Page 56 of Off the Trail

Our gazes lock and Blaze bites his lip suggestively.

“Maybe we should share one,” I say. “Save some time?”

“And some water?”

“That, too.”

So we race each other to the shower. Not much water or time is saved, but we don’t give a damn.

“This needs an inch cut off,” Leo says, handing me a slab of the waterproofed plywood we’re using for the subflooring in the upstairs primary bedroom. I’m used to the table saw by now, and I go through the safety checks, don my goggles, fire it up, and slice off the requisite inch.

Luis is standing nearby when I finish. “What’s the plan for tomorrow?” I ask since the day’s edging toward the finish line.

“We’ll keep on with the subflooring, then hopefully get the interior drywall up. Windows are coming in this week, too,” he says.

“Is it me, or are the windows huge?”

“All custom,” Luis confirms. “Blaze wants his sister to have the best view in Maine.”

I nod, because it’s clear Blaze hasn’t mentioned anything about Brooke’s plans, and it’s not my place. But as I follow Leo’s patient instructions and lay down more plywood, careful not to step through the gap we’re slowly filling in, I wonder what Blaze will end up deciding. It’s going to be a fine house. Luis and his crew aren’t slapping up something quick, something that’ll look nice but have no staying power. This house is being built to last. It’s going to hold up through long winters and harsh springs, be a haven during the buggy summers and a gorgeous place to admire the beautiful autumns. I can imagine getting used to this much beauty all year round.

Between the hard physical labor and absorbing every detail I can about how to pick the right board for the right spot, how to read the plans, and how to choose between a screw and a nail, I don’t have much bandwidth left over to think about Blaze. To think about how much I like him. About how being with him makes me happier than I can remember being in a long time. About how, when he’s touching me, it’s more exciting than anything I’ve ever experienced.

I guess I should be having some crisis about my sexuality or something, but I can’t be bothered. Out here, cut off from everything I used to know, my old life of practice, game, rest, repeat, feels more like a dream than anything else. This—the wood under my fingers, the memory of Blaze’s body pressed against me in the shower—that’s real. That’s something I can wrap my arms around, figuratively and literally.

The best-case scenario was I’d come to Sanctuary Lake and find myself. I didn’t expect to come here and find love.

Because isn’t that what this is? Two people brought together due to random events, seeing something in each other and liking what they see. This isn’t just friendship—or sex. But it’s still a kind of experimentation. Because I’ve never felt like this about anyone before, and I have no idea how it’s going to play out.

When my overprotective agent wanted to save me from myself and sent me here, I needed something to keep my head above water. Blaze has been that for me, but I’d like to think that even if we’d met under different circumstances, I would have seen Blaze for the catch he is—smart, kind, funny, sexy. Kind of perfect for me.

Or am I deluding myself that any of this is real at all?

Maybe I’m only playing at being a different person, trying on the hats of a construction worker, a woodworker, a guy who has sex with men.

I glance sidelong at Leo. He’s not bad-looking, slim but strong, medium height, a nice face with regular features, and a kind of sexy scar on his left eyebrow where he caught a piece of cinderblock on a construction job in Portland a few years ago. He told me the story to impress upon me the importance of always wearing my safety gear. He’s single, too, late twenties. What if I’d run into him before Blaze? Would I be having these same feelings for him?

“What’s up? You need a break? We’re almost done for the day,” Leo says, as if he senses me staring at him like a creeper.

“No, I’m good,” I say, putting my head down and getting back to work. I’m not going to overthink this. In baseball, I trusted my instincts, and nine times out of ten they didn’t let me down. I should do the same here. Who knows how long this reality will last, but I don’t care. If all we have is right now, then my right now is pretty damn good.

Chapter 23

Blaze

All my good intentions about facing the music at the staff meeting and then having a heart-to-heart with Brooke are laughed at and then stomped on by the universe when Marika pushes the staff meeting back a day and Brooke has to stay late at work with an emergency patient. I can’t even use the extra time to visit Shawn because he doesn’t answer when I call his cabin, and I can’t bring myself to show up uninvited. Maybe he needs a night to himself. It’s frustrating to feel like everything is so unresolved, but there’s not much I can do about it.

I take a long, hot shower and get in bed early, but I can’t sleep. I grab my phone for a distraction and decide to catch up on the division playoffs by watching game recaps on YouTube. Before I can click on a recent one, the algorithm suggests a video compilation of Shawn’s best plays at shortstop. I can’t help myself and hit play. I struggle to reconcile the low-key guy I’ve been getting to know for the past two weeks with the player on the screen. Shawn Camden, number 61, is tightly controlled, energetic yet calm in the way baseball players have to be able to endure long periods of nothing happening and then snap into motion in a split second to execute perfection. He’s beautiful throwing accurate shots to first base or home plate, occasionally pumping his fist in triumph over a job well done. Most of the clips are from a few years ago. I forgot he’d been with the Laurels for over a decade. No wonder he felt lost when he was no longer wanted by them.

I can’t help clicking on a few more videos, wanting to watch him hit, too, not ashamed of ogling his ass as he sticks it out to swing at a hundred mile per hour fastball and hit it out of the park. I’ve had my hands all over that ass. How lucky am I?

But then I see another video thumbnail—a grainy one captioned “Shawn Camden Hartford Lamborghini Car Crash.” There’s not much to the video. It seems to be taken from the sidewalk and starts when the sleek silver car is already fishtailing, then slides over a lane of traffic and plows right into a utility pole. You can see a few people on the sidewalk jumping out of the way, but my eyes are glued to the front of the vehicle. It wasn’t traveling very fast, but a head-on collision is nothing to take lightly. The person taking the video rushes to the car, and someone opens the driver’s door. Shawn’s behind the wheel. The airbag has been deployed, and his eyes are closed. The video cuts out. It has almost a million views. I shut off my phone, not wanting to watch it again.

Holy hell. I count back in my head. That happened a little over two weeks ago. He’s okay, I reassure myself. He was obviously not seriously hurt. I saw him only a few days after it happened, when we were fishing on the dock together, and he didn’t seem to have so much as a bruise.

So why is my heart hammering? Why are my palms sweaty?

If something that major happened to him only a little while ago, then is all of this—the retreat, working on the house, me—just some kind of reaction to the stress?