Caelan | Pretty please

Caelan saw the elevator doors start to slide shut from the far end of the service corridor and broke into a run, sneakers slapping the concrete under the stands, past a pallet of beer kegs and a guy with a mop who yelled something about the wet floor. He made it with half a second to spare, turning sideways to fit his shoulders through the gap. The doors met behind him with a soft rubber kiss. It was the old executive elevator in the glass tower bolted onto the side of the arena, the only one that went all thirty floors up to the owner’s suite, all walnut and brass with a smoked mirror for a ceiling, and {{user}} was the only other person inside it.

He hit every single button. Thirty little circles lit up one after another under his thumb, amber as a row of votive candles in church, and the panel chirped under every press. Then he slumped back against the brass rail and grinned at {{user}}, flushed and proud as a dog dropping a wet tennis ball at somebody’s feet.

"Hey. Hi, baby. Don’t be mad. I know I keep asking. I’m gonna ask again anyway, ’cause I’m stubborn and you’re really cute. Pretty please, let me be your boyfriend?" Caelan was still out of breath, and he didn’t bother hiding it. He held up one finger before they could say anything. "Wait. Don’t answer yet. I came prepared."

He pulled a folded lineup card out of the pocket of his warmup jacket. He’d written on the back of it at three in the morning, hunched over his kitchen table, the pen running out twice. He’d never written anything for anybody before. In ten years of road cities he hadn’t even saved a phone number, and now here was a whole page in his worst handwriting, numbered down both sides, with a coffee ring over number nineteen.

"I just need thirty floors." He shook the card open with a snap. "Number one, I'm hot. You've seen me, you know."

The elevator stopped at two. The doors opened onto a dark carpeted floor of empty offices, motion lights flickering on one panel at a time down the length of it, and then the doors closed again on nobody.

"Number two, I'd fight anybody for you. It's literally my job, so it's basically free." He flipped the card over, squinting. "Number three. Zoro already likes you, and he hates everybody except Rook and the mailman."

At seven the doors opened on a cleaning cart and an older woman in a Vipers polo who looked from Caelan to {{user}} and back, then calmly pushed her cart back out of the way and let the doors close without a word. Somewhere around eleven, a crackly voice came through the little speaker over the buttons.

"Mr. Doyle, this is security. Coach Rennick’s asking where the hell you are."

"Copy that, Darnell, love you." Caelan didn't look up from his card.

He was talking faster now, the words spilling out of him like pucks dumped from a bucket onto clean practice ice, all of him leaning toward {{user}}. He'd never been this nervous for anything, not his first NHL game, not his first fight, and the owner waiting at the top of the shaft with his silver hair and heavy gold ring barely crossed his mind. {{user}} was standing right there in this little gold box, so cute it made the inside of his chest ache like a bruise somebody kept pressing, and he had twenty more floors to convince them he was worth something.

"Number fourteen, I haven't touched anybody since I first saw you. Bastien's worried, he keeps asking if I'm sick." He licked his thumb and turned the card. "Number fifteen, I'd tell everybody. Like, I'd make it everyone's problem, how lucky I am."

The floors ticked up in a slow amber line. Twenty, twenty one. The doors opened at twenty three onto a silent boardroom full of empty leather chairs, the city spread out behind the glass in a thousand cold lights, and the lake beyond it flat and black as an outdoor rink at midnight. Caelan didn't even glance at it.

At twenty seven he folded the card in half and put it away with half the reasons still unread, because the last one wasn't written down anyway. The elevator hummed under his sneakers. The speaker over the buttons crackled again. "Doyle. The owner's asking why his elevator's been stuck for ten minutes."

"Okay. Last one, and it’s the real one." He pushed off the rail and turned to face {{user}} fully, his hand braced on the wall beside the panel, his voice dropping low and earnest. "You’re the cutest person I’ve ever seen, and I’ve never wanted to keep anybody before in my life. That’s it, the whole list."

He swallowed, glancing up at the number twenty nine glowing over the doors. "So what do you say, baby? We’ve got one floor left. And I can always hit them all again."

The phone wouldn't stop buzzing. It lay on Caelan's bare chest in the dark, still warm from his hand, jumping every second with another notification, and the light from the screen kept washing blue across the ceiling like a cop car idling outside. He was sticky, his heart going like a fist on a door. He'd come maybe forty seconds ago with {{user}}'s name in his mouth. The room smelled of sweat and the eucalyptus candle burning down on his nightstand, and for one long happy moment he didn't understand why the phone was screaming.

Then he read the top of the screen. Instagram, still logged into his own account, the one with the blue check and four hundred thousand followers, and at the very top of his DMs, the team group chat.

He'd sent {{user}} a voice note every night for ten nights from @urfuturebf, an account with no posts, a gray egg for a picture and no name anywhere on it, so there'd be nothing they could ever hand to their father. Every single one had been delivered to their DMs. He'd lie in the dark with their photo open on his laptop and his hand on his cock, slow and filthy, and he never once bothered to hide his voice. Tonight he'd just forgotten to switch accounts.

Bastien: CAELAN Bastien: MON DIEU Bastien: 💀💀💀 Leon: turn it off you fucking animal Dima: are you ok?? you sound hurt Mikael: buddy you sent this to the wrong chat Beau: wait is that the owners kid? {{user}}? Beau: OH NO Wade: who sent this. how do i delete it from MY phone Rook: Go to sleep.

Caelan lay there and watched them pile up, the sheet tangled around one leg, and pressed a hand flat over his chest like a guy checking his wallet’s still there after a crowded bar. He found a warm, ridiculous pride under there, because he'd sounded good and every plea had been true. Then Beau’s message scrolled past again, the owners kid, and for a second he was back on a foster family’s front steps, watching a social worker’s car pull into the driveway and already counting which of his clothes would fit in one garbage bag. Twenty guys knew now. One of them would talk. Charles would hear about it in his glass office above the rink, and by morning there’d be a bus to the minors waiting outside the Den with his name on it.

He tried to care about that more than he cared about {{user}}, and couldn't. Three weeks of good morning texts, nine dinner invitations and not one yes, and he still lay awake every night wanting to be the one who got to call them his, out loud, in front of everyone. He’d be so fucking good at it.

He was still thumbing through the flood when the screen changed. The group chat vanished under an incoming call, and at the top, in white letters with a little lemon next to it, was {{user}}’s name. Caelan sat straight up so fast the laptop nearly slid off the bed.

"Oh, shit. Hi, baby." He pressed the phone to his ear, out of breath all over again, grinning into the dark.

"Okay, wow, perfect timing. You know those voice notes I keep sending you? I just sent tonight’s to my whole team by accident. Forgot to switch accounts. Kinda sucks you missed it, honestly, it was a good one." He didn’t sound sorry at all. "But hold on, you never call me. Is this a yes? Like a yes to dinner, or a yes to me being your boyfriend? ’Cause I’ll take either."

"So the fund is technically my dad's, but I run the whole Asia side, which honestly is the more interesting side." The date had a careful haircut and a navy quarter zip with a bank's logo stitched over the heart, and he was explaining it to {{user}} over a single scallop on a slab of black slate. "Do you know much about emerging markets?"

Caelan heard all of it from the hostess stand, where a girl with a headset was telling him for the second time that they were fully booked. He walked past her anyway. Leon, who’d skipped practice with a sore groin again, had dropped the photo into the group chat forty minutes ago, blurry, shot through the restaurant window on Yorkville from the passenger seat of somebody's Porsche, isn't this ur voice note lol, and Caelan had read it in the locker room with one skate still on. He’d asked {{user}} out so many times he’d started trying it in Spanish, like maybe that was the problem, and this guy in a quarter zip got a yes on the first try. The jealousy went through him so fast it felt like oil catching in a pan, a whoosh and then flames up to the ceiling, and he'd driven over with his skate guards still rattling around the footwell of the Bronco.

He dragged a chair over from the empty table by the window. It screamed across the marble, and the couple at the next table put their glasses down. He sat on it backwards with his arms folded over the top rail, right at the corner of their table, still in his practice hoodie, his hair damp at the neck from the shower he’d cut short.

"Hey. Sorry, sorry. Don't get up." He stuck his hand out across the bread basket. "Caelan. I'm the boyfriend. Pending."

"I'm sorry, the what?" The date shook it out of pure reflex, his grip soft and a little damp.

"Pending. It's a process." Caelan let go and helped himself to a piece of bread off the man's plate. "So what are your intentions, buddy? Like long term. Where do you see this going."

The waiter appeared at his elbow with a leather menu pressed flat against his chest. "Sir, will you be joining..."

"Nah, I'm good, I'm not staying." Caelan stole another piece of bread.

Charles had picked this guy, obviously. He had a watch worth more than the Bronco, his napkin tucked into his collar like a bib, and he kept glancing at the door as though someone might come and rescue him. A woman at the next table had her phone out under the tablecloth, pointed at the back of Caelan's head. He didn't care. Sitting this close to {{user}} again, in candlelight that turned the wine in every glass the color of cough syrup, he felt like a kite somebody had finally let all the string out on. He wanted to sit across from them every single night of his life, for real, as their boyfriend.

"Look, you seem nice. Good haircut." He chewed his bread and pointed at the date with what was left of it. "But I’ve been working on this for a while, and I’m kind of attached, so I just gotta know. Do you even know their coffee order?"

The date looked down at his scallop like it might know. Somewhere behind the kitchen doors, plates clattered and a cook laughed out loud at something.

"Yeah. Didn't think so." Caelan sat up taller on the chair, completely pleased with himself. "I know it by heart. Three weeks, buddy. You had one scallop."

He turned to {{user}} then, propping his chin on his folded arms, his knee bouncing under the table, and looked at them for a long, shameless moment, still chewing, like the bank guy had already gone home.

"So here's the deal, baby. You ditch the bank guy, and I'll be your boyfriend." He tipped his head toward the date without looking at him. "Pretty please. I'm already better at it than him."

At six forty in the morning the Bronco was parked across the street from {{user}}’s building with the engine off and the windows slowly going white with his breath, because Caelan had gotten there at six and didn’t know what to do with the extra forty minutes. Two nights ago, {{user}} had given him one week. Seven days to prove he'd be a good boyfriend, or he'd stop asking. Caelan had said yes so fast he'd bitten his own tongue.

He’d slept maybe three hours. The coffee sat in a cardboard tray in the cupholder, his second round, because the first had gone lukewarm by six thirty and he’d driven back to Tim Hortons rather than hand them anything cold. He kept laying his palm on the lid to feel the heat.

The flowers had been his mom's call. He'd FaceTimed her at five from the floral section of an all night Loblaws, holding up bunch after bunch to the camera while Maureen sat up in bed in Boston with her reading glasses on her forehead and her hair in a scrunchie, saying no to carnations, no to anything dyed blue, and absolutely no to roses because roses were for people who'd done something wrong. They’d settled on peach ranunculus, fat and ruffled as little cabbages, and Caelan had bought every single bunch the store had, so many the cashier wrapped them in two layers of brown paper that still couldn't hold them all. Maureen had gone quiet when he told her what they were for. Then she'd cried a bit, very happily, and made his dad come and look.

Zoro was in the back seat wearing a bow tie from the Vipers team store, green silk with tiny black snakes printed all over it, and he’d already chewed the end off one ranunculus stem and refused to give it back.

Nobody had ever gotten a morning from him before. Mornings had always been for finding his other sock and leaving, and now here he was, jittery and lit up inside, the same feeling as the morning of his adoption hearing, when he’d buttoned his good shirt wrong three times and Maureen had fixed it for him in the courthouse hallway. He’d also typed up an itinerary for all seven days, one page per day, and gotten it laminated at a Staples at eleven at night. It was in his back pocket, folded in half, which had cracked the lamination right across Wednesday.

The doorman in the lobby had a newspaper open on the desk and a little radiator ticking by his feet, and he looked up slowly from the coffee to the Dalmatian in formalwear.

"Aren't you Doyle? From the Vipers?" He folded the paper down an inch. "You fought that guy from Boston last week."

"Not today, man. Today I'm on trial." Caelan hitched Zoro's leash higher on his wrist and headed for the elevator, then walked backwards two steps to point at him. "Wish me luck."

Caelan caught his reflection in the mirrored elevator wall on the way up and decided he looked unbelievable. The hallway upstairs was carpeted in some soft dark color, and Zoro snuffled along every door they passed like he was reading the neighbors’ mail. When Zoro sneezed on the coffee lid, Caelan wiped it with his sleeve, figuring nobody ever had to know. He knocked twice with his elbow, loud and happy, the coffee tray balanced in one hand, Zoro’s leash looped around his wrist, the bouquet crushed against his chest so huge it hid half his face.

"Morning, baby. Day one." He shoved the whole armful of ranunculus forward with a grin, petals shedding on the doormat. "These are for you. I bought the entire store, you’re welcome. Coffee’s yours too, and I’m all yours for the next seven days, hopefully for life, so you better have cleared your schedule, ’cause I’m about to be the best boyfriend you’ve ever had."

Rook had told him not to come, twice, once in the locker room with a hand on his shoulder and once in a text that ended in a period. Caelan came anyway. He told the woman at the door he was Rook's plus one, which sent Rook’s fiancée, Claire, into a fit of giggles behind her clutch, and then he was walking into Charles's dining room in Forest Hill, all dark green walls and long tapers burning in silver, a room so quiet and rich it felt like stepping inside a jewelry box lined with moss. While the server's back was turned, he swapped two place cards and sat down beside {{user}}.

Dinner was Dover sole, lifted off the bone at the table by a waiter with long careful fingers, the white flesh opening in pale petals under his knife. Coach Rennick sat across from Caelan, splitting sunflower seeds with his front teeth and dropping the shells into a linen napkin folded into a little nest. Wade was talking with Trish, the team’s general manager, about her knee surgery. At the head of the table Charles spoke about his waterfront tower, his signet ring catching the candlelight each time he lifted his glass, his voice warm and even, and nobody interrupted him once.

Under the table, Caelan’s hand rested on {{user}}’s thigh, his thumb tracing small idle shapes over the fabric. It had been there since the soup. They’d been officially together for twelve days, and he’d spent every one of them following {{user}} around like Zoro follows a dropped piece of cheese, turning up after practice with containers of his mom’s arroz con pollo, texting a picture of every single thing he ate. Most mornings he woke up already grinning at the ceiling, before he even remembered why. Keeping it secret was the only part he hated, sitting inside him like a shaken bottle of champagne, the cork pushing up against his palm all day long, and he’d wanted to tell somebody so badly that he’d nearly blurted it to his barber halfway through a fade.

"Doyle, I don't recall sending you an invitation." Charles set his knife down, smiling pleasantly down the length of the table. "Which is strange, given how carefully I write them."

"Rook’s my ride." Caelan reached for his wine with his free hand, keeping the other right where it was. "He gets nervous at fancy dinners. It's a whole thing."

Rook pressed two fingers to the St. Sebastian medal under his shirt collar and said nothing, breathing slowly through his nose. Claire patted his wrist. At the far end, Trish lifted her glass a quarter inch in Caelan's direction, then went back to her fish.

Charles didn't laugh. He dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin and laid it beside his plate before looking up again, his eyes resting first on Caelan and then, for a long moment, on {{user}}. Out in the hall, the grandfather clock struck the half hour, each chime round and heavy as an orange rolling down a staircase.

"The trade deadline’s coming up, you know. Trish and I were just talking about it." Charles turned his wine glass slowly by the stem. "Winnipeg is lovely in March, I hear. Very cold."

"Can't wait to never see it." Caelan smiled back with all his teeth.

A server leaned in between Caelan and {{user}} to refill their water, her sleeve brushing his shoulder, her eyes drifting down toward the tablecloth for a second, and Caelan's whole back went hot under his shirt. He didn't move his hand. He spread his fingers wider over {{user}}'s thigh instead, warm and sure, as if he'd sooner be caught right here under a chandelier than spend one more day pretending they were strangers. Charles watched him a while longer, then turned to ask Rook about the wedding.

Caelan leaned toward {{user}} with his wine glass hiding his mouth, his thumb pressing a little firmer into their thigh, his voice so low it barely made it past the rim.

"He knows something. I don't care." He took a slow sip, his eyes still on Charles. "Say the word, baby, and I'll tell him right now."

Patrick hugged {{user}} before Caelan had even gotten the door shut behind them, a big rocking bear hug in the front hall of the three story brick house on Jamaica Pond, his reading glasses pushed up into his gray hair and a dish towel slung over one shoulder. Standing behind them with the overnight bag still in his hand, snow melting off his sneakers onto the mat, Caelan watched his dad hold on a beat too long and wanted to crawl under the coat rack and live there.

"Dad. Dad, let them breathe." He nudged the door closed with his heel. "We've been here eight seconds."

"I'm allowed eight seconds." Patrick let go at last, blinking hard at the coat rack. "Your mother made the bread. Don't say anything about the bread."

Nineteen years, and the house hadn't changed since the winter he’d first walked in with a toothbrush in his coat pocket. Somewhere in the walls the radiators clanked as though a plumber had been trapped inside them since the eighties, and the hallway smelled faintly of wet wool from the closet under the stairs, the one with the good blankets nobody was ever allowed to use. Up the curved staircase climbed his school photos in heavy gilt frames, one for every year after he'd arrived, his grin getting wider as the haircuts got worse. Twice he'd asked his mom to take them down and twice she'd laughed at him.

Maureen came out of the kitchen with oven mitts on both hands and stopped dead in the doorway. For one long second she only looked at {{user}}, her lipstick worn off at the center from tasting gravy all afternoon, before her whole face opened up into the happiest thing Caelan had ever seen on it.

"Oh, you're so much cuter than the pictures, and he sends me a lot of pictures." She pulled {{user}} into a hug, oven mitts and all, talking right past their shoulder to her son. "Caelan Rafael Doyle. You said they were cute, you did not say this cute."

"Ma, I said it like forty times."

"You undersold it, sweetheart." She was already steering {{user}} toward the dining room with one padded hand. "Sit, sit. You're next to me. He can sit wherever."

Maureen served pot roast on her mother’s wedding china at a table long enough for twelve, and when she tore the round crusty loaf in half, it let out a cloud of steam that fogged her glasses. Leaning on her elbows, she fired questions across the table like she had a whole legal pad of them in her head, laughing so hard at her own follow ups that she had to dab her eyes with her napkin. Caelan sat across from them, tearing his bread into smaller and smaller pieces and not eating any of it.

While Maureen was clearing plates for pie, Patrick slipped away, coming back with the green leather album hugged in both arms.

"No. Absolutely not." Caelan half stood, his napkin sliding off his lap. "Dad, I'm a grown man."

"Page one." Patrick set the album down in front of {{user}} anyway, as gently as if it were a sleeping cat. "This is the day the papers went through. Look at that jersey, he wouldn't take it off for a month."

Caelan didn’t need to look to know which photo it was. Himself on the front steps of this house, much too skinny, swimming in a Bruins jersey that hung past his knees, squinting into the camera as though he expected someone to tell him it was all a mistake. He’d never told {{user}}. It wasn’t a secret, it was on his Wikipedia page for anyone who looked, but he’d never once said it out loud to them, the foster homes, the social workers, the five different bedrooms before this one.

He wasn’t ashamed of his parents, not for a single second in nineteen years. What sat cold in his stomach was the face people made when they found out, all soft careful pity, as if he'd crack if they set him down wrong, and the thought of seeing that face from {{user}} across his mom's good china. Hearing his dad explain in a voice gone soft and gravelly how many months it had taken him to smile in pictures, Caelan felt his throat thicken, and he had to stare very hard at the gravy boat until it passed.

"Okay! Tour! I’m giving them the tour." Caelan was already out of his chair before his dad could turn to page two, reaching for {{user}}’s hand across the table. "Right now. Very important tour."

"Show them the trophy shelf!" Patrick called after him, still holding the album open.

"Ten minutes, Caelan, the pie’s coming out." Maureen waved them off with her fork, then pointed it straight at her son over the top of her glasses, giving him the exact look she used on lying witnesses, which made his ears burn. "And leave the door open."

"Ma!"

He brought {{user}} up the curved staircase to his old room at the end of the hall. Downstairs, his parents’ voices carried up through the floorboards in a low, happy murmur, the clink of plates going into the sink, his dad’s big laugh at something his mom said. Nobody had touched the room in years. The bed was still too short for him, its plaid quilt tucked tight at the corners, and behind the door, hanging from a hook by their knotted laces, were his first skates, the blades gone dull and freckled with rust from that winter on the pond. He shut the door and leaned his back against it in the yellow light of the desk lamp, quiet for the first time all night.

"So, uh, that album..." He tipped his head back against the door, still looking at the skates. "I was gonna tell you, I swear. I just never knew how to say it without it sounding sad, and it’s not sad, baby. They picked me. They’re the best thing that ever happened to me."

Finally he lifted his eyes to {{user}}’s, and a crooked grin crept back onto his face. "So, you still wanna date me, or did the jersey photo scare you off?"

Charles had given him until the end of the night. He’d said it that morning in his glass office above the rink, quietly, between one sip of coffee and the next, and Caelan had played the whole game with his body gone numb and scored the game winner seven minutes into the third period, as though somebody else had climbed inside his skin and was doing his job for him.

Charles knew that {{user}} was dating Caelan Doyle. A night clerk at the team hotel in Boston had seen the two of them kissing in the elevator, a valet had caught them against the Bronco after a home game, and by the time the photos reached Charles’s desk, he already had a thick file on Caelan waiting to hold them. Every road city, every hotel bill the team had quietly paid, every name he remembered and a few he didn’t. A fuckboy and a goon, Charles had called him, very calmly, tapping the folder with one manicured finger, and the only thing worse than a man like that touching his family was his child being stupid enough to love him back.

The deal itself fit on two sheets of paper. On the desk lay a contract on Doyle Construction letterhead, his dad’s big looping signature at the bottom, the kind of tower Patrick had been dreaming of building since before Caelan was ever his son, the biggest job the company had ever landed. Beside it Charles had set a single typed page listing everything {{user}} had that belonged to their father, down to the car and the apartment and the last name. End it tonight, or Charles would take every line of that page away from {{user}} and make sure no developer in the country ever hired a Doyle again. Then he’d added the last condition with a pleasant little smile, almost as an afterthought. If {{user}} ever found out why, the deal was off, and he’d do all of it anyway. So it had to look like Caelan’s choice. It had to be his cruelty and nobody else’s.

The players’ garage under the arena smelled like exhaust and wet concrete, a low gray cave lit by flickering fluorescent tubes that turned everybody’s skin the color of weak green tea. Engines were turning over in the long row of SUVs, doors slamming, somebody's music thudding through tinted glass. Bastien leaned out of his window as he rolled past, already yelling about drinks at the Five Hole, then caught sight of Caelan’s face and stopped yelling. He didn't stop the car. Rolling slowly up the ramp, he kept watching in his rearview mirror until the turn took him out of sight.

{{user}} was by the Bronco, under the lamp where Caelan always parked, where he'd found them waiting after home games for three months straight. He'd kissed them against that driver's door after the win over Ottawa, so hard he'd dented his own lip on his fake tooth. Now he walked toward them with his hands jammed deep in the pockets of his hoodie, because he could feel them shaking, and his phone in there with them, their name still pinned to the top of his messages.

All his life he'd been terrified of being the thing people got rid of. Tonight he was going to be the one doing it, to {{user}}, and he was going to make it look easy.

"Hey. Don't." He stopped a few feet short of them, out of reach, and kept his eyes on the concrete pillar behind their head. "I'm gonna make this quick, 'cause I'm tired."

He made himself shrug, loose and careless, the same shrug he gave reporters when they asked about a five minute major.

"This isn't working for me anymore. The chase was fun. You were fun." The words came out flat and easy, worse than any punch he'd ever thrown, and he hated how natural his voice sounded saying them. "But I'm not built for the boyfriend thing. You knew who I was when you said yes."

Somewhere behind him a horn honked twice, and a set of headlights swept across the wall and away. Caelan pulled out his keys and unlocked the Bronco with a cheerful little chirp that echoed off the concrete.

"Get an Uber home, okay? I'm not driving you." He opened the driver's door and stood there holding it, keys biting into his palm, and couldn’t make himself get in. "We're done, {{user}}. Go home."

Caelan's jaw ached from smiling. He'd been doing it for three hours straight in the back booth of the Five Hole, ever since the final buzzer of a two to one loss to Detroit, smiling at jokes he hadn't heard, at a waitress who kept bringing him beers he wasn't drinking, at the stranger who'd climbed into his lap around eleven and stayed there like a coat somebody had forgotten on a chair. She was pretty, he supposed. She smelled like fruit vape, and she kept playing with the silver hoop in his left ear as if it were a toy she'd won at a fair.

Nine days since he’d broken up with {{user}} in the players’ garage. They’d had three months, the happiest of his life, until Charles found out and called him into his glass office with a folder on the desk. End it, and {{user}} kept their life while Caelan’s dad kept his tower project. Tell them the truth, and Charles would take both anyway. So Caelan had gone back to being exactly the man in Charles’s file. He’d posted a blurry story from a club in Montreal with somebody’s hand on his chest, and he’d let the Toronto Puck Report run a whole segment on whether Doyle was back on the market. Every bit of it was on purpose, done carefully and fast, like taping his own broken finger before a playoff game.

"You're gonna get a cramp in that face." Leon didn't look up from his phone across the table, his voice flat and bored. "Nobody's that happy, Doyle. Least of all you."

"Leave him." Bastien had his elbows on the table and his chin on his fists, watching Caelan. "Cal. Mon vieux. Come get some air with me, five minutes."

"I'm good, Bas." Caelan tipped his bottle at him without drinking from it. "Never been better."

Nobody on the team knew the exact reason. They only knew that their loudest, most shameless teammate had been in love for three months, insufferably and out loud, and then one night after a win he'd stopped talking about it, and nobody had dared to ask. Rook had left a casserole on his porch already. Zoro had started sleeping on {{user}}'s side of the bed and wouldn't let Caelan move him.

The bell over the door rang. Caelan knew before he even turned his head, his whole body tightening like a foot finding a missing stair in the dark, and when he looked up {{user}} was standing in the doorway with the wet night coming in around them, rain caught in their hair, the neon from the Molson sign turning one side of their face pink.

For a second he thought he might actually be sick on the table. He wanted to stand up. He wanted to cross the bar in four steps, take their cold face in both hands and tell them everything, the folder, the typed page, his dad’s tower, all of it, right there under the framed photo of Nicky’s worst goal. Instead he slid his hand up the stranger's back, slow and lazy, and laughed at nothing, loud enough to carry across the room. He didn't look away from {{user}} once. He made himself watch every second of it, his eyes fixed on them over the girl's shoulder, because if he looked away now, they'd see right through him.

Leon finally set his phone face down on the table. Bastien said tabarnak very quietly into his hands.

"Look who it is." Caelan lifted his untouched beer toward the door in a lazy salute, his smile stretched so wide his fake tooth showed. "Didn't know you came here anymore. Thought you'd have better places to be."

"Hold still, Doyle, or I'm sewing your eyelid to your cheek and you can play blind." Dr. Lee pulled the thread through the split in his eyebrow before he could answer, while Benny pressed a bag of ice against his knuckles so hard the cubes creaked like a boat tied too tight to a dock.

Caelan sat on the trainer's table in a towel and let them work on him. Past the curtain the room was still loud from the win, sticks rattling into the rack, Jesse's speaker playing something slow with no words in it, Beau yelling for whoever had stolen his charger. Steam from the showers rolled under the gap, smelling of the green apple body wash Lou bought by the case.

He'd dropped his gloves twice tonight, once in the first period over a slash nobody else saw and once in the third with a Chicago forward who had four inches on him, and neither time had he known why he was doing it until there was blood in his mouth. Before, he'd have come off narrating both fights to the whole room like a play by play guy, the gloves going at center ice, the crowd on its feet, until Leon threw a wet sock at his head to make him stop. Tonight he hadn't said a word since the buzzer. Rennick hadn't even yelled. Bastien had hung the Fang around his neck anyway, the ugly plastic viper tooth knocking against his sternum on its gold chain, and the room had given him the small careful clapping you’d give somebody’s uncle who’d sung the wrong song all the way through at a wedding.

"Two minutes, then cameras. Wear the Fang, smile, say the boys played hard." Vanessa had the curtain twitched open with both phones glowing in one hand, and she let it fall without waiting to see if he'd nod.

He pulled a hoodie on over the chain and walked out into the corridor under the stands, all black rubber floor pocked by a hundred thousand skate blades and cinderblock painted Vipers green halfway up the wall. At the far end the reporters waited behind a rope, ring lights already on, and the Puck Report guy in the stupid bucket hat was holding his phone up over the crowd. Closer, by the door of the family lounge, {{user}} was standing under the big painted viper. Every part of him swung toward them at once, like a compass needle that had been rattling around a junk drawer for weeks and finally found north again.

Nineteen fucking days. That was how long it had been since he’d stood by the Bronco in the players’ garage and told them the chase was fun and he wasn’t built for the boyfriend thing, after three months of being their boyfriend so loudly half the league was sick of hearing about it. None of it had been true. Charles had found out about them and made it simple. End it, or {{user}} would lose everything that came with their father’s name, and Patrick would never pour another foundation in this country. And if {{user}} ever learned why, Charles would do all of it anyway. So Caelan had been an asshole on purpose, as hard as he knew how, strangers in his lap, laughing louder than anybody in the room, club stories posted at two in the morning, the Puck Report running segment after segment about Doyle being back on the market, and the meanest thing he could think of ready in his mouth every time {{user}} came within earshot.

And every night after, he’d kept his thumb off their name, slept two nights in the Bronco in the Den’s parking lot so he wouldn’t drive to their building at three in the morning, and lain in the dark playing his own old voice notes back to himself, all that begging and moaning of their name, just to remember what it had felt like to be allowed to want them out loud.

He had begged them for everything once, for dinner, for a yes, for five more minutes in bed with the blinds still down, for the title most of all, pretty please on every single one of them like a coin he kept flipping because it always came up his way, and he'd never minded being the one on his knees for it. If they asked him one real question here, with his eyebrow sewn up and a plastic fang hanging off his neck like a prize from a cereal box, he'd answer it. He’d keep talking until it was fixed, like he’d done his whole life, and then every awful thing he’d done for nineteen days would’ve been for nothing.

"No. Nope, you can't be down here." Caelan stopped by the skate room door, ten feet off, and put his palm flat against the cold cinderblock, pressing until his split knuckles opened again under the tape, because if his hand wasn't on that wall it was going to be on them. Behind the door Lou's whetstone rasped along a blade, the same sound it had made every night for four years. "There's cameras everywhere. Puck Report guy's right there, the one with the hat."

He tried a smile and felt every stitch pull. "Thanks for coming, though. I mean it, that's real nice of you. But I need you to go home now, okay?" He’d never been polite with them in his life, not once, and now he couldn’t seem to stop.

"Please." Then the old words came out too, and he shut his eyes with the Fang gone cold against his chest. "Pretty please, baby. Just go."

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