Page 33 of From Coast to Coast
“I’ve never, in my entire life, had to work so hard to convince someone to sleep with me.”
“Oh my god,” I mumble, rubbing a finger into my temple. “I’m probably going to sound like an asshole for saying this, but I don’t usually get involved with guys who are exploring their sexuality like you are. I’m all for making the world gayer than it already is, but the bi-curious thing can be tough for someone like me who knows exactly what they like and want.”
“I can see that. But how about this—you and I put on our big-boy pants and actually communicate. If something isn’t working, we say it. If somethingisworking, we definitely say it. Friends with benefits only works if everyone is enjoying themselves. And as much as I want to do this with you, I don’t want to make your life harder.”
“I want to make a joke about things beinghard, but I recognize we’re having a serious conversation and I need to act like an adult,” I say, and he laughs as though I really did tell a dick joke. “I get what you’re saying though. And Imeant what I said earlier, about being able to provide a safe environment for you to figure yourself out. I just don’t want to end up in HR if you get cold feet.”
Remy sends me a mildly offended look. “I would never.”
“You can’t promise that, you know you can’t. But as long as we do that communicating thing you were talking about, we should be okay.”
“Yeah, my ex-wife and my divorce lawyer both tell me communication is the secret to a successful relationship,” he says seriously. Rolling my eyes, I go to refill our water glass. Remy shifts around the island so that he’s facing me, still seated on the marble top. “So, how do we do this? Teach me your ways, Gay Master.”
“Please don’t make me regret this,” I plead, and he laughs, holding out a hand for the water glass and taking a big gulp. He’s probably thirsty from all that dancing. All that dancing with a stranger. “Can we agree to one thing, though?”
“What’s that?”
“For as long as this is going on, it’s just us. I don’t want to sleep with multiple people at the same time, and I’d strongly prefer if you didn’t either. I’m not asking for this to be a serious relationship or anything, but…but I don’t want to compete with anyone, either.”
“Done,” Remy says the moment I stop talking. “Anything else?”
“No, I guess that’s it. What about you?”
“I don’t think I have anything to add.” He stops and ponders for a second before shrugging. “I’m a pretty chill guy.”
I make the shaka sign with my right hand and waggle it.He smiles and shoves me so hard I have to take a step backward.
“Fuck off,” he says, but then rolls his eyes and grins in a self-deprecating way. “But yeah, you’re right. Classic surfer dude, I know. I’m pretty much a walking stereotype.”
“Mm,” I hum, eyeing all the tan skin that’s on display around the white tank top. “I’m not complaining.”
“You better not fall in love with me,” he warns, hopping off of the counter and brushing up against me. “One marriage was enough for me, I won’t do it again.”
“Oh, I make no promises about that,” I laugh, leaning down and giving him a quick peck. He makes a disgruntled noise when I pull away and take a step out of the kitchen. “I already told you I don’t do casual. I’ll be catching feelings before you know it.”
“Hey!” he calls, as I wave a hand over my shoulder on my way to my bedroom.
“Goodnight, Remy,” I yell back, and smile to myself when I hear him grumble behind me.
Gently closing my bedroom door, I’m still fighting the smile as I prepare for bed. As much as I want to invite Remy into my bed for a little sexual exploration, I know it’s better if we wait. We’re going to be blurring too many lines as it is. If he’s living here while we’re fucking around, it’s only going to make things harder. As many layers of separation as we can get, the better. I wasn’t kidding when I warned him about catching feelings—I know myself, and I’m already starting to know Remy. All it will take is a gentle shove to have me stumbling into love with him.
It’s time to dig in my heels.
Remy throwshimself into moving out of my house as soon as possible, but is still living with me a week later. Even though I didn’t exactly spell it out that way, it’s clear he understands my hesitance to start any sort of relationship with him beyond friendship while he’s still living with me. Hence his frantic search for a lease to sign. Unfortunately, the apartment complex he’d been looking at doesn’t have a furnished opening until December.
I’d wondered if the delay would curb Remy’s enthusiasm, but, if anything, the opposite has been true. The way he looks at me has gone from friendly to heated to downright erotic. If it was possible to undress someone with their eyes, I would never have clothes on. It would be funny if it didn’t make my own body burn with desire. He has no right to look the way he does and then look atmethe way he does.
We’re seated next to each other in the Salt Lake City locker rooms, waiting for Coach to call the lines for our first regular season game against them. I haven’t experienced nerves this potent since my rookie year, yet I’m sitting here, stomach filled with butterflies and leg bouncing. Closing my eyes, I breathe a massive sigh of relief when I’m paired with Conor Rikkens. He’s a solid defenseman and we’ve played together for the last three years—he catches my eye and up-nods from across the room. I return it with a small smile attached.Maybe this game won’t be a complete clusterfuck, after all.
Remy presses his shoulder to mine, leaning heavily against me as we wait to take the ice. The contact goes unnoticed by our teammates, packed as we are on the narrow benches with our bulky pads. I’m grateful for it, anyway. He’ll be starting with Zolkov and Petterson, which, no matter that I’m not Petterson’s biggest fan, is a hell of a topline. Already, the nerves are dissipating and being replaced with excitement. I’m ready to get on the ice.
The game ends up being a slaughter from start to finish. Our forward lines, top to bottom, seem to find nothing but net, and Gordon saves all but two on thirty-seven shots. We end the game with a 7–2 win—one of which was put there by me. At the end of the game when we’re lining up to hug our goalie, Remy skates up behind me so close his chest is pressed hard against my back.
“You coming for my job, D-man?”
I look over my shoulder, already anticipating the shit-eating grin on his face. I don’t remark on the D-man comment, or the way he made it sound more sexual than any hockey term should be.
“Not sure one goal makes me a forward,” I tell him. He shrugs, skating up beside me and trying to throw his arm over my shoulder. It’s not easy, given I’m at least eight inches taller than him, but he makes it work and uses his grip to pull me into his side.