Page 31

Riley had braced himself for total emotional and mental collapse after Adam left, but he found, as each day passed, that he was doing…okay.

It had now been five days, and Riley had stayed busy for all of them. He’d gone to work, he’d visited Mom, he’d taken Lucky for runs on the beach, and he’d worked on his garden. Yesterday he’d talked to his therapist, and although he’d spent a good chunk of the hour crying about his dad, it had been helpful. He’d booked another appointment at the end of the session.

He’d also been sleeping reasonably well and eating when he was supposed to. He’d been texting his friends and Lindsay, and was trying to run more errands around town, just to talk to people.

And he talked to Adam. They texted, mostly, though there had been a couple of short phone calls. Just casual stuff: about hockey, about Adam’s kids, about Lucky, about the shop. Sometimes Adam would send him a blurry photo of something. Adam was doing exactly what Riley needed: he was giving him space, while also staying in touch, and Riley appreciated that more than he could say. He missed Adam like crazy, but being able to talk to him again, knowing they were friends, felt wonderful. Being apart hurt, but not as much as the agony he’d carried before, when he’d cut Adam out of his life. He wouldn’t do that again.

Now Riley was on his couch, watching the Northmen game. They’d managed to win another game, and now the series was tied at two wins each. Game five was back in Toronto.

As he watched the opening minutes of the game, he found himself transported back in time, remembering the rush of the playoffs. When every second of every game mattered so fucking much. Riley had loved the playoffs; he’d been able to let his emotions off the leash because everyone’s emotions were cranked up to a million. Losses were devastating, clean body checks invoked blood vengeance, bad calls by the refs made everyone see red, and wins made grown men scream with triumph and sob with relief. Playoffs were the only times he’d felt normal.

Suddenly, the broadcast was showing the team’s private box, and there was Adam, flanked by two other former Northmen. Riley’s heart stopped as he watched Adam wave and smile at the crowd. He must be on the big screen at the arena.

“And you can hear the love from the fans for Adam Sheppard, who’s in the building tonight after being absent for games one and two,” said Charlie Pullman, a longtime Northmen play-by-play announcer, on the broadcast.

“I was talking to Shep before the game,” said the commentator, Grant Rollins, “and he told me he was in Nova Scotia for the funeral of Riley Tuck’s father.”

“Riley Tuck,” said Pullman with a laugh. “I haven’t heard that name in a while.”

“Jesus Christ, Charlie,” Riley said, which made Lucky briefly raise his head at the other end of the couch.

“Nope. Not someone I’d thought about either,” said Rollins. “But condolences to him and his family, and I hope he’s doing well. Nice to hear that Shep still keeps in touch with him.”

“Well, that’s just the kind of guy Shep is, right, Grant? He was known for helping his teammates, and even when—well, we know Tuck had his difficulties, but Shep would be there for guys like that. He was a hell of a captain, and that’s why he’s getting this ovation right now. I don’t think there’s ever been a hockey player more beloved in this town than Adam Sheppard.”

“No sir. And that is saying something.”

Pullman laughed. “It sure is.”

Great. So now the nation had been reminded of Riley’s existence, and his “difficulties,” via an on-air appeal for the sainthood of Adam Sheppard.

It seemed suddenly impossible that Adam had been here, in Riley’s house, only a few days ago. Riley couldn’t connect the smiling god being worshipped by thousands on his TV screen with the man who’d been giddy about spotting a deer in Riley’s yard. The man who’d released some of that deer-fueled adrenaline by blowing Riley on this very couch.

The man who Riley was definitely in love with, possibly in a vague relationship with, and who absolutely wasn’t here right now. In that moment, Adam felt very far from Riley, in every sense of the word. Because this was Adam’s life: luxury boxes and standing ovations and hockey broadcasters gushing about his greatness. He likely lived in a house that people around here would call a mansion. He was a dad . He was important . Riley’s life had once been glamorous, but now it was just a life. Did he really expect Adam to live here, even part of the time? Adam was meant for better things than a sporting goods store, minor hockey banquets, and dinners with Darren and Tom. He was meant for better things than Riley.

His phone lit up with an incoming text.

Adam: Did you eat dinner?

Riley stared at the message. Had Adam really sent that now ? While he’d been receiving that standing ovation, had he actually been worried about Riley not eating?

Riley wrote back: yes.

Adam: I miss you.

Riley smiled, and wrote: Are you not being adored enough at the Northmen game?

Adam: I’d rather be watching the game on your couch.

It couldn’t be good for Riley’s heart, the way Adam kept making it bounce wildly against his ribs. Riley wrote back: I’d probably fall asleep on you.

Adam replied: I know , punctuated with a smiley face emoji.

The broadcast briefly cut back to a shot of Adam, and Riley could see him smiling softly at his phone.

God, Riley’s heart was going to burst out of his chest.

He wrote: You look good.

Adam: Send me a pic.

Riley snapped a photo of Lucky and sent it.

Adam: You look good.

Riley laughed, then turned his camera on himself. He happened to be wearing his silk robe with only a pair of boxer briefs covered in little pineapples. They clashed terribly, but Adam didn’t need to see his underwear right now. Riley reclined a bit and snapped a photo. It was, he had to admit, very sexy. Maybe too sexy, considering his request to keep things platonic for now.

He sent it.

A moment later, Adam replied: You bastard.

Riley smiled. Was Adam all hot and bothered in that luxury box? He wished the broadcast would show him again. Maybe this was exactly what they weren’t supposed to be doing, but it felt good, flirting with Adam.

Adam: You can’t just send that and not expect me to look up flights to Nova Scotia.

Riley laughed again, but he wrote: Not yet.

Adam: I know. Fuck, though.

Riley agreed, but he was determined to resist temptation. Because he was still too messed up to know for sure that these good feelings were the safe kind, or if they were the dangerous kind, like the ones alcohol used to give him.

He needed to be sure, before he offered his heart to Adam Sheppard again.

* * *

Three nights later, Toronto had been eliminated from the playoffs. The next morning, Riley went to console his dad about it.

He approached the grave warily, with a handful of hyacinths from his garden. His breath caught when he read Dad’s name, etched into the small, metal grave marker. He almost turned away, but forced himself to speak.

“Hey, Dad,” he mumbled. “Sorry about the Northmen. It wasn’t their year.”

“They need stronger defense,” he explained, as if Dad didn’t know. As if Dad hadn’t complained about that all the time, though never in a way that had made Riley feel guilty about asking for the trade. “They’ve got some decent young guys. I dunno. We’ll see how they develop.”

He laid the flowers next to the marker and noticed the moon snail shell that someone had placed there. Riley picked it up, turned it over, recognized the chip that was missing from the bottom.

Adam had been here.

Riley closed his fingers on the shell, holding it tight. He wasn’t sure about many things, but he was pretty sure someone who was bad for him wouldn’t have taken the time to visit Dad’s grave. To leave him something beautiful.

“I still love him,” he told his dad. “And I think we have a chance to be happy together. Like, really fucking happy.”

There was no sign; the clouds didn’t part, a butterfly didn’t land on the grave, no gentle breeze swept over Riley. But he knew, in his heart, that Dad agreed.

* * *

“A book ?” Riley exclaimed. “You’re going to write a book ?”

“Well, no,” Adam said from his sofa in Toronto. He’d called Riley specifically to talk about this, but it had taken him nearly thirty minutes to finally bring it up. “I’m not actually going to write it. There’s a ghost writer. It would just be…about me.”

Riley paused from where he’d been yanking weeds out of the ground over twelve hundred kilometers away from Adam and smiled at the camera. “Sounds like a real page-turner.”

Adam laughed. “Hey, it wasn’t my idea. Obviously someone out there wants to read it because they’re offering me—I mean, this publisher thinks it would be a good seller. In Canada, at least.”

Riley went back to weeding. He had earbuds in so he could work and talk at the same time, while also leaving his actual phone in a spot that allowed Adam to watch him work. It was raining in Toronto, but in Avery River it was a beautiful June day, and Riley was wearing a tank top. Adam had always loved him in a tank top.

“You gonna do it?” Riley asked.

Adam hesitated. He’d only told Riley about the book because he’d wanted to tell him this next part. But the next part was a lot, and he wasn’t sure how Riley would react. “No,” he said. “At least not yet.”

“Why not?” Riley was kneeling in the dirt, wearing kneepads and very short shorts. He had a smear of soil on his right forearm.

“Because…” Adam said carefully, “I want to be sure the story has the ending I’m hoping for first.”

Adam could see the exact moment Riley realized what he’d said. He stopped working, sat back on his heels, and looked directly at the camera. “Adam—”

“It just made me think,” Adam interrupted. “If there’s going to be a book about me, it should be about all of me, right? Or at least the important parts.” He laughed. “They don’t need to know that bananas give me heartburn.”

“I thought you liked bananas.”

“I do , Riles. My life is hell.”

Riley smiled at that.

Adam kept going. “I don’t want to write a book that doesn’t mention that I’m gay. That’s all. But I also don’t want the book to be how everyone finds out either. That feels sleazy to me. I dunno.”

“Sure. Okay.” Riley wiped his brow with his arm, leaving a smudge of soil on his forehead.

Adam took a breath, and said, “My life has been amazing, really. I know that. And I could tell a hundred hockey stories to a ghost writer, and we’d probably get a decent book at the end. Honestly, until recently, I really did think my best years were behind me. That my story was done, maybe, y’know?”

Riley’s lips parted, but he didn’t say anything.

“I know we’re not deciding things right now,” Adam said, “so feel free to ignore this, but since I was in Avery River, I’ve been thinking retirement isn’t going to be so bad. That maybe I’ve got some really good years ahead of me. Some great years.”

“Oh,” Riley finally said.

“Sorry.”

“No,” Riley said quickly. “No, that’s—really?”

Adam smiled. “Really.”

Riley looked away—toward the sea, Adam was pretty sure.

“You don’t have to—” Adam started.

“Your surgery is July seventh?”

Adam was confused by the topic change. “Yeah.”

Riley nodded, then turned his gaze back to the camera. “Okay. I’ll be there.”

“What?”

“I’ll be there. Whatever it takes. Lucky can stay with Mom. We’ve got a full staff at work. I’ll be there.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Adam,” Riley said sternly, “I fucking miss you and I want to see you and take care of you while you’re recovering. I’ll be there.”

God. Adam probably looked like the biggest sap, the way he was smiling at the camera with a lump in his throat. “I fucking miss you too.”

Riley smiled back. “Then I’ll see you in July.”

“What about your garden?”

“It’ll be here.”

“But—”

“Shep, it’s a garden. It’s a hobby. You just told me you want me to be the happy ending to your life story, so yeah. I’m choosing you over beans.” He paused, eyes going wide. “That is what you were saying, right?”

Adam laughed soggily. “Yeah, Riles. That’s what I was saying.”