Butterfly Read online

  Someone knocked on the door and opened it before Fisher could answer. He scrambled to his feet as Calum stepped inside.

  “You never told me you knew someone on the Seabirds,” he said, and there was something in his eyes like anger. Or maybe jealousy. “You told me you didn’t have a boyfriend.”

  Something snapped inside Fisher, an almost audible sound, as blind rage swamped him. “I’m under no obligation to tell you shit,” he spat, and Calum’s eyebrows went up, then slammed together. Fisher didn’t stop to let him speak. “You come in here and tell me I don’t have a choice, that you want me and you’re going to have me, you try to buy me, you threaten my job if I don’t say yes, and you still somehow think I’d ever want to tell you the first thing about me?”

  Calum’s eyes were chips of blue ice. “You will regret that,” he said, voice freezing in its calm.

  “Newsflash, you fucking rapist prick, I regret everything about this day!” Fisher shouted, balling his fists. He took a step forward and Calum mirrored it, one rapid step back. “I regret the first time I laid eyes on you. Get the fuck out of my classroom. I will get a restraining order against you if you ever come near me again. Get out of my sight.”

  Calum’s jaw worked. “I hope you enjoyed this job,” he hissed. “Because you just lost it. And I’ll see to it you never work in this field again.”

  Fisher lunged but Calum jerked the door open and fled before he could get close.

  So that was it then. Fisher stood very still for a minute, eyes closed. He would not let the tears fall, because he knew if he did, they’d never stop.

  Moving on autopilot, he turned back to his desk and began gathering his things. The dean would be there any minute.

  25

  Numb. Felix wasn’t feeling much of anything other than that. He felt like he’d been hollowed out, emotions scooped clean from him like a cored apple.

  He didn’t go home. Instead he drove, on autopilot, barely aware of his surroundings, to Saint’s house. He let himself in with his key, the one given him for only the direst need. He thought this probably qualified.

  There was no sound from Steel, who was probably crated in Carmine’s absence. Felix took his shoes off and went to the living room, placing each step with care. His head felt loose on his shoulders and he wasn’t entirely sure where his feet were. All he could see was the fury, the pain on Fisher’s face, the disgust when he’d looked at Felix.

  He found his favorite beanbag in the corner and curled up in the middle of it, drawing his knees to his chest.

  You’re as flexible as my—

  Fisher’s students. That’s who Felix was as flexible as.

  He closed his eyes. Fisher was a teacher. An elementary school teacher, from the looks of it. It suited him.

  He hadn’t wanted to go, when Saint had texted him to say that a conservatory had contacted the team’s PR agent and asked if a few players could come to the school. He’d had a hard game the night before and he’d stopped a puck with his hip right after deflecting one off his collarbone. He was bruised and tired and all he wanted to do was take it easy until he could go see Fisher. Instead he’d been bullied into joining Saint and the others on a trip across town to a small school that was, admittedly, charming enough.

  He was already over his annoyance at having to go when they walked into the gymnasium, laughing at something Carmine was saying to him. Seeing Fisher staring back at him across the gym floor had been like being run over by a D-man he hadn’t even seen coming.

  There had been a moment, one wild, fleeting moment where Felix had hoped for an outcome he’d known in his gut wouldn’t happen. And then he’d registered the expression on Fisher’s face, and the certainty had settled into his bones. It was all over but the shouting, as his mother would say.

  Fisher hadn’t shouted much. Raised his voice a few times, but even then, Felix had known instinctively that Fisher would never lay hands on him in anger.

  Too good for you.

  Felix held back the tears, clutching his knees harder. He would not cry. He’d done this to himself. He didn’t deserve to cry, to grieve. Not when he’d known it was coming, he’d been warned, and he hadn’t put a stop to things in time.

  His body ached dully, the aches and pains from the night before waking up again. Felix let himself sink into the hurt, starting a meditation chant his father had taught him when he’d first signed up for hockey. It was too simple to help him get in the zone most of the time, but right now he needed the comfort.

  “You would have liked him, Papa,” he said aloud to the empty room, and another tear slid down his cheek.

  He had no idea how long he was there before the front door finally slammed open.

  “Felix? Fee!”

  There were running footsteps and then Saint skidded into view as Felix slowly, carefully, unwound himself and sat up.

  “How did it go?” he asked.

  Saint shook his head. “Don’t. Don’t do that. No, stay there.” He kicked off his shoes, shoving them to the side as the front door closed again and Carmine’s more measured steps came down the hall.

  He stopped in the doorway, watching with sympathy in his eyes as Saint squeezed into the beanbag beside Felix, slipping a thigh between his legs and squirming until they were both comfortable again.

  “I’m gonna take Steel for a run,” Carmine said. “Felix—” He hesitated. “Hang in there.”

  Felix didn’t have the energy to answer. Saint had an arm around his waist, careful to avoid the bruise, his face pressed to the cap of Felix’s shoulder.

  “Did anyone say—anything?” Felix asked after a few minutes.

  Saint shook his head. “They were confused, but Kasha and Caz put on a great show for the kids. I got to play goalie.”

  That almost made Felix smile. “I know how much you love doing that.”

  “Oh Fee.” The sorrow in Saint’s voice threatened to break the flimsy dam around Felix’s emotions.

  “Don’t,” he said, too harshly. He breathed through his nose for a minute until he had himself under control. “I did this to myself,” he finally said.

  “But I see why,” Saint said, lifting his head. “I get it, Fee. He’s—he’s great. At least I’m guessing he is when he’s not, you know… angry and heartbroken.”

  Felix screwed his eyes shut again, turning into Saint’s frame. “I love him so much,” he managed, the tears stinging fiercely again.

  “It’s pretty obvious he loves you just as much,” Saint said into Felix’s hair.

  Felix shook his head without looking up. “Maybe he did. Past tense. He might have loved who he thought I was. But that’s gone now.”

  Saint sighed. “Come on. We are way too sober for this.” He hauled Felix, protesting, to his feet and chivvied him to the wet bar on the other side of the room, where he pushed him onto a stool.

  “It’s still morning,” Felix said as Saint ducked behind the bar.

  “First of all,” Saint said, up on tiptoe to retrieve Felix’s favorite brand of Scotch, “it’s closer to midafternoon. And second, heartbreak does not acknowledge the passage of time, so why should we?”

  Felix stared. Saint poured the Scotch, a serene expression on his face, and pushed the glass across the marble countertop.

  “That was surprisingly deep. Have you been reading again?”

  “Fuck off,” Saint suggested, dimples flashing briefly. “Besides,” he added as he poured a shot for himself, “we’re off tomorrow too. So we can get as wasted as necessary. Knock that back already so I can pour you another.”

  Dumbly, Felix did as ordered. The Scotch burned a path down his throat and he blinked hard several times.

  “Can you tell me what he said after I left?” Saint asked, topping up his glass.

  Felix tossed back the next shot before answering. “It did not take long. He feels betrayed. He is… so angry.”

  “But the only reason you did it was because he literally said he wouldn’t date a h
ockey player,” Saint protested, brow furrowed as he refilled both glasses again.

  “Exactly.” Felix took the third shot and braced his hands on the counter. The room was already beginning to spin, just slightly. “I went and fell in love with him knowing how he felt about what I do. I let him think there was a chance. For us.”

  “No.” Saint shook his head. “No, you told him from the beginning that there wasn’t a chance. You set the boundaries early. You never changed them. Did you?”

  Felix shook his head and swallowed the next shot. “Non, I never changed them. But apart from those few conversations, we also… didn’t talk about them. I went to farmer’s markets with him, Saint. Of course he thought we were dating. Or that we could date, I don’t know.” He put his face on his arms, the marble cool against his skin. “He invited me to Thanksgiving,” he said, voice muffled.

  There was a thump as Saint sat down on his own stool. “Wow. That’s….”

  “Yeah,” Felix said against his forearm. “The worst part was I think if we had been in town then, I would have been tempted to say yes.”

  Saint rubbed his shoulder silently. “Farmer’s markets, eh?” he asked after a minute. “Didn’t you get recognized?”

  “Only once, and I bribed her with my autograph to stay quiet until I was gone.” He huffed an almost-amused breath, remembering. “Fisher thought she was very strange, because she looked at him when he came over, then me, and then she just… ran away.”

  Saint snickered. “You got off easy. There could have been a mob situation.”

  “I’m not you,” Felix countered, lifting his head and reaching for his shot glass. He was feeling warm and floaty, the most jagged edges of the pain blunted by the alcohol as his head spun. “I hide behind a mask and my pretty face is not on twenty foot high billboards. I can go out in public without causing a riot. Mostly.”

  “Off topic,” Saint said firmly. “What else did he say?”

  Felix lifted a shoulder. “He shouted a bit. I tried to apologize but he didn’t want to hear it. I can’t blame him for that. He—oh, he asked if I regretted letting him take me home.”

  “Felix Édouard Papillon, you let him take you home?”

  Felix scowled at him. “He’s not Paul.”

  “Still. After everything that happened—”

  “He’s not Paul,” Felix repeated stubbornly. “He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. I don’t know how I know, especially when he was so angry, but he would never.”

  Saint subsided, muttering under his breath as he poured again.

  “Anyway, he told me to go away and never come near him again, and I left.” More tears stung Felix’s eyes and he blinked them away. “I should have listened. I should have—” He put his face down again as the tears welled and Saint put an arm around his shoulders.

  “It’s a stupid misunderstanding,” he said. “We’ll give him time to calm down, and then you can apologize again, properly. He’ll take you back.”

  Felix heaved a sigh. “He won’t, cherry. Not only did I lie to him, but I play the sport he hates most in the world and I won’t give it up, not even for him.”

  “Good,” Saint said, startling Felix with his ferocity. “If you tried, I’d kill you myself.” He nudged him with an elbow and pushed the full shot glass nearer when Felix lifted his head. “Still not drunk, come on. So why does he hate hockey so much, anyway?”

  Felix swallowed the Scotch and wiped his wet eyes. “I don’t know. He never really went into specifics. Just that he had an ex who played, and he had bad… associations with it. I know he doesn’t like violence. The fighting and the hits bother him.”

  “But he runs a hockey program?”

  “Wren runs it,” Felix corrected. “It was her idea. He said yes because she loves it so much.”

  “Speaking of Wren,” Saint said, “I think Kasha got her number.”

  “Did he now? Good for him. Fisher speaks—spoke—” He steadied himself. “—Of her often. He cares very much for her. I’m sorry I never met her.”

  “Probably for the best,” Saint said. His words were slurring just slightly. “She’d have recognized you immediately, I’ll bet.”

  “Then perhaps this whole tas de merde could have been avoided,” Felix snapped. “Saved us both a lot of pain.”

  The sliding door opened and Carmine stepped through, Steel right behind him. His eyebrows went up at the sight of Felix and Saint at the wetbar but he just lifted his shirt and wiped his face.

  “How we doing?” he asked when he emerged.

  Felix held out one hand, palm-down, and waggled it vaguely.

  “Fair enough.” Carmine slapped him on the shoulder. “I’m gonna shower.”

  “Come drink with us when you’re done,” Felix said.

  Saint lasted barely two minutes after Carmine was gone before he was squirming in place, casting quick glances at the far door like Felix hadn’t been able to read him like a book since they were fifteen.

  “Oh, go on,” Felix finally said, exasperated. “Go be disgusting and in love.”

  Saint blushed, tips of his ears going dusky red, but he didn’t move. “No. He’ll be fine.”

  Felix rolled his eyes and shoved him off the stool. Saint went over with a startled squawk and scrambled back to his feet in the next breath.

  “Seriously, go,” Felix ordered. “Go talk about me and how worried you are and what you’re going to do to mend my broken heart. I’ll be fine for five minutes.”

  Saint wavered. “Five minutes,” he finally said.

  Felix flapped a hand at him. “Fuck off already. But no sex with me in the house!” he called as Saint headed for the door.

  Alone, Felix considered his options. First things first—he poured himself another shot. Then he pulled his phone from his pocket. There were no messages out of the ordinary, and a little cursory Googling told him that no one seemed to have reported anything unusual happening at the Saint Mary Conservatory when the team visited.

  That was good, anyway. Hopefully, Felix hadn’t put Fisher’s job in danger.

  Fisher taught kindergarten. Felix moaned and put his head in his arms again. His traitorous brain was supplying him with rapid-fire image after image of Fisher surrounded by small children, helping them spell, or count, or learn algebra—Felix had only hazy memories of his own school days. Who knew what children were learning these days? But the thought of Fisher, maybe crouching to talk to a little girl or boy with a question, his eyes so soft and gentle—that was undoing Felix at the seams.

  “I don’t even want kids,” he said despairingly. “See, Steel?” Steel, already curled in his bed in front of the fireplace, lifted his head at the sound of his name. “That’s why it never would have worked anyway. Because he wants kids, and I don’t. I’m not—paternal. I would be a terrible father. I’ve never even thought of having children.”

  Steel yawned and licked his chops.

  “Exactly.” Felix reached for the bottle and missed. Frowning, he recalculated and tried again, slower. He was successful that time, and only spilled a little when he refilled his glass. He lifted it and saluted his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. His eyes had deep shadows under them. “Fucking idiot,” he told himself, and downed the shot.

  He needed to apologize again. Properly. Fisher needed to hear exactly how sorry Felix was, how he’d never intended for any of this to happen.

  He’d dialed, squinting at the screen, and was lifting the phone to his ear when it was whisked from his hand.

  “Nope, nope, absolutely not,” Carmine said, stabbing at buttons as Felix protested. He powered the phone off and put it in his own pocket, giving Felix a disappointed look. “You are not in a state to talk to anyone right now, but especially not him.”

  “I just want to apologize, do it right,” Felix said.

  Carmine’s expression melted into sympathy as Saint appeared behind him. “I know, bud. But not when you’re well on your way to drunk off your ass. Hey love,” he said
to Saint, who was going behind the bar again. “Got some bourbon for your favorite D-man?”

  “Who says you’re my favorite?” Saint countered even as he reached for the bottle.

  Felix scowled at his shot glass as Carmine made faux-offended noises. The noises cut off abruptly and Carmine cleared his throat. When Felix looked up, Saint was concentrating on the bourbon he was pouring with far more focus than it needed, and Carmine looked guilty.

  “Sorry, Butterfly,” Carmine said. “Didn’t mean to… make it worse.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” Felix said, pushing his glass to Saint. “You’ve always disgusted me, the two of you. You don’t have to stop just because I’m sad.”

  “Still, it’s insensitive,” Carmine insisted.

  “Shut the fuck up and drink,” Felix told him. “You have some catching up to do.”

  26

  Fisher was woken by Leo climbing in bed with him. Or more accurately, climbing on top of him and draping himself over Fisher’s back.

  “Time to wake up,” he said in Fisher’s ear, and Fisher buried his face in the pillow. Leo wriggled, shaking the bed. “Fisher, it’s been a week and it’s time to stop wallowing. Maya’s forgotten what you look like.”

  Fisher turned his head just enough to glare at him over his shoulder. “I take her out multiple times a day, asshole.”

  “But when’s the last time you went running with her?”

  Fisher didn’t bother to answer, burying his face again.

  Leo sighed, warm against Fisher’s bare shoulder blade. “C’mon, Fish. I know you got your heart broken, but hiding from life isn’t going to help. You need some fresh air and sunlight.”

  “No.”

  “I am perfectly capable of annoying you out of this bed,” Leo said placidly. “Don’t test me.”

  Fisher took a slow breath. “Leo—”

  “I know,” Leo murmured, scooting forward so he could press their cheeks together. “I know, Fish. But you’ll get through this. I’m gonna help. And the first step involves getting your fine ass out of bed and into the shower while I change your sheets.”