Page 85 of Poetry On Ice

I’d love a beer, but I can’t drink because of my concussion. Still, I have a Coke in my hand and another soft drink waiting for me before I so much as have time to order anything, and the guys are talking loudly and over each other, all trying to catch me up on what I’ve missed. I’m way too sober to keep up, but I do my best to follow as many threads of conversation as possible.

The entire time, the ghost of Ant Decker’s fingers burns invisible tracks into my skin.

“Damn, McGuire,” says Luddy, “Did you manage to catch tonight’s game? We missed you.”

I’m here with the team, talking, laughing as they throw beers back, but I’m not here. Not really. I can hardly think straight. I can barely function. Everyone around me is too bright, too loud, too close. The only person that feels real and right is leaning over the bar, nursing a whiskey and trying not to look at me.

I know he’s happy to see me. It radiates off him, but he’s trying so hard to hide it. The muscle in his jaw has been working since I got here. Ceaselessly. Without pause. His eyes are dark and clouded over. The storm isn’t brewing on the horizon. It’s not forecast to make landfall in a few days or even hours. It’s raging inside him.

I do what I can to act normal. I talk to the guys and work my way around the room the same way I’ve done time and time before, only this time, for the first time in my life, I feel like an actor playing a role.

It’s not just the storm in Ant’s eyes that upsets me. It’s the weight and gravity behind it. It’s the fact it’s set in. It’s the fact that behind the clouds and hot pressure systems, behind the thunder and lightning, there’s sadness.

And fuck, I hate that.

Time drags out so that each song that plays feels like a lifetime, but eventually, the throng of Vipers thins out until only a few of us are left standing. And most of those standing aren’t standing straight.

Ant leaves his post at the bar and gravitates closer and closer to me. I feel lighter, better, and more right with each step he takes toward me. Bodie, the legend that he is, doesn’t leave my side, making it safe for Ant to merge into our group without drawing unwanted attention.

Bodie is nattering incessantly about Beth, and Ant is mumbling something or other to my right. The music is loud, and it’s not until Bodie pauses his soliloquy about my sister that I’m able to make out what Ant is saying.

“No touching. No touching.”

“Ant,” I whisper, not looking directly at him, “I won’t touch you in public. I know this is important to you. I’d never do that to you.”

He digs his hands deep into his pockets, looks down at his feet, and says, “I’m talking to myself, Robbie.”

The second his words land, I’m done. He is too. Everything and everyone around us ceases to exist.

“We have to get out of here,” I say. “Now.”

He looks away from me and nods. “What room are you in?”

“Top floor, number 16.”

“Message me when the coast is clear,” he says.

He leaves first, and I leave two songs later.

The tap on my door comes less than two minutes after I send the text, but still, it’s enough time for my entire body to revolt. I’m breathless and panting, and my heart is pounding in time with the echo of the music playing in the bar downstairs. Or it’s pounding in time with the mystical force that keeps me upright when I’m not withAnt. A force that’s rapidly fading, losing power, losing control, now that it senses he’s near.

I swing the door open and pull him inside without even checking to see whether anyone’s looking.

There’s no kiss like a horny, desperate kiss from Ant Decker. There just isn’t. Our mouths are open and on each other. Our bodies are pressed against each other hard, hands grabbing flesh and pulling hair.

We don’t say a word, not even hello, until we’re lying naked on the floor and we’ve both spilled into the other’s mouth.

When we’re done, I climb into his lap, sitting astride him, and cradle his head in my arms. I’m quiet for longer than I’ve ever been in his presence since the day he bit me.

“I should cut you lose,” he says when the silence changes from easy into something complicated and heavy.

“No.”

“I should.”

I turn his face toward me. There are a thousand questions in my eyes, and I let him see all of them. Big questions, life-changing questions, and more. Things I know about myself and about him. Things I know about who and what we are to each other.

“God knows I should cut you loose, but”—he tries not to kiss me, but he can’t help it. He kisses me like I’m air and he’s drowning—“I can’t. I can’t do it. Do you understand me? I can’t, so you should do it. You should, Robbie, because you can find a girl, you can date someone else, and all this will go away. It’ll be like it never happened for you. People will forget all about this. I’d do it if I were you. I swear I would. I can’t because I’m me, and for me, even if you go away, this is still who I am.”

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