Page 73 of Depths of Desire
I looked up to find Rhett standing in front of me, still sweaty, helmet hair going in six directions. His expression was careful, like I was a wounded animal he wasn’t sure would bite.
“What do you mean?” I pulled off my right skate and set it on the bench. “We won.”
“You played like you were trying to get yourself killed.”
I forced a grin I’d perfected over years of deflecting when things got too real. “Just bringing the intensity, buddy.”
Rhett didn’t even crack a smile.
Easton appeared at my shoulder, followed by Elio. They formed a loose circle around my stall, cutting me off from therest of the team’s celebration. I felt trapped and grateful at the same time.
“Dude, you’ve been a ghost for a week,” Easton said, his voice gentler than I’d ever heard it. “We’re worried about you.”
“I’m fine.” I started working on my left skate, focusing on the laces like they required a PhD to unfasten. “Just been busy. You know how it is.”
“This is about the swimmer, isn’t it?” Elio’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the noise around us like a blade.
My hands stilled on the laces.
The question hung in the air between us, and I felt something crack open in my chest. The careful wall I’d built over the past week started crumbling.
“We…” I swallowed hard, still staring at my skate. “We’re not together anymore.”
The words tasted like ash in my mouth.
Silence fell over our little circle. Even the celebration around us seemed to dim, though I knew that was just my perception narrowing to this moment, these three guys who’d somehow become more than teammates.
“Shit, man,” Rhett said softly.
“It’s fine. It was always going to end anyway. We made that clear from the beginning.”
“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt,” Easton said.
I almost lost it then. Almost broke down right there in the locker room, surrounded by celebrating teammates and the smell of sweat and victory. Instead, I took a shaky breath and started peeling off my gear.
“Look, I appreciate this,” I said, gesturing vaguely at their concerned faces. “But I’m fine. Really. Just need some time to adjust.”
They exchanged glances, that wordless communication that came from years of playing together.
“Team dinner tomorrow,” Rhett said finally. “Marcello’s. Seven o’clock. You’re coming.” It wasn’t a question.
“I don’t know if I’m really up for…”
“You’re coming,” Elio interrupted, and there was steel in his voice. “We’re not asking.”
I looked at their faces, Rhett’s stubborn determination, Easton’s quiet concern, Elio’s protective fury on my behalf. These guys who’d somehow wormed their way past all my defenses without me even noticing.
“Fine,” I said. “But just dinner. I’m not staying out all night.”
“Deal,” Rhett said immediately.
They didn’t push for more details. Didn’t ask what happened or why or whether there was a chance we’d work it out. They just stood there, a wall of solidarity around me while I finished changing, and I’d never been more grateful for anything in my life.
By the time I’d packed up my gear and headed for the exit, the locker room was mostly empty. The guys had scattered to their various post-game rituals, some to bars, some to late dinners, some to crash at girlfriends’ places.
I walked out into the Chicago night alone. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and for one stupid, desperate second, my heart leaped.
Oliver.
