Page 44 of Lucky Shot
“Anyway, yeah. That’s why we don’t have chicks over. All those nearby are out of their fucking minds.”
“That’s only two,” I say. “There’s like eighty houses in this community.”
“It would be far too exhausting to go house by house with you,” Ibis says. “Trust me when I say that the only sane people are lined up in like a six-house row. Minus old man cranky pants on the other side of your house.”
I snort. “I mean, I get wanting to be left alone. But I think he takes it to the extreme.” I can’t see his house from where I’m sitting, but I glance down that way as if I can. “Even his windows look dark. Black. Like the entire place is just plunged into the night.”
“That’s not ominous or anything,” Kyst says.
“You don’t see his house when you look out your window,” I tell him. “It’s creepy.”
“Okay, back to the sausage cruise. Where’d you go this year? Who’d you do?” Ibis asks.
“Don’t you mean what did you do?” Kyst asks.
“Nope. I said what I said. Spill the details.”
Chuckling, I sit back in the chair with a yawn. “We went to the usual haunts. Island hopped in the Caribbean for a week. Headed through the Panama Canal to get to the Isle of Kala for a few days, though we made a pit stop off the coast of California to pick up another player’s brother first. Then we headed back to Miami.”
“Now the second question,” Ibis says.
I shake my head. “No one. I think I’m diving into my second virginity.”
They snicker.
“You had a yacht full of gay guys and you didn’t fuck any of them?” Twin on the deck says.
“No. They’re my friends, and that’s a quick way to make it awkward. Besides, I’m not interested in hockey players.”
“What’s your type? Maybe we can set you up,” Kyst suggests.
I raise a brow at him. “How many gay friends do you have?”
“There are gays everywhere,” Ibis says, spreading his arms wide. “You don’t know them all.”
Rolling my eyes, I gaze at the trees. “I don’t know that I have a type, really. Just… someone who isn’t distracted by a pretty face.”
“You getting tired of being pretty, Noah?” the twin in the pool asks. They really need to wear name tags.
“I was born tired of being pretty,” I say. “I’d also like to point out that it’s always ‘pretty.’ Not cute or hot or gorgeous. Or even sexy until I’m on a magazine cover that states as much. Do you know how irritating it is to always be the pretty boy, as if that’s all I have to offer in any given situation?”
There’s silence in the yard as the four of them exchange looks.
“Sorry, man,” Kyst says. “Didn’t mean to hit that nerve.”
I wave him off. “Nah, it’s cool. But really, I think the onlytypeI have is someone genuine. Whosees me. Not what I look like.”
“Being you looks like it would be fun and easy,” the twin in the pool says. “Hockey career that you’re fucking rocking. Good looking. Your face is out there, getting attention. You’re repping your people in such a positive way.”
“My people?” I ask.
“You know. Gay community. And the whole rainbow as a whole, really. You’re a role model for them.”
I smile a little. “I’ll let that pass.”
“I’m just saying,” he says, “everythinglookseasy. But I think you hide your frustration well.”
“Asher’s right,” Ibis says and I’m silently grateful that I now have a name for the twin in the pool and therefore one for the other on the deck. I silently muse that I didn’t mentally refer to them as dry twin and wet twin. I must be growing up. “You always look cool and collected. Even at home whenever we see you. Maybe you need to let it out sometimes.”
