Page 25 of The Best Parts of Him
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Dabbs pinched the bridge of his nose, picturing an altogether different sort of wet spot.
“What are you doing anyway?” Ryland asked, oblivious to Dabbs’ state of mind. “Not still drinking, are you?”
“No, I’ve switched to water. I’m sitting in a Muskoka chair in my parents’ yard, looking up at the stars.”
“What the actual fuck is a Muskoka chair?”
“It’s similar to an Adirondack chair.”
Ryland grunted his understanding. “Cool. Soooo . . . not that I’m not glad you called, but . . . why did you?”
“Would you believe it was a butt dial?”
Ryland snorted a laugh. “No.”
“Well, good. Because it wasn’t,” Dabbs said, the wine forcing honesty out of him. “I just wanted to talk to you. But I’m thinking I need to get some sleep. My dogs did the smart thing and bunked down together in my room hours ago. I think I need to join them. Plus, there’s a cricket eyeing me from the chair next to me, and I’m a little concerned it’s going to attack.” Dabbs squinted at it. He would’ve sworn it squinted back.
“A . . . cricket?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Like, the bug?”
“I think it’s technically an insect.”
The line went quiet for a few seconds, then Ryland said, “Dabbs.”
“Uh-huh?”
“Are you afraid of bugs?”
Dabbs shuddered, recalling being starfished on his back in the middle of the night on Ryland’s farm. Anything could’ve crawled on him. “Uh, yeah.”
“But . . . you said you were an outdoorsy person.”
“There’s enjoying the outdoors, and there’s enjoying multilegged creepy-crawlies with antennae. The two are not mutually exclusive.”
Ryland laughed long and loud, his guffaws making Dabbs grin against the night.
And if the sound of his laughter unfurled something warm in Dabbs’ chest, that was okay.
Surely, it was only temporary.
chapter six
OCTOBER
The Columbus Pilots’ seven preseason games had been very middle of the road with three wins and four losses. They’d allowed prospects a shot at the roster, and they’d given veteran players a chance to de-rust after the off-season, which Ryland had sorely needed. He kept in shape—he had to—but aside from participating in Ethan Gallagher’s charity hockey tournament in Maplewood and assisting at Ethan’s hockey camp as a guest coach, actual ice time had been minimal.
As Ryland sat in the Pilots kitchen after tonight’s game—their first of the regular season, which had ended in an overtime loss to Nashville—he scrolled through social media as he scarfed down a yogurt cup with granola and berries. Around him, his teammates munched on post-game snacks of their own, while others went through their post-game routines.
On the opposite side of the kitchen, one of the baby-faced prospects who’d been given a shot at the big leagues was debating a referee’s call from early in the first period with Herriman, a thirty-three-year-old vet who’d seen his share of bad calls.
“Don’t overthink it, kid,” Herriman said distractedly, gaze on his phone.
Burke’s face fell at the brush-off, and Ryland’s heart went out to the kid.
This disinterest of the older vets for the younger players was only one of the gaps Ryland wanted to begin trying to bridge this season.
