Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
I envied people who could choose sobriety. I knew guys who could say, “No, thanks. I’m not drinking tonight.” Just like that. I mean… Wow. That was not me. I was here white-knuckling it, hoping like hell this would get easier.
Update: It wasn’t easy at all. I stared at my ugly mug every morning and talked myself out of self-medicating. It was the same speech I gave my teammates in the heat of battle.
“You got this. It’s tough, but you’re tougher.”
What a bunch of crap. I wasn’t tough. I was desperate.
So desperate that I’d contacted my old therapist and set up a few online sessions. She said I needed tools and daily support.
“Go to meetings, Gus. There’s no shame in admitting you need help.”
I wasn’t sure about that. My mother definitely wouldn’t agree. My mom had pretty much had a cow the day I came out as bisexual. She couldn’t say the word without her lips twisting as if she’d smelled a skunk. To her, it was code for “hedonistic party lifestyle.” Adding a possible substance addiction to the list of labels she disapproved of would be icing on the cake and would probably cement my reputation as the family’s lost cause—a perpetual student and a has-been hockey player with no postcollege prospects.
Okay, see? Half of that wasn’t true. My mom could be demanding and relentless, but I knew she loved me. I was being a dick. And this self-hating BS that had become my new private pastime wasn’t a good look.
Needless to say, it was better all around if I spent my free time doing something positive—like helping Rafe. And so far, it was going well.
“No, that is the worst wingman advice I’ve ever heard,” Rafe huffed, pushing the arena door open. “Where is the creativity? Where’s the hook?”
I snorted. “You’re not getting fucking married. You’re going to have dinner at the diner.”
“The diner? Oh, hell no.” He shot a disgusted sideways glance at me before continuing down the corridor to the rink’s main entrance.
“What’s wrong with the diner? Great fries, great burgers.” I followed him inside, inhaling a gulp of refrigerated air as we took the stairs leading to the ice.
“Have you ever taken a date to the diner?”
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone on a date. Period. “I think so.”
“No wonder you’re single,” he mumbled, sliding onto an empty bench in the first row.
“Ha. Ha.”
I scanned the rink, noting a few individuals gliding along the periphery and two figure skaters on either end practicing complicated twirls and jumps. I’d played hockey for as long as I could remember and I was a damn good skater, but I wouldn’t even pretend to know how to spin without falling flat on my ass.
Rafe kicked his sneakers off and pulled on his skates, bending to lace them securely. “I don’t think this is a good idea anymore, and—”
“Cool it with the bad attitude, Rafey. Pro tip for the day…every meeting is an opportunity. You’re a nice guy under that porcupine suit. Show it. Do something simple like compliment Eli’s footwork.”
Rafe snorted. “That’s like telling someone you like the way they walk. Awkward.”
“It was an example. Think of something else or better yet, practice on me. Gimme a compliment.” I wiggled my fingers meaningfully, not quite hiding my grin at Rafe’s WTF expression.
He opened his mouth, shook his head, and sighed in reluctant acquiescence. “Okay. Um…”
The scrutinizing once-over was comically thorough.
“I’m waiting,” I singsonged.
“I like your hair. It’s…a nice color. Chestnut. I believe that’s the proper name.”
“Ouch. You really do suck at this.”
Rafe jabbed me with his elbow. “What do you suggest?”
“Use a light touch. Like this.” I struck a casual pose, propping my hand on the bench and leaning backward. “I heard this great song on my way to practice. It reminded me of you.”
He stared at me for a beat. “What’s the song?”
“Doesn’t matter. You skate away before he asks. Let him wonder.”
“Oooh! Right. Right. I thought you were speaking to me and—never mind.”
I grinned. “Are you blushing? ’Cause it’s a good sign if you are. Lemme see that face. C’mon.”
Rafe smacked my arm with a laugh. “You’re so annoying.”
“I know.” I took another glance at the ice. “Will Eli show up soon?”
“We both usually practice at this time, so…theoretically yes.”
“Okay, I’ll get out of your way.” I squeezed his shoulder, and damn…Rafe had muscles. And from this angle, his cheekbones were razor-sharp and his lips were pink and plump and— Whoa! No ogling the roommate. I coughed and stepped aside. “Use my line about the song…it’s a good one. You got this, Johnson.”
“Johannsen.”
“Right. I knew that.”
He shoved me away, but he was smiling when he did it.
I took that as a good sign.
“That was the first and last time I will ever take your advice.”
I lowered my sunglasses like a boss before pulling them off and grabbing a cart. “What did you do?”