Pucking Sweet: Chapter 40
Standing in the middle of Novy’s empty living room, I turn a half circle. “You weren’t kidding about the ‘no decorating’ thing.”
“Right?” He leans against the kitchen island, watching me take it all in. And by all, I mean his sectional sofa in the middle of the floor angled toward the hundred-inch TV he has perched atop its own box.
That’s it. That’s all he has in this whole goddamn room.
This is our first weekend free in a month, and he invited me over tonight to watch the Bruins/Oilers game. Our takeout containers of chicken fettuccini alfredo sit on the counter, along with a case of double IPA. “You don’t even have a coffee table we can set the beers on,” I mutter.
“Oh, I use this.” Stepping around the other side of the sofa, he picks up an overturned packing box. I can see the faded water rings dotting the surface.
I sigh. “Just show me the rest.”
He takes me on a quick tour of the rest of his empty beach house. The bones of this place are great. Good natural light, lots of wall space he could use for built-ins. There’s a room in the back that would make a great in-home theater. A room on the second floor would make an awesome library-slash-office.
Wait, does Novy read?
I mean, I know he can read. But does he like to read?
I realize as I’m walking around, dreaming up what this space could look like, that I really don’t know much about him. He’s one of the chattiest guys you’ll ever meet, but it’s only on reflection that I realize he doesn’t ever share anything personal. It’s usually just crazy stories from his travels, his parties, or the girls he wheels. He never talks about Novy. He never lets anyone in.
“And this is my room,” he says, leading the way through the double doors into a large bedroom. There’s a pair of king-sized mattresses stacked on the floor with no frame. The bed at least looks comfortable. He’s got a fluffy comforter and a generous amount of pillows. But it’s all stark white, devoid of any personality, like a hotel.
Shit, even hotels have a little charm.
I sigh again. “Dude, I’m sorry, but the vibes in here are wretched.”
“Told you,” he mutters.
“Well, you gotta decorate. You don’t even have a lamp for your bedside.”
“There’s a light in the ceiling, bud.” He points to the stationary ceiling fan.
“Yeah, but—okay, so it’s late at night and you’re tired, but you’re not ready to fall asleep. You come in here, turn on the light, then you get in bed and then you are ready to sleep—”
“Why the fuck are you detailing the steps of going to sleep?”
“Well, because what do you do?” I press. “You’re tired, and you wanna sleep, but instead of rolling over like a normal fucking person and turning off the lamp, you have to get out of bed and turn off the ceiling light?”
“No, I turn on the bathroom light.”
I blink at him. “Why do you turn on the bathroom light?”
“Because it’s closer than going and turning off the ceiling light.”
“So, you sleep with the goddamn lights on?”
“No, I never turn that light on,” he says, pointing up at the ceiling fan again.
“It’s on now.”
“Yeah, ’cause I’m giving you a fucking tour,” he snaps. “I’m saying I only ever turn on the bathroom light, and that’s the light I turn off when I go to bed. Geez, what’s your problem?”
“Okay, let’s go.” I grab his arm, pulling him from the bedroom.
“Ouch. Where are we going?”
“Out. I’m not sitting in this empty house, eating pasta on my lap with my beer on the floor.”
“I told you I didn’t have any furniture—”
“Yeah, and we’re gonna fix that,” I say, leading the way down the stairs. We get to the kitchen and I swipe my wallet and keys off the counter.
“Where are we going?” he says again.
“Dinner and the game. We’ll find a sports bar or something. I just can’t sit in here. It’s freaking me out. And first thing Monday, we’re asking Poppy for the name of an interior decorator.”
The trouble with going out to watch the game is that a lot of the regulars in the sports bars around Jax Beach have started to recognize us. Don’t get me wrong, I love our fans. But there’s nothing worse than trying to watch pro hockey in a bar with people who know you also play.
Novy and I get a wild hair and end up driving down the A1A highway all the way to St. Augustine. The little downtown is lousy with bars and restaurants where you can grab a bite and watch a game in peace. We find our way onto a pair of barstools in the corner of a dark Irish pub. A big TV hangs right in front of us over the bar, so it’s like we’re in our own little world as we watch the game.
“Look at Norris.” Novy snorts into his beer, snagging a few French fries off my plate. “What a fucking fool.”
We both laugh as we watch the defenseman get circled on the ice, too slow to keep up with his mark. “He’s a total pylon,” I say.
“Right? Outta the way, 41!” he shouts at the screen. “God, how is he starting for them still?”
I shrug. “Bribes? Hand jobs?”
“Don’t tell me he’s the coach’s nephew.”
We snort again, watching for a few more minutes as Novy eats the rest of the fries off my plate. I glance over, taking in his profile in the glow of the wall of flashing TV screens. The bridge of his nose is bent from a previous break. I wouldn’t say I tend to notice the attractiveness of men, but he’s not bad looking.
“Tell me something about yourself,” I say.
He’s distracted by the action on the TV. “What?”
“Just tell me one thing that’s not about the game or the girls,” I go on. “One thing about you.”
He turns, one brow raised. “What the hell, Morrow? Want me to put out later too?”
“Don’t last-name me anymore. To you, I’m Cole.”
He blinks, leaning away. “Jeez, is this a date?”
“Call it an interview,” I counter.
“An interview?”
“You think you’re good enough to be with Poppy? You want to share her with me? I want to know whether you’re worth the trouble.”
He chuckles. “Well, A, no, I don’t think I’m good enough for Poppy. B, I never technically said I’d share her with you. And C, I can save you the time now and say I’m definitely not worth the trouble.”
I just give him a deadpan stare. “Don’t do that either.”
“Do what?”
“Your self-deprecating bullshit. I see through it, and so does she.”
“Oh, does she?”
“She wants to know you, Nov. She wants to let you into her world and her life and her bed, and I’m gonna make sure you’re the kind of man worthy of such an honor. Now, if you won’t open up to her and be real without the jokes and the swagger, you’re gonna do it with me. I want one real thing. Just one, and then I’ll leave you alone.”
His eyes narrow. “One thing?”
“Easy peasy.”
“You go first,” he challenges.
Swiping my beer off the bar, I take a sip. “Fine. My dad died.”
His protective shields instantly lower. “Oh, shit. CJ died?” His hand drops to my thigh. “Oh, Cole. When?”
Shit, his concern is genuine. How could I have forgotten that Novy knew my dad? He knew how close we were too. I talked about him all the time. I think Novy even went to dinner with us once or twice after a game when Dad was visiting. It feels good to tell him, like a weight’s been lifted. It’s validating, like seeing his concern assures me Dad was the kind of person who deserved to be missed, to be mourned.
“He was fading for a long time,” I explain. “He passed shortly after last season ended. That’s why I was so late getting down here. It’s why I still live in temporary housing. House-hunting didn’t seem to matter when I was busy packing up the last fifty years of his life.”
“Dude, I’m sorry,” he says, giving my thigh a squeeze. “You should’ve told me when it happened. I could have come to the funeral or something. Why didn’t you?”
“I’m telling you now.”
He drops his hand away. “Well, I don’t think I can top that.”
“I hope you can’t,” I reply. “But I’ll take any small thing, any piece of you, Nov.”
He’s thoughtful for a minute. “I cry watching sheepdog herding videos.”
“What?”
He shrugs. “Can’t explain it. I just watch those dogs racing around, collecting all their sheep, moving them from pen to pen, and I get choked up every damn time. You ever seen it?”
I smile, my chest feeling a little lighter. “No, I can’t say that I have.”
“I’ll send you some links. It’s fucking magical.” He pulls out his phone. Within moments, my own buzzes in my pocket. His eyes stay on his phone for a few more minutes while I return to watching the game.
“She’s not gonna do this with us, is she?”
I glance his way again. “What?”
“Poppy.” He lowers his phone and looks at me. “You told her to come to me. You told her to square things so we could take this to the next level, but she didn’t. Did I somehow ruin this?”
I sigh, setting my beer down. “Nov, it’s been less than twenty-four hours, and she’s busy. She works harder than the both of us combined. Besides, didn’t she have that bachelorette thing this weekend?”
Novy perks up. “Oh shit. Wasn’t that here in St. Augustine?” He slaps my chest. “Hey, we should go find her.”
I laugh, shaking my head.
“What, how hard could it be? Come on, bachelorette parties always draw attention. Wouldn’t you rather go dance with our girl than sit on these damn barstools watching the Bruins win again?”
I go still, pulse humming. “Novy.”
“Hey, if you think I’m gonna sit here and watch sheepdog herding videos with you, think again. I don’t cry in public—well, unless it’s the Winter Olympics.” He snaps his fingers. “Or there’s this one Cheerios commercial—”
“Nov,” I growl, slapping his chest.
“Ow.” He rubs the spot. “What?”
Grabbing him by the shoulders, I spin him around on his stool to face the door just as the bar explodes with noise. All the guys cheer and wolf whistle as a swarm of pink flamingos enters in a flurry of feathered boas and glittery sashes.
Only they’re not flamingos. They’re a squealing, laughing, blinking penis hat-wearing bachelorette party. And right in the front, dressed like my wet dream, is a smoky-eyed, big-haired Poppy wearing a pink beaded bra top, gold sequin miniskirt, and gold platform stilettos with thin straps that wrap up her slender calves.
“Hooooly fuck.” Novy spins back around on his stool and cups my face with both hands, his own alight with excitement. “Say yes.”
I lean away, distracted by Poppy as she sweeps into the room, the fringe on her beaded top teasing her bare midriff.
“Hey.” Novy slaps my face. “Say yes, asshole.”
I grunt. “Yes to what?”
“Yes to sharing her. Say you’re in. All the way in. We’re fucking doing this.”
“I thought we were playing hard to get,” I challenge.
“No, we were playing hard to get because you’re a fucking Leo and you require a goddamn leash. Now it’s Scorpio time.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means it’s time to strike,” he says with a grin. “Now, are you in or out?”
Poppy turns away, flashing her bare back, and all my thinking power shifts straight down to my dick. “Yes,” I manage to say, setting my beer aside. “I’m all in.”
“Fuck yes.” He leaps off his stool. Grabbing my arm, he tugs me off mine too. “Let’s go get our girl.”