Page 48 of Between the Pipes

Despite everything, this startles a laugh from me. “Honesty. But if you wanted to pepper in some support, I wouldn’t mind.”

“I love you, and I wish you weren’t hurting right now,” Corwin says, voice so sincere it makes my chest hurt. “But I don’t think there’s anything you can, or should have said to persuade him to change his mind. From what you’ve said, it sounds like he’s got a couple very good reasons for wanting to keep things casual.”

“Yeah,” I whisper, probably too softly for him to hear on speakerphone, “I know.”

“He’s in a tough position. During the summer the campus is practically empty, but during the school year? That campus will be crawling with kids, all of whom are glued to their cell phones. How long before someone notices an NHL star is spending an awful lot of time at the head hockey coach’s house and decides to post a picture online?”

“Yeah,” I repeat, bringing the car to a stop at a red light. “He said he had a hard time of it when everything happened with Tremblay.”

“He did. Unlike you, I did Google him. And if what you said was true…that Tremblay went after him because he’s gay? I don’t blame him for not wanting to go through all that again.”

“I don’t either. I didn’t even think of all that; the sort of repercussions there might be if we were outed so close behind Troy’s article. I feel like an ass—I’ve been so focused on not wanting to lose him, I didn’t stop to think about what it might cost to keep him.”

“Lawson,” Corwin says, tenderly. “That doesn’t make you an ass.”

“What do you think I should do?” This is the real reason I wanted to talk to Corwin. My steady, unflinching voice of reason. Corwin always knows what to do.

“Maybe just give him a little space. Pre-season starts soon which will be a huge drain on your time, and his own season will be picking up soon as well. Keep in touch, but don’t push.”

I exhale, hard. “I thought the same thing. But I was kind of hoping you’d tell me to turn back around and make a grand gesture.”

“Not this time.” He sounds sorry. “Are you sure you’re okay? You can come over and help Nigel with his puzzle, hang out a bit.”

“I’m sorry—what? Puzzle?” If that was an effort to distract me from my misery, it was a well-placed aside.

“He found it in the basement. I don’t even know when I got it, so it must have been a gift. But he’s a little obsessed with it, and always wants me to help him with it.”

“Not into puzzles, I take it?”

“There’s a reason it has been forgotten in the basement until now,” Corwin replies, dryly.

“Thanks for the invite, but I think I’ll pass on the puzzle party. I’m just going to go home and get some rest.”

“If you’re sure. But that’s a blanket invite.”

“Thank you,” I say again. What wholly inadequate words for the level of sincerity I’d like to convey. “I might take you up on that this weekend.”

“Please do.”

“Say hi to Saint for me. Enjoy your puzzle time.”

Corwin grumbles as we hang up. I wouldn’t say I feel better, per se, having talked to him. I still feel like I’ve been run over by a truck, and the driver reversed to make sure the job was done. But Corwin was right, and Nico was right, and it’s up to me to figure out what that means for me from here. I hope, at the very least, that Nico is happy.

Nico

I’ve never felt so unhappy in my life, and that is truly saying something. I’ve woken up with a headache and a terrible certainty that I’ve fucked everything up. I know I had good reasons for cutting things off with Anthony, but I can’t seem to remember them over the pounding of my head and the pain in my sternum. It feels like I slept with a water buffalo on my chest all night.

I settle for coffee and migraine medication for breakfast. Carefully, I shave my face, noticing as I do that I look terrible. Like I’ve missed several weeks of sleep instead of just last night. It can’t be helped now, and what the hell do I care what I look like anyway. There will be nobody here to impress by the end of this week.

On that depressing note, I walk over to the rink. It’s a nice day, sunny and warm, completely at odds with the hellscape that this week has become. As I approach, I see a familiar figure seated against the building. Squinting, I try to make out what he’s doing. Reading? He lifts his head, watching me walk up the sidewalk, so I make a detour over to him.

“You’re early,” Morgan says, in lieu of a hello.

“Yes.”I’m now doing the job of two people, and was losing my mind at home. What’s your excuse?

Morgan tosses his book carelessly down on the grass and stands up. I see his hands clench into loose fists before he notices me watching and relaxes them. There is an obstinate, defiant expression on his face.

“So, am I off the team?” He demands, glaring at me. There is a very faint waver in his voice that betrays how he’s really feeling.

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