Page 5 of Sheep Calm and Merry On
In fairness, Noah hadn’t seen him in proper light—just a dim reflection from the truck’s dashboard and the weird angle and blue cast from his cell flashlight. But what he’d seen fit with the picture of the man he was looking at now, decked out in full hockey gear, missing a tooth, holding the President’s Trophy. Tall. Broad shoulders. Sharp cheekbones. Nose that had been broken at least once.
Not just Devon. Devon Hughes, former NHL defenseman. A guy who retired midseason three years ago in a swirl of rumors about substance abuse and hadn’t been heard from since.
It made sense to find him here, Noah thought. After all, Noah had grown up here, same as Devon, just ten years or so later. He’d basically been living in the man’s shadow. At least until that concussion took Noah out before he could finish his third season.
They’d probably played against each other, Noah thought, though he didn’t have any particular memories of it. It would’ve been seven or so years ago. A lot of his memories of that time were hazy anyway—a side effect of the traumatic brain injury.
“Noah?” Devon’s voice echoed through the house, and Noah belatedly realized he was snooping around the guy’s personal shit in his underpants.
He’d just turned around when Devon appeared in the doorway. Same nose, same cheekbones. Leaner through the body now, and he’d either had the tooth fixed or he was one of the rare players vain enough to put the fake one in all the time. Same dark eyes, but brighter now than they seemed in the pictures. Less haunted.
“You’re Devon Hughes,” Noah said, because he was an idiot. Here he’d been withholding personal information about himself because he didn’t want Devon to pry, and he was doing the exact same thing.
“You’re not wearing any pants,” Devon replied, which, well. That was kind of a more pressing issue at the moment.
“I put mine in your dryer. Uh, I don’t suppose you have some I can borrow?”
If Devon was annoyed at Noah for overstepping, Noah couldn’t tell. “Think I can do you one better,” he said. “Generator just started, but the water heater’s tankless. How about a hot shower?”
“I think I love you,” Noah said. “Lead the way.”
WHEN NOAH was safely in the shower, and Nelson came in from checking on the sheep, Devon looked at him and said, “This is gonna be a problem.”
Nelson only tilted his head and then looked pointedly toward his empty food bowl, indicating Devon’s crisis could wait until after dinner.
Devon only lived here; the dog was in charge. Devon wasn’t even sure yet what he meant by a problem, and he could use a few more minutes to work it out. He filled the bowl.
While Nelson chowed down, Devon picked apart the threads of his sudden unease. Noah had recognized him—no big surprise there. Devon had been a household name around these parts for decades. And anyway, it wasn’t like Devon tried to hide it. If he were worried about people recognizing him in his own home, he wouldn’t have pictures from his hockey days. So that wasn’t it.
It was maybe a little bit that he thought he might recognize Noah.
A few seconds with Google and NHL players from northern Michigan later, it clicked. There he was in all his baby-faced glory. Noah Bell, the best forward ever to come out of Indian River. Active for just three seasons, then gone from the league half a decade before Devon, even though Devon was nine years older. Devon remembered him, vaguely. They’d never played on the same team, and between Devon’s various injuries and the drugs he’d taken because of them, he didn’t have the best memory.
Recovery had been hell. It took him two years to admit he had a problem and another eighteen months to kick the habit for good. The professionals all gave more or less the same advice—stay away from places and people where he knew he could get drugs and avoid things that reminded him of the times he used to take them. So not only had Devon lost the game he loved, he’d lost a lot of people he loved too. Gradually he was able to phase some safe former teammates back in, ones he trusted not to give him drugs no matter what he said.
But Noah had been out of the game for years. Besides, if he was working in education, he was probably getting drug tested on the regular. And unless he was smuggling something somewhere very personal, he didn’t have anything on him.
So Devon could relax.
Nelson had obviously come to the same conclusion, because he’d finished his food and was now looking at Devon expectantly, like, Hello, you’re the one with the thumbs, are you going to build a fire or are we all going to freeze to death? Though in fairness, Nelson wouldn’t freeze. The sheep loved him. They’d keep him warm.
Devon built the fire in the stove, then said a mental fuck it and got started on the hot chocolate—in a proper pot, the long way, to give his hands something to do.
He’d just poured it into mugs and brought it into the living room when he heard footsteps down the hallway and Nelson perked up his head from in front of the stove.
Oh, Devon thought. That’s why it’s a problem.
Dressed in Devon’s old team shirt and sweatpants—both too large for him—with his hair towel-dried into a chaotic hedgehog, Noah stood haloed in the light from the bathroom. The silhouette effect emphasized his broad shoulders and lean body, which was silly. Devon had seen his thighs. Noah wasn’t exactly skinny. There was no reason for the sight of him in Devon’s clothes to remind Devon, very suddenly, of other things he’d sort of deprived himself of by living on a sheep farm in the middle of nowhere.
There was certainly no reason for it to have this pronounced effect.
He could practically hear Amber’s incredulous snort. That’s not a man. That’s a twink Muppet.
Devon never should’ve told her he was bi.
He definitely should never have admitted to having a type, never mind let on what it was, because Amber was absolutely savage about naming it that. But wholesome, lean, kinda goofy, untamed hair? He couldn’t argue with the term.
God, she was going to laugh herself sick about this.
