Page 30 of Line Change

Bisexual is the next possibility. The word is simple when it belongs to somebody else. Applied to me after one man, it feels like I’ve skipped several steps. There should have been signs, so I go back through locker rooms, parties, teammates, and every friendship that ever got physically close. I can’t find any.

I pick up the phone. Grayson’s contact is still open, his photo showing him in sunglasses with half his face cut off because he’s never taken a normal picture in his life.

Calling would mean telling him I had sex with a man. That sounds a lot like coming out, which would be a strange thing to do when I’m not gay and have no idea if bisexual applies after wanting one specific asshole.

There’s already a gay Pope. I can’t take that from Grayson.

I lock the phone and leave it on the counter.

With the screen dark, the condo is painfully quiet. It came furnished by the team, right down to the gray couch and framed print over it. I unpacked my clothes, filled one kitchen cabinet, and stopped. The second bedroom is empty except for two unopened boxes. Nothing in the living room belongs to me except the phone and a pair of running shoes by the door.

I’m supposed to leave for Fraser’s place in ten minutes.

He sent the invitation to the team group chat before Arizona. Everyone is going, including Haugen, and Fraser hasn’t told me to stay away. He’d have to get within speaking distance to do that, and I’ve been dodging him like he’s an angry defenseman.

I could skip it by claiming a headache or food poisoning, except somebody would tell Nara and she’d start asking questions I couldn’t answer.

If I don’t go, the team will decide I hate Fraser. They already know we snipe at each other. If I stop showing up when he hosts, somebody will ask why. They won’t land on him sucking my cock in Arizona, but I don’t want them looking.

I grab my jacket and keys before I can talk myself out of going.

Fraser lives in Capitol Hill. The drive is short enough that I don’t have time to improve the plan, which currently consists of finding him alone and saying I’m sorry.

I park across the street from his building and turn off the engine. Light spills from the top-floor windows. Three players I recognize go in while I sit behind the wheel.

I need to stop ignoring Fraser. I’ll go upstairs, wait until nobody is listening, and apologize for using him. What happened can’t happen again, but I don’t want him thinking I walked out because there was something wrong with him.

That still leaves the problem of how to explain what was wrong with me.

We’ve played okay since Arizona because hockey gives us enough to say to each other. That might not last. Sex between linemates has a way of curdling when nobody talks about it. Probably. Jesus, I don’t know how Diaz and Matty do this. They live together and still manage to play hockey without hiding in rental cars outside each other’s homes.

Someone knocks hard on my window.

I jerk around. Bobby is bent beside the driver’s door, giving me a look through the glass.

I lower the window. “What?”

“Are you coming inside?”

“Yes. I’m coming.”

He looks past me at the empty passenger seat. “Who are you talking to?”

“Nobody. I was thinking.”

“That bad, huh?” Bobby straightens before I can answer. “Come on. I’m freezing.”

He heads across the street without waiting, and I get out to follow him.

Fraser buzzes us into the building. Bobby takes the stairs two at a time. I make him wait at the top because arriving out of breath would be one more thing I couldn’t explain.

The door opens before we knock.

“You two planning to spend the night in the hall?” Fraser steps back to let us in. His eyes touch Bobby first, then slide to me. “Shoes can stay on. Beer is in the kitchen. Don’t let Anton choose the next game.”

“He cheats,” Bobby says as he goes inside.

“He picks games you’re bad at. That’s different.”