He shrugs. “I am doing what I want.”
My eyebrows knit together as I wait for him to clarify.
“I’m making you happy.”
Squish. That’s the noise my heart makes. Because it’s so fucking full of love it can no longer contain it all.
*
Dean
Real life is beckoning. I want to shoo it away and tell it to bother me later, but that’s not the way the world works. As much as I loved lying on the beach with my folks, and catching up with my siblings, and putting a smile on my girlfriend’s face by surprising her with dance lessons, it’s time to snap out of holiday mode and into life mode.
My first week back at campus is busier than ever, as hockey practice, classes, and coaching the Hurricanes eat up most of my time. Luckily, Allie is busy with rehearsals again, so she doesn’t complain that our sex life is pretty much a series of quickies this week.
On Saturday, the team loses another home game. Nobody is even saying the word “playoffs” anymore, because we all know it ain’t happening. Despite that, I keep working one-on-one with Hunter. No matter what happens this season (spoiler alert: nothing will happen), Hunter will still be playing for Briar next year, and hopefully serving as a team leader for the others.
Coach O’Shea, who’s been shockingly pleasant lately, signs off on an hour of extra ice time for us on Sunday night, which Hunter and I make good use of. The solo session goes well, and I drive home from the arena in a good mood. Since I don’t have an early practice tomorrow, Allie’s spending the night and I can’t wait to fuck my girlfriend. Really fuck her. I’m talking three straight hours of balls deep heaven, instead of the hurried trips to the bone zone we’ve been taking all week.
My head is down as I wander into the kitchen. I’m so focused on the task of checking if Allie texted that it takes a second to register that my roommates are sitting around the table. Even Tucker, who’s been AWOL since the new semester started. I don’t even bother teasing him about it anymore. It’s obvious he has a girlfriend. Or maybe a boyfriend? Fuck, he’s so secretive these days that nothing would surprise me.
“What’s up?” I ask absently.
Nobody says a word.
I tuck my phone in my pocket and glance around the table. Their stricken expressions make my heart beat faster.
The moisture I glimpse in Logan’s eyes makes it stop beating altogether.
“What’s going on?” I demand.
The eerie silence drags on. Logan scrubs his fist over his eyes.
Fucking hell. Now I’m worried. No, now I’m scared.
“Seriously, if someone doesn’t tell me what’s going on right this fucking second—”
“Coach called,” Garrett interrupts. His voice is low. Somber.
I wait for him to continue. My hands feel like two blocks of ice. And now they’re starting to shake.
“He just got off the phone with Patrick Deluca, and, uh…”
Okay, this is moving in a direction I didn’t expect. Pat Deluca is the coach of the football team. What the hell would he have to say to Coach Jensen?
Garrett sees my confusion and keeps talking. “I guess Deluca called him because he knows we’re friends with Beau—”
Beau? “This is about Maxwell?” I cut in. “What about him?”
Logan averts his gaze.
So does Tucker.
The only one with the balls to meet my eyes is Garrett, who exhales in a slow, unsteady rush before speaking.
“He…ah…died.”
30
Dean
My brother and I traveled around Europe the summer after I graduated high school. France, Italy, Spain, and we finished the trip in Germany and Austria. The latter is home to a massive ice cave that Nick insisted on seeing. I’ll admit, it was pretty fucking cool. The tour only lets you walk the first mile or so, which is covered in ice. Beyond that, the interlocking chambers and endless passageways were formed of limestone. Nick and I weren’t interested in one measly mile, so badasses that we are, we broke the rules and snuck away from the tour group.
We got lost. Hopelessly fucking lost, and to this day I still remember the suffocating feeling that came over me. The echo of our voices bouncing off the impossibly high walls. The cold breeze blowing through the cave. The footsteps of the tour guide who came to our rescue—we could hear those footsteps, clear as day, but it was impossible to figure out which direction they were coming from. The echoes fucked with our ears.
That’s how I feel now. I hear Garrett talking, but I can’t see him and I can’t be sure of what he’s saying. His voice is an echo. Bouncing off the walls and off my ears and just kinda…swirling around aimlessly.
My brain still can’t comprehend the first thing he said.
Beau died.
As in, he’s dead?
Beau is dead?
Beau Maxwell?
My friend Beau Maxwell?
“…on impact.”
My head snaps up. It’s like Garrett’s words are spitballs that he’s firing at the wall, and the last two finally stick.