Page 63 of Twisted Needs

Anders

i’ll name him benito

Me

You’re not naming your hypothetical dog after Bad Bunny

Sweetheart

Anders

don’t you sweetheart me

petchka

all you do is break my heart

That was more than a month ago. Anders has been trying to get me to get a black lab since the moment he first moved in. Every time he sees a new adoption posted, he sends me the link and comes up with just about anything to try and convince me to say yes.

My thumb pauses when I reach a photograph. The image expands and I’m immediately taken back to when I took it.

I was on the back porch smoking a cigarette when Anders opened the sliding door with a furious look on his face. He immediately plucked the cigarette out of my hand and told me lung cancer was calling my name. He was just making the cutest face ever, so I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and snapped a pic before he could stop me. And then he complained about it for the rest of the afternoon. Not because I took a picture of him, of course, but because I refused to send it to him afterward. He needed it posted to his Instagram story like his life depended on it.

Lying awake in a hotel room at three-thirty in the morning, it’s easy to admit that I hadn’t wanted anyone else to see it. The smile Anders is wearing in the photograph isn’t one of the practiced expressions he manufactures for his posts. His eyes are bright with amusement, and his head is tipped slightly to one side. There’s something so openly happy about the expression that it almost feels private, like I’d accidentally captured a moment that wasn’t meant for anyone else. Including me.

Fighting exhaustion, I study every detail like I’m afraid I’ll forget it.

At some point, my grip loosens around the phone. Exhaustion finally drags me under.

The photograph remains open on the screen, illuminating the dark hotel room with a pale blue glow, and the last thing I see before sleep takes me is Anders smiling back at me from a moment I would give just about anything to return to.

CHAPTER 18

THE OFFER

PARKER

After more than a week on the road, there’s nothing better than walking into my own house and knowing I don’t have to think about hockey for at least forty-eight hours. It’s the only time I welcome silence, in exchange for no more flights and media and stupid fucking drama on the ice.

The dream follows me home anyway, despite me leaving that hotel room long ago. It lingers somewhere in the back of my mind for the rest of the day. By the time I step onto the back porch with a beer, I already know I’m not going to leave it alone.

The firepit crackles softly against the chilly evening air.

I stare at my phone, pulling up Luca’s contact before I talk myself out of it. If anyone would know whether something’s actually wrong, it’s him. The call rings six times before he finally picks up. “Well,” Luca says dryly. “Look who survived without hearing my lovely voice.”

“You still pissed at me?” I laugh.

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“You planning on saying something stupid?”

“Don’t I always?”

“Then yeah. A little.” For the first time all day, some of the tension in my shoulders begins to loosen. “Missed you too, asshole.”

“Mm.”