Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 104498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
There’s still something he’s holding back. I’m sure of it.
“Can we hang out while we’re here?” I find myself asking.
Jet’s lips form a thin line. “We will be anyway. No doubt, you motley crew of athletes will be all competitive and grunty with each other and organize some stupid extreme sport to measure dick sizes without having to whip them out.”
“Have you met Talon and Miller? They’d whip theirs out for the sake of it. And then sword fight with them.”
Jet relents with a small smile. “Yeah, I can see that.”
“Besides, most of our contracts forbid us from partaking in dangerous off-season activities, so you won’t be subjected to extremism.” Although, I’m currently contract-less so I guess that doesn’t apply to me.
“Still, I’m sure we’ll find times where we’re hanging out by default,” Jet says.
Meaning, he doesn’t want to make time for me on his vacation. I guess I have to respect that.
I nod. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. For what happened between us.”
Jet stands. “That’s the problem. I wouldn’t take back what happened between us for anything.”
Wait, what?
“I would take back leaving you that next day. I’d take back telling you to get back together with your ex-boyfriend who, according to the guys, is a dickface. But most of all, I’d take back the way you looked at me once you found out who I was. And the way you treated me in Tampa. I don’t need a babysitter. Thanks.”
“That’s not what—”
“Goodnight, Caleb.”
He first-named me. There’s no coming back from that.
The sound of the Pacific Ocean crashing against the shoreline a few feet outside my cabin does nothing to lull me to sleep. I toss and turn all night, smelling nothing but coconut and some fruit I can’t place. The whole cabin smells like it, and while it’s nice on the nose, I can’t help wishing for the overpowering scent of Jet’s cologne which is a mix of sweet orange with a hint of cinnamon. Add in the subtle scent of sweat and it could be bottled and called Jet. No, Jay.
I hate the name Jay. Especially on him. He deserves a name that’s more unique. Jay doesn’t suit him.
Sleeplessness means I relive my conversation with Jet over and over, relive the night we hooked up, and then remember the harsh words I left him with the night in Tampa two years ago.
I don’t know why I have the need to clear the air between us, and I don’t know what else I can say other than what I’ve already said, but I want … shit, I don’t know what I want. I asked to hang out with him, but I don’t know what I meant by it. Do I want to go see the sights with him or have him naked in my bed?
Jet and I can’t have a thing. The guys would kill me.
But I know there’s no way I can stay away. He’s still the guy who changed my life. He’s still the one who gave me the courage to face my teammates and say two simple words with a weighted meaning that is so far from simple. “I’m gay.”
That’s all Jet.
He gave me courage before I’d even met him. I have to spend time with him while I have the chance.
I roll out of bed at the break of dawn and throw on some sweats to walk the hundred feet across the grass to Jet’s cabin. Only, when I step out onto my deck, I realize I’m about to go wake up a rock star who no doubt sleeps away most of the morning, and that’s not a good idea if I want him to forgive me.
I go back inside and grab my runners instead. A morning run will help get rid of the icky hungover feeling. Even though I stopped drinking last night when Jet turned up, add the few I did have to very little sleep, and I’m left seedy and gross this morning.
Where there was a breeze on the island last night, everything is calm this morning. As I take off running on the paved pathway that weaves in between all the cabins and the main house, my mind clears. For a brief moment in time, I’m at peace.
The path disappears on the other side of the small island and turns into beach. I slow down to a walk because the softness of the sand isn’t good for my knees.
Thirty-three isn’t old if you’re a normal person, but I’m a hockey player. I’m officially nearing the end of my career, and any small injury could mean it’s all over in a millisecond.
I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet. Part of me—mainly my achy joints—begs for it, but the part that’s only known hockey my whole life wants to hold on for as long as possible.