Him (Him #1)(62)

“I didn’t want anyone getting too attached to me,” he says with a shrug, his eyes focused on the road.

The response only makes me more curious. “Did you ever get attached to them?”

“Nope.” This is his go-to answer for the day, apparently.

“Have you ever gone out with anyone?” I ask slowly.

He’s quiet for a moment. “No,” he admits. “I don’t do boyfriends, Canning. It’s too messy.”

For some reason, my gut clenches. I want to ask him what I am, then. An extended hook-up? A summer fling? I knew this thing with us was bound to end eventually, but I at least thought the time we’ve had together has meant something to him.

Because it means something to me. I’m not sure what, or why, but I do know that this isn’t just about sex for me.

“And once I’m in Toronto, I won’t be doing anything,” he says glumly. “Celibacy is gonna suck.”

An uneasy feeling washes over me. “Did you talk to your dad about the Sports Illustrated thing?”

“Haven’t told him yet. But I’m not doing the interview. That’s not a can of worms I’m interested in opening.” He swiftly changes the subject, as he usually does when the conversation is too focused on him. “What about you? Have you bought a ticket to Detroit yet?”

Great. He picks the one topic I don’t want to discuss. “No.”

“Dude, you need to get on that.”

Wes parks in front of the supermarket and we hop out of the car. I hope he’ll drop the subject now that we’re here, but he’s still talking about it as we walk into the air-conditioned store.

“You’re supposed to report there in three weeks,” he reminds me as he grabs a shopping cart. “You thinking of renting a house in the suburbs? Where do the Detroit players tend to live?”

I nod, thinking about my conversation with Pat. He pulled me aside a couple days ago and said he’d put some feelers out in the coaching community. We’re supposed to talk again on Monday, but I still haven’t told Wes about it.

Deciding to test the waters, I grab another cart and say, “Honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about going to Detroit.”

He looks startled. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning…” I take a breath. Screw it. Might as well tell him.

We head for the freezers in the back, and Wes listens with no expression as I pretty much repeat everything I discussed with Holly—how I don’t want to play backup my entire career, my lack of enthusiasm about going to Detroit, the possibility of being sent to the minors and not even playing a pro game. The only part I leave out is that I’m toying with taking a coaching job. I’m not ready to talk about that yet, especially when nothing is even official.

Once I’m done, he still doesn’t respond. He chews on his lips, thoughtful. Then he opens the freezer and heaves out a bag of ice. “You’re really considering not playing this season?” he finally says.

“Yeah.” The cold air hits my face as I grab two more bags and load them into my cart. “Do you think I’m f*cked in the head for throwing away a chance at the pros?”

“Yes and no.” He drops another bag in his cart. “I think all your concerns are valid.”

The conversation halts when a woman pushing a cart pops around the corner. Her step stutters when she notices Wes’s black eye, and then she continues on with a wary look.

Wes glances at me, chuckling. “She thinks we’re hooligans.”

I roll my eyes. “She thinks you’re a hooligan. As she should. I, on the other hand, am a saint.”

He snorts. “Should I flag her down and tell her how I got the shiner, Saint Jamie?”

I give him the finger, then grab two more bags. We push our carts side by side and wander over to the checkout counter, where we get in line behind an elderly couple with a shopping cart full of cereal boxes. Just cereal boxes and nothing else.

“So my concerns are valid,” I prompt as we wait our turn.

He nods. “Goalies have it tough. I can’t deny that.”

“But?”

“But this is your one chance.” His voice softens. “If you don’t take it, you could regret it for the rest of your life. Look, if I was in your shoes, I might be questioning my decision too, but—”

“No, you wouldn’t. You’d report in a heartbeat, even if it meant spending years waiting for your shot.”

“True dat.” He rests his forearms on the cart. “But that’s because I love the game. Even if I get to play only five minutes in a whole season, it’s worth it to me. Hockey is everything to me.”

But is it everything to me?

I’m even more troubled as I think of all the hard work that goes into a professional hockey career. The constant training, the rigid diet, the grueling schedule. I love hockey, I really do, but I’m not sure I love it as much as Wes loves it. And if I compare the level of satisfaction I get from stopping a goal to the pride I feel teaching someone like Mark Killfeather to become a better goalie, a better man… I honestly don’t know which one means more to me.

“I just think you need to give it a shot,” Wes says, jolting me from my thoughts. “At least go to training camp, Canning. What if you’re there and suddenly they’re like, ‘We’re giving you the starting job, kid.’”