Page 16

A few hours later, against all reason, Riley was standing outside the Dropped Anchor.

Adam had left shortly after eating. Dinner hadn’t been unpleasant, though he had tried to convince Riley to come to the bar. He’d clearly been disappointed when Riley said no, but hadn’t pushed it. After Adam left, Riley had felt an odd pang of regret, not because he wanted to go out, but because he’d wanted Adam to stay in.

He was still wrestling with those confusing feelings when, about forty minutes later, Adam sent him a text: I got our table , followed by a dark blurry photo of their two jerseys, hanging beside each other above where Adam was probably sitting. Riley decided that going out might be a better plan than lying in bed, staving off the urge to jerk off to thoughts of Adam, and then inevitably jerking off to thoughts of Adam.

The Dropped Anchor was an ugly freestanding brick rectangle with an ancient light box sign on the front that had the name of the bar in a basic black font next to a beer logo that had been covered with electrical tape after a sponsorship had ended. Riley avoided the place as much as possible, especially since he’d stopped drinking. It was, however, comfortingly familiar, the way it hadn’t changed since Riley had tried to order beer here in high school—as if everyone in town hadn’t known exactly who he was and how old he was. Despite its lack of charm, the Anchor was one of the cornerstones of life in Avery River. It was where people celebrated and made friends and fought friends and drank to forget, and it was a rite of passage to have your first legal beer bought for you here.

But, still. It was a gross dump.

The Anchor was crowded when Riley walked in, and he had no doubt as to why. A cluster of men were standing near the bar, Adam at the center. Everyone laughed loudly as Riley approached, Adam having no doubt just shared a self-deprecating hockey story. He’d always been good at holding court. He was the type of man that other men wanted to be: handsome, confident, and impressive.

“Riles,” Adam called out cheerfully when he spotted him. “You made it.”

“Yeah. Decided I may as well.” Someone had made a sign on neon yellow poster board that had Welcome Adam Sheppard written in black marker. It hung on the wall under the TV. It was possibly the most decorative thing Riley had ever seen in the Anchor.

“I was just telling them about the fight you had to bail me out of,” Adam said.

“Against Fournier?”

“Right! Yeah. I was ready to kill him.”

“He would have taken your head off.” Adam had always been shit at fighting.

“Probably.” Adam smiled at him, eyes twinkling. Riley wondered how many beers the boys had bought him already.

“How’s the game going?” Riley asked.

“They’re already down two-nothing,” said Benny, who’d been tending bar here for as long as Riley could remember.

“Shit,” Riley said.

“They need you back there, Captain,” said Arnold from his stool at the end of the bar.

Everyone murmured their agreement.

“I think they’re just fine without a busted-up old man on the blue line,” Adam said, still smiling.

“What can I get you, Riley?” Benny asked.

“I’ll take a Pepsi,” Riley said, because it was safe. It came in cans, meaning it wouldn’t be dispensed through the Anchor’s filthy taps.

Benny handed him a can from the fridge and a thin plastic straw. “No charge. How are you holding up, son?”

Riley’s chest clenched. “You know.”

Benny nodded. “We all miss him.”

“I know.”

“That was a hell of a speech you made at the funeral,” said Charlie, a man who Riley knew had gone to high school with Dad. “Harv would have been proud.”

Riley could only nod as his throat tightened. He barely remembered the speech. Adam caught his eye and said, “Let’s sit and watch the end of the period, okay, Riles?”

Riley nodded again.

“If you need anything,” said Benny, “you let me know, all right?”

“I will.” Riley held up the Pepsi can. “Thanks for this.”

He felt the eyes of everyone on him as he followed Adam away from the bar. As soon as they were seated, Adam said, “I didn’t think you were going to come.”

“Yeah. Well.”

“I’m glad you did.” Adam smiled at him. He didn’t seem like he’d had much to drink at all, actually. The pint glass he was holding was almost full.

“Have the boys been taking care of you?” Riley asked.

“Yeah, but—” Adam held a hand next to his mouth, shielding it from the view of the bar “—the beer here is terrible.”

Riley managed part of a smile. “I know. I think it’s half water.”

Adam lifted the glass and squinted at it. “I hope it’s water.”

Riley cracked open his Pepsi. “They’ve got bottled beer. I recommend that.”

“Good tip.” Adam pointed at the wall above their heads. “Look.”

Riley glanced at the jerseys. “Yep.”

“Sheppard and Tuck,” Adam said wistfully.

“Beauty and the Beast,” Riley said. It had been a popular joke about them.

Adam waved a hand. “Never agreed with that. As if you’re ugly.”

“I think it had more to do with our style of play,” Riley said, because Adam had been known for his incredible skating and his play making, where Riley had provided the brute strength, hitting hard, blocking shots, and keeping the crease clear. Though the nickname had probably also been inspired by Adam’s pretty eyes.

“You were a beast on the ice,” Adam agreed. “Fucking unreal. Never had a partner like you again. No one even close.”

Riley shifted in his worn wooden chair. “What about Thompson?” Adam had been paired with Kit Thompson for most of six seasons after Riley left Toronto.

“Nah. Tommy was solid, but we never had that thing, y’know? That magic.” Adam set his beer glass against the wall and put his elbows on the table. “When we played together—you and me—it was like I could read your mind on the ice. And you could read mine. Right?”

“I guess,” Riley said mildly, even though yes, it had always been exactly like that.

“Magic,” Adam repeated. “Fucking magic. I missed it every game after you left.”

Riley hadn’t managed to get his straw into the Pepsi can and was now bending it out of shape. “I think it was gone before I left.”

Adam’s brow furrowed. “What? No. We won the Cup together that last season.”

Riley held his gaze. “I remember.”

Now it was Adam’s turn to shift in his chair. Good. Riley wasn’t going to sit here and chat about the good times as if he hadn’t been falling apart for years leading up to that Cup win. Adam, of course, had been happily distracted by his new family, and probably never noticed that Riley had lost his love of hockey and had leaned into the violence of the game. Neither the team nor the fans had minded that, loving how hard he’d hit, and how brutally he’d fought. None of them knew that after games, and on nights off, he’d drink. Sometimes he’d feel daring enough to find a man to fuck, though he hadn’t really thrown himself into that until he’d been in Dallas, away from the microscope of the Toronto hockey world. More often than not, he’d just drink alone in his apartment, feeling very sorry for himself. It hadn’t felt magical at all, by the end.

“I loved winning that Cup with you,” Adam said quietly.

Riley wanted to choke him. “It was a really memorable fucking night.”

He enjoyed the way Adam’s cheeks darkened with shame. Then he remembered where they were, and that he really didn’t want to talk about any of this. He leaned back in his chair and said, “Whatever. It was years ago.”

“Riley—”

“It was years ago .” Riley said firmly. “Watch the game.”

Adam took a sip of beer, winced, then looked at the TV in the corner over Riley’s shoulder. Riley turned to look too. It was still 2–0.

“I invited you here to cheer you up,” Adam said. “I’m not doing a great job, am I?”

“Nope. And I don’t think the Northmen are going to, either, by the looks of things.” Riley needed to keep the conversation focused on hockey.

“Could be nerves,” Adam said.

“Mm.”

“I was never nervous.”

Riley actually laughed. “The fuck you weren’t.”

Adam smiled. “I can say that, now that I’m retired. I was never nervous, I made no mistakes, and I absolutely blocked that Bernier shot on purpose and not just because my foot happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“You didn’t even know Bernier had taken a shot.”

“Shh. I think I won the best defenseman trophy for that play alone that season.”

“It could have been for that time you took the puck behind the net for a line change, then fell down.”

“Fuck you for remembering that, and there was something on the ice!”

Riley took a sip of Pepsi.

“There was!” Adam insisted.

“Yeah. You.”

Adam laughed, his eyes crinkling, and Riley was struck for the one billionth time in his life by how handsome he was. He was wearing a dark gray shirt that was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. The color made his eyes look even bluer. Riley absolutely didn’t need any of this right now.

During a break in play the broadcast showed one of the luxury boxes in the arena. It was full of elite Northmen alumni. A few were guys Riley had played with, but most were much older.

“You weren’t invited?” Riley asked.

“I was.”

Heat creeped up Riley’s neck. Of course Adam had been invited. He’d chosen to be here instead. “Oh.”

“You must have been too, weren’t you?”

What planet was Adam living on? “No.”

Adam’s brow furrowed.

“What?” Riley said.

“I don’t understand. It’s not like you did anything.”

“Sure I did. I asked for a trade, had a breakdown, then quit hockey. I don’t think I can ever set foot in Dallas again. They gave up a lot of draft picks for me.”

“Toronto fans still love you,” Adam argued.

“They should. They got all those draft picks. They got Bergman with one of those.”

Adam shook his head. “Would you stop ? You were a fan favorite in Toronto, and I wouldn’t be half the player I was if I hadn’t been paired with you.”

“If you say so.”

Adam leaned in. “Of course I say so. Jesus, Riles, anyone who knows hockey would say so. And stop talking like you did something terrible just because you…uh…”

“Went nuts?” Riley suggested.

Adam pinned him with one of his fierce captain stares. “Don’t say that.”

Riley shrugged but didn’t look away. “It’s true, though. Ask anyone.”

“I never have, and I won’t. I want you to tell me about it. If you don’t want to, then fine, but I’m not interested in gossip.”

Riley swallowed, unexpectedly touched by Adam’s respect for his privacy.

“I’ve been worried about you for twelve years,” Adam said. “I know you probably don’t want to hear that, but I have been.”

Riley absolutely didn’t want to hear it, but his stupid heart swelled anyway. “Why?”

“Riley.”

Tears pricked at Riley’s eyes. He blinked and looked away. Not now , he thought. At that moment, the bar erupted in cheers. Toronto had scored.

“Riley,” Adam said again.

“You shouldn’t have worried. Let’s watch the game.” He managed a small smile. “You’re right. You suck at cheering me up.”

Adam didn’t smile back. He looked confused and sad.

“Come on,” Riley said, tilting his head toward the TV. “Toronto’s about to tie it up.”

Adam let it go, though Riley could tell he wasn’t happy about it. During the first intermission he went to the bar to mingle some more, and Riley thought about leaving.

Just before the second period was about to start, Adam returned to the table, and Riley could tell just by looking at him that he had something to say. Riley turned his attention to the TV, and his back to Adam.

After a couple of minutes, Adam said, “Things were different, by the time I retired.”

Riley rolled his eyes and turned back to face him. “What things?”

“Hockey, the league, the way people, I dunno, talk about things. It’s still not perfect, obviously, but some things were better.”

“Like Pride nights?” Riley asked flatly. “Did those fix everything?”

Adam flinched slightly. “No. I know they didn’t, but that’s not even what I’m talking about. Like, some of the kids on the team during my last few seasons blew my fucking mind. Talking about anxiety and panic attacks and shit no hockey players ever would have admitted to when we both started out.”

“No,” Riley agreed quietly, “definitely not.”

Adam looked at him seriously. “That’s what I mean. I wish it could have been more like that when you played.”

Riley shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “Well. It wasn’t.”

When it was clear Riley still wasn’t going to talk about it, Adam smiled weakly and said, “Those kids made me feel like a dinosaur. They were so into their health—physical and mental. There were three vegans on the team during my final season. Can you believe that? Three!”

Riley huffed. Chicken was practically a vegetable when he’d started in the league.

Adam got quiet again. “I thought about you a lot, during those last few seasons. About how things could have been better for you.”

Riley was two seconds away from flipping the table. He pressed his palms into his thighs, digging his fingers in until it hurt. “How things could have been better for me,” he repeated.

“I know I fucked up the night we won the Cup, but you could have stayed. We could have gotten past it. It kills me to think you threw everything away because of a stupid decision I made when I was drunk.” He laughed humorlessly and gestured to the jerseys above them. “I mean, it was the dream, right? We got there. We were the best D-pairing in the league.”

Riley leaned in, his pulse pounding in his temples. “I’m not talking about this.”

“Why?”

“Because it doesn’t. Fucking. Matter.” Riley stood. “Enjoy your party, Shep. I’ll leave a light on for you at home.” He stormed out of the bar before Adam could reply.