Page 77 of Line Change

Bobby has seen me try to elbow Pope plenty of times, so he turns back to my side and says I’d never sit still long enough to finish the tattoo anyway.

After I remind him about the one covering most of my thigh, he asks whether I was sober. Anton starts explaining that tattoo artists won’t work on someone who’s drunk, and the room turns on Bobby for the terrible tattoo he almost got when he was nineteen.

I pull my compression top down over the tape and the bite, then put on the rest of my gear while Bobby’s almost-tattoo gets worse with every person who claims to remember it. By the time I’m tying the drawstring on my hockey pants, nobody is looking at me anymore.

Pope finishes first and waits with his stick in one hand while the rest of the line gets ready, checking the doorway before he looks at me. His shoulders ease when he sees nobody else watching.

I want to tell him he’s welcome.

Bobby bangs his stick against my shin pad on his way past. I shove him toward the hall and follow, leaving Pope behind us.

The tattoo argument follows us out, with Sindre still voting for the side and Bobby insisting I get something around the bite itself. Caleb tells both of them to stop planning permanent changes to somebody else’s body before practice.

Pope catches up before we reach the ice. When I glance over, he’s watching me, waiting for the grin I usually give him after one of us nearly fucks up.

I face the rink and keep walking.

22

BEN

The lube is in my hand when Grayson knocks.

I got home from practice twenty-seven minutes ago. Since then, I’ve checked between the couch cushions, searched the bathroom, taken out the trash, and gone through my bedroom twice. Nothing is under the bed, the sheets are clean, and Nolan took his clothes with him the last time he was here.

It’s the only thing I missed, and it shouldn’t matter because lube is normal. Straight people own it, and Grayson isn’t going to open my bedside table during a weekend visit.

Except he’s my little brother, which means he has never believed anything I own is private.

He knocks again while I stand beside the bed with the bottle clenched in my fist. I yank open my dresser, shove it all the way to the back of the underwear drawer, and stack three folded pairs in front of it. He’ll have to look through my underwear to find it. I think that might stop him.

The third knock is louder.

“Coming.”

Grayson told me this trip was happening. I know which flight he took, and he texted me from baggage claim, but I still have to wipe my palm on my pants before I open the door.

He stands in the hall with a duffel over one shoulder and one hand wrapped around the handle of a small suitcase. Rain has darkened his hair and the shoulders of his jacket.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

He drops the duffel and steps into me. I catch him around the shoulders, and his arms close hard around my ribs. He stays there until the suitcase tips over and bumps my ankle.

“You took forever,” he says against my shirt.

“I was putting something away.”

He leans back far enough to look at me. “What?”

“Nothing. Come inside.”

His eyes narrow, but the suitcase is in the way and I take advantage of it, picking up both bags and carrying them toward the guest room. Behind me, he shuts the front door and drops his wet jacket over the back of a kitchen stool.

This weekend he had time off and got on a plane because he wanted to see me. I’m glad he’s here. Since I don’t know how to say that without embarrassing both of us, I put his suitcase beside the guest bed and tell him where the towels are.

When I return to the living room, he’s standing in the middle of it, making a slow turn as he takes in the empty shelves, the bare walls, and the couch.