Chapter Four
If Ilya Rozanov didn’t get his ass out of Eric’s face right fucking now, Eric was going to chop his legs off.
Eric pushed him hard in the back with his blocker pad. “Fuck off, Rozanov.”
But Rozanov—an all-star center who had been a thorn in the side of Eric and every other NHL goaltender for nearly a decade—held his ground.
“I swear to fuck, Rozanov,” Eric growled as he stretched his neck to try to see over Rozanov’s shoulder.
“I heard Hunter’s getting married,” Rozanov said conversationally, as if they were having lunch together and not in the middle of a 1–1 hockey game.
“Looking for an invite?” Eric asked, shoving him again.
“To the most boring event of the century? No.”
Rozanov was a big guy, not easy to move. But Matti Jalo was bigger, and he finally came to Eric’s rescue.
“Took you long enough,” Eric grumbled, but Jalo was already gone, chasing after Rozanov. A few seconds later, Rozanov was racing toward the net with the puck. Instead of sinking back into the net, Eric moved to the top of the crease, fearless and challenging. Try me, motherfucker.
Rozanov let off a lightning-quick wrist shot that sailed toward the top corner of the net. The puck was fast, but Eric was faster, gloving it down with probably a little more flourish than was necessary. He only had so many chances left to make a highlight reel.
“Nice save,” Rozanov said calmly as he skated by.
“Plenty more where that came from.”
Rozanov turned back and grinned. “I doubt it. You are a hundred years old. I could hear your bones creak.”
“That’s not what your girlfriend said.” Eric was instantly embarrassed by his immature comeback. But Rozanov was laughing.
“I’ll have to ask her about it,” he said, then skated away, still laughing.
Eric’s brow furrowed. He didn’t even know if Rozanov had a girlfriend.
The game ended with the Admirals beating Ottawa 3–1. Normally beating a team as low in the standings as Ottawa wouldn’t make Eric feel this good, but after his abysmal performance in the last game, winning felt incredible. When the siren sounded to end the game, he raised both arms over his head as first Jalo, and then the other defenseman on the ice, Brisebois, engulfed him in jubilant hugs.
Carter skated down the ice and butted the front of his helmet against the forehead of Eric’s mask. “You put on a fucking clinic tonight, Benny. Send them crying back to Ottawa.”
“They actually stay in town for a couple of nights,” Eric pointed out, because he couldn’t be cool and let things go. “They’re playing Brooklyn on Saturday.”
Carter looped an arm around Eric’s massive, padded shoulders. “Maybe I’ll recommend a bar they can drown their sorrows in.”
The locker room was boisterous and celebratory after the game. It was always a relief to win the last home game before a road trip; the confidence boost would hopefully carry into their game in Nashville in two nights’ time.
Eric sat to Scott’s left, as always, and listened to him happily telling Carter about his plans to visit Kip at work that night. Scott truly did love hanging out at the Kingfisher. Maybe after nearly thirty years of hiding, he was making up for lost time by openly hanging out in gay bars. Kip had done that for him. Or rather, the love Scott felt for Kip had done that. It had been strong enough to push Scott out of his comfort zone and into a better life.
Eric wondered what that felt like, to love a person so deeply that you become braver for it. Become better. Scott laughed all the time now, where before he had always been quiet, guarded and stoic. He’d rarely been social, always offering excuses to avoid going out. Never dating anyone, obviously. Never sharing his life.
How different was it from how Eric was living now? Eric had ostensibly shared his life with Holly for two decades, but looking back, he realized they hadn’t shared much with each other at all. A house. A bank account. A bed sometimes.
And he had liked Holly a lot. She’d come from money, but Eric had found her remarkably down-to-earth and funny. They’d been friends first, and then it became more when she’d playfully asked him if he was ever
going to kiss her. He’d been considering it for a long time, so he’d accepted her invitation, kissing her and forming a partnership that lasted twenty years. Her parents hadn’t been thrilled with her choice of boyfriend—a charity case hockey player from Canada—but they had changed their tune about him when Eric signed his first NHL contract.
Eric wasn’t sure, even now, if he’d ever truly been in love with Holly. It was entirely possible he didn’t have the ability to love at all. Not the way Scott loved Kip, or Carter loved Gloria. The love his friends felt for their partners shone out of them, lighting up their faces when they talked about them. Maybe that kind of love was rare, and all Eric should hope for was a spark of attraction with someone, and some enjoyable conversation.
Scott’s chatter about the Kingfisher had Eric wondering if a certain other bartender would be working that night. And that maybe going out for a while would do Eric some good.
“Are you heading to the bar right from here?” Eric asked.
“Yeah. It’s closer to the arena than to my place.”
Eric considered this. He would be wearing a suit when he left the arena, but so would Scott. He supposed he could remove the jacket and tie before entering the bar.
“Maybe I’ll go with you,” Eric said. “If that’s okay.”
Scott looked surprised, then grinned broadly, his blue eyes sparkling.
“That would be awesome!”
It was probably a terrible idea. Kyle had pretty clearly rejected Eric last week and probably wouldn’t be excited to see him at his place of work. But Eric wasn’t going to bother Kyle; he wasn’t that stupid. He would enjoy an evening hanging out with Scott, and if he stole a few furtive glances at Kyle, no harm done.
Eric and Scott shared a car from the chauffeur service they both liked. As soon as the car started moving, Scott began removing clothing. First his jacket, then his tie, and Eric did the same. But as Eric began rolling up his shirtsleeves, Scott pulled his entire dress shirt off, revealing a tight charcoal T-shirt underneath. It was then that Eric noticed that Scott’s “suit pants” were actually a pair of sleek black jeans.
When he raised an eyebrow at him, Scott grinned sheepishly. “The dress code is a stupid rule anyway.”
Eric shook his head, smiling. “When did you turn into such a rebel?”
“Probably when Kip ranted for twenty minutes once about how professional athletes are only required to wear traditional men’s suits as a way of repressing creativity and of enforcing gender norms.”
“Right.” Eric kept his shirt on, but he unfastened a couple of the top buttons. “Funny how we never talk about stuff like that in the locker room.”
“We’re getting there.” Scott said confidently. Eric knew that Scott truly believed there was a not-too-distant future where hockey would be every bit as inclusive and welcoming as the bars that Scott now frequented. Eric wasn’t sure if the future of their sport was quite that rosy, but if hockey culture changed at all, it would be largely due to this man sitting beside him.
Eric was proud to be his friend. He would be prouder still to stand beside him on Scott’s wedding day. But tonight, Eric was nervous because he was secretly hoping that Kyle was working, and he wasn’t sure what that meant.
Or what exactly he was hoping for. For right now, all Eric knew for sure was that he wanted to look at Kyle. To enjoy the way his blood fizzed a little when Kyle smiled at him. Maybe it was sad that Eric’s sex life had gotten so dire that he was surviving on flirtatious winks from a man who had no actual interest in him, but at least it was something.
“So, um...” The unease in Scott’s voice got Eric’s attention. “I think someone else might be joining us tonight.”
“Oh? Who?”
“Rozanov. He texted me after the game. Asked what I was doing tonight, and I told him.”
Eric was stunned. “Ilya Rozanov wants to hang out with you tonight? At
a gay bar?”
Scott shrugged. “Apparently.”
“That guy is so weird.”
Scott laughed. “He’s mysterious, for sure. But I think he’s maybe a decent guy. Remember when he showed up at that gay club in Vegas to hang out with us?”
Eric did remember. A nightclub had been holding a Scott Hunter Night to celebrate Scott publicly coming out. The party had been the same night as the NHL Awards, after the ceremony. Scott had extended the invitation to
the entire audience at the awards, but other than the handful of Scott’s teammates who had been in town, Rozanov was the only one who’d shown up. Eric had been as surprised as Scott had been to see Rozanov—a man who had gleefully taunted Scott as often as possible for years, who had a well-earned reputation as a ladies man, who was a famous hockey player from Russia, for fuck’s sake—calmly approaching them in a gay nightclub.
To this day Eric couldn’t wrap his head around it.
“So he’s in New York City, home of some of the best nightlife in the world, and he wants to hang out with you?”
“Yeah. Because I’m very cool and fun now. Haven’t you heard?” Scott nudged him playfully. Eric forced a smile, but having Rozanov there would...complicate things. Eric wasn’t quite ready to tell Scott his true reason for joining him tonight, let alone Ilya Rozanov. Eric wanted to come out to Scott—he thought he might want to come out to everyone—but he didn’t like to do anything until he had all of his ducks in a row. For whatever reason, it made sense to Eric to try out flirting with a man first.
Maybe going on a date or two, or kissing a man; anything that might make his bisexuality seem real. If he did that, he might be able to tell his best friend, with confidence, that he was bisexual.
The ridiculous thing was that he could hear Scott’s voice in his head, scolding him for believing he needed to prove his own sexuality to himself.
But still, Eric wanted to be sure, and he didn’t want Scott to guess that Eric was at the bar to ogle Kyle. Unfortunately, Rozanov seemed a lot more observant. A lot more into giving people shit too.
The car pulled in front of the bar, and Scott and Eric thanked the driver as they slid out of luxurious leather seats and into the bracing cold of late November. They hurried inside, with backpacks crammed full of their discarded clothing slung over their shoulders.
The Kingfisher was, as always, warm and lively, despite being noticeably rough around the edges. Most of the chairs and tables had patches where the wood stain had worn off. The wallpaper was torn and peeling in places. The speakers in the corners that pumped pop music into the bar were in desperate need of dusting. The large television in one corner showing a West Coast NBA game was an older model. It was a bit of a dump, but there was something comforting and inviting about the place.
Most of the tables were full, but Kip dashed over as soon as he spotted Scott and gestured to an empty table near the bar. It had a little reserved
sign on it, which Eric was sure was only ever used for Scott’s visits.
Kip greeted Scott with a kiss, which went on long enough that Eric had to look away.
“You were amazing tonight, sweetheart,” Kip said, his arms still looped around Scott’s neck. “We had the game on in here. You were awesome too, Eric.”
“Thanks.” Eric scanned the room and spotted a familiar trim body in faded jeans and a form-fitting white T-shirt. He was at a table across the room, standing with his back to Eric, but Eric had no problem recognizing him.
“Have a seat,” Kip said cheerfully. “I’ll bring you boys a lager and a soda water with lime?” He glanced at Eric with raised eyebrows, silently checking to make sure he’d remembered Eric’s usual correctly.
“Soda with lime, yes. Thank you.”
Kip left to get their drinks, and Scott never took his eyes off him. Eric carefully turned his gaze on Kyle, letting his eyes linger for a few seconds, and then looking away. Kyle was smiling at an attractive young man who was standing at the bar in the same space Eric had been standing the other night. The wicked glint in Kyle’s eyes as he talked to the man now was the same glint that had been there when he’d been flirting with Eric that night.
A hot stab of jealousy bloomed absurdly in Eric’s chest. This was Kyle’s job. He flirted with countless men like this all the time. Eric had just been one of them. He wasn’t special.
But then Kyle’s gaze met Eric’s, and Kyle’s eyes went wide as the smile fell from his lips. It was only for a second, and then Kyle snapped out of it and turned his attention back to his customer, lips turned up in a seductive smile once again.
Oh no. What was he doing here again?
Kyle could accept that Eric Bennett was here at the Kingfisher to keep his friend company. It probably had nothing to do with Kyle. But that would mean ignoring the way Eric’s gaze kept landing on Kyle as he worked. The way he frowned when Kyle flirted with other customers, even as Eric fiddled with his fucking wedding ring.
Kyle was all too familiar with men like Eric. Men who liked to spend their evenings away from their wives so they could scratch an itch they would never dare speak a word about to any of the people in their lives who actually mattered to them. Men who were happy to get off with Kyle, men who maybe even claimed to want more than secret hookups with him, someday. But those men were all the same. As soon as there was even a chance the secret might get out, that their desire for men might be known by anyone important to them, they bolted.
Fuck men like that. Kyle had wasted too much of his life—of his heart— on them. Eric could ogle him all he liked with those gorgeous dark eyes.
Kyle wasn’t biting.
“I hate it when Scott comes here,” Aram grumbled as he filled a couple of pint glasses. “All eyes are on him until he leaves.”
“Aw,” Kyle said. “I think at least one pair of eyes is on you, babe.” He nodded at a tall, muscular man who was definitely trying to get Aram’s attention for reasons beyond wanting to order a drink.
Aram perked up. “Well, hello. Let me go see what he’s thirsty for.” Kyle laughed. Aram finished loading his tray with full pints, then winked at him.
“Hey, I see Scott brought his hot dad tonight.”
Kyle followed Aram’s gaze to where Eric was sitting. As soon as Kyle’s eyes landed on him, Eric turned his head quickly away. Busted. “Oh, you mean Husband of the Year over there? No thank you.”
Aram wrinkled his nose. “Right. I forgot. Ick.”
He left with his tray of drinks, and Kyle took a cute, chubby bearded guy’s order.
“That’s Scott Hunter, right?” the man asked as Kyle prepared his gin and
tonic.
“The one and only.”
“He’s even more gorgeous in person. Damn.”
“Oh I know.”
“The guy who’s sitting with him is hot too, in a sexy professor kind of way.”
Kyle had to fight to keep himself from rolling his eyes. “Mm.”
When the bearded guy left with his drink, he was immediately replaced by Kip. “You should come over to the table to say hi.”
“I’m busy.”
“Busy with that handsome lumberjack?”
Kyle narrowed his eyes at him. “The handsome lumberjack who has a giant crush on your fiancé?”
For a moment, Kip looked outraged, but then he grinned and said, “Well, I can’t blame him. I mean, just look at Scott. Sometimes I can’t believe he’s
really mine.”
Ugh. “Lucky you.”
“You’re in a mood tonight.”
“I’m fine. I’m just...hungry. And I probably need to get laid.”
“Good thing you work in a bar that has both food and horny men.”
Kyle couldn’t help but laugh at that, which made Kip beam. His horrible dimples arrived on the scene to torment Kyle. “Let me check on my tables,”
Kyle said, “and then I’ll go say hi to Scott. And Eric. And...wait. Who’s that guy?”
Kip turned to glance at Scott’s table and his eyes went wide. “Holy shit.”
“Is that...”
“Ilya Rozanov.” Kip blew out a breath. “This night just got a lot more
interesting.”
“Why? Is he your third or something?”
“Hell no. Rozanov is definitely into women. And he kind of hates Scott.”
“Is he in a committed relationship?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then maybe I’ll see if any part of him might be into men.” Kyle smiled coyly at Kip, then zipped away with an empty tray.
Kyle was definitely avoiding their table. Whether that was because of Eric or because he didn’t like being around Scott and Kip as a couple, Eric couldn’t say. Maybe he was just busy and Eric was being paranoid. He wished Kyle would stop by for at least a moment, if for no other reason than to save Eric from having to choose between looking at Kip snuggled into Scott’s lap, or at Ilya frigging Rozanov.
Rozanov was sitting calmly, observing the room with the same bemused little smile that infuriated his opponents on the ice. It had to be practiced, because it was a masterpiece. A smile that simultaneously said I am figuring out exactly how to torture you and I don’t care about you at all.
“So,” Eric said. “You’re here.”
“Yes,” Ilya agreed.
“Is there a reason for that, or...”
“This place is cozy.” The way Ilya said it—the way he said everything— made it hard to tell if he was making fun of Eric.
“It’s nice,” Eric said carefully.
“You are here a lot?”
“Not a lot. I come with Scott sometimes.”
“Your wife left you, yes?”
Jesus, he was blunt. “We separated.”
Ilya smirked. “Okay. But she divorced you?”
“It was mutual.”
“Yes. And now you hang out here?”
Eric almost never blushed, but he came dangerously close just then. “To keep Scott company, like I said.”
Ilya nodded in the direction of Kyle, who was now behind the bar. “Lots to look at.”
Eric clenched his jaw. How the fuck was Rozanov so perceptive? He really seemed like he didn’t give a shit about anyone around him, but his powers of observation were sharper even than Eric’s. “I guess.”
Unfortunately, Kyle chose that moment to finally visit their table. “Good evening, boys. Kip, when you’ve finished the lap dance, your booth in the corner needs another round.”
Kip slid out of Scott’s lap, cheeks pink. “It wasn’t a lap dance!”
“Hunter probably thought it was,” Ilya quipped.
Scott glared at him. “Fuck off, Rozanov. I know what a lap dance is.”
Kip hurried away to check on his table, and Kyle turned his attention to Rozanov. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” Eric didn’t like the glimmer in Kyle’s eyes as he drank in Ilya’s admittedly attractive face and body.
“Kyle,” Scott said, “this is Ilya Rozanov. Ilya, this is my friend Kyle.”
Ilya reached across the table and shook Kyle’s hand. “Kyle.” He held his hand for, Eric felt, longer than necessary.
“What can I get you, sexy?” Kyle asked in that effortlessly flirtatious tone of his.
Ilya pointed at a chalkboard beside the bar that advertised the drink special that hadn’t changed in over two years. “I would like a Scott Hunter.
Please.”
Scott groaned. “Just bring him a beer, Kyle. He’s being an asshole.”
“Have you had it?” Ilya asked Eric.
“No.”
“I want to try it. And bring one for Bennett.”
Eric caught Kyle’s gaze and shook his head. “I don’t—”
“I can make one without alcohol,” Kyle offered.
Ilya looked delighted. “Yes! A virgin Scott Hunter.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Scott grumbled.
“You don’t have to,” Eric said. “I’m fine.”
“I never got to make you that mocktail the other night.” Kyle placed a hand on Eric’s shoulder. “I was watching you show off on television earlier.
Let me show you what I’m good at.”
Eric swallowed so hard the rest of the table must have heard it. There was that fizzy feeling he’d been chasing. “Okay.”
Kyle grabbed their empty glasses, then left with a wink at Ilya. Eric hated how jealous he was of that wink. Ilya didn’t even react beyond his usual infuriating half smile.
Scott stood up. “I’m gonna hit the men’s room.”
He lingered a moment before leaving, which left him vulnerable for a Rozanov attack. “Are you hoping for company?”
Scott scowled. “No.” He turned and left, and Eric had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. His amusement didn’t last, because as soon as Scott
was gone, Ilya started on Eric.
“Kyle seems nice.”
Eric kept his expression as neutral as possible. “He is.”
For a long moment, Ilya didn’t say anything. He just quietly studied Eric, as if searching for a weak spot. “He is attractive.”
“I suppose.”
“He looks like Hunter a bit. But younger.” He paused, and grinned.
“Much younger.”
Eric’s expression got a whole lot less neutral. He didn’t reply, so Ilya kept going. “Is like if Scott Hunter had a younger brother. And that brother had a son.”
Eric did not like anything that Ilya was implying. “He seems to like you,” he volleyed back, hating that it was true.
Ilya shook his head. “This table is a mess.”
“What do you mean?”
Ilya leaned forward, uncomfortably close to Eric. “You want to fuck Kyle. Kyle wants to fuck Hunter’s boyfriend, but maybe also you, since Hunter and his boyfriend do not see anyone but each other.”
“I do not!” Eric sputtered, even though he was pretty sure everything Rozanov had just said was true. Jesus this asshole was perceptive. “I barely even know him. And I’m not—I’m just here with Scott.”
“Yes.” Ilya’s eyes darted to where Eric’s left hand rested on the table.
“Also, you are wearing a wedding ring but have no wife.”
Eric covered his left hand protectively with his right “I like wearing it.
I’ve worn it my entire NHL career, and it doesn’t feel right to take it off.
Not when I only—” He stopped himself just in time. Or at least, he’d thought he had.
“Not when you only have this season left,” Ilya finished for him. God, Eric hadn’t told anyone that yet. He was planning to announce it after the
Christmas break, maybe.
“Don’t say a word to anyone, Rozanov.”
Ilya leaned back in his chair. “Is not going to shock people, Bennett. You
are very old.”
“Thanks.”
“Tommy Andersson will be happy.”
Eric spotted Scott coming back from the bathroom. “Shush. I mean it.”
Ilya pressed his lips together, but his eyes danced and Eric really wasn’t sure if he was going to keep quiet or not. His stomach clenched at the possibility of having his two biggest secrets revealed right now by Ilya goddamned Rozanov.
But Ilya didn’t say a word, and shortly after Scott sat down, Kyle returned with their drinks. “One naughty Scott Hunter,” he said as he placed a blue cocktail in front of Ilya. “And one nice Scott Hunter.” He placed an identical drink in front of Eric, then darted away before Eric could even thank him.
Ilya lifted his glass. “Should we drink to Scott Hunter and his future husband?”
“I think we drank enough to that last week,” Scott said sheepishly.
“To love, then. And”—he glanced at Eric—“to being brave.”
They all clinked their glasses, and Ilya winked at him in a gesture that Eric translated as your secret is safe with me.
Ilya took a sip of his drink, and his face scrunched up. “Ugh. Tastes like Scott Hunter. Too sweet.”
Eric thought the drink was remarkably well balanced, but his obviously
had different ingredients.
“Kyle!” Ilya called out. “Help!”
Eric saw Kyle pause on his way from the bar to a table. He was carrying a tray loaded with drinks. “Leave him alone. He’s working.”
“I am a customer,” Ilya argued. “And I need a beer or something to get this taste out of my mouth.”
“I once watched you drink three Cherry Cokes at an All-Star weekend lunch, so don’t pretend you don’t like sweet drinks.”
Ilya looked a little stunned by Eric’s snark. Then he grinned. “I did not know you were so interested in me.”
“I’m not. At all. It was a shocking amount of Cherry Coke for a pro athlete to consume. It was memorable.”
“You know,” Ilya said with a weird little smile. “You were not the only one to think so that day.” He took another sip of his drink, and made a disgusted face. “Where is Kyle? Or the other one, Hunter’s guy.”
Eric sighed. “Stay here. I’ll get you a beer.”
Ilya’s smirk was far too knowing. “Yes. You go talk to Kyle. Would you like me to hold your wedding ring?”
Eric didn’t answer him. He turned and strode toward the bar before Ilya could see his cheeks darken.
Kyle was just returning to the bar when Eric got there. “Oh, hey,” Kyle said. It definitely wasn’t warm.
“Ilya wants a beer, and I wanted to stretch my legs,” Eric said.
“Uh-huh. What kind of beer?”
This conversation wasn’t going at all the way Eric wanted it to. He tried for flirtatious. He leaned forward a bit, resting an elbow on the bar top. “I might need to rely on your expert opinion for that.”
Kyle stared at him, his expression so unfriendly that Eric slid his elbow off the bar and let his arm hang at his side. Then Kyle said, with a huff of
irritation, “I like the red ale.”
“Okay. I’ll go with that, then.”
Kyle grabbed a glass and wordlessly filled it with ale. Eric awkwardly accepted it, but didn’t move to return to the table. He should leave, he knew that, but he also desperately wanted Kyle’s attention, if only for a moment.
Why is he still here?
Kyle was starting to wish Eric would outright proposition him so he could turn him down and be done with it.
Maybe he doesn’t want to proposition you.
It was definitely a possibility. Kip had said that Eric could use a friend— someone to talk about art and history and other non-hockey things with. In fact, it was extremely possible that Kyle was being an asshole because he was projecting his past heartbreak onto a perfectly innocent attractive older man.
An attractive older man who looked completely lost right now, holding someone else’s beer and seemingly trying to think of something to say that would make Kyle be nice to him.
Kyle decided to throw him a bone. “Do you have the day off tomorrow?”
Eric’s face lit up, and Kyle flooded with shame. “I do.”
Kyle pretended to be busy wiping down the bar. “And how does Eric Bennett spend his days off?”
Eric seemed to think about it for a moment. “I do a more intensive yoga practice at home on days when I don’t have a game or practice.”
“Wow.” Kyle laughed. “Is that how you kick back and unwind? Intensive yoga?”
“Yes.” There was nothing playful in Eric’s tone, so Kyle let it drop.
Maybe the yoga was enjoyable for Eric. Maybe intensive yoga turned into intensive, flexible morning sex with his wife.
“I’m also going to visit my friend’s gallery,” Eric said. “She’s preparing a new exhibit and wants to show me the paintings in advance. I’ll be on the road for the opening.”
“Oh, that’s right! You’re a patron of the arts.” Kyle said it as if he’d completely forgotten that Eric collected art. It was one of many enchanting things about Eric Bennett that Kyle was trying not to think about.
“I buy art that I like,” Eric corrected. “It’s mostly selfish.”
“Is that something a lot of hockey players do? Collect art?” Kyle already guessed that it wasn’t.
“Not many that I’ve met. Nothing against my teammates—some of them are my best friends—but they aren’t the most cultured bunch.”
The way he said it suggested to Kyle that when Eric went to galleries and openings, it was probably alone. “Where’s the gallery?”
“In Chelsea. It’s the Saint-Georges Gallery.”
“I know it!” Kyle exclaimed. “I mean, I haven’t been in it, but I am very familiar with the empanada shop next door.”
Eric’s face split into another broad, devastating smile. “Córdoba Bakery!
I love that place.”
Why couldn’t he stop being perfect? “I’m a regular there. I live a block away from it. The spicy beef empanadas are like sex, oh my god.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it.”
Kyle couldn’t help himself. “About sex?”
Eric chuckled. “About beef. I’m a vegetarian.”
Of course he was. “That’s great! I mean, great for...the environment. And for you! And, um, animals. I’ve been trying to cut back myself.”
Eric’s face settled into the same calm amusement Kyle had found so bewitching at the engagement party. “I’m not offended that you eat meat.
Most of my friends do.”
“Oh.” Eric’s crisp white dress shirt was open at the collar, giving Kyle an excellent view of his throat, which was sexier than it had any right to be. A few curls of dark chest hair were visible just above the first closed shirt button. Kyle loved chest hair. He bet Eric had the perfect amount of it, and maybe some of it was silver. God, that would be hot.
“If you want, I mean,” Eric said, and Kyle realized he’d completely
missed whatever had preceded it.
“Sorry. Want to what?”
“Come with me. To the gallery tomorrow. Jeanette, the owner, is very excited about these paintings and I thought you might like to see them.”
It would be so easy for Kyle to say yes to this. It was a normal thing that two people who shared an interest might do. It didn’t have to mean more than that. It could be...safe.
But Kyle knew himself. Eric, he couldn’t be sure of, but he knew himself. Spending cozy one-on-one time together would lead to Kyle falling back on bad habits. So instead of saying yes, he said, “I can’t tomorrow.
Maybe I’ll try to make the opening, though. What night is it?”
Eric told him the details, disappointment written all over his face, and Kyle pretended to commit them to memory.
Kip came up behind Eric, grinning from ear to ear. “I knew you guys would get along. What are you two talking about?”
“Art,” Kyle said, taking a step back from the bar, and from Eric.
“See? Best friends,” Kip said. “But also, Rozanov is looking for his beer.”
“Shit, I forgot about him,” Eric said. He picked up the beer. “I guess I’d
better deliver this.”
“Doing my job for me?” Kyle teased.
“Terribly, clearly.”
He turned to leave, and Kyle blurted out. “Hey, um.” Eric turned back, his expression all interest. “If you’re hungry, you should know that we do great cauliflower wings here. One hundred percent meat-free.”
Eric smiled like Kyle had just offered to grant him his greatest wish.
“Thank you. For letting me know.”
Oh god. Kyle really did want to take this man apart. He was the perfect blend of distinguished and shy. Confident about who he was, but timid about what he wanted. Whether he wanted Kyle’s friendship or he wanted Kyle to fulfill every secret gay fantasy he’d ever had, it was clear that Eric had no idea how to ask for it. He needed someone to take charge, and Kyle very much wanted to be that person.
But he couldn’t. Obviously. Eric was married, probably closeted, and probably self-loathing. Everything Kyle absolutely did not need in his life.