Page 78 of Scoring Chance

I sit up straighter, the mood shifting, cold creeping in around the edges. "Des?"

He finally turns, face carefully neutral, walls going up brick by brick.

"Tanner, you are so gorgeous, but…I can't," he says quietly.

I blink. "You…can't? Or you don't want to?"

He rubs the back of his neck, frustration simmering just under the surface.

“Is it because of the dinner? We sold Stan on our family. Fight aside, it went great.”

“It was a success. We sold everybody.” His face is pensive when I least expect it, another side of Des to wonder about. "It’s not that I don’t want to—Jesus, Tanner, you felt what I felt the other night." His voice softens. "But this thing with your kids, this house, this whole…life. Things are moving really fast."

An old ache settles in my chest.

He breathes out, heavy. "I’m already in deep pretending to be this perfect husband and stepdad. And I can’t tell when I’m pretending and when I’m not anymore. If we keep blurring the lines—if I…slip—it’ll screw with my head. And yours. And the kids."

My jaw clenches. He’s probably right. But it doesn’t stop the sting.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Tanner.” His big, dark eyes bore into me. They break my heart.

"Okay," I say finally, lying back down, keeping my voice steady. "I get it."

Des shifts under the covers. The distance between us feels cavernous, even though the bed's not that big.

I stare at the ceiling for a long time, listening to his quiet breathing.

It’s the safest, most dangerous place I’ve ever been—lying next to him, knowing exactly how close we could be, and how far apart we still are.

22

DES

Three weeks after The Dinner, I’m nursing a Sunday afternoon martini at Mitch’s bar Stone’s Throw Tavern after a strange game. We lost by one. It happens. You can’t win ‘em all. But why we lost is something I keep thinking about. Tanner zipped a pass my way, and I totally missed it. That doesn’t happen. No matter the stress or weirdness of life, we’ve always been able to put the world in a box and focus on the game.

But maybe that power has its limits.

The weirdness that started when I turned him down in the bedroom continued to linger on the ice. In our first game after that awkward sexual moment, Tanner and I began to show cracks in our dynamite offense. Playing against a team we should’ve easily dominated, we only won by a single goal. The following week, our foundation crumbled some more. Two of my passes to him got scooped up by the opposing player; if it wasn’t for our stellar defense, we would’ve gotten clobbered.

Today was one of the worst games Tanner and I had ever played. Missed passes. Missed goals. Missed cues. It was almost like we were strangers out there. At home, we weren’t much better. I was having flashbacks to growing up, when an undercurrent of tension laced every interaction between my parents.

Did I make the right call turning Tanner down? My dick says no. And so does my heart. My brain, keeper of logic, says it’s for the best.

Tanner didn’t join the team for a post-game drink. He had to take Dean to a birthday party, and he seemed grateful to have that excuse.

If I was a responsible parent and husband, I would’ve gone home. But I’m neither, no matter what the paperwork I got from the courthouse says.

I don’t say much over drinks. After going over the loss in detail, a favorite pastime of Bill’s, the conversation shifts to lighter topics. Bill talks about the struggle of moving in with his boyfriend Tate, while Derek fills us in on the remodeling his boyfriend Cary is doing to their home. Mitch floats around his bar to visit regular customers. Eventually, most of the guys go home, while I work on martini number three.

“You take martini drinking very seriously,” Hank says. He and Griffin nurse what little is left of their beers.

“It’s a drink for serious people.” I swirl the olive around the rim of the glass. When I was in my early twenties and had no idea what to do with my life, I’d see rich guys sipping martinis at happy hour and tell myself that was the life I wanted. This drink represents everything I’ve accomplished. I have everything I want in life: great job, great apartment, great friends, freedom.

So why the heck aren’t I smiling?

“What are you guys still doing here?” I ask my friends.

“We don’t let friends drink alone.” Griffin purses his lips in concern. His eyepatch gives him instant gravity. “Are you good?”