Him (Him #1)(6)

“True.” Although the hotel, whatever it is, won’t be nearly as grand as my family’s Beacon Hill mansion a few miles away. I’d never say that, though. I’m not a snob, because I know opulence doesn’t stamp out ignorance and unhappiness. Just ask my family.

We spend the next half hour snarled in traffic, because that’s just how it is in Boston. So it’s almost five o’clock by the time we’re finally unloading the bus.

“The gear stays!” our student manager shouts. “Take only your luggage!”

“We don’t have to schlep our gear?” Cassel yelps. “Baby, I’ve arrived. Get used to this treatment, Wes.” He elbows me. “Next year in Toronto you’ll probably have a personal assistant to carry your stick around for you.”

It feels superstitious to talk about my NHL contract before the Frozen Four. So I change the subject. “That’s awesome, dude. I love it when another guy holds my stick.”

“Teed that one up for you, didn’t I?” he asks as we grab our duffels off the sidewalk where the red-faced driver has tossed them.

“Sure did.” I let Cassel enter the revolving door first just so I can grab the door by its handle and trap him inside.

Stuck now, Cassel twists around to give me the finger. When I don’t let go, he turns away and reaches for his belt buckle, setting up to moon me and whatever slice of Boston happens to be walking past the hotel on a windy April Friday.

I let up on the door and give it a shove, smacking him in the not-yet-bare ass.

Ah, hockey players. You really can’t take us anywhere.

Then we’re in the shiny lobby. “How does the bar look?” I ask.

“Open,” Cassel answers. “That’s really all that matters.”

“Truth.”

We find an out-of-the-way place to stand while we wait for the team manager to sort out the hotel rooms. But it’s going to be a while. The lobby is busy and getting busier. Our end of the room has a distinctly green-and-white color scheme, with our Northern Mass jackets everywhere.

But on the other end of the room another color catches my eye. It’s orange. Specifically, the orange and black of another team’s jackets. They’re filing through the same doors we just entered, shoving each other and generally acting like testosterone hounds. It’s all very familiar.

And then the room tilts a little as my gaze locks onto a sandy-blond head. I only need the oblique view I’ve got to recognize the shape of his smile.

Fuck me. Jamie Canning is staying at this hotel.

My entire body tenses as I wait for him to turn his head. To look right at me. But he doesn’t. He’s too engrossed in conversation with one of his teammates, laughing at something the guy has just said.

He used to laugh with me that way. I haven’t forgotten the sound of Jamie’s laughter. Deep and husky, melodic in a carefree kind of way. Nothing ever kept Jamie Canning down. He was the epitome of go-with-the-flow, probably because of his laidback California upbringing.

I hadn’t realized just how much I’ve missed him until this very moment.

Go talk to him.

The voice in my head is persistent, but I silence it by wrenching my gaze off Canning. With the colossal amount of guilt lodged in my chest, it’s now become even more evident that I need to apologize to my old friend.

But right this second I’m not ready. Not here, with all these people around.

“It’s f*cking Grand Central Station in here,” Cassel mutters.

“Dude. There’s an errand I need to run. Come with me?” I form this idea on the fly, but it’s a good one.

“Sure?”

“Back door,” I say, nudging him toward a nearby exit.

Outside, I realize how close we are to Faneuil Hall and all the touristy crap they sell there. Perfect. “C’mon.” I give Cassel a tug toward the first row of stores.

“Forgot your toothbrush?”

“Nah. I gotta buy a gift.”

“For who?” Cassel hefts his duffel higher on his shoulder.

I hesitate. I’ve always kept my memories of Canning to myself. Because they’re mine. For six weeks every summer, he was mine.

“A friend,” I finally admit. “One of the Rainier players.”

“A friend.” Cassel’s chuckle is low and dirty. “Trying to work out how to get laid after tomorrow’s game? What kind of store are you taking me to?”

Fucking Cassel. I should have left him in the crowded lobby. “Dude. It’s not like that.” Even if I wish it were. “This guy—Canning, their goalie—we used to be tight.” I reluctantly add, “Until I wrecked it by being an ass.”

“You? Who woulda guessed.”

“I know, right?”

I scan the row of storefronts. They’re full of the Boston tourist crap that is usually invisible to me: toy lobsters, Bruins pennants, Freedom Trail T-shirts. Something here would definitely fit the bill for what I have in mind.

“C’mon.” I wave Cassel into the cheesiest store and start scanning the shelves. Everything is garish as hell. I pick up a bobblehead doll of Paul Revere and then put it down.

“These are funny,” Cassel says. He’s holding a box of Red Sox condoms.

I laugh before I think better of the idea. “True. But that’s not what I’m looking for.” Whatever I choose, it cannot have anything to do with sex. We used to send each other all sorts of gag gifts—the dirtier the better.