Got Somewhere to Be
Forest
The locker room is loud with post-game energy, guys stripping off gear and talking smack about the goals they scored. I strip off my pads, but my mind keeps drifting to Beck’s face through the glass. The way he lit up when I smiled at him. Like I’d given him something precious instead of just acknowledging he was there.
“Drinks at Murphy’s?” Javier asks, toweling off his hair. “First round’s on me since I got the hat trick.”
“Can’t,” I say, shoving my skates into my bag. “Got somewhere to be.”
Scully raises an eyebrow from across the bench. “Somewhere, huh? Wouldn’t happen to involve a certain blond goalie who was eye-fucking you through the glass tonight?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Shut up.”
“Come on,” Javier presses. “One beer. We crushed those guys.”
I pull my compression shirt over my head and head for the showers. “Rain check.”
The hot water feels good on my shoulders, washing away the sweat and adrenaline. But it doesn’t wash away the memory of Beck standing there, cheering for us. For me. I’ve been ignoring him, because there are too many other things in my life demanding attention. But he drove here anyway.
When I get back to my locker, most of the guys have cleared out. Scully’s still getting dressed, taking his sweet time.
“So,” he says casually. “This thing with Beck. Getting serious?”
“Fuck no.” The words come out sharper than I intended. “It’s just sex.”
“Uh-huh.” Scully pulls on his jeans. “Just sex. That’s why you smiled like a toothpaste ad when you saw him?”
I yank on my flannel shirt. “We have an arrangement. No strings.”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
“Fine.” I grab my gear bag. “It’s where I’m at right now.”
Scully shakes his head. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That guy drove out on the coldest night of the year to watch you play beer league hockey. Is that part of ‘just sex’?”
I shoulder my bag. “What Beck wants isn’t something I can control.”
“Jesus Christ, Forest.” Scully stands up, giving me a look I’ve seen him give to drunk customers who are about to do something really stupid. “I never thought you were such a chickenshit.”
“I’m not,” I snap. “I’m protecting both of us.”
“From what? Being happy?”
I don’t have an answer for that, so I head for the door. “See you Friday.”
Outside, I note that it really is cold as balls. We got a dusting of snow earlier in the day, before the temperature started dropping, and it makes that weird Styrofoam sound underfoot that you only hear when it’s bitter.
My truck takes approximately seven years to heat up, so I wait, listening to the terrible grating sound the engine makes. “Come on, Bessie. Don’t fail me now.” I just need ’er to keep rolling for another two months or so.
Unfortunately, my finances are as precarious as ever. When I bought out one of the partners at Sportsballs, it gained me a significant share of a growing business. But it made me cash poor. Very cash poor.
I don’t mind living thinly if it means I get to work with my friends while building my future. But then a certain incident last year cleaned out my savings, and I never really recovered. Every dime I have goes toward the business, or Charlie, or keeping this truck in motion, or keeping food on the table.
Scully, who really ought to mind his own beeswax, wasn’t totally off base when he pointed out that Beck seems more devoted to our arrangement than me. But it isn’t because I’m allergic to fun, and it isn’t because I’m a stupid guy. I simply can’t understand why he’d want a piece of this. He’s a young guy going places, and I’m a single dad just trying to keep the wolves from my door.
