“Jay!” The slurred voice comes with more knocking, and my suspicions are confirmed. “Jay bae.”
Ugh. I hate that nickname. Harley loves it.
Soren stiffens beside me. “Want me to—”
“I’ve got it.” Yet, I don’t move.
Harley knocks again. “Jay bae.”
“He’s drunk,” I say.
Soren tries to contain a smile. “Whatever you say, Jay bae.”
“Don’t even start.” Weighted with nerves, I make my way to the door and prepare to tell Harley to fuck off.
But as soon as it opens, there he is, and like the past few months, I can’t shut him out. Only, this time, it’s not because I’m weak. I understand now that our connection is only a kinship of two lonely people on tour. That’s why I can’t turn him away.
Even if I want to.
He hasn’t shaved in a while, his ginger scruff more prominent. His brown hair is messy, and he has bags under his bloodshot eyes.
Déjà vu from the billion other times this exact scenario has played out runs through my head.
Only, this feels different. Things are unbalanced now.
“It’s happening.” He sways on his feet.
“I saw.” I can’t help feeling sorry for the guy.
“Because of ‘Tennessee Whiskey.’”
“The song or the barrel of it you’ve had to drink tonight?”
“Because of us. Singing it. They weren’t going to make me announce the stupid engagement until after the tour wraps. Now …”
I step aside and let him in.
A look of triumph lights his face, and I know immediately he’s gotten the wrong idea, but before I can call him on it, he stumbles his way past me and freezes.
Harley frowns. “Why’s he here when …”
“When what?” I ask. He doesn’t answer me.
Soren glances between Harley and me and then stands. “I, uh, can go if you want me to.”
It’s obvious he doesn’t want to leave me with Harley but is trying to be respectful. Well, fuck that.
“No.” I approach and wrap my arms around Soren’s waist. “You don’t need to leave.”
There’s a three-way stare off until Harley’s shoulders slump.
“I don’t want to be here,” Harley wobbles. “I don’t want …”
“You’re free to leave,” I say bitterly. “You didn’t need to come in.”
Soren leans in. “I don’t think he’s talking about our hotel room.”
“See, the hockey player gets it.” Harley throws himself into the single armchair in the room. “My life shouldn’t be like this.”
“Yeah, massive stadium tours, millions of fans, and more fame than anyone could ask for. Your life is the worst.” I cringe at my own dig because of everyone in the world, I know more than most the sacrifices he’s made to have this life.
“And that comes at what cost?” Harley shakes his head. “It’s too much. What they’re asking of me.”
“Then tell the label that.” I pull Soren down onto the couch next to me.
“You know it’s not that easy, bae.”
I grit my teeth. “Don’t call me that.”
He flinches. “Sorry. Force of habit. But my point still stands. It’s not easy.”
“Neither is coming out,” Soren says.
Harley’s gaze flies to his.
“Deciding to be the first out NHL player was hard. I didn’t know how the public was going to react or how it was going to affect my career. I understand the need to let the world know who you are and to live your true life, but maybe the label is keeping you quiet for a reason? You could lose everything you’ve worked for, and you need to be okay with saying goodbye to music if you do it. When I made my choice, I’d all but convinced myself I’d retire. It worked out for me, but your fans might abandon you. It’s too unpredictable.”
“I don’t want to live this lie.”
“Should’ve thought of that before you proposed publicly in front of billions of people,” I say. “The whole world has seen it by now.”
“I don’t think that’s helping, Jet,” Soren says in my ear.
“What, you want to help him?” I ask incredulously.
“Does he look like someone who’s doing this to spite you? Or to piss you off? He’s clearly hurting.”
Harley whines. “Damn it. Why’d your boyfriend have to be nice?”
“He’s Canadian. He can’t help it.”
“Sorry.” Soren shrugs.
“God, he’s apologizing even though I’m in your room all drunk-like and complaining. He really is Canadian.” His head kinda wobbles.
“Maybe you should go sleep it off,” I say. “You’ll be able to think more clearly when you’re sober.”
“If Ryder would hurry up and get the guts to leave already, we’d have a way to get out of our stupid contract,” he rambles. I guess he’s not going to go sleep it off.
“Ryder wants out?” I ask.
“He wants more time with Kaylee, and she’s getting to an age where she needs routine and to be able to run around, and she can’t get that on a music tour. If he leaves, the band breaks up, and we can all do our own thing.”