Page 53 of True North
“Okay, I will go back to bed alone,” Misha said, mock-pouting, and did actually flounce back upstairs with his coffee cup.
JT blasted music as he drove into town, trying to drown out his thoughts and get back into a more normal state of mind before he picked Curtis up, but he didn’t have much success. He couldn’t shake what his mom had said to him. He wasn’t in the habit of spending much time thinking about his feelings or why he behaved the way he did, but his mom had blown the lid off his denial. His actions had repercussions even if he avoided thinking about them. He’d made the decision to ask Misha to move in with him; he’d made the decision to fuck Misha and to keep doing it. And he would be going back to Toronto in less than two months no matter how much he pretended he wasn’t.
The way his mom had put it made JT wonder if she thought he was re-enacting his relationship with Marcus in some way, either stuck in a pattern or trying to redeem himself. He didn’t think he was, but what if she was right, and his whole relationship with Misha was about trying to give himself a second chance to do it right? That wouldn’t be fair to Misha. He wasn’t Marcus 2.0.
“Ugh,” he said aloud. He’d slept restlessly and his head hurt. The gray sky was low and heavy, the perfect complement to his mood. Some days, being a person was exhausting.
He pulled up outside Curtis’s apartment and texted him that he’d arrived. While he waited for Curtis to come out, he smacked his cheeks with his open palms a few times. He wasn’t going to solve his problems before his workout. Time to get his head in the game.
“Wow, you look rough,” was the first thing Curtis said after he climbed into the passenger seat.
So much for acting normal. “Thanks. Glad to know my skincare routine is working.”
“Hilarious. Seriously, is something up?” Curtis tossed his hat on the dash and raised his eyebrows at JT in question.
JT peeled away from the curb, stomping on the gas a little harder than was strictly necessary. “Everything’s fine. Just didn’t sleep great.”
“Nightmares again? Might be worth seeing someone about those.”
JT scoffed. “Like who? Someone who’s going to tell me to meditate? Some headshrinker?”
“I mean, yes. I think a headshrinker would do you a lot of good.” Curtis reached over to turn down the music. “They’re called psychiatrists, by the way. ‘Headshrinker’ is kind of racist.”
“You’re really slamming me into the ropes this morning.” JT took his right turn hard to jostle Curtis against the door, then immediately felt like a spiteful asshole. “Sorry. Misjudged that turn.”
“Uh-huh. Don’t worry, you’ve got a tough workout scheduled today, so you’ll have plenty of time to burn off your bad mood on the ice.”
“Can’t wait,” JT said. Curtis didn’t actually skate with them—he was a strength and conditioning guy and couldn’t do much more on skates than go in a straight line—but he coordinated with the skills coach in Toronto who helped manage JT’s summer training plan. JT had been playing hockey for long enough that he was perfectly capable of running through drills on his own, and Curtis had a good eye for skating form and would call for a rest or a stop if either of them started slacking as they got tired.
For once, Alex had beaten them to the rink and was sitting in the locker room when they walked in. He looked up from his phone with an exaggerated expression of delight. “Hey cool, you’re buying lunch for me today since you made me wait on your slow asses for ten minutes.”
JT glanced at his watch. “We’re actually two minutes early. Your clocks get set ahead an hour or something?”
“You aren’t cute or funny,” Alex said, and JT grinned and gratefully relaxed into the back-and-forth bullshit of locker room banter. This was exactly what he needed to fix his bad mood.
True to Curtis’s promise, the workout was exhausting, with lots of agility drills and speed work. By the time they were done, JT was dripping sweat, his legs felt like rubber, and his lungs felt like they’d been turned inside out. He and Alex collapsed onto the bench, panting, and guzzled water in silence for a few minutes before they were able to drag themselves back to the locker room.
“I did warn you,” Curtis said, not sounding very apologetic.
“Yeah, yeah,” Alex said. “Lunch?”
JT hesitated. He bailed a lot on lunch these days, eager to get home to Misha, even more eager now that he and Misha usually fooled around after he showered. Maybe he shouldn’t bail quite so much. Misha wasn’t the only important thing in his life.
“Let’s hit the juice bar,” he suggested. “I’m not buying, though.”
“Curtis will buy,” Alex said.
“I’m not buying, either,” Curtis said, without looking up from his phone.
They had a good time at lunch. There was some ongoing drama with New Jersey, a star player who’d decided he wanted out, but the team wasn’t having luck trading him and it was starting to seem like he’d still be there when training camp opened. JT felt bad for the guy, but gossiping about the trials and tribulations of other franchises was a time-honored NHL tradition, and Alex was up on all the latest hot takes from Twitter and had a lot to say about the situation. JT was grateful for the distraction and didn’t make any effort to rein in Alex’s wilder flights of speculation.
They parted ways on the sidewalk afterward, Alex turning right toward his car and JT and Curtis turning left toward JT’s. The clouds had taken on an odd rippled effect, and JT wondered if it might storm later. He had forgotten to check the weather that morning, too discombobulated to stick to his normal routine.
“So,” Curtis said as they walked down the block to JT’s truck. “What’s going on?”
JT glanced at him. “Not sure what you mean.”
“Come on. You barely put two words together during lunch. I’m not saying you’re a motormouth, but you’re never that quiet. Something’s up.”