Him (Him #1)(17)

“You hoping one of those bottles holds up a little sign for you and says ‘order me’?”

A male voice jolts me back to the present. I blink, disoriented. I’m still at the bar, still standing at the counter and staring at the liquor bottles. Shit. I’d totally spaced out. And I’m semi-hard now, thanks to the memory of my last night with Jamie Canning.

Gulping, I turn to find a smiling stranger beside me.

“Seriously,” he adds, his smile widening. “You’ve been eyeing those bottles for almost five minutes. The bartender gave up on trying to ask you what you wanted.”

The bartender had talked to me? He probably thinks I’m a total weirdo.

The guy next to me doesn’t look like a weirdo, though. He’s really good-looking, actually. Late twenties, wearing faded jeans and a Ramones T-shirt, a full-sleeve tattoo covering his right arm. Tribal shit, mixed with skulls and dragons and some other badass imagery. He’s skinnier than I usually like, but not anorexic thin. Not entirely my type, but he’s not not my type, either. He’s definitely hook-up material, and from the way he’s checking me out, I know he’d be down.

“You with those guys?” He gestures to the table of hockey jackets.

I nod.

“Whatcha celebrating?”

“We won the Frozen Four tonight.” I pause. “College hockey championship.”

“No shit. Congrats, man. So you play hockey, huh?” His gaze lingers on my chest and arms before sliding back to my face. “It shows.”

Yeah, he’d be down.

I glance at the table, where Cassel catches my eye. He grins when he notices my companion, then turns back to the guys, laughing at something Landon just said.

“So what’s your name?” my stranger asks.

“Ryan.”

“I’m Dane.”

I nod again. I can’t seem to muster up any charm. No cocky remarks, no blatant come-ons. I won a championship game tonight—I should be celebrating. I should invite this very attractive guy back to the hotel, hang the do-not-disturb sign on the door so Cassel gets the hint, and screw Dane’s goddamn brains out.

But I don’t want to. I’d just be trying to screw Canning out of my system, and I know I’d feel like shit after.

“Sorry, gotta get back to my boys,” I say abruptly. “Nice chatting with you, man.”

I march across the bar before he can say another word. I don’t turn around to see if he looks disappointed or to make sure he isn’t following me. I just tap Cassel on the shoulder and tell him I’m taking off.

It’s another five minutes before I’m able to convince him I haven’t been abducted by aliens. I plead a headache, blame it on the adrenaline and the beers and the temperature and everything else I can think of, until finally he gives up on coaxing me to stay, and I’m able to leave the bar.

It’s twenty blocks back to the hotel, but I decide to walk instead of cabbing it. I could use the fresh air and the time to clear my head. Except now I’m ten blocks into the walk, and my head still isn’t clear. It’s fogged in with images of Canning.

I can’t stop picturing the way he looked last night. His sexed-up hair, the flush on his cheeks. He’d either gotten laid or had been about to. And the chick had been hot, a tiny little pixie of a girl with big blue eyes. He’d always gone for the petite ones.

Gritting my teeth, I force the girl out of my head and think about the goodbye Canning and I shared.

The place isn’t the same without you.

It had sounded like he’d meant that. Hell, he probably had. We’d spent the best summers of our lives at Elites. Obviously one BJ hadn’t wrecked all the good memories for him.

I shove my hands in my pockets as I stop at a crosswalk and wait for the signal to turn green. I wonder if I’ll ever see him again. Probably not. We’re both graduating, about to start our post-college lives. He’s on the west coast; I’m heading north to Toronto. Our paths aren’t likely to cross.

Maybe that’s for the best. Two measly encounters this weekend, just two, yet somehow they’d managed to erase the four years I’d spent getting over him. It’s obvious I can’t be around Canning without wanting him. Without wanting more.

But this weekend wasn’t enough for me, damn it.

I grab my phone before I can stop myself, halting at a newspaper dispenser and leaning against the metal box as I pull up a web browser. The site takes a while to load, but once it does, it takes no time to get to the contact page. I skim the staff directory until I find the phone number for the camp director. He knows me. He likes me. Hell, for the past four years he’s been hounding me to come back.

He would do me this favor if I asked him.

I click on the number. Then I hesitate, my finger hovering over the call button.

I’m a selfish bastard. Or maybe I’m a f*cking masochist. Canning can’t give me what I want, but I still can’t stop myself from wanting it. I want whatever I can get—a conversation, a joke gift, a smile, anything. I might not be able to have the steak, but f*ck it, I’m fine with some scraps.

I just… I just can’t let him go yet.





8





JUNE





Jamie


“Hey, Canning?”