Page 18 of Second Shot

They don’t get mad at him though. If I wasn’t in such a bad mood I’d probably find it endearing the way they tolerate his sour mood. Their behavior tells me a lot about them all. They know he’s gay and they don’t care. If anything, they’re trying to get him laid. They really like him. Care about him. I really like these guys. I’m happy to be a part of a team like this, exceptJacobs is making my assimilation more difficult than it needs to be.

I’m four beers and four tequila shot deep now, enough to make everything feel both sharper and softer at the same time. The breakup and game loss stings less, but Jacobs’ silence cuts deeper. Every time I catch him looking away when I try to make eye contact, every non-response to my attempts at conversation, it confirms my worst fears. He definitely blames me for tonight’s loss. If he keeps that up, it might leach into the others. Then they’ll all see what a fraud I am.

“You know what your problem is, Caldwell?” Foster says, apparently ready to spout some drunken wisdom. “You’re thinking too much about the loss. I can see it on your face. It’s one game, man. One fucking game in an eighty-two game season.”

I wince. “Tell that to the guys who traded away prospects to get me here,” I reply, the words coming out more bitter than I intended.

“Hey.” Kincaid leans across the table, his eyes slightly unfocused but sincere. “Nobody’s regretting anything. You see how we moved the puck tonight? The space you created? That’s what we’ve been missing.”

“Kincaid’s right,” Niko adds, raising his glass in a toast. “To chemistry. Takes time to build, but when it clicks. It’s fucking magic.”

They all drink, even Jacobs, although he avoids my gaze. But at least he didn’t outright snub me by refusing to drink. However, as soon as the toast is over, he goes back to staring into space like the conversation doesn’t involve him. Like my integration into the team is someone else’s problem to solve.

The third bar happens around 2 a.m., though by then the details are getting very fuzzy. It’s darker than the others, more intimate, with live music instead of a DJ. The crowd is a mix of young and older, and because it’s Vegas it shows no signs of thinning.

We’re down to five by then, Kincaid begged off after the second bar, claiming he needed to call his long-distance girlfriend before it got too late. The rest of us squeeze into a corner booth that’s probably meant for four. By some awful stroke of luck, I’m seated next to Jacobs. I swear to god Niko does that on purpose because he wants to force me and Jacobs to work our shit out. Has he forgotten I’m already rooming with Jacobs? I think that’s close enough, isn’t it?

The booth is cramped and Jacobs is forced to sit really close to me. He’s close enough that I can smell his fading cologne mixed with sweat, but that works in my favor because the other smells at the table include spilled beer and cigarettes. Jacobs’ scent is nice. Clean. I don’t even mind the press of his sinewy thigh againstmine. I’m not sure why. He’s been a dick to me pretty much since I met him, but his leg feels really good against mine. In fact, when he shifts, the brush of his thigh gets me hard.

I tell myself that it’s not really Jacobs affecting me, I’m just horny. I’d probably get a boner if any of the guys brushed up against me. To be fair, it’s been a while since I’ve had sex. That’s probably why Tam replaced me. I wasn’t giving him the attention he needed. But it’s hard to get in the mood when your boyfriend is constantly mad at you. He was furious that I wasn’t taking him with me to California, and I was too distracted with upending my entire life to play for a new team.

“This place has character,” Marlowe observes, nodding toward the stage where a blues guitarist is making his instrument weep. “Reminds me of a place I used to go in Montreal.”

“Everything reminds you of Montreal,” Foster laughs. “You’re like a broken record sometimes.”

“Montreal’s a hockey town,” Marlowe defends. “You understand the game different when you grow up there.”

“Oh, here we go,” Niko groans dramatically. “The Montreal sermon. I’ve heard this one before.”

The banter flows easier here. Foster tells another story about a road trip where he hooked up with a stewardess mid-flight. Niko opens up about growing up in Sweden, about learning English by watching American sitcoms.

But Jacobs remains silent, a ghost at our table. When Foster directly asks him about his first NHL goal, he gives a one-sentence answer and goes back to staring into his drink. When Marlowe tries to include him in a conversation about our upcoming schedule, he nods along without contributing. Personally, I gave up trying to talk to the guy ages ago. If he wants to be a curmudgeon, let him be one. But his team keeps trying to coax him out of his shell.

“Don’t you have any stories of growing up? You don’t talk about your past as much as we do.” Marlowe says, grinning at Jacobs. “Come on, you must have some stories of when you were younger. What were you like in middle school?”

Jacobs looks like Marlowe asked for his ATM code. His face shutters so hard and fast, I feel a chill in the air. Jacobs shoots me a look under his lashes that holds both uneasiness and contempt. He doesn’t look at anyone else that way. Just me.

What. The. Fuck.

My heart stutters at what I see in his eyes. There’s pain, resentment, and loss in that look. I have no idea why he’d direct that at me, or why Iknow he’d be fine talking if I wasn’t sitting at the table. I don’t understand why he has such a problem with me. I don’t even know him. He won’t let me get to know him. It’s like he’s hellbent on being my enemy. I’ve never in my life felt this much animosity from someone I don’t know.

I don’t want to get into anything when we’ve both been drinking, so I announce, “I’m going to take a leak,” and push to my feet. My legs feel less steady than they did an hour ago. The room tilts slightly, then rights itself. “Be right back.”

I make my way down the long hallway that leads to the restrooms. The bathroom is a study in dive bar aesthetics, dim lighting, graffiti-covered walls, and a mirror that’s seen better decades. I use the urinal and then go to the sink. I splash cold water on my face, trying to shock some clarity back into my alcohol-fogged brain, when the door opens behind me.

Jacobs walks in, moving with the careful precision of someone who’s drunk but trying not to show it. I’m surprised he followed me to the bathroom seeing as he’s pretended like I don’t exist all night. And he did follow me. That’s obvious. I made it very clear I was headed to the restroom when I left the table.

I expect him to head to the urinals, but he makes a crooked beeline for me. His face is tenseand his breathing unsteady. He stops a few feet from me, and his eyes flick to the bandage on my forehead. Guilt flutters through his eyes, but then he clenches his jaw.

“I refuse to be afraid of you,” he slurs, swaying slightly. “If I have to take a piss, then I’m going to take a piss. I don’t care if you’re in here.”

I frown, confused by what he’s saying. “Did I say you couldn’t? And why would you be afraid of me?”

He blinks at me, cheeks flushed from the booze. Then he curls his lip and shakes his head. “Nah, uh. I’m not playing that game with you.”

He stumbles over to the urinal and pees. Then he zips up and comes back to the sink area to wash his hands. He glowers at me in the mirror before straightening and facing me. He stands unusually close. I’m not sure if he’s aware of that or if he’s so drunk he doesn’t realize he’s only inches from me.

“I’m not avoiding shit because ofyou,” he mutters, scowling. “You don’t control me.”

---