“You’ve got it all wrong,” I insist, stepping closer. “You being you? That’s actually why you’re here.”
He looks up, confusion clouding his blue eyes. “Because you have a thing for weirdos with no filter?”
“Nah, don’t do that.” The words come out harsher than I mean them to, but I need him to hear this. “There’s plenty of people in the world ready to tear us all down. We don’t have to help them.”
His eyes go wide and vulnerable, like I’ve just told him something revolutionary instead of offering basic human decency.
“I wasn’t kidding earlier. You don’t have all the information about me. I don’t do this anymore.” I wave a hand between us. “Sleepovers, dating, any of it—because I got burned by someone who could charm the pants off a nun, and it fucked up my whole life.”
I run a gentle hand through his hair. “The only reason you’re here right now is because you’re so unlike other guys. You’re not slick. You don’t put a lot of effort into being something you’re not. I don’t even think you’re capable of it.”
Beck’s mouth opens slightly, like he wants to protest, but I keep going. “One hundred percent real is the only kind of guy who’d make it past hello with me right now, and I’m not even sorry about it. You’re a rare breed, Beck, and I’m glad you came over last night.”
“And yet you’re so eager for me to leave?” The question cuts right to the heart of things.
I sit down heavily on the edge of the bed. “I’m not eager. Not really. But—and this isn’t going to change anytime soon—I just don’t have a lot to give.” I look up at him, trying to make him understand. “But if I did? I’d give it to you.”
The silence stretches between us, heavy with all the things neither of us knows how to say. Beck stands there in his wrinkled clothes, coffee-mussed and beautiful, and I want so badly to be the kind of man who could offer him breakfast and Sunday mornings.
But I’m not that man. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
He tilts that handsome face and considers me. “We’re doing this again, though, right? The just-sex part. I know I want to. And I don’t think you’re sick of me.”
“I’m not,” I say immediately. “Not even close.”
He smiles. And I feel like I finally did one thing right.
Eighteen
Miss Your Stupid Beard
Beck
February
Three games in a row. Three starts in a row. And not just starts—wins. My save percentage has climbed back above .920, which in goalie math translates to “Holy shit, I might actually have a career.”
Coach Tanner pulls me aside after practice. “Keep this up, James, and we might have to have a conversation about what’s next for your career.”
It’s wild. Meanwhile, Hennie, our usual number one, just grins and slaps my back as we head to the showers. “About time, rookie. Was getting tired of carrying this team on my back.”
That’s Hennie for you—zen master in goalie pads. The guy could probably stop pucks while meditating. When I was struggling earlier this season, he never once made me feel like shit about it. Just kept doing his thing, letting me figure out mine.
“You’re not worried?” I ask, because I would be. Hell, I’m worried, and it’s my hot streak.
“Worried about what?” He strips off his gear with the casual efficiency of someone who’s been doing this for fifteen years. “Good goalies make each other better. Besides, you think I want to play seventy-two games a year at my age? My knees are held together with duct tape and spite.”
Right. This is why I like Hennie. Most goalies are territorial psychopaths who’d shank you for looking at their crease wrong. Hennie’s just happy when the team wins, especially if he can drink a Corona afterward. The man loves his Mexican beer.
In other words, I should be floating on cloud nine. Three wins, Coach talking about starter minutes, and my confidence finally crawling out of whatever hole it’s been hiding in for months.
Instead, I’m staring at my phone in the parking lot, reading the same three-word text for the hundredth time.
Forest
Way to go.
That’s it. That’s his entire response to me telling him I had back-to-back shutouts and might actually have figured out how to stop a hockey puck again.
