Chapter Nine

ALEX LEAVES THE next day.

He waits until the last possible minute because, of course, he does. But by 8:00 p.m., Alex has been smuggled out an employee exit, taken to the airport, and flown back to Houston on a chartered plane just for him.

Because that’s the kind of thing a multimillionaire can do when they’re hiding from the media.

It’s all very cloak-and-dagger according to the occasional phone updates Alex gives him, and Eli is disappointed he misses it. However, he’s not ready to leave the hospital yet. Getting his catheter taken out, submitting himself to an endless battery of tests, and relearning how to walk with his new (old?) balance issues takes precedence.

The good news is that his mother prepared for the possibility his balance would be a problem again and brought Hawk’s original mobility harness with her from Alabama. So Eli is strolling a slow, wobbly, circuit of the ward—leaning heavily on Hawk but doing better than the doctor anticipated—by the time Alex calls to tell him he’s home and half the Hell Hounds were waiting in the lobby of Alex’s building when he got there. Alex had told Kuzy and Jeff about his flight plans, and one of them is, apparently, incapable of keeping a secret.

Eli’s money is on Kuzy.

Eli tells Alex to see to his team and returns his attention to completing a second lap of the ward. If he can do three circuits and pass a memory test the following morning, the doctor said he could leave. And Alex has already booked him a ticket to Houston for that afternoon because Alex views everything as a competition, and obviously, he thinks Eli is going to win. He’s also booked Eli’s mother a ticket back to Alabama, and Eli hasn’t checked, but he’s going to go ahead and assume they’re both first class. He’s a little too overwhelmed with everything to care, though. God knows his parents are going to have even more medical bills to pay now, so at this point, Eli will let Alex buy his mamá as many flights as he wants.

Eli takes a break at the nurses’ station to surreptitiously listen to the TV. Of course they have it turned to some sports channel, where they keep interrupting actual sports news to let large men stuffed into suits gleefully rehash what little they know about Alex and Eli’s relationship every half hour. They’ve only added two pieces of information since his last pass by the desk.

The first is that someone (unsurprisingly) noticed that a good portion of the Hell Hounds roster was camped in the lobby of Alex’s building, and shortly after they congregated there, they were escorted upstairs by concierge. So the hypothesis is that Alex is home.

The second new bit is that Hell Hounds management confirmed Alex would play in the home game against Arizona the following day.

The newscasters present the fact that Alex has likely returned to Houston as if it is world-altering news. They then return to familiar waters—Eli’s YouTube channel and Alex’s troubled past.

Eli rolls his eyes and heads back to his room.

Finding it empty, Eli takes the opportunity to call Cody back for the fourth time that day.

They’ve been playing phone tag since 10:00 a.m., when the doctor said he could have his phone back as long as he only used it for calls. Cody’s voicemails each time they miss each other have gotten progressively more bitchy.

“About time,” Cody mutters in lieu of ‘hello.’ “How many tests have they dragged you to today?”

“A lot,” Eli confirms. “Hi.”

“Hi. I’m going to try really hard not to cry on you, but it might happen anyway, fair warning.”

“Noted.”

“Okay, so,” Cody says, more exhalation than words, “how are you? Physically. Mentally. Spiritually.”

“Geographically? Ecumenically?”

“Shut up, I’m serious.”

“I’m okay. My balance is fucked again. They said it should probably resolve a lot quicker this time around, but it’s still pretty shitty to feel like I’ve regressed so far. At least Hawk hasn’t forgotten how to brace me.”

“How’s your head?”

“Pissed. Constant headache. All the standard vision issues. No migraines or aphasia, though, and no seizures since.”

“Good.” Cody pauses. “Have you seen the video?”

“Oh. You mean the one where my romantic fool of a boyfriend outed himself in full Hallmark Fashion so he could sit tearfully at my hospital bedside?”

“Yes,” Cody says dryly. “That video.”

“I have.”

“Were you able to see what the internet is saying, or do I need to give you the rundown?”

“Alex did some investigational research for me last night, but I’d be interested in your one-minute takeaway.”

“One minute? That’s cruel, Elijah. Well. Let’s see. General population, I’d say, is about 80 percent supportive, 20 percent neolithic simpletons. Hockey world, probably more like a 60–40 split, unfortunately. Maybe as good as 70–30? And lots of support from players and franchises on Twitter and Instagram—whoever runs the You Can Play social media accounts is fully in love with you, by the way. But even players who I thought were Alex’s mortal enemies are tweeting nice things.”

Cody makes a noise that’s the verbal equivalent of a shrug. “Now, granted, this is all early stages. The real test is how things go after Alex starts playing again. Lip service is all well and good, but if he’s targeted on the ice, and if the refs don’t call it— But once you two go on a press tour and delight the free world, maybe things will shift more in your favor.”

“Oh my god, Cody. We’re not going to start giving interviews.”

“Of course you will. I’ll bet you—I’ll bet you my stand mixer one or both of you have invitations with talking heads within the next week. This is a big deal, Elijah. And frankly, y’all have a sickeningly good meet-cute story.”

“I don’t need your stand mixer; I have my own, now. Besides, it’s not like James wouldn’t just buy you another one, so that’s not really high stakes.”

Cody is strangely silent.

Eli glances down to see if the call is still connected. “Hey. Did I lose you?”

“No, I’m here. You think James got me the mixer?”

Eli resists the urge to roll his eyes only because he knows it would hurt. “Yes,” he says patiently. “Of course James got you the mixer.”

“But he didn’t even like me then. If anything, he hated me!”

“James Petrov has never hated you. The man called Alex within hours of me being hurt to talk logistics about flying out with you—missing a game so he could fly out with you—to make sure you were taken care of while you were so worried about me.”

“We’re teammates,” Cody says. “James would do that for any of us.” But he sounds uncertain.

Eli is very tempted to just tell him James is probably in love with him but manfully resists. “Is that honestly all you two are?” he asks. “Honestly.”

Cody sighs, all in a rush, and it sounds as if maybe he’s pacing. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think— The night we found out you were hurt, I went to the house to make biscuits and gravy because I needed some comfort food—”

“Of course you did.”

“And then it got late, and I used up all the butter and decided around 1:00 a.m. I needed to just go get on a plane. But James talked me into waiting until morning and said I shouldn’t walk across campus so late with it snowing, so he said I could stay. And we could sleep in his bed together. Like he and Muzz do sometimes, but—”

After the surge of words, the sudden silence is jarring.

“But what?”

“There was definitely cuddling. He was holding me. And the bed is small, so maybe that was necessary. But he did this thing, where he was sort of rubbing his thumb up and down the back of my neck, and it really didn’t feel platonic. But then the next morning, he was back to his normal ‘Griggs, we’re going for a run; personal tragedies are no excuse for losing muscle tone.’ And I’m pretty sure he’s been avoiding me since Alex called and told us you woke up, so…” Cody sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe your whole—”

Eli can tell that Cody is gesturing.

“—thing is just throwing me off.”

“My whole what?”

“I mean, statistically speaking, it’s really unlikely two gay kids from Alabama will fall in love with professional hockey players and both have it…actually work out. And you’re kind of cornering the market there.”

“James isn’t a professional hockey player,” Eli points out.

“Yet,” Cody says darkly.

Which—point.

“I keep reminding myself,” Cody continues, “that just because you’ve managed a happy ending with your originally unrequited hockey crush doesn’t mean I’m going to get one too.”

“Cody.”

“It’s fine. I’m sorry. I know I’m being dramatic.”

“Cody, seriously.”

“But let’s get back to you!” he says faux cheerfully. “Tell me about how ridiculous Alex has been, please. I need some humor in my life.”

“Fine,” Eli says. “I’ll drop it. But just do me a favor. The next time y’all have a kegger and you get table-dancing-drunk? Pay attention to where James is. And the way he looks at you. And the way he doesn’t stop looking at you. Okay?”

Cody doesn’t say anything for several seconds, then, “Really?”

“Really.”

“Huh.”

*

ELI’S MOM GETS back from the hotel, dragging her carry-on and talking on the phone with a lilt to her Spanish that can only mean Abuela. She tosses Eli her little travel bottle of oil and nudges Hawk to one side so she can sit in front of Eli on the bed, then slaps absently at his legs so he’ll sit up.

He dutifully does so. Using the dropper to make a little pool in the cup of his hand, he then rubs his palms together.

She tips her head back, still a little damp from her shower, and he starts to work the oil into her scalp with the pads of his fingers. It’s familiar, something they’ve been doing since he was ten and so full of excess energy she decided to—in her own words—put his fidgeting to use before he put her in an early grave. They tried to twist his hair one year, but his curls have never been tight like hers. She nearly put him in an early grave because he couldn’t sit still for more than a few minutes, so that idea was discarded rather quickly. But he still likes helping her with her hair; it’s something they can do together without talking or arguing, as is often the case, so that’s nice too.

Apparently, tonight they will be talking, though. When she hangs up the phone, she pats his knee in thanks and says, “So. Be honest with me. Do you want to take a semester off and come home? How are you feeling?”

He’s feeling as if she purposely engineered this so she wouldn’t have to look at him while they’re talking about Serious Things.

“No,” he says. And it’s the truth. “I’m not really worried. Since the semester just started, I’m still in the drop window if I need to lighten my course load. And Alex would be willing to help if I need it.”

“Yes, but will you ask for help?”

He rubs, maybe a little harder than necessary, at the crown of her head.

“Yes.”

“Well,” she says, sighing. “I don’t doubt that Alex will try. That boy is…certainly something.”

She twists one of her locks absently at the root, pressing the fluffy little baby hairs into place. “He loves you. I don’t know if he’s told you yet, but he does.”

“He has.”

Mamá tips her head back, one eyebrow raised at him, waiting.

He pushes her upright again. “I love him too.”

“Do you.”

It’s not really a question.

“He’s a good boy,” she says, which is the closest he’s going to get to a ringing endorsement. “Maybe a little rough around the edges—”

And, yeah, she’s definitely been listening to some of the news stories talking about Alex’s past exploits.

“—but a good boy. Although,” she pauses, clearly choosing her words. “He does not have the best, hm, impulse control, I’ve noticed.”

Eli isn’t sure where she’s going with this.

“So,” she continues. “I expect it to be a long, long, engagement if he comes anywhere near you with a ring within the next year.”

Eli manfully does not choke on his own spit.

He focuses on adding a little more oil to his fingertips.

“We’re talking about that in April.”

“You’re talking about rings in April?” She turns to look at him. “Elijah. I was joking. You are eighteen—” He can tell she’s about to dissolve into Spanish because her face is doing the “I can’t deal with you in English anymore” thing, so he really needs to stop that line of thought.

“No!” Eli says. “I mean, we talked about how we were moving a little fast, maybe, and that we should wait to really start talking about the future until we’ve been together longer. So we’re going to talk about things in April.”

“Things,” she repeats flatly.

She mutters something about rich hockey gringos with stupid heart eyes. “I thought you said you were moving slow at Christmas. It’s been a month.”

“I guess we, uh, sped up?”

She sighs. She turns away from him, nudging his knee so he’ll get back to work. “This isn’t the kind of thing I ever thought I would need to prepare for as a parent.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” she says wryly. “The gay thing, I could research, and I did. But I somehow doubt there are books about how to be supportive when your son is dating the first-ever out NHL player. Especially when that NHL player is—”

“Alexander Price,” Eli supplies.

He only barely manages saying it without the ‘fucking’ in the middle.

“Yes,” she agrees.

“Well,” he says, and it’s stilted because they don’t do this. “You’re, um, doing a pretty good job so far?”

She pats his knee again.

“And,” he says. “About before. Yesterday. I didn’t— I was angry, and I didn’t mean what I said. I’m sorry.”

“I know you are, baby.”

They lapse into silence, and he focuses on the little spaces behind her ears, breathing in jojoba and argan. If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend he’s thirteen again and sitting on the couch at home.

He clears his throat. “I, uh, I really appreciate all the sacrifices you and Papá made the first time I was hurt. And I know I wasn’t very nice when I was recovering then, so…I’m sorry for that too. And you were great, have been great, about everything with Alex. And you did research when I came out—a lot of kids don’t have that. So…thank you.”

She glances over her shoulder at him, eyes wide. “Are you talking about feelings with me, Elijah?” And the disbelief is fair.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Since when do you do that?”

“Alex makes me, sometimes. It’s healthy.”

“Well,” she says, and good lord, they are just as bad as each other. “That’s—good. I—you know your father and I would do anything for you. We—love you very much.” She clears her throat. “Even when you don’t call.”

Eli laughs a little, which was probably her intention.

“So,” she says. “Do you…want to talk about feelings some more?”

“Nope.”

“Do you want to see if there’s anything on TV?”

“Please.”