Page 86 of A Guy Walks Into My Bar
The second the words leave my mouth, he crushes my lips in the most wonderful and terrible kiss of my life. Wonderful because it’s with the man I love, and terrible because he’s leaving.
“I have to go,” he says, when he breaks off.
“I know.”
“I’ll be thinking of you the whole time.”
I shake my head. “Don’t think of me. Just do your job.”
“Can’t help it.” He taps his temple. “You’re here.” Then his chest. “And here.”
I give him my most wry grin. “The feeling is mutual.”
He holds his hands out wide. “I fucking love you. That is all.” He heads through security, looking back at me nearly every second.
I don’t move. I stand, hands in my jeans pockets, eyes on that man as he sets his carry-on on the conveyor belt, as he walks through the scanner, then as he grabs his bag on the other side.
Then, one last raise of his hand. I do the same.
I watch him walk around the corner and out of sight, where he’ll board a plane for America, where he’ll return to his busy life, to three games a week, to constant travel, to life on the road, to teammates who need him, to family who depend on him.
And I go back to my little corner of this city I love.
The only place I’ve ever lived.
The only home I’ve ever known.
And it’s a little bit grayer without him.
NEXT WEEK
Also known as misery.
38
Fitz
I am spent. Officially drained. Thoroughly exhausted.
But it’s a good kind of tired, one I feel deep in my bones and in every damn muscle in my body. It’s the tired that comes from sprints and more sprints and then still more.
From drills, to work with rookies, to time in the conditioning room doing cardio, weights, and more weights.
I only break for meals and to see my teammates and catch up with Logan, Summer, and Oliver.
All the following week, I do everything to stay in the zone.
Our latest session is open to fans, and when we finish up, a handful of peeps cheer as we head off the ice.
Ransom nods to the folks at the edge of the rink. “Ready to sign some shirts and pucks?”
“Always,” I say, knocking fists with my teammate.
A bunch of us skate over to the stands, chatting up the superfans, which anyone who comes to training camp absolutely is. A brunette is particularly chatty with Ransom, while an older dude who used to coach talks up the goalie. A guy my age asks me to sign his jersey.
Finally, there’s only a mom and her kid left, waiting for Ransom and me.
“You two are my two favorite players.” The kid is maybe twelve, with a mouthful of braces.
“You have excellent taste, then,” Ransom says, signing a hockey stick for him.
“You like to play?” I ask, as I take my turn to sign.
The kid nods. “I do. I can’t decide if I like defense, though, or being a forward.”
“Being a forward,” Ransom says in a stage whisper. “It’s the best. You get to score points.”
I shake my head. “Defense, man. It’s the way to go. You get to stop the other team. And hello, you get to score now and then too.”
The kid shrugs and smiles. “But I also like basketball. Maybe I can play both sports. Thanks, Ransom. Thanks, James.”
He turns to leave, his mom tucking an arm around him as she guides him out of the rink.
“‘Play both sports.’ It all seems so possible,” I say, drifting off for a moment, thinking of other possibilities, never far off in my mind.
“Dude, are you going all philosophical on me right now?”
“What?” I ask, distracted.
Ransom shoots me an exaggerated, wary look. “You sound . . . weirdly contemplative.”
I laugh once, then stop. It’s harder to laugh these days. What the hell? Is that a by-product of falling hard? There ought to be a warning pamphlet for love—side effects include pangs in your heart, a runaway mind, and finding very little funny anymore.
“I feel weirdly contemplative now and then,” I admit.
“There’s only one cure for that.”
The cure is barbecue.
It’s messy and delicious and completely distracting.
Until Ransom finishes his story about what he did this summer—going zip-lining in Costa Rica, followed by cliff diving, then parachuting.
I snap my gaze up from the plate, setting down the rib, then wiping the napkin across my mouth. “You went zip-lining and cliff diving and parachuting? Isn’t that—oh, I don’t know—against your contract?”
“No. My contract allows it,” he says, mocking me.
I flip him the bird. “Asshole.”
“Dude, what is your story? I made all that up to see if you were paying attention. Are you ever going to tell me about your summer vacay and why you’re so fucking distracted all the time?”
I furrow my brow. “I’m not distracted. I’m killing it on the ice. I guess you’re just jealous.” But even that one little word—jealous—reminds me of Dean. The way we teased each other over jealousies. Him saying he’d be jealous over guys hitting on me, and then me busting his chops over the waitress who hit on us.
