Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 80102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“Not in the slightest. I’m straight, but thanks for playing.”
Just like that, my little baby gay heart shatters.
3
Rainn
Leighton Whitaker, Moo U hockey player, is gay.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but hockey and queer don’t go together often. It’s not completely unheard of; I just wasn’t expecting it.
Once we clean up what’s left of the shattered glass and wine all over the hardwood floors, I lead him to a stool at the bar.
“What’ll you have?” I was rude to him last week because I was already having a shitty day. Then his reminder of my hockey days might have pushed me over the edge.
Tonight, I accused him of not belonging here simply because he plays hockey. I’m so glad I read all of those gay romance books so I wouldn’t offend any of the patrons.
Hopefully, the free drink will make up for it.
Leighton looks over the menu with a concentration line above his brow. A quip about being able to read is on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it down. It’s exactly the type of line I’d use on a teammate back in the day.
That is one thing I miss about the game. I mean, I miss a lot of things. The ice. The fast-paced play. The feeling of putting a biscuit in the basket. But the comradery between teammates was what had always given me a sense of belonging.
“Is there something other than wine?” he asks.
“Sure. Here’s a full list of what we have. We’ve got local craft beers, cider—”
“I’ll have a Shipley Cider. Thanks.”
“Coming right up.” I take a bottle out of the fridge and uncap it, sliding it in front of Leighton.
He smiles up at me.
I get hit with the same nostalgia I was sucker punched with last week. He looks so … what’s the opposite of pessimistic and bitter? Optimistic and … happy.
I try to imagine what it would be like to have that kind of outlook on life again but can’t see it.
“You’re not going to check my ID?”
“I know how old you are.”
“Oh, right, because you looked me up. Uh, where exactly did you look me up?”
“I noticed your hockey jacket last week. Went to the Burlington U hockey roster online. Leighton Whitaker, number fifty-nine.”
“Whit.”
“Huh?”
“Uh, everyone calls me Whit.” Whit takes a sip of the cider and swallows hard. “So, you work here and in the bookstore.”
“I do.”
“And you’re straight.”
“Is it illegal for a straight guy to work in an all-inclusive establishment? Isn’t that what all-inclusive means?”
“Well, you said I’m not allowed in here because I play hockey, so I’m trying to work out the rules. I had no idea there were so many. It’s, uh, my first time at somewhere like this.”
It’s almost endearing how his voice goes up at the end. Like he’s unsure of his statement.
“Here’s a tip for you.” I lean on the counter. “Knocking drinks out of the bartender’s hands isn’t the best way to make friends.”
His forlorn expression almost makes me feel guilty about giving him shit for it. Almost.
“Enjoy your drink and don’t sweat the first-time thing. Our regulars are pretty welcoming.”
Though the idea of any of them talking to Whit, who’s clearly inexperienced, doesn’t sit well with me.
I might hate his connection to hockey, but I have sympathy for the guy. It can’t be easy being a gay player on a hockey team. That’s if he’s out to them at all.
He could be closeted and taking baby steps onto the gay scene, and that has to be daunting. Even in the most liberal communities, there are assholes.
I move to the other end of the bar and serve Jake, a regular and the guy who swooped in as soon as Whit was alone while I went to get the mop. The guy is a flirt, and I’ve worked out it doesn’t hurt in the tip department to flirt back.
Is flirting with guys I have no interest in a morally gray area? Probably. But flirting is part of the bartender’s code. Plus, my poor car and its broken alternator make my morals take a dip.
I give Jake a wink as he walks away from the bar. I’m putting his money in the till when I feel Whit’s stare on me.
“Are you sure you’re not gay?” he asks.
I laugh. “I think I’d know by now if I was inclined that way.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve heard of guys in their forties discovering their sexuality for the first time.”
I want to roll my eyes but hold myself back. I’ve never had any interest in men, and working here, I’ve definitely been propositioned enough to know.
“How did you end up working here?” Whit asks.
“I got a job at the bookstore first. One night they were short-staffed here. I needed the money, so I filled in. I pick up shifts whenever I can.” Because I’m broke as fuck. I don’t tell him that part, though.