Page 101 of The Last Guy On Earth
Still, I’d wake up in the night and listen to him breathing slowly beside me. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was the sound of peace and acceptance. It’s taken me all this time to understand that I loved him. I loved him as much as I was capable of loving anyone.
He loved, me, too. And his brand of love was a purer sort than I’d ever experienced before. His love didn’t come with a price tag.
My family has always been more complicated. And it never lets up.
Earlier tonight, when my father had called me after the game, I’d assumed it was to say something consoling. Or at a minimum, to bitch about the ref’s bad call.
But nope. He hadn’t mentioned the game at all. “Guess what? Your sister is up for parole,” he’d said with obvious excitement. “I need you to write a letter in support of her progress. We’re all writing letters.”
“Wait,” I’d said, panicking. “Not Toby. You can’t tell him about the parole hearing. She’s not getting out, Dad.”
“She might. I have a good feeling.”
“Dad,” I’d groaned. “Don’t tell him.”
But I knew my request had come too late. Now my anger is keeping me awake. Shelby’s lawyer had warned us that parole is a very erratic process. It’s not fair for Toby to dream about his mom getting out when the odds are so low.
My father blew it, and I’m not even around to handle the damage. And now I’m supposed to write a letter?Dear parole board. I love my sister, but literally anything can happen if she gets out. Please let her out anyway because there are drugs inside your prison. And even your rehab facility. What the hell are you even doing?
Okay, not that version. I’ll have to workshop it.
I roll over and push my face into the pillow. If Clay were here, I wouldn’t be thinking about hockey or prisons. I’d be face down on him. I wouldn’t squander his attention, either, like I did when I was young.
It’s been hard dredging up the past, and realizing all the ways my younger self was stupid.
It’s been hard realizing that I still love him but can’t have him.
Meanwhile, it’s been hard in my boxer shorts. I slip a hand beneath my body and past the waistband of my underwear. I close my hand around my hardening cock and sigh into the sheets.
Clay. I just told him to stop thinking about me. But the only way I’m going to be able to fall asleep is if I get off to the image of his hands on my dick.
I stroke myself in earnest. I bring myself right to the edge.
But what brings me over in the end is the memory of his smile.
FORTY-FOUR
Clay
MAY
It turnsout that Seattle gave us all they had in game three. They fall apart during game four, and we seal the deal on the series in game five.
I celebrate by drinking a single beer.
Then it’s on to round two in Dallas. We lose the first game. Badly. I don’t sleep a wink afterwards. An angry call from the owner doesn’t help.
And I keep thinking about what Jethro said.Your whole life is set up to win the Cup. So go do that.
I switch things up for the next game, changing my defense pairings and putting Hale in the net. We win the second game. And the third one, too.
Most days start early and end late. My life is happening at warp speed. There’s always a decision to be made. Always an issue to solve. Another meeting with the coaching staff. Another risk assessment with the trainers. We’re monitoring Pierre’s disposition and Wheeler’s knee and a hundred other factors that could all make a difference.
I barely sit down, and when night falls, I either fall into a dead sleep, or I stare at the ceiling, thinking through our plays.
Hale told me to stop thinking about him. And somehow, I do it. It helps that he barely makes eye contact lately and I’m too exhausted to think of anything other than hockey.
But whatever we’re doing, it works. When I put Hale in front of the net against Dallas again, he lets in a single goal all night long, and we end up taking the series in six games.
