Page 76 of Poetry On Ice
I spent the rest of the game in the sin bin.
The worst of it is, I don’t regret it. Not even a little bit. Not even now, knowing full well Robbie knows what I did. And why I did it.
He puts another grape in his mouth, holding it between his front teeth and offering it to me. I take it, sweeping it out of his mouth with my tongue. I take much longer doing it than strictly required to retrieve a single piece of fruit from someone else’s mouth.
He holds me close as I chew and swallow and starts kissing my neck. “It was really romantic, Ant.”
“It wasn’t romantic. It was deranged.”
He grins like a fucking idiot. Like someone who can’t tell up from down. Like someone just as deranged as me. “That’s what made it so romantic, baby.”
He kisses me again, his mouth so sweet and warm I forget I’m mad. I forget where I am. I forget everything that isn’t the feel, taste, and smell of Robbie McGuire.
“So,” he says when we come up for air, “are you ever going to tell me why you started being a dick and spouting all that shit about me? ’Cause I thought we were cool. When we met at that juniors camp, I thought we got along fine. I’ve thought about it a lot, and I know I must have done something to piss you off, but I’ve never managed to work out what it was.”
I must still be drunk from the kiss. Or from the fact he’s standing so close to me and his face and eyes are so open. So honest and hopeful. So fucking accepting.
“I was a shit, okay? I’m still a shit, but I might have been even more of a shit back then.” He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me with those eyes. A hazel-green dream that melts bone and brain matter. I take a deep breath and tell myself not to say it, but it’s no use. I already know I’m going to because this man makes me weak. So weak, there’s a part of me that actually wants to hear myself saying dumb shit like this to him. “It wasn’t you. It was me. There were scouts at that camp, remember? On the last day? There were three of them there. They were there to watch me.”
He narrows his eyes and searches for the memory. He finds it. “I remember.”
“It was the single biggest thing that had ever happened to me. At the time, I was convinced it was my shot. My one shot at the life I wanted. And I fucked it up.” I look at my feet and shake my head. Even now, after all this time, I feel disbelief when I think of that day. “I fucked it up royally because of you.”
“Me?” His eyes stretch in incredulity. “What did I do?”
“It wasn’t your fault. I already said so. It was me. I fucked up the biggest game of my life because of a boy on the other team.” I try to make eye contact, but I can’t hold it. “A blond boy. A beautiful blond boy. A left-wing who moved like the wind.” His mouth parts and he blinks quickly. There’s still a clear question in his eyes. A big question. I’m dying inside, but I’ve come this far, so I may as well spell it out for him. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you, Robbie, and I hated myself for it.”
He puts his arms around my neck, slinging them loosely so there’s enough space between us that I’m able to see him clearly. Or as clearly as I’m ever able to see him with that face and the way the light bounces off it.
“Told you I was a shit,” I say, dropping my head onto this shoulder. “It’s okay if you’re mad. I get it. I deserve it.”
“Maybe I’ll be mad later, but for now, I don’t know…I kind of think it’s romantic too.”
He releases me and puts the last of his grapes and a small tangle of stems down on the entry table. He gives me a little lopsided grin and drops his pants in one easy motion.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Taking my pants off,” he says as he steps out of them, shrugging a shoulder. “Have to, how else are you going to get your dick in me?”
He’s still wearing his top, the V-neck hemp one he wore to his housewarming a couple of months back, but he’s pantless. Half-nude, half-dressed. It’s a combination of fabric and skin that confuses my senses. Both lethally sexy and so fucking cute I want to reach out and squish him.
“What did I tell you about not exposing yourself to any more impact? You have a concussion, Robbie. You’ve been signed off for two weeks. You hit the ice so hard yesterday that your brain literally bounced around in your skull until you blacked out.”
“I know, I know, but hear me out.”
I swipe my fingers hard down either side of my nose and wipe the sweat from my brow. I know him well enough by now to know that nothing I say will stop him from saying what he wants to say.
“What if we take me upstairs and prop me up on a mountain of pillows. We can arrange them around me like a throne. I’ll lie on my back with my legs open and won’t move a muscle. I swear. I’ll just lie back and take what you give me. No impact at all.”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “No sex for at least forty-eight hours.”
“Whyyy not?”
“You know why not, the rise in blood pressure is why not.”
“How about a nap with lots of cuddling then?”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter as I follow him up the stairs.