Butterfly Page 13
“Wren’s going to her parents, but her friend Grace is coming to mine,” he said as they carried everything to the car. “Along with Leo, Eileen, Rainbow, and Miller.” They went around to the front, and Fisher hesitated before starting the car. “Would you—you know you’d be welcome if you don’t have anywhere else to go.”
He didn’t look at Felix, probably bracing himself for a rejection, and Felix couldn’t help leaning over the gearshift to kiss his cheek.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “But my schedule is set. I’ll be out of town that week for work.”
“They make you work over Thanksgiving?” Fisher demanded as he started the car.
“How many times do I need to remind you I’m Canadian?” Felix asked, fighting amusement at his outrage. “It’s not a holiday for me, pêcheur. Just another day.” And anyway, they’d be in Calgary, playing the Riders. “But save some of that cranberry sauce for me, eh? I have to try this.” A thought struck him. “You haven’t mentioned that connard recently. Is he still bothering you?”
Fisher shot him a startled look. “That what? Oh—you mean the guy who hit on me.”
“Yes, him. The asshole.”
Fisher snorted. “He is that. He asked me for an answer last month and I told him I needed some time to get to know him.” He put up a hand before Felix could speak. “I know, I know. And I’m not considering it, I swear. But he’s backed off a bit, which is what I wanted. He’s showing up more, though, finding reasons to hang around and talk to me before and after—” He cut himself off. “Anyway, we’re kind of in a holding pattern. Eventually he’s going to demand a yes or no, and I need to have something ready, some kind of escape strategy, since my bosses won’t back me.”
Felix swore under his breath. He could help, that was the worst part. It would mean Fisher finding out who he was, it would mean probably losing him, but he had money, he knew people. He could find this person, this cowardly fucker who thought he could force someone into doing his bidding, and make him stop, make him back off, keep him from ever getting near Fisher again.
And if he did, Fisher would never forgive him for not letting him deal with it.
He slumped in his seat, tugging on the belt and scowling.
Fisher patted his knee. “I’ll handle it,” he said. “I’m a big boy. How much longer do I have you today?”
“I should go home soon,” Felix admitted. “Busy day tomorrow.”
“Time for a blowjob first?” Fisher asked, eyes mischievous.
“There’s always time for that, pêcheur.”
* * *
Fisher got a text from Wren as he was getting ready for bed. It was a cold and rainy mid-December night, the weather dropping nearly to freezing for the first time all year, and he was looking forward to curling up with a book, a mug of cocoa at his elbow on his nightstand. French was busy, so all Fisher wanted to do was dive into his true crime stories and while away the quiet evening until bedtime.
Can’t wait for tomorrow!!! Wren’s text read.
Fisher set his cocoa on the nightstand and got into bed, propping up the pillows and getting comfortable before replying. Aren’t you at a game right now? Why are you texting me?
Intermission, Wren answered immediately. I’m just so excited!
Fisher smiled, imagining the way her eyes must be sparkling. Who’s winning?
We are. Butterfly’s on fire.
That’s the hot one, right?
There’s more than one hot one, Wren retorted. But yes.
Fisher laughed. Have fun. Tell me about it tomorrow!
Rain pattered the window as he turned the phone off, soft pattering taps that were a comforting reminder that the world was big and cold, but he was warm and cozy. He had his family, his chosen siblings, and he had French. Sometimes he thought there was something French wanted to say, something big he was holding back, but it hadn’t happened yet.
Fisher knew what he was hoping for, but he’d let French get there in his own time. There was no reason to rush.
He fell asleep smiling, imagining French telling him his true identity, confessing his love, asking Fisher if he’d be willing to have a serious relationship.
23
Wren was talking the minute she spied him in the hall the next morning. “Butterfly got a shutout and Saint got a hat trick! Plus Kasha got in a fight.” She giggled. “I’ve never seen him fight before, he’s kind of terrible at it.”
“What’s a hat trick?” Fisher asked, only half-listening as he got the door open and held it for her.
“It’s when a player gets three goals in a single game,” Wren told him. She headed for her desk and put her coffee and backpack down, bending to rummage in the drawer.
“Why do they call it that?”
Wren straightened, blinking. “You know… I don’t know? I should probably know that.”
“Call yourself a hockey fan,” Fisher said, clucking his tongue, and dodged the pencil she threw at him.
“Oh hey, Leo was trying to get hold of you,” Wren said as Fisher was laying out his updated lesson plans. “He seemed upset about something but he wouldn’t say what.”
Fisher dug in his pocket, frowning at his phone as he turned it on. “I overslept a little this morning, didn’t have time to do anything other than take Maya out and get out the door myself. Haven’t even checked—oh, he left me a message.”
“Did he text you?”
Fisher flipped to the text app. “Just once, that he needs to talk to me. Doesn’t seem too—”
Samantha charged through the door. “Mr. Monty, Mr. Monty, guess what?”
Fisher shoved the phone back in his pocket as Samantha rushed for him. Whatever Leo needed was just going to have to wait.
“Good morning, Samantha!” he said, crouching. “I give up, what?”
“My daddy’s gonna be here today!” she announced, wriggling with excitement.
“Hey, that’s great!” Fisher smiled at her. “Are you excited?”
Samantha shrugged. “I dunno, I guess?”
“Not a hockey fan, huh?” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Me either. Don’t tell Miss Wren though, okay? We don’t want to ruin her super-special day.”
Samantha nodded gravely and Fisher winked at her before shooing her to her seat and standing.
“I just—” Wren took a deep breath. “I can’t believe the Birds are coming here. That I saw them play last night and now I’m gonna meet them.” Her eyes widened. “Oh God, I’m gonna make an absolute fool of myself.”
“You’ll be fine,” Fisher told her. Kids were coming through the door in a steady stream now. “They’re used to people being awkward, I’m sure. And it’s not the whole team, just a few of them.”
“Do you know who yet?” Wren asked.
“Yeah, the coordinator got back to me, but I forgot all the names immediately.” Fisher laughed at the look on Wren’s face. “Relax, it’ll be great. You’ll be charming, they’re all going to ask for your number and compete to sweep you off your feet.”
Calum cleared his throat from the door as Max darted inside, making a beeline for Wren.
Fisher hid the twitch of revulsion and summoned a smile as he joined him. “Good morning.”
Calum’s eyes were as cool and calculating as ever, but he smiled. “Good morning. I understand the children are very excited about today.”
“They sure are. I’m still not sure how you managed this, honestly.”
Calum lifted a shoulder. “I seem to recall telling you that when I want something, I’m generally successful in getting it. You care deeply about the children you teach, as well as that flighty young assistant of yours, and if I can give you something that makes you happy, then perhaps—” He licked his lips. “Perhaps you’ll give me something I’ve been wanting, too.”
Fisher took a slow, steady breath. Just standing near the man made him feel filthy, like he desperately needed a shower. The thought of Calum actually touching him made him want to throw up.
He left without waiting for a response, which was probably just as well. The kids didn’t need to see Fisher punching someone, no matter how richly that person deserved it.
24
The morning passed quickly, the kids almost all as excited as Wren was. Fisher couldn’t even find it in him to resent the reason, not when it had them all so worked up, talking animatedly about the players and what they were going to do, speculating on if they were actually going to play hockey with them. More than one was worried about not being able to skate, and Fisher had to stop each time to assure them they hadn’t frozen over the gymnasium, that if they did play hockey, it would be on the regular floor.
His phone rang as they were lining up to go to the gym, and Fisher swore internally, dropping back and signalling to Wren to take the children out the door.
“Leo?” he said.
“Fish, I have to talk to you.” Leo sounded upset but not panicked.
The last child was out the door. Fisher followed, bringing up the rear of the train.
“Leo, I’m at work, you know that. We’re heading for gym now. Is it an emergency? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Leo said. “It’s not—look, I just need to talk to you. It’s important. Can you call me the second you’re home? I’ll come over.”
“Okay, sure. You’re sure it can wait?”
Leo blew out a breath. “Maybe I’m imagining things. It’s fine. We’ll talk this afternoon.”
Fisher put the phone away and nodded at Wren when she glanced back at him, a question in her eyes.
There were a number of parents in the stands, talking excitedly among themselves. To be expected, probably—this was a hockey town, and a chance to meet their favorite players was not to be sneezed at. Even Calum was there, sitting next to the dean and deep in conversation.
Wren and Fisher got the children organized, everyone sitting criss-cross-applesauce in two neat rows. Fisher was crouching to speak to Maxine, on the end of one row, when Wren grabbed his arm with a grip that made him wince.
“They’re here,” she hissed.
Fisher managed to pry her fingers loose before she bruised him, patting her hand. He was fighting a smile as he straightened and turned and the bottom fell out of his world.
A handful of men in teal and white Seabirds jerseys were coming in the door nearest Wren and Fisher, flanked by a camera crew, but those were all the details Fisher managed to retain, because that was French at the back of the group, laughing at something one of the others was saying. His white teeth were flashing, eyes crinkled in that delighted way he had when something really amused him.
There was no oxygen in the room. Fisher felt like he’d taken a baseball bat to the head, frozen in place as the group headed for them. He felt the moment French saw him, the shock that rippled through him as he missed a step and nearly fell. The man beside him caught him, saying something that sounded teasing, but French didn’t seem to even hear him.
Wren cleared her throat, but Fisher didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Wren took a step forward instead, holding out her hand to the nearest player.
“Hi, um—hi. I’m Wren. Welcome to Saint Mary Conservatory, we’re all so excited to have you.”
French was still staring at Fisher, misery and what looked very much like guilt on his stupidly beautiful face, and all Fisher could do was stare back as the shock and betrayal writhed in his gut.
Wren was saying something. Fisher made an effort to listen, unable to look away from French.
“—Said this is Saint, the captain.”
Fisher wrenched his eyes away and met Saint’s eyes. He wasn’t very big, almost short next to the men around him, but he had the easy bearing of someone used to being listened to. He also looked horrified, glancing between Fisher and French.
“You know,” Fisher said before he thought better of it.
Wren shot him a puzzled look.
Saint’s mouth worked. “Is there somewhere private we can go? Ah—Kasha, this is Wren. Will you help her by telling the kids our workout routine and getting them moving? Caz, you and Roddy stay too.”
Bewilderment was in Wren’s huge eyes, but Kasha was already moving forward, a hand out and a smile in place.
“Fisher?” Saint prompted quietly.
Fisher tore his eyes from French again and swallowed hard. Focus, he ordered himself. Why was it so hard to think?
“My classroom,” he said aloud, and spun on his heel to stalk in that direction, not looking to see if they were following.
* * *
The room was dark, and Fisher only turned on the light over his desk before turning to confront both men.
No one spoke at first. Fisher didn’t think he could get actual words out past the hurt and fury, and French didn’t seem any more inclined to break the silence.
Finally, Saint cleared his throat. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Fisher,” he began.
“What’s your real name?” Fisher demanded of French, who flinched.
“Felix,” he said, an arm curled across his abdomen almost protectively. “Felix Papillon.”
“Butterfly,” Fisher said as the pieces clicked into place. “I knew I’d seen you somewhere before. God, I’m so fucking stupid.”
Saint coughed. “Fisher—”
“Why are you here?” Fisher interrupted. “This is between me and Felix.”
Saint turned to Felix and asked him something in French. Another shock of horrified recognition jolted through Fisher as Felix answered in a low, choked voice. This was French’s best friend, the one he worked with, who’d called him the morning Fisher had driven him home.
“Alright,” Saint said. “I’m going to go back to the gymnasium and help Kasha and Wren. Fee—”
“Go,” Felix said, looking at Fisher. “I imagine this will not take long.”
Saint winced. “Fisher—”
“What,” Fisher said flatly.
Saint sighed. “Just… try not to judge too harshly. You don’t have all the facts.”
“I’m sure Felix can give them to me,” Fisher said, and didn’t miss the way Felix flinched again. There was a distant roaring in his ears, a howling wind scouring his mind clear of everything but the betrayal. Felix had known. He’d known, and he’d lied to him for months.
Fisher didn’t look away. Let him dangle, he thought viciously. Let him hurt, see what it’s like.
The door clicked shut behind Saint, and Felix gestured.
“Say it, then.”
“Where should I start?” Fisher demanded. “You knew, almost from the beginning. You knew how I felt about hockey, about hockey players. And you let me think—you lied to me.”
“I never lied to you,” Felix cut in. “I didn’t tell you, you’re right. But I never lied to you.”
“Oh, that makes it better,” Fisher sneered. “Technicalities. Do you want a prize? You lied to me every time you touched me and let me think there could be something more, when the whole time you were hiding who you were. And don’t you stand there and tell me you didn’t think the same thing, don’t you dare. I know what I fucking saw in your eyes, Fr—Felix. I saw the same thing I was feeling. And you let me think there was a chance.”
Felix took a step back, arm still wrapped over his stomach. “I didn’t—I never—” He cut himself off, rubbing his mouth with a shaking hand. “Fisher, you said—”
“What?” Fisher demanded. “What did I say? What did I ever say that would have made a betrayal like this justifiable?”
“You said you’d never fall in love with a professional athlete,” Felix said. His voice was small, uncertain in a way Fisher had never heard from him before.
“Yes! I did! And you had a perfect chance right there to tell me who you were!”
“You would have kicked me out!” Felix shou
ted suddenly, lifting his head. There were tears in his eyes. “I didn’t want to stop seeing you, Fisher—” Feesher. Fisher’s heart throbbed painfully. “And when you said that, I knew—” He faltered. “I knew when you found out, it would be over. I didn’t w-want it to be over. It was selfish, b-but—”
“You didn’t give me a chance!” Fisher flung back. “You just made the decision for both of us, and you lied to me.”
Felix bowed his head, tears sliding down his cheeks.
“You let me fall in love with you,” Fisher said, and Felix jerked like he’d been hit. Fisher kept going, tears stinging his own eyes. “You let me think—you told me where you live. Bet you’re regretting that right about now, aren’t you?”
A tear slid down Felix’s cheek. “There are many things I regret,” he managed. “But I still don’t think you’re like m-my ex. I don’t think you would ever do anything to hurt me like he did.”
Fisher took two quick steps forward and loomed over him. Felix stood his ground, looking up at him.
“You think I won’t hurt you?” Fisher asked, low and dangerous.
Felix lifted his chin. “I think… I hurt you far more than you could or would ever hurt me. And I’m so sorry. For not telling you, for not—” He swallowed hard. “I wanted so much to say something, Fisher, but—”
“Get out,” Fisher said. He took a step back and pointed at the door. “Get out of my school. Get out of my life. Don’t you ever come near me again.”
Felix’s mouth worked, but he didn’t say anything. He just turned jerkily toward the door, none of his usual grace on display as he stumbled to it. He hesitated, door half-open, but Fisher crossed his arms, raising his chin, and Felix crumpled in on himself and slipped through the doorway without speaking.
That’s it, then.
Fisher sat down hard in one of the child sized chairs, covering his face. This wasn’t happening. He was dreaming, and he was going to wake up in his bed, with French asleep beside him, and everything was going to go back to the way it was before.