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Square to the Puck
Offsides: Book Two

J.J. Mulder
 for Sammy, you little shit
you've always been my favorite
cover design and illustration by Ivanna Nashkolna
 Prologue—6 years ago

Nigel
Corwin Sanhover walks into the locker room a step behind
Coach and I realize two things simultaneously: one, that he has the
kind of face poetry was written about, and two, that I was going to
hate this little motherfucker. Coach is addressing the room,
introducing Sanhover (laughable, given who he is) and explaining
that he’s here to play with the team for the week as a tryout (again,
laughable, since his last name pretty much guaranteed an offer). I
turn back to my skates, ignoring them by making a show of needing
to adjust my laces.
​“Hi.” Says a soft, unfamiliar voice to my right. I look up.
​Sanhover is sitting next to me, leaned over just enough that he
doesn’t have to raise his voice for me to hear him over the noise in
the room. I notice right away that he has the clearest blue eyes I
have ever seen: blue like the pictures you see of the ocean in the
Maldives. Paired with that dark brown hair, narrow nose, and high
cheek bones, he’s a stunner. I would have to Google his father later,
because I am 99% certain he doesn’t look like this.
​“Hi.” I reply, curtly, and tear my eyes away from him before I do
something embarrassing like drool.
​I have what is probably an unreasonable amount of jealousy
concerning Corwin Sanhover. He is every bit as different from me as
it is possible to be: born into hockey royalty, a childhood filled with
the best coaches and gear money can buy, and so much innate
talent that rumor had it his agent is fielding offers from multiple NHL
teams, even though he’s only eighteen. And apparently, he is also
blessed with beauty, because life hasn’t given him enough already.
Seriously, fuck this guy.
​ I glance back up at him to find him already looking at me. No, not
just looking, staring.
“​ You need help tying your skates?” I raise an eyebrow. He doesn’t
blush, or look embarrassed by my teasing—which, admittedly, had
come out meaner than even I intended—but instead continues to
watch me.
​“No, thank you.” He answers seriously, as though I really had been
offering to help him. He bends over to pull on his skates and lace
them up over his joggers. One thick lock of hair falls down over his
forehead and he brushes it back with a thin, fine boned hand. He’s
tall, the same height as me if his stats can be trusted, but he’s
young and hasn’t quite put on all the muscle that comes with age
and hard work. He’s probably fast on the ice, but sitting here he just
looks delicate and young.
​It’s not quite time to hit the ice, and none of us are wanting to
expedite that; Coach has a weird tradition of having what the team
calls ‘naked skating’ drills on the first day. No pads, no sticks, and no
pucks—just skates. Everyone hates it, which is probably why he
continues to uphold the tradition. I’m just thinking about getting my
phone out of my bag when Sanhover speaks again.
​“Do you like playing for Florida?”
​I close my eyes, sighing. When I open them and turn to look at him,
he’s staring at me earnestly, like he actually wants to know. “This is
only my second season. And I just like playing hockey, I don’t care
where I do it.”
​He nods, like this isn’t an asshole thing to say, and tries again. “Do
you like the beach?”
​I stare at him. I honestly can’t remember the last time I visited the
beach. “It’s fine.” And then, because he’s still staring at me, I add:
“Do you like the beach?”
​“I don’t know, I’ve never been. I think I might, though.”
​“Cool.” I turn away from him, hoping one of my teammates is sitting
close enough on my other side to save me from this conversation.
No such luck.
​“Do you live around here?”
​“Are we playing twenty questions, Sanhover?” I feel like I’m being
interviewed by the media team, where they ask us inane questions
and post the videos on social media.
“​ Corwin.”
​“What?”
​“Just call me Corwin, please.” His eyes are big, the blue overtaking
the rest of his face. It’s really fucking distracting.
​“Sure.” I tell him, and then turn away again, because I am
determined not to like him. It’s a relief when Coach calls for us to hit
the ice.
​The week passes quickly, and soon enough it’s the final day and I’m
standing along the boards watching as Corwin smokes our starting
goalie for the third time today. There are several wolf whistles, and
lots of stick tapping. When he skates to a stop next to me, I try to
shake off my animosity; stop being a dick, he can’t help who his
father is and his talent has nothing to do with you.
​“Nice shot.” I tell him, grudgingly, and pat myself on the back for
being civil. See, I can be nice.
​“Thank you.” He’s frowning, dark brows low over his eyes. “I need to
work on my back door, though. I made a stupid mistake during the
last run.”
​Great, so he’s humble too, instead of the cocky bastard I had been
expecting. For some reason this makes me dislike him more. I don’t
dignify his comment with a response, content to just shake my head
in exasperation.
​“Hey Saint, you coming out tonight?” Von skates to a stop in front of
me, lifting his helmet up so he can swipe a forearm over his face.
​“Yeah, probably.” I need to get laid, badly. Preferably by someone
who doesn’t have blue eyes and brown hair, which has suddenly
become my fantasy of choice.
​“Cool.” Von taps his stick against Corwin’s shins. “What about you,
kid?”
​“I wasn’t sure if I was invited.” He looks between us, and then
clarifies just in case any of us are confused about the legal drinking
age. “Since I’m not old enough to drink.”
​“They serve soda at bars.” Von replies, kindly. “And you’re definitely
invited. You should get to know the guys better if you are
considering signing with us.”
​ orwin agrees to go and I inwardly groan. All week I’ve been
C
wrestling with the uncomfortable fact of his existence. He is nothing
like I expected him to be, and I’m apparently being punished for
something I did in another life because my body has decided it is
very attracted to his body. Being sexually interested in a man isn’t a
problem for me, but that man being a teammate is. Not to mention
he’s practically a child, barely eighteen years old and a full ten years
younger than me. I’m going to fire up a dating app tonight, find a
blonde, older man, and then fuck his brains out. And I’m not going
to think about Corwin Sanhover while I do it.

◆◆◆

​ he bar is crowded, all of us squeezed together in a way that usually

T
wouldn’t bother me except for the fact that I’m sitting directly across
from Corwin and his leg keeps brushing mine. Every time his knee
bumps me he apologizes, and it’s setting my teeth on edge. I wish
he wasn’t seated where I could touch him, or where I had a full view
of his face and he had a full view of mine. Every time I look over at
him, I find him already staring at me, mouth pinched in one corner
like he’s biting the inside of his lip. He’s doing it now.
​“Is there something on my face?” I ask.
​“No, it’s perfect.”
​I raise an eyebrow at that. Not exactly the turn of phrase I was
expecting. The other guys aren’t paying attention, too caught up in
their own conversations or whichever puck bunny has their attention
tonight. I lean toward him over the table and he mirrors the
movement, as though I reached out and pulled him in by the front of
his shirt. Has be been staring at me because he’s interested?
​“Not looking to get laid tonight?” I ask him, gesturing with my beer
to the barroom, crowded with beautiful women. He hasn’t moved
from his barstool all night, despite being approached several times.
​“I’m fine.” He says, slowly. Beneath the table, his knee bumps mine
again and I trap it between my legs. He gives a surprised jolt.
​“You are.” I concede, and his eyes widen in surprise. “Which means
you wouldn’t have any problem finding someone to go home with
you tonight. Or any other night, for that matter.”
​I don’t know why I’m playing with him like this. I should leave the
table and go find someone to distract me. Maybe multiple someones.
But it’s hard to pull my eyes away, and his leg is warm against mine,
and now I’m curious. He looks around, as though concerned
someone might be listening in.
​“What about you? Are you…” He trails off uncertainly. I let him
flounder for a moment before I fill in the blanks.
​“Am I interested in getting laid tonight?” I lean closer to him over
the table. “Definitely. I’m thinking this might be what I’m in the
mood for.”
​I open up a gay dating app, clicking on the profile of Paul, one of my
regular hookups. Flipping the phone around I slide it over to him,
watching close as his gaze falls to the screen and holds there. I can
see his jaw working as he chews his lip. Finally, he looks back up at
me, a very faint blush coloring the top of his cheekbones.
​“Oh.” He says, and gently slides my phone back over to me. “So, you
like men?”
​He says this so quietly I have to read the word men on his lips, like
he’s muttering a curse word in front of his grandma. He looks behind
him again, as though suspecting the entire bar will be hanging over
his shoulder, eavesdropping.
​“Sometimes, yeah. Depends on the man.”
​Somehow, this earns me a smile, the first smile I’ve seen from him
all week, and it’s startling what this does to his face. My stomach
clenches in desire—I want to taste that smile.
​“Okay.” He says, nodding, smile already gone. He’s looking at me
hard, blue eyes bright in the dim bar. I can hear the words me too in
the way he stares at me; in the way he’s been staring at me all
week. Suddenly, my world realigns. Corwin Sanhover is gay.
​I feel as though I’m standing on the edge of a precipice—one I want
so badly to jump off of. A thousand scenarios are spinning through
my head; I want to run my hands through that thick hair, and pull; I
want to make him smile again; I want to take him home and mess
up my sheets. Fuck.
​ notification lights up the screen of my phone, breaking our eye
A
contact. We both look down and see a message alert from Paul, and
are both watching as a second comes through a moment later. I
raise my eyes to Corwin’s face, his expression blank except for a
slight divot between his brows as he frowns down at my phone. That
lock of hair has fallen over his forehead again, and I have a sudden
insane urge to reach across the table and wind it around my finger.
​“Are you going to get that?” He asks, and though he says it quietly I
hear him as distinctly as if he spoke the words directly into my ear.
We are the only two still seated at the table, cozy in our pocket of
intimacy while the bar becomes rowdy around us.
​“Should I?”
​If I wasn’t watching him so closely I might have missed it—the way
his chest expands slowly as he takes a deep inhale, and the way his
fingers tighten on his glass of Coke.
​“No.” He says, and his hands slide from the glass and flatten on the
table, long fingers splayed. In answer, I swipe the notification away,
deleting it, and push my phone into my pocket. One of my
teammates calls out to me, Saint!, from across the room and I wave
a hand vaguely in their direction. Below the table, I give Corwin’s leg
a squeeze with mine, and he clears his throat, looking away.
This is a bad idea. Whatever is happening right now is such
a bad idea. I should send him back to the hotel, or tell him to go
play pool with some of the guys. What I shouldn’t be doing is eye-
fucking him in the middle of a crowded room; a crowded room that’s
full of my teammates who know nothing about my sexuality and
even less about his. You don’t even like him, I remind myself,
sternly.
“Do you prefer people to call you that?”
“What?” I didn’t hear him, my only indication that he spoke
coming from the fact that I was staring at his lips and saw his mouth
move.
“Saint.” I stare at him, nonplussed. “Is that what you like to
be called?”
I shrug. “It’s been my nickname pretty much since I
stepped on the ice for the first time. Everyone calls me that.”
 He nods, considering this. I realize, then, that I don’t want
him to call me the same thing everyone else calls me. “But you can
call me Nigel.”
I earn my second smile of the night, and this one lingers
longer than the first. “Nigel.” He tries it out, and a thrum of longing
surges through my bloodstream like heroin.
I stand, barstool scraping back along the floor. His eyes
follow me, a slow crawl over my chest and back to my face. “Time to
get out of here.”
“Oh.” He says, and I nearly laugh at the way his face falls.
Okay, so that might have been too subtle for him.
“You should walk me out.”
“Oh, sure. I can do that.” He stands up immediately,
reaching for his wallet and carefully counting out triple the amount
he would owe for the soda he drank and leaving it on the table.
Before we’ve even stepped away from the table, the server has
swooped over and picked it up, empty glasses whisked away as she
disappears back into the crowd.
It’s raining outside, and we stand under the awning for a
moment, Corwin eyeing the sky thoughtfully. When our hands brush
together he jolts, looking down at the space between us. He’s
nervous, and a small voice in the back of my mind wonders if the
way he’s been acting is because he’s inexperienced; it’s the same
voice that tells me this is a bad idea, so I ignore it.
“I’m parked over here.” I tip my head to the right, directing
his gaze. I step out into the rain without waiting for a reply and
listen for the soft footsteps that let me know he’s following. He’s
right behind me when I step into a small alley between the
buildings, and turn to face him.
​“I don’t think you’re supposed to park down here.” His gaze is
narrowed, searching for my car in the dark. I bark out a laugh,
shaking my head. Damnit, I wanted to hate you so fucking bad.
​“No.” I concede, smiling. “This area is definitely not for parking.”
​The building’s overhang shelters both sides of the alley, rain only
coming through right in the center, with Corwin on one side, me on
the other. His image is distorted slightly, as I look at him through the
downpour. I step forward until I’m directly in front of him, water still
splattering my back but otherwise sheltered with him. The top half
of his shirt is soaked, clinging to his chest and outlining his
collarbone.
​Rain is carving delicate paths down his face, and when I reach out to
brush a drop away with my thumb his eyes widen.
​“I—” He stops, mouth parted slightly. I wait, but he doesn’t
continue, only looks at me through large, unreadable eyes. It’s too
dark for me to see the blue, and I make a mental note to keep the
lights on when I finally get him home and in my bed.
​I place my hand more firmly against his face, palm to cheek and
fingers sliding into the hair around his ear. This time I swipe my
thumb across his mouth, catching on his bottom lip and he inhales
deeply. I feel a soft touch at my waist, barely there and only
noticeable because my thin shirt is soaked and plastered to me. I
step forward until my nose brushes his, and I can feel his breathe on
my skin.
​The first brush of my lips against his is a careful, soft caress. I pull
back only far enough to see his eyes, but he’s closed them, damp
eyelashes splayed out across his cheekbones. His hand is still on my
waist. Tilting his face to the side with a thumb on his jaw, I lean in
and deliver the kiss I’ve been longing for since the first time I laid
eyes on him. He makes a soft moaning sound that makes my toes
curl, and I run my tongue along his teeth. He tastes like the rain.
​I step forward again, reaching up to place a palm flat on the wall
behind his shoulder. I lean my weight against him, wanting to feel
his wiry chest against my own, seeking the heat of his body through
his clothes. This time it’s me who groans, and any control I might
have had snaps when I feel his heart beating rapidly against mine.
​I slide my hand deeper into the hair behind his head, tightening my
fingers and holding him in place as I use my mouth to change the
angle of the kiss. I feel the tentative brush of his tongue against my
bottom lip and I pull my hand from the wall, sliding my palm
between us and rucking up the hem of his shirt. He gasps, mouth
breaking from mine, and I think he says something but the sound of
the rain and the pounding of the blood in my ears drowns him out.
​ e has both hands flat on my chest, and my own hand is slid up
H
under his shirt, palm flat against his abdomen. His lips are soft, and
his skin is softer, and his body fits against mine perfectly. I drag my
mouth away from his and down his neck, searching for the taste of
his skin. I feel his throat move as he says something again, and it’s
something that sounds an awful lot like stop. I’m lifting my head
when I suddenly find myself shoved backward, hard. I stumble,
slightly, the wall on the opposite side of the alley breaking my fall.
It’s stopped raining, I notice, half a second before my brain catches
up and my heart sinks into my stomach.
​Corwin is across from me, hands held up in front of him where he
had them against my chest only moments before. It’s the universal
gesture for stay away, but just in case that wasn’t clear enough for
me he utters these damning words: “Please stop.” His voice is
shaking.
​Oh my god. All the blood seems to drain from my body, leaving me
woozy and grateful for the wall at my back. Corwin’s shirt is partially
pulled up, stuck against his damp skin, and his chest is heaving. His
eyes are wide and unmistakably frightened. Seeing that look
directed at me is like receiving a blow to the stomach.
​He’s lowered his hands, slightly, but is obviously still unsure of
whether I’m going to make a move toward him. He’s pale, face
practically glowing in the dim alleyway, and even I can’t delude
myself that he’s shaking because the rain has made him cold.
​“Corwin—” I start, and am interrupted by a loud chorus of voices as
several people spill out into the street from the bar. He flinches at
the sound, and rushes to right his clothes. His head is bowed, so I
can no longer see his face.
​The voices are loud and I recognize several of them—my
teammates. Corwin’s head snaps up, eyes wide on the mouth of the
alley and it’s obvious he recognizes them, too. He shoots a panicked
look in my direction, apparently doing the same mental calculus as I
am. There is only one reason the pair of us would be down a dark
alley together, and it’s obviously a connection he doesn’t want them
making.
“​ I have to go.” He says, voice wavering in a way that makes me feel
sick. He sounds close to tears. I press my palms flat against the wall
behind me, reminding myself to stay put and not move toward him.
His shaking hands are carding through his hair, trying to set it to
rights. “I have to go.” He says again, taking a step toward the street.
​“Corwin, wait.” Please look at me. He takes another couple of steps,
and now I’m staring at the back of him, where his wet shirt is pulled
tight across his shoulders. “I’m sor—”
​He’s gone. I lean my head back against the wall, eyes closed. Fuck.
​I sleep like shit that night, stomach rolling with nausea and head
pounding like I’ve got the worst hangover of my life. I have no idea
what to do; I don’t have his number and I never asked what hotel
he was staying at so I have no way of tracking him down. I’m just
grabbing my phone, planning on texting Von to see if he has a way
to get in touch with Corwin when a message comes through our
team group chat.
​Sanhover turned down the contract, Coach just told me.
​Bile rises in my throat and I think, for a second, I might actually be
sick. The rest of the guys are sounding off, my phone chiming as
texts continue to come through. Von says they want Corwin bad,
that they’re going to send a new offer to his agent for more money
and a longer contract term. I lock my phone, switching it to silent
and throwing it onto my bed.
​He won’t take that deal. Doesn’t matter what they offer, he’s not
going to play for a team that has me on the roster.
 Present Day

Nigel
I​ ’ve been sitting in my car for ten minutes, trying to work up the
nerve to go inside. I check my phone, noting I still have twenty
minutes before I’m supposed to meet with the GM. I’ll probably die
of heat stroke by then, but even that might be preferable to seeing
Corwin. I rub my palms vigorously over my face, and pull down the
visor to check the mirror. I didn’t sleep last night and, unfortunately,
that’s exactly how I look. Hopefully, my naturally brown skin will hide
the fact that I’m pale and have bags under my eyes. This isn’t the
face a new team wants to be presented with.
​Sighing, I slap the visor back into place, and shove the door open. I
can’t sit here all day, and the odds of Corwin being here already are
pretty slim. But he’ll be here eventually. I wonder if he’s thinking
today about what happened six years ago. I wonder if he thought
about it every time we’ve played against one another in the past,
facing off across that red line.
​I tried to pretend it never happened. I took the ice with whatever
team I was playing for at the time, and I treated him the same way I
treated everyone else. Shame, anger, and regret bubbled to the
surface every time I skated out of the chute; how lucky for me that I
play a sport where it’s so easy to release aggression.
I need to be the bigger man and apologize. But I’m not the
bigger man, am I? I’m the man who pushed him against a wall and
held him there until he told me to stop. I’m the man who didn’t hear
him say no, and didn’t stop until he shoved me away. I’m a piece of
shit.
I’m so caught up in my thoughts of Corwin that I barely
register someone calling my name. I turn around and see Troy
Nichols half-jogging across the parking lot toward me, smiling like
he’s actually happy to see me.
“Hey! Welcome to South Carolina.”
 “Yeah, thanks.” He settles in beside me and matches my
stride. “Did you, ah, have a good summer?”
Now he’s really smiling, joy radiating off of him like
sunshine. “I had a great summer. My boyfriend and I went to
Ireland. Have you ever been? How was your summer?”
My mind snags on boyfriend and the casual way he just
threw that out. I don’t follow any of the gossip that circulates about
NHL players, but even I would have heard rumors about an openly
gay player. I realize I’ve been awkwardly silent, and that he asked
me a question. Scrambling, I try to think of a way to respond that
isn’t an outright lie.
“Uh, yeah, my summer was okay, I guess.” Actually, my
summer was spent waking up each morning in a cold sweat,
dreading the upcoming season. Corwin Sanhover, front and center,
each and every day—fuck my life. “Oh, and no, I’ve never been.”
“You should go sometime, it’s really beautiful.” His smile
slips a bit as he considers me, reaching out to hold the door for us.
“Sorry about the trade, it must have been tough to leave again.”
It is tough to get traded. And truthfully, I had loved being
back in Canada. But I’m well used to being traded by now, and I can
hardly tell him the exact reason why this trade stings more than the
others.
“Yeah, it was. Thanks.” I shrug, trying to shake it off. We’re
inside the arena now, and I look around vaguely, wondering if there
are any signs posted that might show me the way to the GM’s office.
No such luck. “Hey I don’t suppose you know where Mr. Frank’s
office is? I’ve got a meeting with him.”
The smile completely disappears this time, and he looks like
he wishes he had a different answer for me. “Yeah, I can show you
where it’s at.” He brightens again. “I can introduce you to Sam along
the way!”
He strides off and I follow, wondering who the hell Sam is
and why I’m meeting him. Eventually, we come to what appears to
be the administrative section of the building, and we stop outside of
a door that reads Sam Jameson, Strategy Analyst. I frown at the
sign, even more confused now. Nichols knocks lightly and a low,
masculine voice calls us in. I hesitate in the hallway, but end up
following him inside; probably best not to alienate someone who is
actually going out of their way to welcome me to the team.
Sam Jameson, Strategy Analyst, is a smoke show. Also,
definitely off limits as he unfolds himself from his desk chair and
reaches a hand out to Nichols, brushing a hand tenderly down his
arm in a way that screams familiarity.
“Nigel St. James, this is Sam.” Nichols is smiling proudly at
me when he introduces Sam, and I can’t help but return it as I step
forward to shake hands.
“Nice to meet you. You guys can just call me Saint, though,
if you want. Otherwise, it’s kind of a mouthful.”
Sam has rounded his desk and is leaning against the
outside edge, one knee pressed against Nichol’s leg. I wonder if he
also spent the summer in Ireland.
“Saint.” Nichols tries out. “Cool. I’m just Troy.”
Sam laughs, and then looks over at me appraisingly. “I’ve
just been watching an old video of you, actually.”
“Sorry.”
His eyebrows wing upward, and, beside him, Troy laughs
and shakes his head. “Corwin says you’ll make a good addition to
the team, and he’s never wrong.”
Does he? I try to school my facial expression into
blandness, but some of my shock must bleed through as Sam’s head
tilts a bit to the side and he watches me with discerning brown eyes.
When he looks back over at Nichols, his features melt back into
fondness; oh yeah, if this isn’t the Ireland boyfriend, I’ll eat my own
leg.
“Well, anyway, I just wanted to introduce you guys. But I
can show you down to Mr. Frank’s office now.”
“Thanks, Nich—I mean, Troy.” I nod at Sam. “Nice to meet
you.”
“Likewise.” Sam walks back around his desk, shooting Troy
a look that makes him flush. “Have a good practice.”
When Troy and I leave the office there is still color high on
his cheekbones, and it makes me smile. I’ve played hockey against
this guy for the last three years, and I wasn’t expecting him to be
quite like this.
“So, that’s the boyfriend, huh?” He nods and I whistle.
“Good for you.”
“Thanks.” He’s still blushing, but smiling in a pleased sort of
way. We stop, and he points me down the hallway to the last door
on the right. “There you go. I’m going to hit the ice; I’ll meet you
out there?”
“Sure. See you later, Troy.” I watch as he retraces our steps
down the hallway, somehow feeling lighter than I had earlier.

◆◆◆

I’m already fully dressed and sitting in my stall, watching as

the locker room fills up around me. South Carolina is a young team,
and a lot of these guys have been playing together for years; several
of them have spent their entire NHL careers here, and it shows.
There is an unmistakable ease and comradery to this locker room
that was missing from my previous teams. These guys don’t just
play hockey together, they’re family. No wonder Troy had no qualms
about coming out to me the way he did.
As they often do, my thoughts turn to Corwin, and it’s as
though I summoned him out of thin air. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I look down
at the floor between my knees; he’s on the other side of the room,
chatting with a few of the new recruits. I can pick his voice out
easily over the din of the room, and it makes a cold sweat break out
between my shoulders. I don’t think I can do this.
But I don’t have a choice in the matter, as a pair of shoes
steps into my line of vision where it’s still trained on the floor. I don’t
have to look up to know. “Hey, Nigel.”
He remembers. It would have been kinder of him to just
deck me. I lift my head and look into the blue eyes that I’ve thought
of every damn day for the past six years. He looks exactly the same;
more filled out across the chest and shoulders, perhaps, but that
same thick brown hair and sharp-boned face. I’ve seen him on the
ice, of course, but without the extra padding or helmet it’s as though
we’ve stepped back in time to Florida and we’re meeting again for
the first time. If only that were the case. I stand.
“Hi, Corwin.” We’re the same height, making us eye level
now that I’m not seated. My gaze tracks over his face but it’s as
though he’s wearing a mask, so inscrutable is his expression. I
remember him being a little easier to read six years ago. He holds
out his hand and I look down at it, dumbly, as though I’ve never
been presented with a handshake before.
“Welcome to the team.”
I feel like I’m dragging my arm through water as I lift it up
to clasp his hand in mine. I want to run my thumb over the back of
his hand, which probably makes me the dumbest motherfucker alive.
I settle for a firm handshake, and let go quickly. I can’t stop looking
at him—is it possible he got better looking over the summer?
I clear my throat. “Thank you.” Also, I’m sorry. I’m sorry,
I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
“Cor!” Troy walks over, one of the few who is already fully
dressed like me. He nudges his shoulder against Corwin’s and I
watch as the latter’s face opens into a small smile.
“How long have you been here, then?” Corwin asks Troy,
amusement coloring his tone.
“Not long.”
Corwin hums as though he knows this is a lie. Hitching his
bag further up his shoulder he looks back at me. “Let me know if
you need anything.”
I nod, and watch as he walks over to his stall. I pointedly
don’t watch as he starts to undress. For want of anything better to
do, I look around the room, gaze meeting Anthony Lawson’s across
the room. He flips me off.
“He’s a huge fan.” Troy confides, which startles a laugh
from me.
“I’ll make sure to autograph something for him.”
He snorts with laughter, and I see Corwin look over his
shoulder at the sound. Our eyes meet across the room, holding for
several heartbeats. I’m the first to look away.
 Corwin
​ here is a trick I learned as a kid to center my mind; five seconds is
T
all I give myself to panic or stress, and once that five seconds is up
it’s time to move on. I have been counting down from five ever since
I walked into the locker room this morning.
​Troy’s laughter rings out and I look over my shoulder despite myself,
locking eyes with Nigel. He looks away and I turn back to my stall,
methodically going through the motions of changing.
​Five…four…three…two…one.
​My mother often complains that men age better than women, and
she would be right. Six years separate the last time I was this close
to Nigel without a hockey puck between us, and those six years have
obviously been kind to him. And unkind to me, if the desire snaking
up my spine is any indication.
It had been too much to hope that I would feel differently
than I did back then, that some chemical change might have
occurred in my brain—a rewiring for survival’s sake. No such luck; he
was attractive to me then, and he’s attractive to me now. The
chocolate brown of his hair, his coffee-colored eyes, and that creamy
olive skin—every inch of him plucked straight from my dreams. And
every inch of him as unattainable now as he was then.
Shame and embarrassment curl like acid in my stomach,
and I get a vivid memory of warm, wet skin, and a dark alley. I
restart the timer in my mind, five…four…
“What’s up with you?”
I turn toward Lawson, who’s leaning against the stall next
to mine, voice pitched low for me alone. I don’t know how he gets a
read on me like that since I’m positive my face doesn’t reflect
anything of what I’m feeling; he’s like one of those seizure dogs,
sniffing out a medical emergency before it happens.
“Nothing is up.”
“Right.” He knew I wouldn’t answer honestly even before
he asked. Another thing to be ashamed about. He looks over to
where Troy and Nigel are sitting side by side. “I don’t like that guy.”
 I do. “He’s not so bad. It’ll be different, playing on the
same team.”
“Mm.” He looks away from them and back to me. His arms
are crossed in front of his chest, hands gripping his biceps. I can
practically see the way he’s holding himself back from reaching for
me. Lawson is a tactile guy, always touching others and tossing
affection around like confetti. He never touches me unless I initiate
it, though; just another way he’s somehow read me correctly,
without me having to tell him I don’t like being handled.
I bump him lightly with my elbow and he grins, happy with
the scraps I’m able to give him. “How was your date last night?”
His smile grows and I shake my head in wonder, knowing
what he’s going to say before he says it. “She left early this
morning.”
“Of course.”
“She’s flying back to Texas today; only here for a
convention for work.”
“Ah. So not a love match?” I ask.
“Nah. We can’t all be Troy and Sam, you know?”
I look back over to where Troy is deep in conversation with
Nigel, dark heads bent together. “No,” I murmur, “we can’t.”

◆◆◆

Practice is rough and I’m thankful for it. When I step under
the showerhead in the locker room, I take a moment to close my
eyes and tip my face into the stream of water. I never linger in the
showers, though. Always wary of the proximity of my naked
teammates, I finish fast today, per my usual. Lawson is only about
halfway through his rendition of Prince’s Raspberry Beret when I
wrap a towel around my waist and move toward the exit.
I reach it at the same time as Nigel, and stop to let him
through first. I maintain firm eye contact, but the curl of his wet hair
and the perspiration dotted along his shoulders is still visible in my
periphery. I’ve never once checked someone out in the locker room,
and it irks me that my self-control is going to be tested every day
from now on.
He doesn’t seem to have the same concerns as I do,
though; his brown eyes flick down over my chest rapidly, before
coming back up to meet mine. Clearing his throat, he turns and
heads toward his stall. I carefully look at the wall and not his back as
I head to my own, and a low feeling of dread comes over me. I’m
going to have to talk to him about what happened all those years
ago.
I wonder if I can convince him it was just a mistake, a blip
in the timeline. Oops, I thought I was gay but it turns out I’m not, so
please don’t say anything to anyone about it? I nearly laugh at the
absurdity. That would be like trying to convince him water isn’t wet.
Maybe he doesn’t care; probably, that kiss in the alley hasn’t
occupied such a vast mental space for him as it has for me. I might
be better off pretending it never happened than bringing it up again
and embarrassing myself anew.
I glance over. He’s got a blue shirt on and his hair is
dripping water down the back. Like rain. I clench my jaw and sit
down to pull on my shoes. When he leaves the locker room without
a backward glance, I follow, knowing that if I don’t say something to
him it’ll nag at me until I do. When he pushes the door to the
parking lot open, I step up and he looks back, surprised someone is
behind him.
“Oh, hey.” He holds the door, letting me pass through. I’m
careful not to brush him.
I take a deep breath, counting down the exhale. Five, four,
three, two…one.
“So—”
“I didn’t know he was gay.” Nigel is looking out across the
parking lot, watching Troy and Sam as they walk together toward
their respective vehicles. He scratches his jaw and I notice a small
scar on his knuckles. “I must have missed that press conference.”
“There wasn’t one. No big announcement or anything, and
he doesn’t have social media so he’s able to fly under the radar
pretty well.” I realize I’ve never seen Nigel outside of a hockey rink
before; the sun makes his bronze skin glow. “But everyone on the
team knows.”
He looks at me. “An out NHL player is a pretty big deal.”
“He’s the only one I know of.” I stare at him hard, wanting
him to understand what I’m saying without having to be more
explicit. Please don’t make me say it.
“Right.” Nigel says. I wish he would put sunglasses on; his
eyelashes are distracting. Have they always been that long? “Hey,
Corwin?”
​I wish he wouldn’t say my name. With his accent, it sounds soft and
musical, like something whispered in the dark. “Yeah?”
​“You think we could talk in private sometime? I need to…I just need
to talk to you about something.”
​Something being how I completely lost my shit when you kissed me
six years ago, because I’m a fucking coward? “I can’t right now.” I
tell him, because I have yet to grow a spine. “Maybe some other
time.”
​“Yeah, okay.” He looks regretful. “See you tomorrow then.”
​When I get home, I consider sending Lawson a text, seeing if he
wants to come over and hang out. I don’t though, knowing I’m
probably better off alone today. So instead, I stand at my kitchen
island for an unknown amount of time, staring off into the middle
distance and thinking. Nigel being here makes me think about my
father.
​My recall of that day is perfect—I remember the vivid blue of the
summer sky, and the burn of my young muscles as I carried my
hockey bag inside after practice. I remember how neither of my
parents had acknowledged my arrival back home until I announced
myself. Dad had wanted to know if I was working on my footwork,
because I was too damn clumsy. How dare my ten-year-old body not
work the way he wanted it to work? Yes, one of the older kids,
Daniel Greene, is working with me. He stays after practice
sometimes to do skating drills.
​Dad liked Danny, which is perhaps why I felt comfortable enough to
continue talking. I like him, I had said, he’s cute. Never in my life
had I been struck, and so it took me a long moment to realize what
had happened; it took blood on the fingers I pulled away from my
mouth to realize that dad had hit me, a single backhanded blow to
the face. What’s wrong with you? he had asked, Don’t ever talk like
that about your teammates again, you hear me? I had nodded yes,
still stunned, but determined to learn my lesson. Mom was shaking
her head at me, beckoning me over to her. As I went, I heard my
dad mutter fucking disgusting under his breath.
​I sat on the toilet as mom dampened a washcloth and used it to
wipe my lip. Girls are cute too, she told me, and I was a quick
learner so I knew enough by then to remain silent. You’re too young
to know what you want, she told me, and I wondered what she
would think if I told her Danny wasn’t the first boy I had thought
was cute, just the first one I had mentioned out loud.
​I tried, after that. I really did. I found a girl to take to my
Homecoming, one who, admittedly, was thin enough at sixteen that
she was still flat-chested, and had hair cut short in a bob. In the
dark, I had reasoned, she’ll hardly be like a girl at all. But I was
wrong, horribly, embarrassingly wrong, and my sixteen-year-old self
had learned another valuable lesson about shame that day. No
matter how low you’ve sunk, there is always further to drop.
​A knock at my front door breaks me from my reverie. I tap a finger
on my phone and realize I’ve been home for over half an hour and
have nothing to show for it. I start toward the front of my house just
as another bang echoes against the door, the sort of sound a foot
would make and not a fist. Which means I know exactly who’s on
the other side.
​Lawson grins at me over what looks to be a heavy box. Whatever it
is apparently requires two hands to hold, hence the use of his foot
to knock. I step back at once, letting him in, and I hate myself a
little bit, for how pathetically grateful I am to see him. I get far more
from our relationship than he does, feeding off of him like a leech.
Selfless as he is, he would never leave if he knew just how lonely I
really am.
​“Hey buddy,” he says, “want to barbeque?”
​He doesn’t have to ask, and he knows it. Never, in the years we’ve
known each other, have I ever told him no, and I’m sure as hell not
starting now. I follow him through the house as he beelines for the
backdoor, pushing thoughts of my parents as far from my mind as
possible.
 Nigel
I​ ’ve been here a week, and my need to talk to Corwin has me nearly
crawling out of my skin. Every day I search his eyes for the memory
of that night, and every day I am met with a cool-eyed wall of
indifference. I want him to hate me for what happened and it
bothers me that he doesn’t. Or maybe he does but he’s too much of
a stand-up guy to hold it against me. Either way, I can’t do this
anymore; I can’t play pretend and act like we don’t have history.
​Six years too late, but I think it’s time I apologize.
​Sighing, I watch him from where I’m standing by the bench, getting
some water. He’s by Lawson’s goal and the pair of them are chatting,
a familiarity between them that speaks of years of friendship. Corwin
smiles the private smile that seems to be reserved for only Lawson
and Troy, and I turn away before he catches me staring. Replacing
the water bottle, I skate toward the opposite end of the rink, putting
as much distance between us as possible.
​When practice ends, I parallel Corwin’s movements as much as I can
without being too obvious. It’s understandable that he would want
to avoid me, but I can’t see another way to do this without
embarrassing us both. He’s going to have to talk to me somewhere
else if he doesn’t want an apology here, shouted at him across the
locker room.
​Luck appears to be on my side today, however, as he’s completely
alone when I fall in beside him as he walks across the parking lot
after practice. More often than not he seems to be accompanied by
Lawson, like some sort of pseudo bodyguard. Part of me wonders if
something is going on between them; this is also the part of me that
wants to run Lawson over with my truck, so I do my best to ignore
it.
​Corwin looks at me from the corner of his eye but doesn’t say
anything. Well, that’s fine, because I only need him to listen,
anyway.
​“Hey, so I need to talk to you, about what happened back in Florida,
and I think—”
​ e’s gone from my field of vision, and I turn back to see him
H
standing frozen, staring at me wide-eyed. My heart is literally
pounding in my chest, and I rub a hand over it absently; I think if I
don’t get the words out now, they might very well kill me.
​“I don’t…” He trails off.
​I’m not above begging. “Please. Just one time, that’s all I need. Let
me say what I need to say and that’s it, we never have to talk about
it again.” He still hasn’t moved, and that damn mask is so firmly in
place I have no earthly idea what he’s thinking. Probably wishing
Lawson had walked with him to his car, like he usually did. “Please,
Corwin.”
​He flinches, very slightly when I say his name and if I thought my
heart was behaving erratically before, it’s nothing to what it does
now.
​“Okay.” He says, quietly. I see his chest rise and fall, and find myself
counting out five inhalations before he speaks again. “Okay. But not
here. You can come to my place.”
​“Are you sure? We can go somewhere more public, if you’d be more
comfortable.” He gives me a strange look, shaking his head.
​“Private is better. I can text you my address.”
​“Okay.” I breathe, relieved that he’s agreed, but a little wary about
going to his house. All I can think of is the shaky way he held his
hands up to ward me off, and the terrified gleam in his eye. He
passes by me, stepping around so he doesn’t touch me accidentally,
and continues on toward
his car.
I’m sitting in my truck, waiting, when a text chimes and I
scramble to pick up my phone, relieved that he followed through. A
moment later he sends another text with a time, seven o’clock,
which is obviously a request to not follow him home right now. Two
hours to kill.
I pull out of the lot and drive less than a mile down the
road, parking in front of a bar called Hank’s. I’ll nurse a beer and
wallow in nervous energy, maybe figure out exactly what it is I’ve
been waiting six years to say.
 ◆◆◆

My navigation app has a hard time finding Corwin’s house,

and by the time I’m parking in the driveway it’s seven on the dot. He
answers the door wearing the same thing he left practice in, though
I notice now that the color of his shirt adds a hint of green to his
irises. He silently steps back, holding the door wide for me to enter.
As he shuts it behind me, I see he’s not wearing shoes, and the
sight of his socked feet makes my throat feel tight. I tug off my own
shoes and leave them by the front door.
“Do you have any food allergies?” Corwin asks.
“I—what?” I tear my eyes away from his totally normal, and
not adorable feet.
“Food allergies.” He prompts.
“No.”
“Good.” He tips his head toward the kitchen, and as I
follow, I notice that the house smells good. Like, Italian restaurant
level good. “Did you cook dinner?”
This comes out every bit as shocked sounding as I feel. He
shoots me a look over his shoulder. “It’s dinner time.” He says, as
though this explains why he would cook for me, personally.
I stand awkwardly in the center of the room as he goes to
the stove and lifts the lid off of a pot. Steam rises around him and
he leans in, like he’s smelling it. That tightness in my throat grows
as I survey this little display of domesticity. I feel like a voyeur,
seeing something I have no right to. He adds something to the pot,
a spice of some kind by the looks of it, and turns around. He does a
slight double take when he sees me hovering in the middle distance
between the kitchen and the living room.
“You can have a seat.” He waves a hand toward the room in
general, and I cautiously slide onto a barstool. “Do you want
something to drink?”
“Uh, maybe some water, please.” I watch as he grabs a
glass and fills it, sliding it over to me across the island. I’m a little
uncomfortable about him serving me anything, when I came here to
beg his forgiveness. He should have spit in the glass before giving it
to me.
“Do you like spaghetti?” He asks, and I nod. “It’s a recipe
I’ve been tweaking, trying to make it more diet-plan-approved. I
hope you don’t mind being my guinea pig.”
He looks so earnest, like spaghetti is a serious thing. “I
wasn’t expecting you to cook for me.”
“I like to do it.” I know, I think, remembering the article I
had read about him years ago, where the interviewer had asked if
he had any hobbies. “Besides, I could hardly invite you over this late
and not feed you.”
“I kind of invited myself over.” I want him to smile, but he
doesn’t. Instead, he turns his attention to a cutting board and starts
chopping up vegetables that I’m certain don’t belong in spaghetti.
“Do you need any help?”
“No, I’m almost finished and then it will need to sit for a
while.” He glances up at me, a flash of blue beneath dark brows.
“Talk first or eat first?”
“Talk.” I say, automatically. My stomach is tied up in so
many knots, if I try to eat now, I’ll vomit on his floor.
He nods, not looking up from what he’s doing. I try not to
stare, but unless I want to watch the water on the stove boil, there
isn’t much else to look at. He has the hands of a concert pianist,
dexterous and long-fingered; I want to suck on those fingers. Taking
a sip of water, I turn my head and look out the windows toward his
backyard, reminding myself what it is I’m here for, and that thoughts
like that are what got me into trouble in the first place.
By the time he finishes whatever magic he’s performing to
make the house smell like this, I’ve got a crick in my neck from how
pointedly I’m not staring at him. He hangs his hands loose by his
sides, hip leaned against the counter in front of him.
“Alright.” He says, cautiously. “You said you wanted to
talk?”
“I need to apologize for what happened back in Florida, for
the way I acted. I should never have come onto you like that, not
when you were so young.” I inhale and look him in the eye. “I’m
sorry, Corwin.”
This guy could give the David a run for its money, for all the
reaction his face has. It drives me nuts. “I was eighteen.”
I stare at him, waiting for him to expound on this totally
irrelevant fact. “I know.” I say, finally.
“I was eighteen, so not that young. You don’t have to
apologize for coming onto me, I was an adult.”
Oh, dear lord. “I’m ten years older than you, Corwin,
which…you know what, never mind. That’s not all I’m apologizing
for. I’m sorry about everything, I wish that night had never
happened.”
“Oh.” There is a slight pull between his eyebrows, and he
sounds confused and maybe a little bit hurt. I’m going to have to
unpack that later, though, because now that I’m on a roll I can’t
stop.
“I’m also sorry about charging you during the Thanksgiving
game last season. I didn’t mean to injure you.”
“It was only a minor concussion.”
I don’t know if he means this to be placating, but it’s not. I
feel fucking worse. “I’m sorry. I’m just really goddamned sorry.”
His eyes widen a bit, and he looks uncertain. “You can’t
possibly think I’d hold that against you.”
“Maybe not that alone, but everything? Yeah. You’d be
insane not to hold it against me.”
“Nigel.” He says, and the use of my first name snaps my
remaining restraint. What the hell is so hard for him to understand?
Does he really not remember? I talk over him before he can
continue.
“I fucking assaulted you. How many times did you tell me
to stop before you had to shove me off?”
“That wasn’t—,” he stops, recalibrating. “It was heat of the
moment; you weren’t trying to—.”
​“It was heat of the moment.” I mimic, cruelly. “Yeah, said every
rapist ever.”
“​ Okay, that’s enough.” He’s lifted both hands in front of him, palms
toward me, in a way that’s so reminiscent of six years ago it’s hard
to look at. “I don’t know what you’ve convinced yourself happened
that night, but if you think I didn’t want you then you’re deluded.”
​My voice has risen and I’m dangerously close to shouting. “Tell me
you weren’t scared. Tell me you weren’t scared of me.”
​“Of course, I was fucking scared!” He explodes, palms slapping
down onto the counter between us. Yes, I think, lose control. Yell at
me. “Coming out, being with a man? That was never going to be an
option for me. So, I lied and I pretended, and everything was fine
until you came along, and I wanted you so badly I couldn’t stand it.
I wanted you so bad I let you kiss me in a public alley where anyone
could see. Scared? I was terrified.”
​He runs a hand through his hair, turning away from me slightly.
When he speaks again, his voice wavers only slightly, clearly
struggling to regain control after his outburst. “I hadn’t done that
before, okay? Any of it. Not with someone I actually wanted, not
with a man. I was just…overwhelmed.”
​He looks tormented, like telling me his secrets is causing him actual
physical pain. My presence is only good for misery, it seems. I close
my eyes, inhaling deep through my nose. “How many times?” I ask,
quietly.
​“What?”
​“How many times did you ask me to back off?” I open my eyes and
catch his gaze with mine. He is completely missing the point again.
​“It doesn’t matter.” He tries, and I wait, wondering if he’s going to lie
and tell me he doesn’t remember. “Four.” He answers, eventually,
and his eyes skitter away from mine.
​“Four.” I repeat, adding this to my own memories of that night. “Glad
I was able to give you such a good experience for your first kiss.”
​Something flashes across his face too quick for me to discern, and
he turns around under the pretense of needing to stir the spaghetti
sauce. I eye the back of him, the long line of his spine and the rigid
set of his shoulders. I wish this was a different sort of night; one
where I could step up behind him, wrap my arms around his waist
and press against him, kissing his neck. But this isn’t that sort of
night at all, and too many lines have been crossed in the past to
know where we might end up in the future.
​When he turns back around, he’s holding a spoon filled with red
sauce; wordlessly, he holds it out to me and waits for me to take it
gingerly from his hand. I bring it to my lips, blowing on it softly
before putting it in my mouth.
​“What do you think?” He asks, quietly.
​“Well, I can’t taste a single one of those vegetables I saw you cut
up, so I’d say it’s a success.” One side of his mouth twitches, trying
to smile. “It’s delicious.”
​I hand the utensil back to him and am surprised when he pops the
same spoon into his own mouth. Narrowing his eyes, he mutters
something about parsley, and goes back to the pan. I wait, patiently,
giving him silence and space. When he finally rejoins me at the
island, I feel like the mask has slipped just a little bit, and the real
Corwin is peeking through.
​“I think maybe I’m the one who owes you an apology.” He says, and
I very nearly drop my head down to the counter in exasperation.
​“I can’t wait to hear it.” I deadpan.
​“You’re right, that maybe things got a little out of control and, yes,
you should have listened when I asked you to stop. But,” he holds
up one hand, seeing that I have every intention of interrupting, “I
shouldn’t have left like I did, without explaining myself. I was
worried, Nigel, because you knew this secret about me, and I wasn’t
sure what you would do with it. I was freaking out, and I thought
the best thing to do was to distance myself from what happened,
but obviously all that’s done is make things worse.”
​“You thought I was going to tell people? Out you?” I’m a little
peeved by this; I haven’t even outed myself. “I’ve never come out to
any of my teammates before, Corwin. Never. I sure as hell wouldn’t
waltz into the locker room and tell them about you.”
​He shrugs, helplessly. “I didn’t say it made sense. But that’s what I
thought.”
​“And that’s why you turned down that contract.”
​“Partially. Mostly though, I just didn’t think I could stand to be in a
locker room with you and not… Well, anyway.” He waves a hand,
before running the pad of a finger over the striations in the marble,
tracing a vein. He’s not looking at me when he says, “I really am
sorry.”
​“So am I.” I can’t look at the top of his head without remembering
how it felt to run my fingers through his hair. “I’ve pretty much been
thinking about it every day for six years straight.”
​“Me too.” His head comes back up, eyes meeting mine. “I haven’t…I
don’t ever, um, do that.”
​Oh, sweetheart. “Nobody since then?”
​He shakes his head and I blow out a soft breath. He deserves better
than a quick grope against a brick wall. He turns around again,
facing the stove, and I assume my thoughts were written loud and
clear across my face.
​“Dinner’s ready, if you still want to eat.” He glances back over his
shoulder at me, voice wary like he’s expecting me to leave him after
all that.
​I stand up, rounding the outside edge of the island toward him and
stopping with a foot of distance still between us. “I’ll help you.”
​Together, we plate the food and bring it over to his massive dining
room table. I wait, unsure of where I’m supposed to sit when a
dozen choices are presented to me. Corwin takes the decision out of
my hands, however, when he pulls two chairs out, one on the end of
the table and the other on the corner next to it.
​He doesn’t start eating right away. Instead, he waits for me to take
my first bite, gaze steady on my face. I don’t moan, but it’s a close
thing. “Holy shit that’s good.” I mutter, and stab my fork in for more.
​I am so close to seeing a smile on his face I can taste it. He chases
it away though, nonetheless sounding pleased when he says: “I’m
glad you like it.”
​“What kind of noodle is this?”
​“It’s not. It’s zucchini.” I watch the muscles in his forearm flex as he
twirls his fork. The vein that wraps around his arm is prominent and
I long to follow it with my tongue. “Like I said, diet plan approved.”
“Tell you a secret?”
“Not sure we can take any more secrets tonight.” He says,
playfully, glancing over at me.
 “I’ve never followed any of the dietary restrictions.” He
gasps, theatrically. “On any of the teams I’ve played for.”
“Neither does Lawson. But it’s more because he doesn’t
know how to do anything other than barbeque. He’s hopeless in the
kitchen.”
I raise my hand. “Guilty.”
A very small smile teases along his mouth, and he keeps his
eyes locked on mine. “I always make enough for two.”
The offer sits between us as we continue to eat in
companionable silence. I try not to focus too much on what he said,
but the admission that he hasn’t kissed another man other than me
feels like an elephant sitting on my chest. I shouldn’t feel possessive
of him, but I do; sitting here in the rapidly dimming light of the
foyer, homecooked meal between us and his blue eyes melted to a
degree below freezing, I can easily imagine how it might be between
us if given a chance.
I wish I’d had the foresight to eat slower, but soon enough
our plates are cleared and I grab both of them before he can and
head toward the kitchen. He leans against the counter, watching as I
clean them off and load the dishwasher, one socked foot propped up
against the other. He looks so cozy, I want to curl up on the couch
and watch a movie with him.
“I guess I’d better get going.” I say, regret lining my voice.
​“Yeah.” Do I detect a hint a of regret there as well, or is that just
wishful thinking? He pads slowly toward the front of the house,
flicking a light switch to illuminate the front of the house. He stands
by the front door, head turned as he looks out the window into the
dusk and hands tucked into his pockets. I gaze at him hungrily,
wanting to eat my fill of him in private before tomorrow comes and
we’re surrounded by watchful eyes again.
​When he turns to look at me there’s something in his face I don’t
recognize; he’s so hard to read, and I’ve already made enough
missteps when it comes to him that I can’t trust myself anyway. I
tuck my own hands into my pockets and wait, staring back at him.
​He clears his throat. “Do you think…would it be okay if I hugged
you?”
​ I suck in a breath and take an involuntary step forward before
halting. No, I tell myself, firmly, let him come to you, don’t rush him.
I’m eager for the feel of him, but just in case that’s not obvious, I
nod. “Yeah, of course.”
​He takes a few measured inhales before he steps forward; I lift my
arms partially, unsure if he’s going to go low or high with the hug.
He wraps both arms tentatively around my waist, one hand curled
around the opposite hip and the other firm on my middle back. I can
feel every single fingertip through my shirt. I settle my own arms
around his upper back, shirt soft beneath my palms. My heart is
jackhammering in my chest, and I wonder if he can feel it where we
are pressed together.
​I jolt when I feel his lips press into the juncture between my neck
and shoulder. Not a kiss, I realize, just him tucking his face in;
slowly, I slide a hand up to the back of his neck, palm gentle on his
nape and fingertips brushing his hair. Not holding him in place, just
letting him know I want him to stay and needing to feel his skin
warm against my own.
​I can feel him breathing against my neck, so slow and even he could
be asleep; the only indication to the contrary is the slight contracture
of his fingers on my hip, as though he wants to tighten his grip and
pull me closer.
​“We’re good, right?” Corwin’s voice is muffled, words tickling my
skin. I wonder if he’s about to pull away, and I feel a sharp pang of
regret as though he’s already gone.
​“Yeah. We’re good.” I punctuate this with a slow caress of my hand
from the top of his spine down his back.
​What feels like a dismally short amount of time later, he steps back,
hands sliding away and leaving me bereft. I let my own hands fall to
my sides, still tingling with the memory of him.
​“Sorry.” He says, tucking his hands back into the pockets of his
sweats. “Didn’t mean to take advantage of you.”
​It’s full dark outside, the night pressing against the bright interior of
the house, which means we were probably standing there for a solid
chunk of time. “Take advantage of me, literally, any time.”
​He smiles, and I commit it to memory.
“​ Hey, Corwin?” He looks at me, waiting. “Do you think…could we do
this again, sometime?”
​Another smile, this one wider. “Sure. I’d like that.”
I feel lighter than I have in years, and as I make my way
home I smile to myself. Maybe this trade wasn’t such a bad thing
after all.
 Corwin
​ e lose the first two games of the season, and it’s particularly
W
frustrating because we played well in both. Actually, we played
great, which somehow makes the losses worse. I sigh, trying to
keep my expression benign for the camera in front of me. I was
pulled for post-game interviews, so I’m seated half-undressed in
front of my stall, wishing for a hot meal and a hotter shower.
​“What do you think you’ll have to do to pull off a win next game?”
​Score more goals. “We’ve got a lot of fresh talent this season, so
we’re going to keep working hard at practice and figuring out how to
apply that to games.”
​The reporter nods as though this wasn’t a non-answer. I wade
through a few more inane questions, rolling out a few of my stock
replies; when coach signals to me that I’m done. I stand, gratefully.
The scrum moves off to talk to Lawson, a favorite among the media
and the fans, and I turn my back to the room and keep stripping off
my gear.
​I feel, more than see, a presence to my side, and I glance over to
see Nigel standing with a towel clutched around his waist. Oh boy, I
jerk my head up, making sure I’m staring at his face and not his
chest. But when I duck my head and bend over to untie my laces,
my eyes track over to him unbidden. There is a line of dark hair
leading down his abdomen, and the sight of it makes my mouth
water. I bite my lip and turn away; the locker room is full of people,
some of whom have cameras, and now is not the time to be ogling
him.
​ “You going out tonight?” He asks, and adjusts the towel, drawing
my attention back to where it’s slung low across his hips.
​Five…four…three…two…one.
​Straightening, I look him in the eye, probably a little aggressively,
but really—what gives him the right to stand there and look like
that? “No, I think I’m just going to go home.”
​Some of the guys like to commiserate together after a loss, try to
shake it off before heading home to their families. I don’t usually
join unless it’s been a while since I’ve gone out with the team, and I
just don’t have the spirit for it tonight. Even Troy, with his
bottomless well of energy, is looking exhausted; I watch him over
Nigel’s shoulder and he nods at me as he walks to the showers,
understandably in a hurry to head home to Sam.
​“Are you going to go?”
​Nigel shakes his head, dark eyes steady on mine. He inhales like he’s
gearing up to speak, and moves a small step forward. I stiffen,
worried he’s going to touch me. He wouldn’t, right? Not in front of
all these people. He pitches his voice low, talking low into the space
between us. “I was wondering if, maybe…would you like some
company? I could pick something up.”
​“Oh.” I stare at him, wondering what he means. I’m pretty sure
would you like some company is a euphemism for sex, but it’s hardly
something I can ask for clarification on in the middle of the locker
room. Nerves tingle in my stomach. I just told him I was going
home, so I can’t change my story now. “Uhm, yeah, we could…”
​We could what? And since when is it this fucking hot in here?
​“Just dinner.” Nigel murmurs, accent dancing over the vowels and
making the words sound sexier than they have any right to be.
​“Oh.” I say again, embarrassed by how relieved this makes me.
“Yeah, that’s fine. You don’t have to bring food though, I have some
leftovers I can heat up. Like I said, I always make extra.”
​He smiles. “Okay. See you in about an hour?”
​I nod, glancing around the room as he walks away. Nobody is paying
us any attention, and even if they were, Lawson and Troy spend a
great deal of time at my place. There’s no reason for anyone to get
suspicious about Nigel doing the same. Calm down, I tell myself,
firmly, and finish stripping. When I step into the showers there is a
steady five second timer ticking down in my mind, and I choose the
stall furthest away from Nigel’s familiar form.

◆◆◆

I​ ’m still nervous an hour later when there’s a soft knock at my door.

I’m also embarrassed about being nervous, which leaves me feeling
vaguely sick, stomach churning with anxiety. You’re twenty-four
years old, fucking pull yourself together.
​I hold the door open for Nigel, watching as he steps inside and
leaves his shoes by the door. There’s a hole in the toe of his dress
socks. He’s still in his gameday suit, or at least half of it, shirt
buttons undone to reveal a line of clavicle and cuffs rolled up his
forearms. By comparison, I look like a slob, having thrown on a pair
of grey sweatpants and a shirt so faded with washing you can no
longer see the logo on it. He smiles when he looks at me, though,
eyes traveling a long line from my toes to the top of my head. It’s
not even that sexually blatant of a once-over, but my body still
floods with heat, burning away some of the nerves.
“I brought a change of clothes. Would you mind if I used
your bathroom? I’m not much of a suit guy.” He plucks at the front
of the dress shirt.
​I beg to differ. “There’s a guest bedroom upstairs, you can use that.”
​I show him the way and head back downstairs, giving him some
privacy even though what I really want to do is sit on the edge of
the bed and watch him change. Heading over to the refrigerator, I
grab a low-sugar Ginger Ale, hoping it will settle my stomach. The
timer on the oven is counting down, and there isn’t anything left to
do to keep my hands occupied. Nigel St. James is naked in your
house.
​I jump when I hear the door close upstairs, wound tight with
nervous energy. When Nigel walks into the kitchen his hair is slightly
mussed from pulling the collar of his shirt over his head, and there is
a bare strip of ankle showing above his sock where he didn’t pull the
leg of his joggers all the way down. He clears his throat and I tear
my eyes away, ashamed that he caught me staring. At his ankle, no
less, like some Victorian era creep.
​He slides onto one of the barstools, elbows leaned on the island and
smiles at me softly. “Thanks for letting me come for dinner. I hate
being alone after a game like that.”
​“Me, too.” Truthfully, I’m not a fan of being alone any time, but I
probably don’t need to give him any more reasons to pity me. “Do
you like chicken parmesan?”
“​ Do you always ask stupid questions?”
​I nearly smile at that, the response reminding me of Lawson’s gentle
ribbing. I take a sip of Ginger Ale, remembering that I still haven’t
offered him anything. “You can help yourself to whatever. I don’t
drink, so there isn’t any alcohol, but I could keep some here if…”
​I let the tail end of that hang awkwardly between us, stomach rolling
with another bout of nausea. I’ve never tripped over my words so
much as I do when I’m around Nigel, my tongue eager to say things
that my brain would never condone.
​“I’ll just have whatever you’re having.” He tells me, getting up to
grab it himself before I can do it for him. He doesn’t go back to his
seat, though, but remains standing next to me, leaned against the
counter. “And just to put it out there, I’d like to spend more time
with you outside of work. So, I’ll be here as much or as little as you
want me to be.”
​He cracks open the can, taking a sip and smiling benignly at me. His
words fill me with happiness and a simultaneous feeling of dread. I
can’t go on a date with him or hold his hand in public, so if he’s
looking for a normal relationship, he probably won’t find it with me.
A memory of Troy and Sam pops into my mind, all of us sitting in my
backyard and Sam leaning over to pull a blushing Troy in for a kiss,
not even caring who might be watching. I can’t do that; I can’t
fucking do that.
​“Here, you mean, right?” I clarify. “You want to spend some time
together here?”
​“Here, my place, wherever. You’re the important part in that
equation, not the location.”
​If the counter wasn’t holding me up, I don’t think I could have
remained standing. How the hell do you respond to that? “Oh, okay
then.” I reply, because I’m known for my eloquence.
​“Okay.” He repeats, reaching a hand out toward where mine is flat
on the counter. He swings it wide at the last moment, though, and I
realize sadly that he doesn’t ever touch me unless I initiate it.
Admittedly, this is what I usually prefer, but it somehow feels like a
dreadful loss where Nigel is concerned.
“​ You can come over whenever you want. I like having you here.” The
timer goes off on the oven and I scramble to pull the pan out,
grateful to have something useful to do. I watch as Nigel moves over
toward the cupboard I pulled the dishes from last time, grabbing two
plates and laying them on the counter.
​We continue moving around the kitchen like that, me offering gentle
direction whenever he doesn’t know where something is located,
and soon enough we are sitting down to eat. He sits in the same
spot as last time, but scoots his chair incrementally closer to mine.
He leans down toward the plate, inhaling, and groans in a way that
sends a new round of nerves shooting through my extremities.
​“This smells amazing.” He tells me.
​“Sorry it’s not fresh. I don’t usually serve guests leftovers.” I laugh, a
little sheepishly, wondering if the chicken is going to be dry. Maybe I
should try mine first before he takes a bite.
​“You could serve me dog food and I wouldn’t care.” He says, bluntly,
and I stare at him. “Since I just received an open-ended invitation,
though, and I mean to capitalize on it, we probably do need to come
to some arrangement.”
​I have no idea what that means. “What?”
​“I’m getting free food. What do you get?”
​“You.” He stops, fork midway to his mouth, eyes hard on mine. It
was the wrong thing to say, evidently, and I scramble for a way to
backtrack. “I mean… I’m not implying anything, I just meant that I
like your company.”
​He sets the fork down on his plate, resting his hand on the table and
regarding me. He opens and closes his mouth twice before he
actually starts speaking. “I meant what I said earlier, about wanting
to see more of you outside of work. And if you just want to be
friends, that works for me…but what I really want is to date you. I
want to start over and treat you the way I should have treated you
six years ago.”
​What I really want is to date you. I try very hard to keep my
features neutral while I formulate a response. I don’t know that I
can explain to him why I can’t have an open relationship without
making it seem like it’s him I’m ashamed of.
“​ I’m not ready to come out, yet.” I whisper, tacking on the yet even
though I doubt I’ll ever be ready.
​“Neither am I.” He shrugs, still maintaining a casualness that I envy.
“We can keep this between us, Corwin. Nothing has to leave this
house unless we want it to.”
​I relax, slightly. Nigel picks up his silverware again, finally popping
that bite of food in his mouth. He groans again and my toes curl
against the hardwood floor. Apparently, the chicken isn’t dry.
​“Thanks.” I look down at my plate, unsure if my stomach is settled
enough to eat anything. Going to bed hungry after a game isn’t an
option, though, so I give it a try. Throwing up wouldn’t be the
weirdest thing I’ve done in front of him anyway.
​We apply ourselves to eating, with Nigel going back for seconds
before I even finish my first serving. When he slides back into his
seat his knee knocks against mine. “Hey, can I ask you something?”
​I nod, mouth full of salad.
​“Why does Lawson look at me like I kicked his puppy?”
​This startles a laugh out of me, and Nigel’s eyes light up in response,
a broad grin stretching over his face. “Well, he doesn’t like you very
much.” I admit, and laugh again when he looks crestfallen.
​“Why?”
​“I mean…you’re kind of a dick.”
​He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his broad chest,
considering this. “Offended.” He announces, and another peal of
laughter escapes me. He beams, not looking the slightest bit
offended.
​“On the ice, I mean. The way you talk shit and…showboat…it sort of
drives him nuts.”
​“Well, that’s kind of the point. Piss the other team off enough that
they make stupid mistakes.” He shrugs. “I’ll have to win him over. He
seems like a good guy.”
​“He’s the best.” I say, confidently. “And I wouldn’t worry about it,
you’re going to win Lawson over just by the way you treat Troy. He
loves him.”
​“You say that like there are people in the world who don’t love Troy.”
​ his time when I walk Nigel to the door, I don’t bother with the
T
entryway light, instead allowing the backlighting from the kitchen
and dining area to illuminate the hall. He puts on his shoes, thanks
me for dinner, and reaches for the door; I stop him with a hand on
the forearm, his gaze immediately locking onto mine. I didn’t even
mean to do it, but now that I did, I realize I don’t want to let him
leave with anything less than last time. Pitiful as it is, I can’t handle
anything more than a hug, not yet having worked myself up beyond
that.
​I use my grip on his arm to pull him toward me, and he steps up
with no resistance, wrapping his arms around me and drawing them
tight. He’s gripping me harder than last time, as though more
confident that I won’t pull away; god, I want to kiss him. I should
kiss him—pull back just enough to see him, maybe cup his face the
way he did to mine all those years ago. I could do it.
​He stands so still in my arms, the only movement coming from the
expansion of his rib cage beneath my hands. His face is turned into
my hair, breath tickling the top of my ear every time he exhales. I
slide my hand up his back, feeling daring. There’s no way he can’t
feel my heart pounding right now, pressed close as we are, but he
remains stationary so I keep going until my fingertips touch the bare
skin of his neck.
It feels easy, like this, with the lights low and my face
pressed into his shoulder. Maybe this is how it could always be. I
skim my hand up the rest of the way until my fingers sink into his
hair, enjoying the way it feels against my skin. He sighs against my
temple, and my heart kicks up a notch. I lean back a bit, Nigel
immediately loosening his arms as he misinterprets this as me
wanting him to let go. My own tighten in response, and I slide a
hand down to rest on his shoulder.
Before I completely lose my nerve, I lean in and press my
lips to his cheek. It’s not the same as actually kissing him, and not
nearly enough, but it’s something.
 Nigel
I slide up to Troy, slamming him into the boards in a
celebratory hug.
“That shit’s going to make the highlight reel.” I tell him.
“Fucking right.” Monroe skates up, piling against us and
knocking my helmet into the glass. The crowd is subdued, seeing as
it’s mainly Minnesota fans and it’s their goalie that Troy just
embarrassed with that dangle.
The score is 2-0 in favor of us, Monroe and Troy both
putting one on the board, and with only a handful of minutes left on
the clock it seems like Lawson is headed for another notch on his
shutout belt. As we skate back toward the bench, Corwin bumps his
shoulder against mine and I grin around my mouthguard. Reserved
as he is, that’s practically the same as him holding my hand.
Less than a minute left in the game, and Corwin is hurtling
down the ice; I watch him fake out the defensemen with footwork
that makes my own knees groan in protest. The goalie is too focused
on him, though, clearly expecting him to shoot, so instead he drops
the puck to me seconds before he’s checked into the boards. I send
a slapshot into the wide-open net, lamp lighting up just seconds
before the final buzzer.
It’s a jovial crew that heads back to the hotel, bus ringing
with happiness. Lawson is trying to organize everyone into going
out, which is proving to be a difficult task in Minnesota as there
aren’t any bars within walking distance.
“What the hell else is there to do here but drink?” Lawson
mutters angrily.
In the end, cabs are arranged and everyone heads upstairs
to change, Coach shouting warnings about the early flight tomorrow
and curfew for the rookies. Troy, who’s walking beside me, pulls his
beanie off in a haphazard way that leaves his damp hair sticking
straight up. It’s adorable, and I see a teenage girl openly ogle him as
we walk through the lobby; he’s smiling down at his phone,
oblivious.
 “Did Sam watch the game?”
“Yeah.” He smiles at me. “He said nice goal, but mine was
better.”
I roll my eyes, pressing the up arrow at the elevator bank.
Troy motions toward the stairwell and I look at him sideways. “Did
we not just play an entire hockey game?”
We’re joined by Lawson and Corwin, and I only allow
myself a fleeting look at Corwin before I turn away. He’s wearing a
navy-blue suit that makes his eyes even brighter, contrasting starkly
with the rich brown of his hair. I can smell his aftershave, the scent
lingering in the collar of his shirt long after it’s been washed off his
skin. I stand next to him inside the elevator, stupidly grateful that
four large hockey players limits the space and our shoulders are
pressed together.
“You in for tonight, guys?” Lawson turns, putting his back
to the corner so he can see everyone.
“Rain check.” Corwin says, and Troy looks up, sliding his
phone into his pocket.
“Same here. I’m going to FaceTime Sam.”
Lawson nods, not surprised by either of these answers. I
stay quiet, knowing the question wasn’t meant for me. He looks at
me. “And you, Saint?”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “That’s alright, I’ll probably call it
an early night.”
“Come on.” He says, reaching out to tap his fingers against
my upper arm. “We’ve got to celebrate that goal, and this bar is
hosting ladies night tonight so even someone as ugly as you should
be able to find a date.”
Fuck. I should go, particularly since it’s Lawson inviting me,
and he’s close friends with Corwin. I want him to like me so that
down the road it’s not a big deal when he finds out about us,
hopefully. But what I don’t want is to spend the night pretending to
be interested in chasing women; this time last year I would have
been all for it, but now I just want one person. And that person will
be in this hotel, probably wondering if I’m out trying to get laid.
Another random document with
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led him to forsake. Having returned to her as a babe, and lain at
suck at the brown breasts of the sweet savage, she caresses him
and croons her strange songs in his ears; and to give him pleasure
and sustenance—because the Warrior whom she has long mourned
as lost has ever been the favourite among all her children—she
whispers to him as he lies again in her bosom that he is indeed
divine.
Girt by this forgiveness, and clad in the valour of his divinity once
again, a new and ampler strength is given to the Warrior’s right
hand. He learns for the first time in what manner to use his Sword.
Yet no sooner does he learn so to do than he understands how
Earth, his mother, has deceived him, in order that she may give
pleasure to the favourite among all her children, who has returned to
lie at her brown breasts. And the Warrior blesses her for the
deception, as otherwise he could never have received the strength in
his right hand; and without that strength he could not have learned to
use the sword of his reason. The poem closes in the exaltation of an
infinite pity and tenderness, for the Warrior, blind and spent and
weak, with the Sword all broken and jagged upon his knees, has had
his inquiries answered, and ceasing to struggle and to resent, in his
concern for all his brothers who have not yet learned to use their
swords, he defends their amazing formulas and shibboleths and
extraordinary self-deceptions, whereby they seek to acquire the
strength so to do. And in a passage of tender irony that has no
parallel he entreats his poor brothers to continue to deceive
themselves; and the Warrior concludes with an invocation to Earth,
his mother, for her loving and wise deception, whereby the proudest
of her sons has come to lie at peace.
As the white-haired man continued to read the appreciation of the
poem, which he himself had wrought, thereby re-enacting the
deception of the Mother of the Warrior-Soul, he revealed to the dying
poet how his work in all the wonderful assemblance of its qualities
surpassed any other that had been given to the world. He appraised
the metre which only the highest inspiration would have dared to
employ; he appraised the miraculous blend of gravity, sonority,
sweetness, purity; the ever-gathering range and power of those
mighty cadences, which swept the whole gamut of the emotions as
though they were the strings of a lyre. He showed how the people of
unborn ages would be able to derive stimulus and sanction for their
labours; how the poet’s divine simplicity was such that he who ran
might read; how the official “souls” who infest the groves of Academe
would be able to cherish it for its “art”; how the humblest street-
persons who walked the streets of the great city would be able to
cherish it for its truth. This epic of Man the Warrior ever trampling the
brakes of the Eternal Forest, cutting out the path with the Sword in
his right hand in the fruitless search for that which will reconcile him
to his partial vision, with the nobly pitiful irony of its conclusion that in
the present stage of the Warrior’s development the reconciliation
must be sought by compromise—this epic had in its austere mingling
together of those elements of tragedy which purge man’s nature with
the healing and co-ordinating properties which reconcile diverse and
conflicting factors of experience with the primal belief of Man
Himself, a universal power which had been given to no other poet in
the modern or the ancient world. And the old man concluded with the
prophecy that when “Civilization” itself had sunk to a mere shibboleth
of the remote age of “Reason,” the half-divine, half-barbarous music
of the unknown poet of the Reconciliation, would prove the only via
media between the epoch of ampler vision and that fantastic
shadowography of the long ago when Man seemed other than He
was.
Throughout the reading of this appraisement of his labours, the
blind-eyed poet seemed to vibrate with every word that came upon
his ears. As each phrase uttered by that thin, high, quavering voice
addressed the entranced being of the poet, the frail and broken form
seemed to sway in unison therewith; and the secret and beautiful
smile lurking within the hollows of the cheeks seemed to illuminate
even the sightless eyes, so that poor Dodson, who sat listening
faintly to the old man’s words, was tortured continually by the illusion
that the sight had returned to the eyes of his dying friend.
As the old man, never failing to give expression to his own personal
vindication of that which the poet had wrought, won nearer and
nearer towards the end, the dying man was heard to murmur,
“Courage, Achilles! Courage, Achilles!” for he seemed almost to fear
that consciousness would forsake him before he could realize his
own apotheosis to the full.
When the old man in a kind of triumph and defiance had come to the
end of his task, the radiance upon the poet’s face was starlike in its
lustre.
“Oh, oh, he can see! he can see!” muttered Dodson, in a wild
consternation. “He has the sight in his eyes.”
The poet had stretched forth his weak left hand as though in quest of
something.
He shaped a phrase with his lips, which Dodson had not the power
to understand.
“What does he say?” cried Dodson wildly.
However, the white-haired man appeared to understand. He took
from the table not the carefully written pages from which he had
been reading, but the threepenny reporter’s notebook in which
Dodson’s hastily pencilled criticism had been scribbled. To Dodson’s
profound wonder the old man carried this over to where the poet lay
and placed it in the outstretched left hand. But the hand had not the
power to hold it now.
The poet was heard to mutter some inaudible words.
The old man bore the somewhat unclean threepenny reporter’s
notebook, with its dilapidated green cover, to the lips of the poet,
who pressed them upon it with a half-joyful gesture. In the act he had
ceased to breathe.
It was left to poor Dodson to discover that the act of the divine
clemency had, after many days, been extended to the Warrior-Soul.
The old man was still holding the threepenny reporter’s notebook to
the lips of the mighty dead, when Dodson tore it from his hand.
Clutching it convulsively the young man ran forth of the room and
headlong through the shop. Bare-headed, wild-eyed he reached the
frost-bound, fog-engirdled darkness of the January streets. As he ran
up one street and down another, not knowing nor desiring to know
whither he was bound, yet with that in his clutch ever pressed to his
own white lips, he cried out, “Oh Luney, Luney, I wish now I had
never known you!”
 LIX
In the course of the afternoon of the following day, the old man, as
he was clearing away a quantity of débris that choked the fire-grate
in the little room, heard a tap upon the closed shutters of the shop.
Supposing it to proceed from the hand of that blind agent of
providence to whom the world was so much indebted, he left his
occupation and went forth to open the door.
Upon the threshold of the shop he discovered an elderly, grizzled,
grey-bearded man, a total stranger to him. The face of the stranger
was of great resolution.
No sooner had the old man opened the door of the shop and beheld
this unexpected appearance, than the man upon the threshold
looked into his eyes. Suddenly he swept the hat from his head, and
his grey hairs fluttered in the icy January wind.
“I think, sir,” he said in a harsh, strange accent, which yet was that of
awe, “I think, sir, I stand in the presence of the poet.”
The old man recoiled a step from his visitor in mute surprise.
“Forgive me, sir,” said his visitor, “forgive the importunity of the
vulgar, but I am hardly to blame. I have come all the way from
Aberdeen to look upon the poet. You see, I have been a reviewer of
books for the Caledonian Journal for fifty years, but a month ago I
received a book from which my pen has refrained. But I have not
been able to refrain my eyes from its author. To-day, upon my arrival
from Aberdeen, I went direct to the publishers, who at first even
denied an acquaintance with the poet’s name, but ultimately I found
a young man in their office who sent me here.”
“The poet is not I,” said the old man humbly.
The visitor appeared surprised and incredulous.
“If you are not the poet, sir,” he said, “I am sure you are a near
kinsman.”
The old man peered at the grim features of his visitor with his half-
blind eyes. “You appear to be simple and gentle,” he said softly.
“Perhaps you will follow.”
The old man led his visitor into the shop, into the little room, which
was now deserted, and thence up the stairs, into the small chamber
lighted with dim candles, in which the poet lay.
As soon as the visitor beheld that which was therein contained, he
sank to his knees by its side. He remained in that attitude a long
while.
When he arose the aged man was gazing upon him with his half-
blind eyes. They confronted one another like a pair of children.
Suddenly the visitor leaned across the bed in an act of further
homage to the lifeless clay.
“Why do you do that?” said the white-haired man at his side.
“Why do I do this?” said the other, and his powerful spreading
northern speech appeared to strike the walls of the tiny chamber.
“Why do I do this? I am afraid, sir, it must be left to my great great
grandchildren to answer your question.”
THE END

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