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FORTY

Clay

“Travel is locked down for Seattle,” Liana says via the smart speaker on my kitchen counter. “I have you in a suite. We’re removing the bed from the second bedroom and installing a conference table and video equipment.”

“Cool,” I say, tossing zucchini slices with minced garlic. I’m meal-prepping ahead of the playoffs.

“Tomorrow you’ve got morning skate, followed by a risk-assessment meeting, followed by video review and strategy.”

“Yup. Hold on. I need to drain my noodles.”

“Coach? What are you making?”

“Lasagna. It freezes well in individual portions.”

She huffs. “I know a private chef who could feed you during the playoffs. You have more important things to do with your time.”

The problem is that I don’t, in fact, have better things to do, or anyone to do them with. “Cooking calms me down. We’ve been over this.”

I’m not exactly calm, though. Not by a big stretch. Exercise and cooking are my only healthy outlets, and neither one of them is quite cutting it tonight. So after we hang up, I go to the pantry, pull out a bottle of single malt that I’d been saving, and pour myself a dram.

With military precision, I make eight individual lasagnas in Pyrex containers, with various fillings and toppings, and I place seven of them in the freezer. The last one goes into the oven as I pour myself another whisky.

And then I feel guilty for the whisky, so I put on my sweats and do a few sets on the weight bench in my home gym.

There’s nothing on TV that can hold my attention, and I don’t have anything new to read. So while I’m eating my lasagna, I text my sister. She responds a few times. But then:

Sorry Clazy, GTG! It’s date night. Time for dinner and mocktails!

She sends me a photo of her and Raul all dressed up to go out to dinner. They’re glowing. Both of them.

My heart lurches, and I smile at the screen like a fool.

Have a great night. Eat an extra dessert for me.

The twins will fight you for it.

I set the phone down and top off my whisky. It’s going to be another long, lonely night.

It’s hard to do pullups when you’re drunk.

These are my thoughts from the damp wood chips beneath the pullup bar on the playground. I’d been trying to metabolize the liquor through exercise, but the damn bar was slippery.

At least there’s nobody around to witness my hijinks. It’s dark and cold, and nobody is interested in the playground. Including me.

I lie back on the wood chips, my breath making visible puffs in the chilly air. There’s almost a full moon tonight, which is probably why I can’t see any stars.

Or maybe my eyes are just unfocused. It could really go either way.

“Clay?”

Someone is calling my name. I’m not in the mood to be interrupted, so I close my eyes.

“ Jesus .”

A body lands beside me with a thud, and two warm hands touch my cold face. “Clay, baby. Open your eyes.”

I do, and the only thing I see is Jethro’s worried face. “Hi. Is something the matter? Did I forget a meeting?”

He makes a noise of disbelief. “Are you… drunk ?”

“Maybe,” I hedge. “If I was, it wouldn’t be a big deal.”

“It would if you froze to death,” he snarls, and it’s way hotter than anyone has a right to make a snarl sound.

“You’re very hot,” my mouth says. “In a rough way. I always went for prettier guys until I met you.”

He blinks. “Um…”

“Thinking about your scruff on my sac makes me hard.”

He closes his eyes. Then he opens them again. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to get up and walk back to your condo with me.”

“I like this idea,” I say, picturing him naked. But then I sit up too fast, and the motion makes me nauseous. “Uh-oh.”

“What? Are you hurt?”

I hold up a hand for patience, then I take a cautious breath of cold air. After a moment, the squidgy feeling passes. “Okay, I’m ready.”

He braces a hand under my elbow and carefully helps me to my feet, like you would with somebody’s granny. “There we go. Good work.”

“Well, duh. I still squat over three hundred. And you should see my bench. Keeps the pecs looking fiiiiiine, you know?”

“Like I hadn’t noticed,” he mutters. “One foot in front of the other, hot stuff. Let’s move.”

“You’re very bossy tonight,” I say with a yawn. “Kinda dig it.”

He sighs. Then he tucks me against his side and wraps an arm around my waist.

It’s nice. Really nice. “Why are you out here, anyway?” I ask.

“I did a big grocery shop. But somebody took my parking place, so I dropped the food off at home and parked in the back lot. How did you end up out here?”

“Hmm.” I think it over. “Well, my sister is having twins.”

He stops walking abruptly, which means I do as well. “ Tonight? ”

“No,” I say quickly. Or at least I say it as quickly as my mouth will move, which is not that fast. My lips feel weirdly heavy. “In Sheptember.”

“Ah,” he says “Sheptember. Makes perfect sense why you’d be on your back on the cold, hard ground. It’s going to be, like, thirty tonight.” He nudges me forward, like an equestrian encouraging a horse.

“I had some whisky,” I explain as we walk. “And I wanted to do some pullups. I really just needed to get out of my house.”

“Right. But why ? ”

“It’s really quiet there. All the time. I don’t have friends. And now my sister is having twins and probably marrying Raul and I’ll never see her again.”

He’s quiet for a second. “You have lots of friends.”

“No. No. Nope. Coaches don’t have friends. People hate them or fear them or kiss their asses. But they doesn’t have friends.” I burp. “They usually have a family, but I skipped that part.”

“You’re just stressed out because the playoffs are coming,” he says.

“Maybe,” I admit. “I used to yell at you for drinking to calm yourself down. You drank to have sex with me.”

He groans. “We aren’t talking about that.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s against the rules. I wouldn’t need whisky to have sex with you, though. Just saying. Stone sober works great. Or drunk, honestly. I could still suck you off like a champion.”

“Maybe think about keeping your voice down.”

“Sure. Whatever. I can’t remember why that matters.”

“You’ll remember in the morning, trust me.” He wraps his arm a little more tightly around me. “Okay, time to do a few stairs. Ready?”

“Yeah.”

He half drags, half carries me up the steps to my building. Then he frisks me for my keys.

“I like you handsy. Do that again.”

Sighing, he opens the door and ushers me inside. “Dude, your kitchen is a mess.”

“Lasagna.”

“Ah. Did you put the pesto and zucchini in it?”

“Yes!” I exclaim. “Great memory.”

“It’s not hard remembering all the things you did for me. I’ll never forget that shit. Now let’s get you to bed. Is that upstairs? You’re going to need some water and Advil.”

“It’s too early to go to bed,” I argue.

“Clay, you can hardly stand up,” he says, tightening his grip around my shoulders.

I lean into his sturdy frame and bury my nose in his flannel shirt-jacket. He looks so buff in it, but also cuddly. “Why would I want to? You feel so good.”

Another grunt of irritation. Then strong arms maneuver me up the stairs. “Come on. Into bed you go.”

That sounds promising, but the look on his face is all business. “You don’t text me anymore,” I blurt out. “Not like you used to.”

He deposits me on the bed, then pulls my socks and shoes off one at a time. “You wanted space, and a good professional relationship. So I’m giving you space. The professional part is a work in progress, seeing as I enjoy watching you lift weights in the gym. But I guess nobody’s perfect.”

“Oh.” I make a mental note to use the gym at work more often.

He pulls off my sweatpants. “Where do you keep your medicine?”

“Kitchen drawer,” I mumble, pulling the comforter up. I’m cold from lying around on the playground like a dummy.

“Stay put,” he says.

I don’t, though. I stagger to the bathroom and pee, then brush my teeth. When I return to the bed, he’s fetched me a glass of water and two pills, which I swallow carefully. My stomach still hates me a little.

Jethro leaves the room again without saying goodbye. I hear him bumping around downstairs, probably checking the lock on my back door and turning out the lights.

Come back , my heart whines.

Surprisingly, he does. Five minutes later he kicks off his shoes and sits down on the bed beside me. He leans back against my upholstered headboard and catches his knees in his hands. “How worried should I be about you right now?”

“I’m not going to barf.”

“That’s not what I mean,” he says quietly. Then he reaches down and runs his fingers through my hair. “Not like I’m one to talk, but you’re kind of a mess, Clayzy. You seem really down at a moment when another guy would be on top of the world.”

His hand in my hair feels so good that I almost forget to answer. “I’ll be okay. I always am.”

He peers down at me before flattening himself on his belly, still watching me like I’m a puzzle he can’t quite solve. Then—and maybe I’ve actually begun to hallucinate—he kisses me. It’s a real kiss, too. Slow. With soft lips that make me shiver.

I arch up off the bed and let him know how much I need more of that.

Miraculously, he tilts his head and kisses me again. And again. But each one is a little softer and a little briefer than the one before.

Then he stops, leaving me panting and hungry for his mouth. “Are we going to fool around now?” I ask as my body yells more more more .

He shakes his head.

“Then what was that for?” I demand. “Just…torture?”

He runs his fingers through my hair again and cups my face. “We can’t fool around.”

“Sure we can. You’re not taking advantage of me.”

“No kidding. Even drunk you’re better at making decisions than most people. And I’m not trying to be patronizing. But you told me we weren’t doing this, and I’m following instructions. I don’t want to be another regret of yours, okay? That’s not fair to me.”

Shame burns my neck. “You’re right. I’m sorry. But you started it.”

“I wasn’t trying to start anything.” He gives me a soft kiss on the chin. “But you’re in kind of a dark place. I need you to know that I care about you. Don’t forget that.”

“Yeah, I won’t. And neither will my dick.”

He smirks. “I’m counting on it. And if we ever go to bed again, it will be when both of us are all in.”

“Parts of me are all in right now. I must not be very drunk.”

“Sure you’re not,” he says with another smirk. Then he flops onto his back beside me. “Now go to sleep, Clay.”

“Are you staying?” I ask greedily.

“For a minute,” he says. “Close your eyes.”

I do it. But I also roll toward him and park my head on his strong chest the way I’ve always wanted to.

He lets me. He wraps an arm around me and rubs the achiest part of my shoulder.

“Sorry I’m such a wreck tonight.”

He sweeps the hair off my forehead. “Honestly, it makes me feel better to know that you can be a fuckup. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

I try to think up something witty to say in reply. But I just fall asleep instead.

Sunlight blazes in my face. I wake up with a start, and then groan as my head gives an unhappy throb. I have no idea what time it is, but I can hear my phone alarm going off somewhere in the house.

I’m alone in bed, like always. But an image of Jethro leaning over me in the dark swims into my mind.

That really happened, right? I rub my temples. It seems improbable that Jethro came over last night and put me to bed with kisses. But the glass of water he brought me has been refilled. And the bedroom door is closed. I never do that.

I gulp down the water. Then I stagger downstairs, wondering how big a wreck my kitchen will be. I’m pretty sure I trashed the place last night making lasagna.

I stop dead at the bottom of the stairs. The kitchen is sparkling clean. Every dish has been washed, and the counter gleams. My phone is on the charger.

Oh Jethro .

There’s a note, too, on a Post-it.

You don’t owe me anything, but I wouldn’t say no to one of those lasagnas in your freezer.

I start the coffee and sit down on a barstool, listening to the silence of my apartment