes missing from the bedroom closet. Or the phone rings, and your mom has been arrested again.

That kind of shit flies at you whether you’re ready or not, but Jethro is still caught off guard, even when he should know better. “What news, man? Are you okay?”

Clay grabs some papers off the counter and thrusts them toward Jethro.

He takes them and reads the first couple of lines.

American Hockey League Standard Player’s Contract

This Agreement, made and entered into this date, by and between the Buffalo Blizzards LLC (hereinafter referred to as “Club”), and Clayton Powers (hereinafter referred to as “Player”)…

It takes a second to sink in. But then a current of joy sizzles through him, and he lets out an uncharacteristic whoop. “Holy shit , Clay!” He slaps the papers down on the counter and grabs his buddy by both shoulders. “You got called up?”

“Yeah,” Clay whispers hoarsely. “I’m supposed to drive out tomorrow.”

“Holy shit,” he says again. “I gotta do round two without you?”

“Seems like it.” Clay slowly lifts his eyes. They’re surprisingly heavy, given this news. “The fucked-up thing is that I don’t really want to leave.”

“What? Sure you do,” Jethro insists.

He’s riding high on this sudden change of fortune. Because Clay isn’t in a car wreck, and he’s not fucking some woman in their bedroom. He’s moving up in the world—exactly what Clay has been working towards.

And even if Jethro never expects it to happen for himself, he cares enough about Clay to be wildly happy.

Clay, though, is oddly silent and studying Jethro carefully at close range.

Jethro’s hands are still parked on his roommate’s shoulders. He gives them a squeeze, even though he suddenly has the sinking feeling that he’s failing some sort of test.

It’s not an unfamiliar feeling. He’s failed plenty of tests in his life. And Clay is always a couple of steps ahead of him. Clay, who was always too bright and shiny for Busker, New York, or for the third-tier league.

Losing him will be a blow, for sure. In so many ways. But this is still a great moment. It’s just proof that the universe understands that Clay is the best there is.

So then why does he look so apprehensive?

“You worried?” Jethro guesses, stepping back to give Clay some room.

Clay grabs the back of his neck. The gesture is so familiar now that Jethro feels a pang in his chest. “Not about the hockey. But…” Clay frowns, and his sentence dies.

“What’s wrong?”

“We…” Clay clears his throat. “You and me. After the playoffs. I could come back.”

“Come back? But they signed you.” Did he read that wrong?

“For the summer,” Clay clarifies. “I could be here. In Busker. Well, not for more than a few weeks. I’m invited to the rookie training camps in New York.”

“Holy shit ,” Jethro whispers, because that’s huge. A smile spreads across his face, picturing Clay doing drills with the greatest players in hockey.

“So…yeah. It’s going to be a busy few months. But we could still be…” He clears his throat.

Jethro is silent, trying to take it all in. It doesn’t help that Clay—who can always find the right words for everything—isn’t explaining himself very well. “Be what?” He’s going to need to have it spelled out.

“ Together ,” Clay snaps.

“Oh,” Jethro says with genuine surprise. “But…”

They won’t be together, though. That’s the whole point of this conversation. Clay is going to Buffalo and New York City, too. Jethro isn’t.

Clay’s face falls, like Jethro has failed yet another test. “God, never mind. Forget I said anything.” He turns around and stalks into their bedroom.

“Hey,” Jethro says, following him. “You know I’m kind of slow. What are you really asking of me?”

His roommate doesn’t answer. He’s cramming the last of his expensive clothes into a giant suitcase that’s open on the bed.

“Clay—”

“Forget it,” Clay says, sounding tired. “This solves all your problems, right? You were in it for the home-cooked meals and the blowjobs.”

“Uh…” The truth is he loves the home cooked meals and also the blowjobs. But Clay is making it sound like some kind of exploitive situation. Which it wasn’t at all. “Why are you being a dick right now?”

“Me? I am?” He zips the suitcase angrily. “Most days you don’t even smile, yet just now you looked like you won the fucking lottery. Never seen you look so happy as when I told you I was leaving.”

“Because you—you got called up! ” he stammers. “How’m I supposed to look?”

Clay lifts one muscular arm and clamps a hand on the back of his neck again. He huffs out an angry breath, and Jethro can actually see his pulse beating beneath his Adam’s apple. “Fine. You don’t get it. You’re allergic to feelings.”

Jethro is, in fact, allergic to feelings. That doesn’t actually matter in this situation, though, because neither of them is allowed to have any. Not those kind, anyway.

“Clay, if you think about this for a minute, you’d realize this is for the best. You and me are a no go. Hockey doesn’t work that way.”

Clay looks up only long enough to shoot a laser glare at him. “Yeah, I didn’t say it was easy. But if you were the one driving away tonight, I’d be really fucking upset. Because…I love you, jackass.”

“You’re crazy,” Jethro says before he can think better of it.

Clay’s expression shutters immediately. “Message received.”

“I didn’t mean?—”

“Yeah, you did.” Clay manhandles the suitcase off the bed, looking everywhere except at Jethro. “I’m going,” he says, arm muscles bulging as he grabs his bag and barrels toward the door.

The room is so damn small that Jethro practically has to leap out of the way to avoid getting clobbered by the big Samsonite bag. Then he follows Clay into the living room. It’s all happening way too fast. “Don’t leave pissed,” he says, trying to stop the tide that is Clay running away from him.

“Pretty sure I have to,” he growls, opening the apartment door. He puts his suitcase outside and tosses his hockey bag out after it.

Jethro, wild-eyed, glances around their apartment. This can’t be it. Clay can’t leave like this .

“Wait, your gaming console,” Jethro says.

Clay throws on his coat, and when he looks at Jethro his expression is more disdainful than Jethro would have ever thought possible. “Keep it. Maybe you’ll actually remember me that way.” He exits through the open door.

“Clay!” Jethro jams his feet into his shoes. “Hang on.”

Clay doesn’t hang on. He’s got the BMW’s trunk open. He jams the suitcase and the hockey bag inside and slams the trunk with a bang.

Jethro grabs his keys so he won’t lock himself out, but Clay uses those two seconds to hop into the driver’s seat. Jethro rushes towards the car as Clay closes the door and then cranks the engine. He’s so eager to get away that all Jethro can do is stand in front of their shitty little porch and watch the headlights flare.

Jethro tries to meet Clay’s gaze one last time, but the headlights blind him as the car careens out of its spot.

Clay’s gone, and Jethro can barely process what’s happened. He watches the red taillights until they’ve completely disappeared. Then he goes back inside and sits down on the sofa.

The furnished room looks the same as it did on the day he moved in.

The neighbor’s TV rumbles through the thin wall, and it occurs to Jethro that it’s the first time he’s noticed it for weeks.

Clay is really gone. Of course he is. This was always going to happen.

We could still be together , Clay had said. But he was wrong. Obviously.

I love you , he’d also said. And that’s just as ridiculous. Maybe even more so.

Jethro literally can’t name another person who’s ever told him I love you , including his own parents. If they ever did, it was too long ago for him to remember.

People don’t say that to him, and Clay probably didn’t mean it. Not really. He was just in shock or something. Clay gets anxious even when things are going well.

That had to be it. Because they both know that Clay can do so much better than Jethro. This thing between them was always going to be temporary. It’s stupid of Clay to think otherwise.

And Clay isn’t a stupid man. In fact , Jethro reminds himself, he’s probably over it already. He’s probably accelerating onto 90 West, thinking happy thoughts. He must be .

Jethro lies down on the couch and props his feet up on the opposite arm. He’s still got his shoes on, which Clay would hate.

He closes his eyes. His brain unhelpfully sends him images of Clay in the kitchen, making jokes and stirring something on the stove. Clay in the shower, kissing the hell out of him, his golden fingers threaded through Jethro’s hair.

The best moments of Jethro’s life tend not to last. He already knows this.

And the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach? It won’t last, either.

Probably.