Him (Him #1)(19)

But when I push open the glass doors, it’s a warm June day. Mirror Lake glitters in the distance and I have to shield my eyes. The town of Lake Placid is five hours from New York City or Boston. The closest real city is Montreal, and that’s still two hours away. Smack in the middle of nowhere sits this cute little touristy town surrounded by unspoiled lakes and the Adirondack mountain range.

Heaven. Unless you need airport access.

But today I don’t. I’m walking past a ski shop and an ice cream parlor, measuring the hours until dinnertime. I have a lot of nostalgia for this town, probably because it’s mine. When you’re the youngest of six kids, nothing is ever just yours. I think that’s why I went out for hockey in the first place—my family is all about football. No Canning had ever set foot in the Adirondacks until I was invited to this camp. In fact, leaving the family cuckoo’s nest to come here as a teenager felt like venturing to the moon.

It’s four o’clock, and there’s time for a run or a swim, but I’ll need to change clothes.

All the campers and coaches are housed in an old dormitory that was built to accommodate European athletes for the 1980 winter Olympics. The building is a five-minute walk from the rinks. As I jog up the steps I pass a plaque that describes the original occupants and the medals they won, but I don’t stop. Spend a few years in this town and you forget to be impressed.

My room is on the second floor, and I always take the stairs instead of the creaky old elevator. The dim hallway smells of floor wax and the lilacs blooming outside. Plus a whiff of old socks. You can’t have a building full of hockey players without that.

I am ten feet from my door, keys in hand, when I realize someone is standing stock still beside it. That alone is enough to startle me. And then I realize who it is. “Jesus Christ!”

“I still go by Wes,” he says, pushing off the wall. “Or Ryan. Or jackass.”

“Are you…” I’m almost afraid to say the words, because he’s shut me out for so long now. “My roommate?”

I open the door to my room to give my hands something to do. A surge of joy builds low in my stomach. Just the idea of another crazy summer with Wesley…it can’t be true.

“Well…” His voice is uncharacteristically cautious. And since light from my open door spills into the hallway, I can see his face properly for the first time. He’s worried. That jaunty jaw is tucked low, and his eyes dip when I study him.

Weird.

I push into the room and fling my keys onto my bed. “I’m about to go running. Feel like a jog? You can fill me in. I assume you’re coaching for Pat, or you wouldn’t be here.”

He nods. But when I strip off my shirt, he jams his hands in his pockets and turns away. “We have to talk, though.”

“Okay.” About what? “We can do that while we’re running. Unless you’re getting fat since your big victory?”

He snickers. “Fine.” From out in the hall he grabs a big duffel bag.

“Pat just said something to me at practice about finding me a roommate. He meant you, right? He was just pulling my chain?”

With his back to me, Wes nods. Then he yanks his faded T-shirt over his head. And Jesus Christ, he’s enormous. Tattoos and rippling muscles as far as the eye can see.

I’d forgotten we were really only boys the last time we stood here together. Teenagers. Feels like yesterday.

“Nice room you got here,” he remarks as he changes into a wife-beater and gym shorts.

It’s true. Instead of bunk beds, we’ve got twin beds built into the walls. And there’s a comfortable expanse of floor between them. “The coaches get a little more breathing room. I’ve been living it up in here the last three years.”

He spins around. “Who do you room with?”

“Whoever.” I drop a wicking shirt over my head and then toe into my running shoes. Tying them takes only a few more seconds, and I’m anxious to get out of here and run. Maybe Wes will stop acting like a weirdo and just tell me what’s on his mind. “Let’s go?”

He gives his bag a kick. “I’m going to leave this here.”

“Where else would you leave it?”

He winces, and I don’t know why.





9





Wes





Outside, Jamie heads toward Mirror Lake, and I follow him. How many times have I run this loop with him? A hundred, at least.

“Remember that summer when we said we’d do five miles a day, no matter what?” I ask.

He’s put us on an easy pace as we head away from the dormitory. “Sure do.”

“Then we had that hot day with two practices and weightlifting. But you said, ‘We still have to do the run, or the summer won’t count.’” I snort just thinking about it.

“Nobody told you to eat that ice cream cone first.”

“I was starved. Of course, I haven’t been able to order pistachio since.”

Jamie snickers as we turn toward the lake. “Light green puke all over the lawn.”

“Good times.” They were, though. I’d yarf on the grass every day if it meant I could go back to the easy times. Chasing Jamie’s big, blond body around the lake was all I wanted out of life.