Butterfly Page 9

Felix sighed and patted the empty seat beside him. “Come on, then.”

  Carmine hopped up and stepped around the seat to sit next to him.

  Felix waited. One of the trademarks of a good goalie was patience, a willingness to hold perfectly still until it was time to act, and Felix was a very good goalie.

  As expected, Carmine broke first. “Has Saint said anything to you?”

  “He says things to me all the time,” Felix pointed out. “He is my best friend and my captain, after all.”

  Carmine glared at him. “Don’t be an ass,” he hissed. “You know what I meant. Has he said anything about me?”

  “What are you hoping to hear?” Felix countered. “How good you are in bed? Saint is not one to kiss and tell, you should know that by now.”

  A smile flickered across Carmine’s mouth, there and gone again. “No, he definitely wouldn’t do that.” He slumped in his seat, running one big hand through his hair. “I guess I just—worry.”

  “About him, or about your relationship?”

  “Both,” Carmine admitted. He was scooted so low in his seat that his knees were pressed against the back of the bench in front of them.

  “Are you hiding?” Felix inquired, and Carmine shot him a filthy look but sat up a bit.

  “Do you think he’s tired of me?” he said in a rush.

  Felix laughed, making Carmine glare again. “Forgive me,” Felix managed, waving a hand. “But you—and he—” He trailed off, giggling.

  “What?” Carmine demanded.

  “You think Saint could ever get tired of you?” Felix demanded, suddenly sober. “He does not give his heart easily, Caz, and when he does, he won’t take it back unless you do something so terrible he can’t forgive you.” He leaned in, gratified when Carmine leaned slightly away. “Have you done something terrible, Carmine?”

  “No,” Carmine said. “I mean, I only tipped fifteen percent the other day and I’ve felt bad about it ever since, but also he was literally hitting on Saint with me right there, and he ‘forgot’ my food when he brought Saint’s, and when he did bring it out it was mostly cold, and anyway we’re off-topic. I haven’t done anything bad.”

  “Then are you planning to?”

  “No!” Carmine squirmed in his seat. “It’s just… look, we’ve been together for a year now. We live together, we’re almost never separated.”

  “I know,” Felix said. “I never see my best friend without you in tow, like a very large puppy. If you didn’t make him so happy, I could be upset with you about that.”

  Carmine bit his lip. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “No, really, I am. I didn’t mean to… steal him or whatever.”

  Felix took pity on him, patting his knee. “You have proven time and again how much you care for him, Caz. I could never resent you. Now tell me what’s bothering you.”

  “It’s just… he’s so good at everything, and he’s only going to get better,” Carmine said, his voice low. “I’m nearly six years older than him. I’ll be looking at retirement when he’s at the peak of his career. How can I ask him to stay with me? He could have… anyone, honestly. With his looks, and brain? There isn’t a guy alive who swings the least little bit in his direction that wouldn’t be all over that.”

  “As flattering as that may be to Saint, that’s not exactly the truth, is it?” Felix touched his knee again before Carmine could object. “No, my friend, you mean well. And it speaks to how much you love him, that you see him this way. But Saint is… not an easy person. No, don’t bristle at me. He’s quick-tempered, neurotic, demanding and difficult. Stop glaring at me, you know I’m right.”

  Carmine scowled but glanced away.

  “What I’m trying to say is he’s not some sort of fabled prize the whole world is panting over. There are very few who could truly understand him, and more, love him the way he deserves. But in any case he doesn’t want this mythical ‘anyone’. He wants you.”

  “And when that changes, but he’s too kind to tell me because he doesn’t want to hurt me?” Carmine didn’t look at Felix, head down as he pulled on a loose thread in his cuff.

  “If that ever happened, I think you are far too smart not to realize it,” Felix said. “But it won’t.”

  “You know that how, exactly?” Carmine snapped. “Crystal ball? Fortuneteller in your pocket?”

  Felix refused to be baited. “Because he came to me the other day worried about the same thing.”

  “Worried about… falling out of love with me?”

  Felix rolled his eyes. “No, you idiot. Worried you would fall out of love with him.”

  Carmine sputtered. “You—but—that’s ridiculous.”

  “Clearly.” Felix touched Carmine’s hand. “You’re a good man, Caz. But promise me you’ll talk to him. Really talk. Not get distracted by sex or staring into each other’s eyes or whatever you do when you’re alone—” He held up a hand when Carmine opened his mouth. “Not an invitation to tell me. But talk to him, Caz. Please? You both need to actually tell each other what’s on your minds.”

  Carmine sighed and nodded. “Alright, I will. Thanks, bud. Hey, when you retire, maybe you should be a relationship counselor, you’re pretty good at this stuff.”

  “The irony is très tragique,” Felix admitted, fighting a smile.

  “Speaking of which, Saint mentioned you’d met someone near the start of the season? How’s that going?”

  “Did he tell you it’s not a relationship?” Felix asked. His phone buzzed, unmistakable this time, and he twitched.

  “He said you’re gooey over him,” Carmine said, and grinned at the look on Felix’s face. “Aw, the big mean French-Canadian doesn’t want to admit he has feelings.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Felix said.

  Carmine snickered. “Okay but seriously, when do we get to meet him?”

  “Absolutely never,” Felix said flatly. “Even if I was willing to mix my personal and public lives again, I would never introduce you to someone I was interested in romantically. They’d spend five minutes with you and I would never see them again.”

  “It’s a gift,” Carmine agreed, looking pleased.

  Felix’s phone buzzed again.

  “We’re just friends,” Felix said. “We have clear boundaries. No relationship. It’s just… physical.” A memory rose unbidden, of Fisher half-dozing in bed the last time they’d been together. They’d had sex again after dinner and it had been more difficult than Felix had expected to tear himself away, despite knowing the plane left early the next morning.

  “Just physical,” Carmine echoed, sounding very skeptical.

  Felix shook himself. “Was there something else?” he asked, knowing his tone was too sharp.

  “We’re here for you,” Carmine said, instead of taking offense. “You know that, right?”

  Felix sighed. “I know.”

  “You deserve love.” Carmine sounded earnest, hair falling into his hazel eyes, staring at Felix as if willing him to believe it.

  It made something inside Felix ache, a knuckle pressed against a bruise. “What if I don’t want it?” It was almost a whisper.

  “I think—” Carmine hesitated. “Well, it doesn’t matter what I think.”

  “Yes it does,” Felix said, surprising himself. “Saint says you’re one of the most emotionally intelligent people he’s ever met. So… tell me what you think, then.”

  Carmine glanced toward the front of the bus, where Saint was still talking to the rookie, then back at Felix.

  “I think you do want it. And I think you’re scared shitless of being that vulnerable again.”

  The bus was pulling into the airport. Felix still hadn’t even looked at his phone.

  Carmine stood, balancing himself in the aisle as the bus went around a corner. “It’s okay to be scared,” he said softly. “What matters is doing what scares us anyway.”

  Saint was coming toward them, looking quizzical. “You guys okay?”

  “Just catching up on all
the latest gossip,” Carmine told him, and the smile they shared was downright disgusting. Felix made gagging noises until they were both glaring at him, then smiled up at them cherubically.

  “Let’s go play some hockey, eh?”

  * * *

  He managed to wait until he was in his seat before he pulled out his phone. Sure enough, the texts were from Fisher.

  Sorry for the late reply, the first one read. Had guests over last night, getting a slow start today.

  It wasn’t even eight A.M. Felix snorted and read the next message.

  That cat is almost as gorgeous as you. And he’s clearly got good taste. :)

  The plane taxied onto the tarmac and Felix tapped a response. Plans this weekend?

  Not really, Fisher replied. Work stuff, maybe going out with Leo.

  Something squirmed in Felix’s belly. Picking up? Fisher couldn’t see his face, hopefully he’d take the question as casual.

  The reply took a minute. Would you mind?

  Felix took a breath. Held it. Let it out. Not if that’s what you want to do, he sent. As long as you’re safe.

  Fisher hadn’t replied by the time the plane took off, and Felix finally put the phone away and went to bully Vanya into a game of cards.

  17

  They lost to the Direwolves two minutes before the final buzzer. Felix didn’t meet anyone’s eyes in the locker room after, elbows on his knees and head down as Coach talked.

  It was his fault. He was distracted, thinking about Fisher out with Leo, maybe finding someone, taking him back to Fisher’s place, doing all the things with him that they’d done with Felix.

  He’d done this to himself. He’d told Fisher he didn’t want more. But was that strictly true? The thought of Fisher kissing someone else made Felix nauseous. But the thought of letting Fisher in, making himself truly vulnerable again, was even worse.

  Saint sat next to him as Coach finished his speech and stalked off. He didn’t say anything. After so long playing together, there wasn’t really any need. Felix leaned against his shoulder briefly and Saint matched the pressure, a faint smile curving his mouth.

  * * *

  Back in the hotel, Felix kicked off his shoes, changed into sweatpants, and stretched out on the bed. There was nothing on his phone from Fisher, so he turned on the television and flipped idly through the channels, looking for something that would help him turn off his mind.

  He settled on a stupid action flick, crossing his feet and lacing his fingers across his stomach. His ribs ached from the forward who’d knocked him over in his drive for the net, but it was bearable. He was almost asleep when his phone rang, startling him awake. Fisher’s name was on the screen. Felix fumbled to answer without dropping it.

  “Hello?”

  No one said anything at first. There was a heavy, thumping bass in the background, shouted conversations overlapping and making it almost impossible to hear anything else.

  “Fisher?” Felix said, sitting up.

  “French?” Fisher sounded startled. “French, baby, hi! Why did you call me?”

  “I didn’t,” Felix said. “You called me. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, I’m great. Hang on.” The noise got muffled, Fisher saying something Felix couldn’t make out, and then a door slammed and everything went quiet. “Still there?”

  “Still here,” Felix confirmed.

  Fisher sighed. “God, I love your voice. It’s more than the accent, although that’s sexy as fuck—it’s, mm… how do I put it. It’s like all soft and husky, and when you’re really turned on it gets all raspy, and—” He cut himself off with a groan.

  Felix swallowed hard. “Fisher, where are you?”

  “Outside the bar,” Fisher said. “But I’m going home. I want to talk to you.”

  The relief absolutely shouldn’t have made Felix’s head spin. “You—you’re not—I thought you and Leo were gonna….”

  Fisher made a dissatisfied noise. “He wanted to. I didn’t. I just went to support him. Oh, hang on, the car’s here.”

  Felix listened as a car door opened and closed and Fisher greeted the driver, his deep voice gravelly and warm. Then he was back.

  “Five minutes and I’ll be home,” he said. His speech was just slightly slurred, words running together when normally they were clear and precise.

  “How much did you have to drink?” Felix asked, amused.

  “Just enough,” Fisher announced.

  “Enough for what?”

  “For me to tell you just how fucking sexy you are,” Fisher said, lowering his voice like he was confessing to a dark secret.

  Felix couldn’t help his laugh. “You tell me that all the time, pêcheur.”

  “I do? No I don’t. I think it a lot though. It’s your eyes. Or maybe your smile. Or—God, your hands. They’re so beautiful, so graceful. God, and your—”

  “Fisher,” Felix interrupted, swallowing more laughter, “save it for when we’re alone, yes? Don’t subject your poor driver to this.”

  There was sudden silence.

  “Sorry,” Fisher said to someone else, muffled like he was holding the phone to his chest. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable. Although if you saw him, you’d understand.”

  Felix groaned and put his face in his hand. “Do you want to call me back, pêcheur?”

  “Absolutely not,” Fisher said firmly. “Unless—do you need to go? I don’t know what you’re doing, it’s late, if you need to sleep or—”

  “I’m fine,” Felix said. “It’s nice to hear your voice.” It was, too. It settled something deep in his core to listen to Fisher talk, even when he was drunk and didn’t really have a reason for it.

  “Okay.” Fisher sighed. “I miss you.” Then, as if realizing what he’d said— “Sorry, shit, I didn’t mean—”

  “Don’t apologize, pêcheur,” Felix said. “I—” He took a careful breath. “I miss you too.”

  “You do?” Fisher sounded stunned.

  “How could I not?” Felix countered. “You’re so good to me. You’re so good, so lovely, I just want to—”

  “Wait,” Fisher said, sounding desperate. “Wait, wait, just—hang on.” The phone went muffled again, and then the car door slammed again.

  A minute later, he was back. “Sorry, I’m back. Home, I mean. I’m home. Um. What were you saying?”

  Felix laughed softly. “You want me to tell you nice things about yourself?”

  “Mostly I just want to hear you talk,” Fisher confessed.

  “What would you like me to talk about?”

  “Anything. I don’t care. What you had for breakfast. Where you are right now. When you’ll be back. Your cat. Just—”

  “I had fruit for breakfast,” Felix said. “Oatmeal too, it’s S—my best friend’s favorite meal. And an omelette with spinach and cheese.”

  “Oatmeal is your friend’s favorite meal?” Fisher sounded nonplussed.

  “Well, when we’re working,” Felix amended. “Not always. His boyfriend actually cooks for him. He’s gained probably fifteen pounds since they got together.”

  “So you work with him?” Fisher stopped himself. “Sorry. I’m being nosy. Tell me… whatever you want.”

  “Where are you right now?” Felix asked instead.

  “In the bedroom,” Fisher said. “Just took my shoes off, I’m gonna lie down. You’re not done, are you?”

  “No, pêcheur, I’ll keep talking.” Felix waited until he heard rustling and a soft grunt. “Are you comfortable?”

  “Be more comfortable if you were here,” Fisher said. He sounded sleepy.

  “I’m in Denver,” Felix said. “But I’ll be home tomorrow. Would you like me to come over then?”

  “God, yes. French—”

  “Yes, pêcheur.”

  Fisher yawned. “Y’know I don’t—I don’t care. Right?”

  “Care about—what?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it. You. The night we met, you said you didn’
t want to be recognized. So maybe you’re not a politician—probably—but you’re in… the public eye. At least well known enough that there’s a good chance people would recognize you.”

  Felix couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

  Fisher didn’t seem to notice. “I just want you to know, I don’t care. I don’t care what you do, or if you make a lot of money, or—” He yawned again. “God, I’m drunk. Sorry. What was I saying?”

  Felix made a huge effort and gathered his wits. “That you don’t care. About… my secrets.”

  “Mm. I don’t. You can keep ‘em, I won’t ask for anything you don’t want to give me.” There was rustling, like Fisher was turning over. “I know how scared you are.”

  “I—Fisher….”

  “You are,” Fisher said. He still sounded half-asleep, but somehow completely sure of himself. “You’re terrified. My best guess is someone hurt you really badly, I don’t know who or how, but it’s left you scared shitless about ever taking a chance on someone else.”

  Felix draped an arm over his face, blinking away the prickling in his eyes. “I don’t—”

  “You don’t have to say anything,” Fisher said. “I’m not asking you for more than you can give. I just want you to know it’s okay.” He sighed. “Talk to me some more. Tell me a story.”

  It took Felix a minute to get his voice under control. Fisher’s breathing was deep and steady in his ear, and finally Felix was able to clear his throat and start talking.

  “When I was about fourteen, my papa took me fishing. We’re Quebecois, ice-fishing is important to us. He built a wee shed, cut a hole in the ice, put in a heater, and we sat in there for hours. Maybe some kids would be bored, but I loved my papa so dearly. It felt like I never saw him.”

  “What does he do?” Fisher asked.

  “He was a long-haul trucker,” Felix said, his throat tight.

  “Was? French—”

  “It’s okay.” Felix swallowed and kept going. “We spent the whole day there. Started early in the morning, maybe four a.m.? We didn’t get home until it was dark. And while we were there, Papa, he… he turned to me, and he said, ‘Maman and I love you so much. More than you’ll ever know. And it doesn’t matter to us who you love. You’ll always be our son.’”