“No. Turned out to be a false prophet and that was only for two games.”
“There isn’t enough bleach in the world to wash that smell out of my nose.” He failed to tell me about their last bout of mania, and I had plans of sucking him off that were quickly thwarted when I got close enough.
“Anyway, this one is serious. We’ll sweep ‘em. It’s only for a few more days.”
“Does you sucking me off count?”
He thinks about it. “Not sure. Better safe than sorry though.”
Guess that’s a no. I sink into my couch and pull out my dick.
“What are you doing?”
“Masturbating since my boyfriend won’t touch my dick.”
“Merc, you’re part of the team. You can’t. C’mon. We can do this.” He makes it sound like we’ve decided to quit smoking together and I’m forsaking my pledge.
I don’t point out that I tugged one out before the game—the thought of Jack in a suit gets me sometimes—because the success rate of superstitions relies on the placebo effect. I can sacrifice a week of orgasms to win the Calder Cup. “Fine.” He sits next to me and cuddles into my side. “What do you wanna do then?”
He slides a hand up my shirt and fiddles with my belly button and that’s when he breaks. It’s only for a second and there’s only a sliver of that haunted expression lingering in the background, but it’s enough to set off all my alarm bells.
I said I would give him space. I said I wouldn’t pry. Fuck it. I can’t take it anymore. I run my fingers through his hockey hair that’s growing ever wilder because no one’s cut their hair since, I think, back in March. A team decision. “Please tell me what’s going through that head of yours, baby.”
“Merc.” It’s a defensive tone.
Once I’m close to someone, I don’t handle distance well, which is why I didn’t make a habit of getting close to anyone outside of my family. My imagination runs wild with all kinds of scenarios. All of them involve him leaving me.
Cerebrally, I know his woes have nothing to do with me, but this is the first time he’s left me out of the process and it’s hard not to take it personally.
Not about you, Merc.
The less rational side of me doesn’t give a fuck. It all screams danger and it’s loud. Hard to ignore. Best I can manage is not saying something I’ll regret, but that means I’m quiet and my man is intuitive.
“Merc, I’m sorry, okay?”
“You shouldn’t have to apologize to me for anything.”
“I think I do need to. You’re hurt and while that’s not my intention, it’s still because of me. Ugh, I hate this.” He sits up. “Know what? Playoffs are a week and a bit, and I’m pretty wrecked these days anyhow. My body feels like it’s been through a meat tenderizer. Even without the superstition thing, I don’t think I’d have the energy for sex. Maybe I should stay at my place, work out what’s in my head on my own.”
Well, that’s a fucking knife to my heart. “I love sex with you, Jack, but that’s not why I’m in love with you. I can live without it for a bit. We can do nothing together too.”
Never thought I’d be content to do “nothing” with someone.
Inside, I’m panicking. I try not to let it show. Something happened at the last game to trigger this morose Jack from the happy-go-lucky love-professing one I had two days ago.
“It’s not just that, Merc. Let me figure my head out.” He gets up, leaving chilly air in his wake.
Is he leaving? My brain computes this asleaving.
“I don’t get a say in this?” I’m no relationship expert but doesn’t this merit a discussion?
“Not really.”
I wish I’d never said anything and wish I’d said something sooner at the same time. His coldness is hard to bear when I’m used to his warmth. I’m paralyzed where I sit until I notice he’s put on his hat and is preparing to leave without any of our usual goodbye rituals.
His fingers curl around the keys on the counter, but he seems to make a decision and releases them.
He’s leaving them.
