Page 19 of Common Goal
Date. Jesus.
If Kyle was looking for anything from Eric—and he almost certainly wasn’t—it would be a hookup. A one-night thing. That wasn’t normally Eric’s style, but he had been out of the dating game for so long he couldn’t honestly say what his style was, really. Maybe he would love hookups. His teammates certainly seemed to enjoy them.
And if Eric didn’t want a one-night stand with Kyle, then whatdidhe want? A boyfriend? No, of course not. But maybe...a friend. Eric couldn’t deny how lonely he’d been, beyond the time he spent with his teammates, especially these past few months.
He put these thoughts away as he entered Jeanette’s gallery. He wanted a clear head when he viewed the paintings.
Jeanette was on her phone when Eric walked in. She waved at him, then held up a finger. He nodded and used the time to remove his gloves and shake off the cold. A minute later she was walking briskly over to him.
“Eric!” She embraced him quickly, then stood back to inspect him. “You get more handsome every time I see you. Tell me you’re seeing someone.”
“No one.”
She clucked her tongue. “What a waste. Have you made any new prints lately? I think the last ones I saw were from Wales.”
“No, I don’t have much time for photography during the hockey season.” Eric had been dabbling in photography for years. He’d splurged on a professional-quality camera and had spent much of his off-season traveling and taking photos. He was hardly an artist, but he believed he had a good eye, benefiting from the same attention to detail that helped him on the ice.
“Your talents are being wasted,” Jeanette sighed.
Eric chuckled at that. “Some people think my greater talent is goaltending.”
“Fools.” Jeanette flipped her hand in a gesture that invited him to follow her. “Come. The paintings are in the other room.”
“Young artist?” Eric asked as he followed her.
“Actually, no. The artist is in his fifties, but he’s new to the art world.” She nudged him. “You can become an artist at any age, Eric.”
“Noted.”
“He was a power line technician, if you can believe it.”
“That would give you a different perspective of the world, I guess. Is he American?”
“Swedish.” They entered the second room, which had some canvases tilted against walls, waiting to be hung. But Jeanette led him to the far wall, which had four smaller paintings installed. “He does abstract landscapes, and I know you’re going to see right away how special his work is.”
Eric studied the four paintings. They were stunning, mostly dark tones with pops of lighter colors like yellow and green. They were almost purely abstract, but with enough structure to suggest a landscape. “They’re beautiful,” he said.
“Aren’t they? Butthisis the one I really want you to see.” She placed her hands on his shoulders and turned him to face the wall behind him. It had a larger canvas with a cloth draped over it. “Prepare to fall in love,” she said, then removed the cloth.
Eric nearly gasped. This painting was an intense surge of blue and black that seemed determined to pull him into its depths. “Wow.”
“Breathtaking, isn’t it?”
“I can’t look away.”
She touched his arm. “I’ll leave you alone with it for a bit. I need to make a call. I’ll warn you, though, that I have another interested—”
“I’m buying it,” Eric said, his gaze still locked on the painting. “I know exactly where to hang it. It’s perfect.”
“Wonderful. The exhibit will run until January, but after that it’s yours.”
Eric couldn’t help but wonder, as he stood alone in the gallery, what Kyle would have thought of the paintings. He barely knew the man, and had never much cared about getting a second opinion on the art he’d purchased in the past, but he found himself wishing Kyle were here now. Would Kyle have gasped when the painting had been revealed? Would he be standing close enough to Eric that their arms might accidentally brush together? Would he say something flirty and playful that would make Eric’s blood fizz?
God, why was Eric so enchanted by him? Maybe itwasa midlife crisis thing. He was turning forty-one next week, which was basically a hundred in hockey years. It had felt weird, last year, turning forty right after he and Holly had split up. Forty was a milestone, but he hadn’t felt much like partying. His friends had made an effort, but when a buddy is depressed about a break-up and doesn’t drink, hockey players generally aren’t sure what to do with him. So Scott and Carter had suffered through what must have been a very boring and sad birthday dinner with Eric at his favorite Indian restaurant.
He didn’t expect his forty-first birthday to be much better. He wasn’t miserable about the divorce anymore, but he was lonely, and anxious about the impending curtain drop on his career.
Also, it had been over a year of celibacy. Even with his relatively quiet libido, he was feeling the ache. The need for human touch—a kiss, a caress, anything. Someone to travel with or, hell, watch a movie with.
