Page 9

9

Jeremiah Blake

Luca comes flying out of the house and down the path toward me. His face is cracked open in such a big smile, all I can see is teeth.

He’s an abnormally cute child. All kids are cute, well, most of them are, but Luca is something else. He’s one of those kids it’s impossible to be around without having a good time. He talks so much and has so many ideas, and my God, his enthusiasm knows no bounds. Despite what he’s been through, his default setting is happy. You can tell within minutes of meeting him that he thinks the world is a beautiful place and is pleased to be here.

Honestly, I love it. I think it sucks big time that adults can’t be this excited about life.

“Jelly!”

“Luca!” I answer, matching his zeal and exceeding it slightly.

He throws his arms around my waist and the strength of the impact forces a gusty snort from me. I do my best to reciprocate the embrace while maintaining my balance and not spilling any coffee.

“Is this one for my dad?” he asks, pointing to Ben’s mug.

“Sure is.”

He takes the mug from me, holding it in both hands, and walks carefully up the short flight of stairs to the porch. His tongue pokes out from between his lips and slowly sweeps his bottom lip from the concentration the action requires.

“You’ve got this, buddy,” he whispers to himself. “You can do it.”

See? Adorable.

It’s something small, and you probably wouldn’t notice if most kids did it, but Luca giving himself a little pep talk is so stinking cute, it takes everything I have not to squish his cheeks or ruffle his hair.

I glance down at my mug, buying time to center myself before greeting Ben. He’s at the front door, an immense, far-reaching presence I feel without looking up. Yesterday, I was unprepared. I had no idea what to expect when I met him. No idea what I was walking into.

This time, I’m ready.

I’m steady.

I was up late last night replaying my entire interaction with Ben and my conversation with Ness and Marcus afterward. In the black of night, it was painfully obvious how right Marcus was. Of course Marcus is right. Of course it’s idiotic for me to so much as comment on how Ben looks. I lost myself briefly yesterday, but I’m back. Common sense has prevailed, thank goodness. It’s a new day, and everything’s fine.

I adjust my posture, tighten my core, and take a deep breath. I hold it for a second and let it out slowly, just to be on the safe side.

There. All good. You’ve got this too, buddy, I tell myself.

I take in Ben’s shoes—worn-in white sneakers—and exhale a little puff of air I didn’t know I was holding. Phew. Thankfully, everything’s fine.

I work my eyes up his legs. He’s wearing athletic shorts like he was yesterday. And that’s fine too. Yesterday’s shorts were gray. Today’s are navy. Both colors are totally fine. Makes no difference either way.

I get to his thighs, and not going to lie, his thighs do give me pause, but it’s all right. It’s still mainly fine. I’m still doing well, and I’m proud of myself. I force my gaze quickly up his chest, not slowing to take in his neck because I have an awful thing for Adam’s apples. They’ve always been a big problem for me, and unfortunately, they’re a problem that doesn’t give a quarter of a shit whether the men they’re attached to are straight or gay.

I’m in such a rush to avoid his neck that I bungle my ascent and find myself looking straight into his eyes without bracing first.

The same thing that happened yesterday happens today. A silver-blue glint hits me right between the eyes and brain matter sizzles.

Ben’s eyes are blue like the moon on an overcast night. Dark rings outline his irises and get lighter the closer they get to his pupils. He leans against the doorframe with an easy half-smile and a dense shroud of sadness around him.

There’s a slight chance I’m not a hundred percent fine because the thing is, Ben is so beautiful I can’t remember if I was breathing in or out.

“Hey,” I say, forming the word with more care than usually required to put three letters together.

“You came back.” There’s a slowness in his words. It’s slight, but it’s there. A barely there drawl delivered on the wings of a deep timbre that sends a rumbly vibration through me.

“I said I would.”

“I know, but I made a fool of myself with the whole mug thing yesterday, so I thought you might change your mind.”

He sits on the swing and motions for me to do the same. His legs are parted wide, crossed at the ankle, and he holds his mug in one hand, balancing it on one leg. I designed it specifically to fit into a large hand, but still, it’s dwarfed by the long fingers curled around it.

“Are you kidding?” I emit a strained sound that could pass for a chuckle. “I gave as good as I got in that whole situation. Plus, I made a huge fool of myself by not recognizing you. Sorry about that.”

He dips his head modestly and waves me off. “No, not at all. Not everyone likes hockey.”

The people pleaser in me rushes to the forefront. It can’t let this stand. My beautiful, sad, famous ex-hockey player neighbor can’t possibly be exposed to the notion that people exist who don’t like hockey. He’s been through so much already. No. I can’t allow it.

“Are you kidding me?” I say with so much gusto that even I’m surprised. I’m not entirely sure where I’m going with this, but I am interested to find out. “I like hockey. I love it. I live and breathe the game, as a matter of fact.” Ah, I see. Stand back, people. Watch and learn. This is how you flirt with straight guys who are into sports. Not that I’m flirting with Ben, obviously. That would be ridiculous. “ Love the sport. Huge fan. I’m probably your biggest fan, actually.”

“Uh-huh.” His head is still bowed, and he tilts it to get a better look at me. The corners of his lips quiver and he gives me a look that paralyzes my larynx. “Is that right?”

I clear my throat thoroughly.

“Oh yes.” The way I say it gives me an inkling I’m going off-script, and the realization doesn’t set me at ease. Far from it, so I make a firm decision to stop. I find myself doubling down instead. “What’s not to love? You’ve got a horde of men with sticks and helmets and big baggy shorts, all beating the unholy hell out of a flat ball called a puck. You’ve got an ice rink. You’ve got two nets. And two dudes standing around making it their business to guard the nets. And, and ice skating . You’ve got a ton of ice skating, and I think that really elevates the vibe. Makes it all skate-y, you know. All icy. All hockey-ish.”

“Hmm. You do sound like a fan.”

“Oh, believe me, I am.”

The tension at the corner of his mouth releases and his lips part. A soft, bubbling sound spills out of them. “So, who’s your team then, fanboy?”

“Great question! Thanks for asking.” I take a long sip of coffee and attempt to gather my thoughts. I sort through several of them, looking for something that might be helpful, intelligent—ideally. Those kinds of thoughts are not forthcoming. “I support, uh… Gosh, there are so many good ones, aren’t there? It’s hard to narrow it down. Um, wait, wait, I’ve got it. The Snakes. The Seattle Snakes. No. Shit . That’s not it. The Cobras?”

There’s that sound again. The soft one that flows out of Ben and lands lightly in my lap. “D’you mean Vipers?” he offers.

“The Seattle Vipers. That’s the one. They’ve got the little snake on the logo, don’t they? Yeah. It’s super cute. I love that little thing. I’ve actually been thinking of getting a cap with it ’cause it’s not at all tacky and would probably go with quite a few of my tops, and also, obviously, because I’m such a huge fan.”

His eyes dance in amusement. “Well, it’s always nice to meet a fan of the game.”

“D’you want to see something cool, Jelly?” asks Luca, saving me from whatever the hell that was.

“You know I do,” I answer.

He dashes inside and returns at high speed. He drops a bundle of hockey sticks at my feet and holds a puck near my face.

“Absolutely not,” says Ben firmly. “We’ve talked about this. No playing with pucks anywhere but on the ice.”

Luca’s mouth pulls into a tight dot and his bottom lip juts out. It’s amusing. It’s such an obvious pout that he looks like an exaggerated, unhappy cartoon version of himself. He huffs once or twice, looking at Ben like he expects him to change his mind. Ben doesn’t. He’s nonplussed and calm. I get the feeling that repeated exposure to this look has left him immune.

Luca relents and goes back into the house, albeit at a much slower pace.

“How’s the unpacking going?” I ask.

“Oh, it’s hell. I’m at the point where almost every room is half done, and in my heart, I don’t believe I’ll ever see the end of boxes and packing paper.”

“Ugh, that’s the worst. Have you worked out if you like the house yet?”

He shakes his head and speaks quietly. “I don’t think I do. There are so many windows that I don’t know where to put my furniture. The floorboards scratch easily, and there are so many curtains. Seriously, I’ve never seen this much fabric.”

His eyes are wide, his teeth exposed. I only did psychology for six months, so I’m far from an expert, but I’m pretty sure these are early warning signs that he’s on the verge of a full-blown case of curtain panic.

It’s a thing, okay. But don’t look it up. It’s not well-documented.

Ben leans closer to me and lowers his voice a little more. “Do you want to hear something really dumb?”

“ Always ,” I say with meaning. It’s true. My sense of the ridiculous is severely overdeveloped. I’ve always had a huge penchant for stupid things in general and, evidently, stupid things related to Ben Stirling in particular.

His shoulders drop and he looks like he did yesterday when he told me his wife had passed away. I feel a change in the mood in the air around him. It’s a subtle shift, but it’s there. Small talk falls away and is replaced with something significant.

“Since Liz died, these kinds of things are different. They’re other. They used to be life-admin. You know, that annoying, unavoidable shit you have to deal with. The crap you chip away at until eventually it’s done, and then you go to sleep and start all over again the next day.” When he talks, I don’t just hear it. I feel it in my bones. The sadness, the loneliness, the overwhelm. “It doesn’t feel like that anymore. It feels big now. Really big, and really unmanageable, and really…” His voice trails off and his jaw clicks.

He looks down at his hands and his chest heaves as an uneven breath comes out in a rush. His lips move like he can taste a word but can’t bring himself to say it.

“Scary,” I say for him.

He leans his chin against a balled-up fist, elbow resting on the arm of the swing, and looks away from me.

After a long time, he nods.

When he looks at me again, the shroud around him is barbed and weighted. It’s pulling him down. Holding him back. I don’t talk or move or look away. I sit with him in the heavy, barbed place so he knows he isn’t alone.

When Luca returns, he has a large beach ball in his hands.

“Better,” says Ben. “Now you won’t take Jeremiah’s head off.”

“I wouldn’t take his head off, Dad. I know what I’m doing. I’m really good at hockey.”

I think about something Luca said the day I met him, and in light of what I know about Ben now, it makes me want to laugh.

Luca trots to the end of the porch and Ben gets to his feet and stands a few yards from where I’m sitting.

“Are you ready?” asks Luca.

“Born ready,” says Ben, throwing a wry smile my way.

Luca lets loose a surprisingly hard shot that sends the beach ball flying in our direction. Ben has his mug in one hand and a stick in the other. He hardly moves. Hardly looks. It’s as though he has an entirely different set of senses than most people. At least one of which was specifically designed to stop objects hurtling toward him. He turns the stick a fraction and stops the ball dead. He taps it lightly to return it to Luca, but his triceps dent deeply. So do his calves. And his lateral hamstrings.

His shorts are made of a thin, light fabric that shows everything.

They’re navy, the shorts.

I didn’t think the color mattered, but maybe it does.

I didn’t think hockey was the game for me either, but I’m starting to think it might be.

I sit, quiet as a mouse, and watch Ben and Luca play. Now and again, Luca offers Ben advice on how to improve his backhand, and Ben looks at me over his shoulder as if to say See what I have to deal with and I smile like a fucking idiot.

The shorts Ben’s wearing are becoming more and more indecent by the minute. The fabric is really flimsy, even more flimsy than I initially thought. Not only that, it’s clingy as well. His calves and lateral hamstrings aren’t the only thing at play either. His glutes are getting in on the action as well.

I’m not sure who invented these shorts or told straight guys it was okay for them to wear them, but they were clearly designed with the male gaze in mind.

“…for the rest of the day?”

It takes me a second to fill in the blanks, but with some effort, I manage to piece together that Ben is asking me about my plans for the day.

“I’m editing some photos I took last week and have a massage client this afternoon. You?”

“Luca’s going to his Aunt Amy’s for a playdate with his cousins this afternoon, and I’m going to hit the gym while he’s out.”

Gym. Mm. Nice. More flimsy, clingy clothes on Ben, with sweat and testosterone added.

And an increase in blood flow and muscle volume in his body.

And pronounced veins running down big, beefy arms. More pronounced, as they’re already pronounced as fuck.

Jesus , I need to get it together.

“That’s nice. That’s so nice. I hope you have fun. Do you like working out?”

To his credit, Ben manages not to look at me like there’s something seriously wrong with me.

“I love it,” he says.

Luca appears to have lost interest in the game. He drops his stick and climbs over the railing at the end of the porch, disappearing from view as I collect myself, my mug, and Ben’s mug and get ready to leave. Ben walks me down the path and opens the gate for me.

“So, can I get your number?” It seemed like a normal thing to say in my head, but aloud, it feels like it comes out of nowhere, so I tack on, “I-I’m not hitting on you or anything.” This time, Ben does look bewildered. It’s just a flicker, and he manages to tamp it down quickly, but it’s there. To set him at ease, I clarify, “For the curtains.” As I say it, my commitment to this brand-new project becomes unshakable, growing exponentially with each word that leaves my mouth. “I know a lot of people in Seattle and, and my aunt works with designers. They’ll definitely be able to recommend someone. Leave it with me. I’ll call around and see who does residential, and mark my words, I’ll find the best curtain person in the city for you.”

That’s right. I will. I’ll help Ben with this if it’s the last thing I ever do. I don’t care if I have to ingest a hundred silkworms and shit out yards and yards of silk thread myself. There’s no way on Earth I’m letting this beautiful man in his beautiful shorts experience curtain panic again. No. Not on my watch.

Getting his number is a slightly more complicated process than it needs to be because I hand him one mug to hold while I get my phone out of my pocket, and then realize I’ll probably type better if I have both hands on my phone, so I hand him the other mug as well. As I do it, I realize I should have just given him my number and gotten him to missed-call me because his hands were free. It would’ve saved us both a world of trouble.

I’m feeling heavily scrutinized as I type in his name and become momentarily unable to remember if you spell Stirling with an IR or an ER .

A big part of me wishes I’d never started this project. The rest of me wishes I was at home with a book.

Ben takes pity on me. He must because he says, “Wanna hear something even more stupid than the curtain thing?”

“Yes, please,” I say gratefully.

“I’ve got to warn you, it’s really, really stupid.”

I’m feeling so buoyed I chirp, “Oh, I have a huge penchant for stupid things, and…”

Fortunately, he cuts me off there.

“I still train like I play hockey.” I understand the gravity of what he’s saying immediately. The magnitude and the loss form a vast pool around him. My hand drops to my sides as I search his eyes. The pain I find there is hard to describe. “I train like I’ve been benched for a while, you know, like I’ve been out with an injury, and I’m waiting on a call giving me the green light to come back.”

“That’s not stupid, Ben.”

He smiles, but he doesn’t believe me. “I loved three things. Liz, Luca, and—”

“—and hockey.”

“And hockey.”

He doesn’t need to explain that he lost two things when Liz died, and he doesn’t need to explain that as he wrestles with the grief of losing his wife, he’s mourning the loss of the game as well. He doesn’t need to explain because the pain is written all over his face.

“I understand, Ben,” I say quietly. He does the same thing he did earlier, balls up his fist and presses it to his mouth. This time, he doesn’t look away as he nods. His sorrow and vulnerability are limitless. Huge, vast things that stretch out behind him like gnarled dark wings. “You’re not alone.” He nods again but without conviction. “It might feel like you are, but you aren’t. There are major hockey fans all around you.” He cracks the tiniest of smiles. I click on his number and place a call, hanging up when his phone vibrates in his pocket. “You have my number now, so you can call me if you need anything. I mean it. Anything.”

“Even stupid things?”

“Especially stupid things.”