It seems to be a common phrase with him. I have to get clarity. “What does that mean exactly?”
Panic flares behind his eyes, and I can see he’s struggling with words. In this moment I realize how much damage has been done to him. Prolonged, sustained physical and emotional abuse has a lasting impact.
So much finally makes sense now as I filter back to the first time he was on my table—and further back, to the night at the bar, where he was edgy and stressed over the way people kept bumping into him, and to the kiss in the closet when he wrapped my arms around his neck and told me to keep them there. That that was the real him.
I have the real him right here with me now, too. I have a broken boy who’s become a broken man, and as stupid and na?ve as it may be, I want to be part of what heals him.
“I want this. You and me. Us.” He skims my side with his hand, then wraps an arm around my waist.
God. Of all the relationship conversations I’ve had, this one has to be the most difficult. “So you want be exclusive?”
He swallows hard. “I don’t want there to be anyone else.”
“So when you’re away, you don’t want me to see other people?” I won’t take anything for granted.
His eyes flash with something dark. “Are you seeing anyone else right now?”
“No. And I don’t plan to. That’s not how I work.”
He swallows thickly. “Okay. That’s good.”
“But what about you?” At his questioning gaze I press. “What about the girls who hang out after the games?”
“The bunnies?” Lance asks, looking almost horrified.
“Yes. The bunnies.”
“They’re just there for hook ups.”
“And will you do that? Have you done that? Hooked up with them?”
Lance frowns. “No. Not since we’ve been together. Do you want me to?”
“Of course not.”
“Okay. Good. ’Cause I don’t want that. Not at all anymore.”
His relief and mine match. “I’m glad.”
“Miller, Randy, Waters, and Westinghouse all have girlfriends. Well, Violet’s married to Waters, and I don’t know what the fuck is going on with Westinghouse and his girl, but I hang out with them, so I can avoid the bunnies.”
“That’s good.”
“I won’t do anything to hurt you, Poppy. Okay?”
“Okay.” I hope he means it. My heart is making big plans for this man, even though my head is telling me to slow down.
“Can I take you up to bed now? I’m not gonna get to have your hands on me for almost a week, and I’m not gonna like that very much.”
“Then we should definitely go to bed.”
The hockey season moves into full swing, and in no time it’s mid-November. Lance is still a constant in my bed and on my couch. But those are really the only places I spend time with him.
In the weeks we’ve been seeing each other, he has yet to invite me to a game, or to his house, or out with his friends. We did go out for coffee once, at the same little dessert café we went to before. I wasn’t allowed to get tea because then it technically wouldn’t have counted as the second date I’d agreed to.
I try not to dwell on what all the seclusion means or doesn’t mean because I like having him around, and he continues to be sweet and doting. Meals and flowers have continued to arrive on a regular basis. And one day I left work to find new snow tires on my car because there was a ten-percent possibility of snow.
This is obviously a lot of thoughtfulness, but I’m starting to wonder about the parameters of this relationship. Have I become a secret he’s hiding? And if so, from who? DO NOT FUCKING REPLY hasn’t messaged again, at least not while I’ve been with him, and past relationships haven’t come up again when we talk.
Then someone else calls a few days before he’s scheduled for another away series, with unknown as the contact.
He doesn’t answer, but it makes him act sketchy. Just like when DNFR called before, he powers down his phone and distracts me with sex.
But I don’t forget how anxious that incoming call made him, despite how focused on my needs he becomes, zeroed in on what makes me feel good. When I put my hands on him, his groan is almost pained, and he holds my palms against his skin, as if he could fuse me to his body.
One night he shows up at my place with the makings of a black eye after a home game. I have an early morning, but he’s exceptionally needy in a way I haven’t experienced before. I’m almost scared of what it might mean.
We’re lying in my bed, me sprawled across his chest, because that’s where he seems to like me best after sex. Really any time we’re alone and prone, he prefers me to be tucked into his side or on top of him.
His breathing is even, but there’s tension in his body. His phone buzzes on the nightstand beside mine. I feel his head turn, but he doesn’t make a move to get it.
“Lance?”
He makes a sound, acknowledging me.
“Are you okay?”
A long pause follows before he finally says, “Aye.” But his tone belies the word.
I lift my head and find him staring at the ceiling. I skim his lips with my fingertips, and he turns toward me.
I keep my eyes on his as I kiss his shoulder. “What’s wrong, baby?”
The pet name is one I’ve used only a couple of times before, and only when it seems like something’s on his mind. Like now. His hand comes up to cover mine, and his eyes fall closed as he kisses my fingertips.
“Tomorrow would’ve been my brother’s twenty-first birthday,” he whispers.
His intensity and introspection make sense now. “I’m so sorry.”
“Me, too.” He plays with my fingers, sweeping them back and forth across his lips.
“Lance?”
“Mmm.”
“Can I ask what happened to him?”
He tenses for a moment, and his hand tightens around mine. But eventually he releases a breath, along with my fingers.
“I don’t like to talk about it all that much.”
“It must’ve been awful with him being so young. Was he sick?”
Lance shakes his head. “I killed him.”
It’s my turn to tense, but I don’t take my hand away, because I’m aware his words are intended to shock and make me withdraw. “What do you mean?”
“The last time I told someone about this, she used it to manipulate me.”
“You mean the complicated relationship?”
I get a small nod in reply.
“Manipulate you how?”
“She would use it against me. She made it worse.”
“She made what worse?” I don’t understand where he’s going with this, and I have all sorts of scenarios running through my head that don’t add up to the man taking up space in my bed and my heart.
“The guilt.” He eyes me warily. “It’s my fault he’s dead.”
Though I haven’t been to see him play in person, I’ve seen Lance on the ice. The TV does a great job showcasing the aggression he works hard to contain most of the time. I’ve also seen the lid pop off and all the pent-up anger explode out of him. It results in things like the black eye he’s currently sporting. I can spin my own ideas about what could’ve happened, but knowing Lance, his perception on this might be skewed.
“Can you explain that, please?” I ask.
Another long silence follows, and his breathing grows more anxious with every passing moment. I press my lips against his shoulder and shift so I can touch them to his neck, his cheek, his chin, and finally his lips.
“I just want to understand, Lance. I don’t want to use the information to cause you pain.”
He can’t look me in the eye, and I don’t push for it, knowing whatever he’s about to tell me must be hard.
“When I was a kid I used to play ball hockey with some guys after school. I always told my mum my brother and I had stayed for the after-school tutoring or math stuff or whatever, and she never checked, ’cause math was my thing.
“One afternoon I got a little caught up and didn’t realize how late it was, or maybe I ignored how tight time was getting. My mum was going through a bad phase—not sleeping all that well, probably drinking too much, maybe not taking the pills the doctors gave her. Plus, my dad was away on another business trip, so she was on us more. On me more.”