Page 7 of Josh’s Play

Campbell was at Hampstead University on a full athletic scholarship and was a recreation and volunteer management major. He was the team’s goaltender and had hopes of making it to the NHL, according to an article in his hometown newspaper from his first year of college. There was a link to another article in the HU school paper from last year, written, as it turned out, by someone I knew since we took a lot of the same classes, that concluded he had a shot of doing just that.

I stalked his socials next. Lots of pictures of him on the ice and of him and two younger boys who, based on their hair color and matching smiles, could easily be his brothers. Some of those pictures were on the ice, either in a rink or on a pond. There were a few photos of a group of college-aged kids hanging out, but not many, and none of just Campbell and another person. If his socials were to be believed, he was single and perfectly welcome to flirt with his physical therapist. Or with me, a voice in the back of my head added. I told that voice to stop living in a dream world.

Heeding it, I stopped cyberstalking Campbell Ryan and switched back over to my text messages with Devon, prepared to ask him about the internship he had applied for, when I sensed someone standing over me with a chest so broad it could have blocked the sun.

Though I wasn’t staring at his picture at that point, instinctively I turned my phone upside down on my thigh as if he had caught me doing just that.

“Hey, Josh. Did I catch you looking at naughty pictures of hot women?”

I almost laughed aloud but was able to hold it in as I looked up at him and smiled.

“Yeah, no. Definitely not pictures of hot women. That’s not my thing. But I wasn’t ogling hot guys either,” I lied. “Just texting my roommate, trying to figure out when he’s back in town.”

Campbell’s eyes went wide. You never knew when coming out might lead to a bad situation, and for a quick minute I thought about him growing up in a small western New York town that wasn’t attached to a liberal college like Hampstead. Maybe my new acquaintance wouldn’t be cool with me being gay.

If that was the case, it didn’t matter how hot he was, he could fuck right on off.

Instead, he recovered from his surprised look. “Yeah, well, you don’t need your phone when you're in the gym if you want to stare at hot guys; they're usually all around.” He thought about what he’d said. “… Or girls. Hot guys and girls … women!” He was cute when he stumbled and even cuter when his cheeks started to match the Hampstead maroon of his clothing. I motioned with my brace for him to lean closer, regretting it as I felt the dull pain I was learning to live with pulse a little more intensely with the movement.

“We’re in the retirement section here, so it’s all about the hot professors,” I joked, stretching over his shoulder to catch the guy on the bike next to me looking my way. Oops. I stayed where I was for a second, though, because fuck, Campbell smelled good, freshly showered and manly, his mixture of citrus and spice intoxicating me even as he espoused the joys of ogling women in a gym.

He gave me a polite chuckle and stood up straight.

“Well, you can stare at me, I guess. I’m gonna go grab that treadmill.” Campbell took off to stake his claim but turned and gave me the most adorable wave before placing his water bottle, phone, and towel in the various holders on the machine.

He was straddling the conveyor belt and putting in a set of earbuds when I realized what he was doing. “Wait!” I yelled, maybe a little too loudly, but I was working to be heard over the noise of multitudinous machines and whatever was already playing in one of his ears. He looked at me over his shoulder, his hair flopping as he silently questioned me. I stopped myself on the bike and was about to get up.

Campbell reached into his pocket, and pulled his hair back with a cloth headband, maroon colored to match his HU Hockey workout clothes. Instead of explaining myself, all I could do was stare at the man: his perfectly sculpted legs, the majestic expanse of his broad shoulders, and the little bit of his bangs that stuck straight up as he turned back around.

I hoisted myself up from my bike, my legs actually feeling a little burn, so I guess the afternoon had been better spent than sitting on my ass watching a movie.

I was in front of him as he started his warm-up.

“Should you be on that thing again? The PT barely let you go faster than a walk.”

“It’s fine.”

“Don’t you guys have an exercise room at the rink? My brother told me the football team has all their own equipment. Don’t you?”

“Does your brother play?”

“Nah, he’s finishing up grad school. He’s a writer. I don’t know how he knows that, now that you mention it.” I stood my ground, looking at him.

He punched the buttons on the machine, and it sped up faster than earlier in the day at the treatment center but still basically at a warm-up pace. “Fine, you caught me. I’m feeling much better. I just wanted to get a little workout in!”

“Well, let me tell you. I’m feeling the burn. No better workout than …” I turned and presented the row of recumbent bikes behind him like a spokesmodel on a game show. “A brand-new recumbent bike.” I mimicked a crowd clapping and cheering.

He laughed, but he also got off the treadmill and collected up his stuff. “Nerd.”

I’d take it. I followed behind him, realizing I was a good five or six inches shorter than he was, and watched as the older gentleman who had been next to me finished wiping off his equipment.

“All yours, Fifty-Nine,” the man said. “Looking forward to the season. You guys going all the way this year?”

“Thanks, Professor Preston. I’d never jinx it, but I’m feeling pretty good this year.”

“And your ankle?”

“Just a sprain, sir. But my buddy here is making sure I don’t overdo it.” There was that winning smile again, for me and the professor as he hiked one perfect leg over the bike and sat down.