Him (Him #1)(9)

When the desk clerk answers, I ask if there’s a room number for Ryan Wesley. I’m pretty sure the sea of green-and-white jackets in the lobby means he’s at this hotel.

“I can’t provide another guest’s room number, sir.”

That stops me for a second, because clearly Wes was able to learn my room number. But this is Wes we’re talking about. He probably offered some woman at the front desk a look at his abs.

“Sir? I could try to connect you by phone.”

“Thanks.”

It rings, but nobody answers. Shit. But there’s one more thing to try. I scroll through my phone to see if his number is still in my contacts. And it is. Guess I was never quite pissed off enough to delete him. I shoot him a text, just three words: still a smartass.

When my phone chimes a second later, I expect it to say my message bounced. That Wes changed his number a long time ago, f*ck you very much.

Some things don’t change, it says instead.

I can’t help answering him in my head. But some do. Eh. Listen to me getting all bitchy. What’s the point of that? So I tap out something else: So was this a hello present or a f*ck you, loser, we’re gonna kick your ass present?

His reply: Both?

Sitting there on the hotel bed, I’m grinning at my phone. Seriously, my face is about to crack in two. It’s really just nostalgia for a simpler time in my life when the biggest decisions were pizza toppings and what bit of ridiculousness I should mail in a box to my buddy.

But I like it anyway, which is probably why my next text says: I’m probably heading down to the bar for a bit.

His reply: I’m already there.

Of course he is.

I pocket my phone and open my duffel. Heading into the shower, I take a few minutes to wash the long day off me. I need to regroup. And I could really use a shave.

Or maybe I’m stalling.

I don’t know what to expect from Wes. With him, you never know what to expect, which was one of the reasons I always liked him so much. Being his friend was a goddamn adventure. He’d drag me into one crazy situation after the other, and I was happy going along for the ride.

I did that so loyally. Right up through the crazy part at the end.

In the hotel shower, I take a deep breath of steamy air. Holly was right. I am still mad. Because if Wes and I had had a fight or something, then his turning his back on me would at least have made sense.

But we hadn’t fought. He’d just challenged me to a shootout. And that day—the second-to-last afternoon of camp—we’d lined up the pucks with perfect fairness. He shot five times at me, I shot five times at him.

Shootouts are never easy. But when you’re defending the net against Ryan Wesley, the fastest skater I’ve ever played with? It’s intense. Still, we’d done this often enough for me to be able to anticipate his flashy moves. I remember cackling after I stopped the first three shots. But then he got lucky, deking me once and then winning one on an unlikely bounce off the pipe.

Maybe another guy would have panicked a little when he realized he’d let in two. But I was a cool customer. Ultimately, it was Wes who’d choked. He wasn’t used to the goalie gear, but neither was I used to firing on goal. I sank my first two shots. Then he defended the next two.

It was all down to one shot, and I saw it—fear in his eyes. In my gut, I knew I could do this.

I’d won, fair and square. The third shot went past his elbow and landed with a swish in the back of the net.

For the next three hours I let him twist—all through dinner and the bullshit awards ceremony they held at the end of camp. Wes was uncharacteristically mute through all of it.

I waited until we got back to our room to let him off the hook.

“Think I’ll collect my prize next year,” I’d said with as much nonchalance as an eighteen-year-old can muster. “June, maybe. Or July. I’ll let you know, ’kay?”

I’d wanted some kind of relieved gasp. Making Wes sweat for once had been fun. But his face gave nothing away. He’d pulled out a stainless steel flask and slowly unscrewed the top. “Last night of camp, dude,” he’d said. “We’d better celebrate.” He took a good gulp and then passed it to me.

When I took the flask, his eyes flashed with something I couldn’t read.

The whiskey was rough going down. The first swallow, anyway. Up until now, we hadn’t drunk more than a beer or two, squirreled away in our footlockers. Getting caught with alcohol or drugs would have meant real trouble. So I didn’t have any kind of tolerance back then. I felt the liquor’s warmth slide through my chest just as Wes said, “Let’s watch some porn.”

Almost four years later, I stand there shivering in a hotel bathroom. I shut the water off and grab a towel off the stack.

I guess it’s time to go downstairs and see if our friendship is fixable. What had happened on that night was a little crazy, but not exactly worthy of the record books. I’d shrugged it off easily enough.

But Wes had not. There’s really no other explanation for why he’d cut me loose.

God, I hope he doesn’t dredge that up. Sometimes it’s better to just let shit lie. The way I see it, one night of drunken stupidity shouldn’t be the defining moment in a six-year friendship.

Even so, I’m oddly nervous five minutes later as I ride the elevator downstairs, and I hate the itchy feeling in my spine, because I don’t get nervous often. I’m probably the most chill person you’ll ever meet, which I’m sure has to do with the fact that my family is the walking definition of laidback Californians.