Page 6

SIX

Fifteen Years Ago

DECEMBER

“Any progress?” Clay’s sister asks on their weekly phone call.

“A little,” he grumbles, wiping down the kitchen counter with the hand that’s not holding the phone. “We won a couple games this week, but the team is still a train wreck. No morale. Weird tension between the coach and the captain.”

“Maybe the coach is just bad at his job?”

“Maybe? But he won the Frozen Four at his college gig. I dunno. It’s just strange.” He opens the fridge and squints at the contents.

“How’s the apartment? How’s the roommate?” Kaitlyn asks.

There’s nothing good to say about the Double Oaks, so he tackles the second question. “He’s…” Clay glances toward the door, double checking that Jethro isn’t on his way in. He’s always last to leave the rink, because he sharpens his own skates. “Jethro is the best thing about this place,” he admits.

“Yeah? Would I like him? Is he hot?”

Clay snorts, as he’s expected to do. Jethro is hot, and Clay thinks about it a whole lot more than he should.

“What’s his nickname? And what do you like about him?” Kaitlyn presses, having no idea how confusing her second question is. And how often Clay reflects on it.

“Uh…They call him Jetty, I guess because he moves fast. So, yeah, mostly I like the way he saves goals.”

“Obviously. But what’s he like as a roommate?”

Another guilty glance toward the door. “He’s nice and calm. No drama.” Although that doesn’t really do Jethro justice. He’s quiet in an unflappable way that goes a long way toward soothing Clay’s anxiety. “He likes my cooking, and he always cleans up the kitchen.”

Again, it’s all true, but it doesn’t capture the dynamic that’s blossomed inside these four walls. Evenings in Jethro’s soothing company are the only thing keeping Clay sane. Most nights he putters in the kitchen, rehashing the day, while Jethro offers a quiet observation or two. Then they eat, with Jethro always so grateful to be fed.

Afterwards, Jethro cleans up the kitchen while Clay picks out something to watch on TV. There might be a hockey game that they need to watch. Or maybe there’s a new disc from Clay’s Netflix subscription waiting in their mailbox.

Either way, the angry world seems to reset itself in the peace and quiet of their shitty, little apartment. Sometimes Clay even gets a neck rub out of it, but he tries not to ask too often. He doesn’t want to make it weird.

“Everyone loves your cooking,” his sister points out. “He’d have to be dead not to. But I’m glad you made a friend.”

It sounds so patronizing that Clay laughs. “Yeah, I’m playing nice with the other kids in the sandbox. You don’t have to worry.”

“I do worry about you,” his sister admits. “How’s the anxiety?”

“It’s…eh. The usual.”

She makes a noise of dismay. “Have you been sleeping?”

“Mostly. Falling asleep is hard, but after that, I do okay.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m fine , KayKay. How are you doing?”

“Great actually. Have you talked to Dad?”

“No. Is there some reason I need to?” Clay doesn’t call home very often if he can help it. “My anxiety is bad enough without listening to Dad question all my choices.”

“Fair,” she says. “I called them last night to tell them I chose my specialty. Dad is underwhelmed.”

“Wait, why?” he asks. His sister is in medical school, which is exactly what the Powers kids were groomed to do with their lives. “What did you choose?”

“Psychiatry.”

Clay lets out a cackle of surprise. “God, really? Are you going to start charging me for these phone calls?”

“No!” she yelps.

“Seriously, why would that piss Dad off?”

“Because he’s Dad? Because nothing is ever enough?”

That shuts him up for a second, because until now, it hadn’t really occurred to him that his siblings could be any kind of disappointment. That’s always been Clay’s realm. Business management? His father had roared when Clay announced his college major at Boston College. That’s a fucking waste of money .

Clay had pointed out that his hockey scholarship covered more than half of it, but the blow hadn’t landed. And it never would, because as far as Dr. Powers was concerned, hockey was a waste of time, and a degree in business would never be worth the paper it was printed on.

“I’m sorry,” Clay says to his sister. “Whatever he said, it shouldn’t matter.”

“I told him that his attitude was just proof that the world needs more psychiatrists.”

Clay howls with laughter. “His head probably blew off.”

“A little bit.”

“So…a shrink in the family. Interesting. When do I have to start watching what I say?”

“You’ve got it backwards,” Kaitlyn insists. “Patient confidentiality is the law. I’ll take your secrets to my grave.”

“Cool,” he says, but he feels a prickle of guilt. Kaitlyn is the only sibling he’s really close to, but she doesn’t actually know his biggest secrets—the ones that are eating him alive lately. Not that she’d judge him. Not even if he told her all the gory details of a certain night he’d had last year. Spring break. A stranger in a Bahamas bar. Flirting with another guy for the first time in his life.

Then following that guy back to his hotel room…

He hears the sound of a key in the front door. “Hey, Kaitlyn? I should probably go soon. But congrats on picking your specialty.”

“I’m excited. I loved my clinical rotation on the locked psych ward. I know that’s a weird thing to say, but it’s true. My mentor is doing such great work with those teens…”

Jethro’s big frame fills the doorway. Clay looks up at him and smiles automatically.

His roommate’s smile is slower to form, but no less genuine.

“Awesome, KayKay. I’m going to run now. Talk soon?” He hangs up with Kaitlyn as Jethro stacks a couple boxes from the liquor store inside the door. “Hey! What’s that?”

“Got some booze for your party.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Clay says. Jethro is always short on cash.

“Payday.” Jethro shrugs. He pulls an envelope out of his pocket, crosses the room, and tosses it to Clay. “Grocery money.” After hanging up his coat, he drops his lanky body onto the small sofa beside him. “What smells so good?”

You . Clay gets a little rush every time Jethro is close to him. Which is often, seeing as this couch is undersized, and their beds are about three feet apart in the other room.

These days when he has trouble falling asleep, it’s not always because of stress. Sometimes it’s sexual frustration. Jethro’s mostly naked body is a source of torture.

Clay turns his head to answer Jethro’s question, and when their gazes meet, he feels an electric jolt inside his chest. “I made braised-chicken tacos for dinner. Should be ready in about an hour.”

Jethro tilts his head back and inhales deeply. “I have to smell that for another hour ?”

“You’ll survive.” He uses his knee to nudge Jethro’s. Any excuse to touch him.

“Good scrimmage today,” his roommate says, having no idea of the riot happening inside Clay’s body. “Seems like your line is getting its shit together.”

“Thanks. I’m cautiously optimistic.”

Jethro turns and swings his feet up and over Clay’s lap to rest them on the opposite arm of the sofa. He’s so tall that he barely fits on the couch. “Who was on the phone? Got a date?”

“Nah. That was my sister. Kaitlyn.”

“She hot?”

“Hey!”

Jethro laughs. “She into hockey players?”

“No, thank God.” That’s only me . “She’s a med student at Stanford.”

“ A med student .” Jethro pronounces this like it’s in a foreign language. “Christ, your family. Bunch of overachievers.”

“You’re telling me.”

Jethro rests his lazy gaze on Clay again, and Clay takes the opportunity to study his eyes. They’re a green-gray color at the center, with the most amazing dark green ring around the iris. They’re framed by long, sandy lashes with pale tips. Clay studies them way too often.

“You know what my sister is up to?” Jethro asks, and Clay shakes his head. “Getting slapped around by some dickwad who deals pot to high school students.”

“Fuck,” Clay whispers.

“Used to be able to keep an eye on her, but now I’m trapped out here in Shitsville. Last night a friend texted me a picture of Shelby’s boyfriend screaming at her in a parking lot.”

“You’re worried about her.”

“Constantly. She’s nineteen and clueless, but thinks she knows everything.” He closes his eyes. “She ran off the rails after our mother died. I’ve been trying to convince her to figure out her life. I sent her some money so she could go back to school, but she spent it on him .”

And here Clay thought he was stressed out. “That blows. I’m sorry.”

“Couldn’t sleep last night.” He reaches back and grips the base of his skull. “Feel like you. All tight and angsty.”

“Hey, lift up a sec.” Clay nudges Jethro’s legs out of the way. Then he stands and moves to the back of the couch. After setting his hands onto Jethro’s shoulders, he digs his thumbs into the muscles there.

Jethro sighs, relaxing into his touch. And Clay goes to town, giving him a major-league massage and ignoring the way his own body hums at their proximity.

Until Jethro suddenly clasps Clay’s wrist, stopping him.

Clay’s heart stutters when Jethro turns to meet his gaze. “Thanks,” he says gruffly.

“You’re welcome,” he whispers, unable to tug his eyes away.

Jethro doesn’t look away, either. “Hey. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“W-what?” Clay’s breath leaves his body.

“The grocery bill,” Jethro says. “You’ve been lowballing it for me.”

“Oh.” He lets out a slow breath. “I buy organic, and it’s spendy. Not your problem.”

“Appreciate it,” he says gruffly, releasing Clay’s wrist.

With his heart galloping, Clay crosses to the kitchen to check the chicken.