Him (Him #1)(66)

The voice that answers him is low and steely. “If you’re not in that car in sixty seconds, you’re not playing in the Labor Day tournament this year.”

Ouch. Hit the kid where it hurts, why don’t you?

I hear the inevitable—the sound of a suitcase rolling across the tile and feet on the stairs. When I look out the window a minute later, I see my goalie slouching toward the passenger seat, and his father heaving suitcases into the trunk. That * didn’t even get a ticket for parking in the fire lane.

They peel off a minute later, and that’s the end of the Killfeathers, both junior and senior.



* * *



I blow off the barbecue, too.

Since I’ve missed the scrimmage, Pat doesn’t really need me, and I use the time to regroup. I need to face the fact that summer will end soon.

So I call my mom on her business phone—the one that’s always smudged with clay. “Hi baby!” she chirps when she answers. “Are you calling to tell me that you’re coming home?” The woman always cuts to the chase. With six kids, she’s always had to. There just aren’t enough hours in the day for small talk.

“I am, as a matter of fact. Coach Pat hasn’t replaced me yet, but I’m going to tell him I need that week off.”

“Excellent,” she says in the same tone of voice she’d always reserved for good report cards. “We need to see you before you join the NHL. While you still have all your teeth.”

“That’s uplifting,” I complain.

“I don’t know why my boys choose dangerous careers,” she says. “I always tell your brother to make sure he visits while he still has all his vital organs.”

My brother is a cop. “Gross, mom. And Scott has never drawn his weapon in the line of duty.”

“Truthfully, bullets aren’t his biggest problem right now.” She fills me in on the fact my brother has moved back home for a little while. He’s the one whose girlfriend recently dumped him. And since they lived together, he needed a temporary place to land.

“So he’s in his old room?” I ask, trying to picture it. Scott is twenty-eight years old.

“He is, but rarely. He’s picked up a lot of extra shifts lately. I think he’s just trying to stay busy.”

“Ouch,” I mumble.

“James,” my mother says sharply. “Why are you blue?”

“I’m not,” I try. But bullshitting my mother is impossible. You don’t raise six kids without having laser-sharp perceptive abilities.

She clucks her tongue. “If you say so. But I’ll be taking a good look at you later this month, young man. I’m going to make lasagna and hold it under your nose while I grill you with questions.”

Mom’s lasagna is damn good. I’ll probably confess everything if she does that. “Can’t wait,” I say truthfully. Home sounds pretty good right now.

“Love you, Jamie boy,” she says. “Buy your plane ticket.”

“I will.”

Talking to Mom has improved my mood. So I go out and treat myself to a bacon cheeseburger in a bar on Main Street. While I eat it, I watch the Red Sox lose, and think of Wes. He’s at the barbecue right now, where parents are probably grilling him about the NHL recruitment process. And he’s the best man to answer their questions.

That’s not me brooding—that’s just a fact. Wes has always wanted to play in the NHL. It’s the first thing he told me about himself when we met as teenagers.

Me? I chose hockey because my brothers had already broken every football record our high school had ever recorded. I love hockey. But you can’t ever say I love it more than Wes does. Because nobody loves hockey more.

When I get back to the dorm, the place is still empty. I brush my teeth and dig out a military thriller I’d brought with me to camp and haven’t had time to read. I slide into bed in my underwear. Maybe Wes will come home in the mood to burn off some tension.

I fall asleep with the book on my chest.

Some time later I wake to the sound of the key turning in the lock. Bleary, I blink at Wes as he walks over to my bed.

“How was it?” I ask, my voice rough from sleep.

Wes doesn’t answer me. But he removes the book and sets it on the floor.

“You okay?”

He’s still silent, but it doesn’t seem weird. Because he’s perched on the side of my bed now, just admiring me. Lifting one hand, he pushes my overgrown hair off my forehead. Then he bends down and kisses the cheek that had caused all the trouble earlier. In the exact same spot.

The brush of his lips makes me shiver and lean in for more.

Soft lips continue to press kisses on my face. On my neck. Their gentleness feels unfamiliar to me now. And the contrast between the size and strength of this man and the softness of his touch makes goosebumps rise on my chest.

A warm hand lands on the juncture between my legs, settling over the thin fabric of my underwear. The gentle pressure encourages me to roll my hips into his hand. A little friction would feel terrific right now. But all I get is the soft sweep of his thumb across my groin.

Apparently Wes is in the mood to torture me with kindness. And I’m in the mood to let him. Sinking into the bed, I close my eyes while he bathes me with soft kisses and even softer touches. When I reach up to put my hands on his chest, he corrects me, gently moving my hands back down onto the mattress.