Page 90 of Home Ice

Something about being wrapped around him, having access to his body and his thoughts, it ruined me. We ordered room service at 2:00 a.m. and ate it naked in bed before blowing each other. We watched a movie, side by side, and kissed until I physically couldn’t kiss him anymore. And when we fell asleep around six, heavy curtains pulled closed and late checkout secured, I slept with my arms around him, and I didn’t stir once until my alarm went off.

I need that with him again.

My phone beeps, and I look down at the messages to see that Kasen has replied to me saying that I’d see him soon.

Kasen:

Not like I can avoid it.

Instead of his snark pissing me off, it makes me smile. I’m in too good a mood today to let anything get to me, and as I scroll back through our texts over the last week or so, his responses have evolved from giving my message a thumbs-up or ignoring them completely—not sure which is worse—to a single-word answer. Then a few days ago, I sent him an article about the draft that happened a few days ago, telling him that would be him in a few years, and I got the first real response from him.

You have to say that, you’re my dad.

Knowing Kasen, I read it in the dry tone he always uses with me, but it gave me hope. I managed to get a full conversation out of him about the rebuild in Columbus and how Gutlier, who was this year’s number one draft pick, would change the team dynamics.

Not only did it feel good to talk about hockey, but it felt good to talk about it with him.

I’m almost addicted to sending him messages and seeing which ones will get a bite out of him.

Then today, he messaged me first.

You at training today?

My gaze moves to my response.

Sure am. It’ll only be us. Coach Barrett has an appointment.

Kasen:

Okay.

Then the follow-up that’s had me grinning all morning.

Lift home and ice cream?

I’d tried to play it cool and told him only if he ordered chocolate, which got me an eye roll emoji in reply. But it’s happening.

The only, only tiny dent in my good mood is that it’s late July, which means in a month or so, I have to make plans to head home. Training camp doesn’t start until mid-September, and I’ve been keeping active by helping Barrett with coaching, but it’s not the same as being in my own highly controlled space. With my chef and my home gym and Lachie helping push me when I want to say fuck it and flop on the couch.

Considering it’s been over a month already, and the progress I’ve made with Kasen has been baby steps, I need more time.

Or for something to drastically change.

Barrett, Elise, and I have a great morning of coaching before she leaves at lunchtime, and just before Kasen’s class, Barrett leaves for his first therapy appointment. I’m so proud of him, even though he’s anxious about it—he called the puck a disk earlier, then told someone else to stit it with your hick—but now I’m alone.

And Kasen’s just walked into the rink.

“Hey, hey,” I call, collecting the stray pucks and bringing them back into the center of the ice.

He doesn’t answer, but he does wordlessly start helping.

He’s got his helmet stuffed under his arm, and I have another of those moments where he looks so fucking tiny.

“Your head looks small.”

He throws me a what the fuck look.

“Ever see The Avengers?”