Buzz (The Riley Brothers Book 1) (19 page)

“All week, I've been waiting for this,” Noah sighed. He tapped his foot as he leaned against the side door of the arena, raising a hand to squint across the parking lot. “And now look.”

Jason was supposed to be here to give him the key to the arena lobby, open the Zamboni door to bring the steel sculpture in, and supervise its installation. Everything else could be carried by hand the day before the show.

Jason was infamously bad at keeping appointments. Now Jackson was going to be here any minute with his sculpture and equipment for moving it and no way to get it inside.

At the same time, Noah was fielding calls from artists who were interested in the August charity show. He'd stupidly put the word out on a local mailing list that morning before leaving the house. His phone rang again.

“Hi, Noah. It's Chase.”

Chase...?
Right: the tattoo artist who'd painted a series of ten hockey pucks and stuck them together with needles into a mural. God, Noah loved that piece. “Yeah, hi. What's up?”

“I forgot – is the opening next Saturday or Sunday?”

“The reception is Saturday evening. We're doing art installation and setup on Friday. Why?”

“Okay, phew. That works. Just making sure,” Chase answered. “I've got appointments on Sunday and I had a heart attack there.”

Noah winced and swallowed. “Yeah. No problem. See you Friday, right?”

“Friday.” Chase promised and hung up.

Jason's pickup truck crunched into the gravel side lot, then over to the paved section. Noah raised a hand to wave Jason over.

As he'd expected, Jason jumped out of the truck and practically sprinted over to him. “Sorry I'm late. Everything all right?”

“Good. Jackson's supposed to be here in – oh, I think that's him.” Noah waved over to the pickup truck that was turning into the main lot, gesturing it over. The truck came around the side of the building towards them.

“Just in time, then,” Jason declared and strode for the side door to unlock it. He stepped in to roll up the bay door.

Noah let himself glare at the door for a moment before he forced a pleasant expression again. He didn't mind Jason, but untimeliness was one of his pet peeves. It was disrespectful of both his time and Jackson's.

“There we are,” Jason nodded as he waved Jackson's truck into the arena.

“Hey,” Jackson greeted from his rolled-down window. He backed up past Noah, his eyes flickering between the mirrors.

“Hi. You got what you need?” The load was covered by a large tarp and a lot of bungee cords, so it was hard to tell.

“Yep.” Jackson stopped once the back end of the pickup was inside, then yanked the parking brake on and climbed out. He clapped Noah's shoulder. “Excited?”

“Very!” Noah grinned. “You didn't even let me see it past the halfway point.”

“Yeah. It's – I'm happy with it.” Jackson strode around to the back of the pickup truck, pulling down the gate. “Got the loader?”

“It's through this way,” Jason told Jackson. They strode off for it while Noah waited by the pickup truck. He heard them talking about how their days were going, traffic, and football season, so he let them be.

A few minutes later, the small vehicle returned with a helmet-clad Jackson at the wheel. Jason walked behind it. “Either of you trained at this?”

Noah and Jason both shook their heads.

“No problem.” Jackson opened the door and clambered down to the ground, then up into the bed of the pickup. “Just keep back, then.”

Noah shifted anxiously as Jackson unfastened the bungee cords and straps, coiling everything up and tossing it all to the ground out of the way. Then, the tarp came off.

The steel sculpture glistened from inside its wood crate, and Noah rose onto his tiptoe to try to see.

“Not until it's ready,” Jackson scolded him with a grin and shouldered him out of the way.

Noah laughed. “Fine,” he lamented. “I'll go wait in the lobby.” He strode away from the truck down the back hallway of the arena and the front lobby. It took him a minute to find door wedges to keep the doors open.

He'd seen this place a hundred times in his sketches and at least a dozen in person while planning the exhibit. The lighting would all have to be changed out, and extra lighting added in several places. There was only one place for the sculpture: the middle of the lobby. Noah firmly believed a sculpture should never be against a wall, and this was the show centerpiece. Good – the pedestal he'd delivered last week was already set up.

The loader rumbled its way into the room, bearing the massive crate on its metal prongs.

“Where to?” Jackson asked, and Noah indicated the middle of the room. “Really?”

Noah nodded. “You cool with that?”

“More than cool,” Jackson laughed. He pivoted the loader as he entered the room, his eyes narrowed in focus. Once he maneuvered the prongs into position, he set down the crate. “I'll use the hand truck to get it off the pallet. Perfect, the pedestal's the right height.”

“It's almost like we coordinated it.”

They worked together, Noah directing Jackson to maneuver and twist the sculpture until it faced the right way. Then, slowly, the sculpture was eased into place on the pedestal and set down. Jackson unwrapped the plastic around it once that was done and stood back, folding his arms.

“Now can I look?”

“Turn on the lights first.”

Noah laughed and flipped on the overhead light switches. When he turned around, light glimmered off steel and bronze, bringing it to life in a way even he hadn't anticipated.

“See?” Jackson smugly stated. He hauled the pallet back onto the loader before leaning against it and folding his arms. Despite his self-confidence, Noah could tell he was waiting for the final assessment.

Noah paced around it, admiring the smooth, burnished curves. It showed a hockey player caught in mid-stride. One skate was slightly off the ice, the puck delicately balanced on the edge of the stick's blade...

The face was familiar, too.

“Oh my God, you used Cam.”

The model's open face mask framed Cam's distinctive chiseled jaw and narrow cheekbones, strong and slightly crooked nose, thin but full lips...

Cameron was breathtaking
in bronze and steel. Noah swallowed back his emotion as his chest tightened. Was that what he looked like when he'd played on the ice? This was far more focus than he'd seen even on the hockey court last week. The sculpture's lifelike eyes even subtly narrowed in focus on a distant point.

Noah was spellbound by Jackson's skill. This showed his boyfriend's passion, elegance, and strength all at once.

He just wished he'd been able to see that in person.

So why the hell hadn't Cam wanted Noah to know about that part of him?

The next time Cameron saw a dark blue station wagon, he had its number.

He and Bill were working at the corner lot again that sunny Saturday afternoon. They tidied up hives and finished sorting out the mess the bear had left in the bee yard. There was no reason that station wagon ought to be there, except...

“Excuse me. I'll be back in a minute, sorry.”

Bill nodded and Cam set down his smoker. He strode down the length of the bee yard, through the trees, and out to the road.

The man behind the wheel was startled to be directly approached, but rolled down the window. “Hello?” He looked a few years older than Cam. He had dark stubble across his jaw, pale pink lips, and eyes that were a soft, enchanting brown. His brows were thin, dark, and low, but he looked like a goddamn model. He could get information anywhere.

Cam had no patience for the act. “Unless you want a lot of bees in your car, tell me why you've been watching me.”

The man scanned his expression for a few moments. He rubbed his face and set aside the notebook Cameron wanted to pry out of his hand. “There's no point in bullshitting you, is there?”

“Nope.”

“I'm Alex. I've been asked to set up a meeting between you and a few people who want to meet you.”

Cameron took a certain pleasure in seeing a few little bees crawling in through the window. He had the sneaking suspicion he knew what this was about, but he leaned back to give Alex a skeptical look. “When and where?”

“This afternoon, if possible. At the Park hotel downtown. Room 341. Say, two o'clock?”

That was a fancy-ass place for a meeting, and right next to the art gallery. Cam glanced back at the bee yard. They were just about done there, and if he explained the situation to Bill, he was sure he'd be sent home anyway. “Fine. I'll be there. Stop watching me.” He strode through the trees again for the yard.

The car pulled away after he walked off,

By the time he made it back to the field, Bill was watching him. “What was that about? Someone want to talk to you?”

“Yeah. I have... my old bosses, sort of, breathing down my neck.”

Bill eyed him for a moment before nodding. “If you need to leave at lunchtime...”

“If I can, that'd be great, yeah.”

“Should be fine. I just have some painting to do this afternoon. I've seen that car around before, too. Nearly called the cops on it once.”

Cameron's eyes narrowed. “I know. He's been watching me for a bit. Says his name is Alex – ring any bells?”

“Sorry, Cam. Lots of “Alex”s around here your age.”

Cameron nodded and drew a breath. When he let it go, he cleared his mind of thoughts. “Let's get back to checking hives.”

By lunchtime, he had some guesses about who it was and what they wanted. He didn't have any kind words for any of the possibilities.

He changed at Jackson's home and showered, grabbing a bite to eat. Jackson had been out almost day and night for the last few weeks, they saw each other only a few evenings a week now. That was another stressor, but he didn't have time to worry about that.

Cameron arrived at the hotel a couple minutes before the hour and headed up in the elevator.

He knocked firmly on the door of room 341. When it opened, the man who answered seemed unsurprised to see him. The grey-haired older guy was wearing a suit jacket in the kind of style that screamed “team owner”.

“Afternoon,” Cameron greeted. “I'm Cameron Riley.”

“Darren Kolusky. Owner of the--”

“Florida. I know.”

Darren raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Well done. Yes. And that's Henry Thibeault, the New Brunswick team manager. Come on inside.”

Cameron firmed his jaw as he strode into the small hotel room. Three chairs were pulled cozily together. “Alex isn't here? Who's he to you?”

“Oh, he was just a private eye. We needed someone to see if you were around here.”

A muscle in Cameron's jaw twitched. He remained calm and sank into one of the three seats while Darren and Henry followed suit.

“We're here to make you an offer. From what Walker told us, you've been expecting this for a while. And you're right to expect it – you were inches away from being drafted.”

“I know.” Cameron watched both men.

Henry cleared his throat. “We're getting a great team together. There's a lot of talent here in the Atlantic provinces. Guys are getting tired of flying out to Toronto, Montreal, even St. John's, and that's just for home games. When you're not on the road, you want to be truly home.”

“The spiel's good, but you can save it for the other guys,” Cameron told them. “You've been following me around with a frigging private detective.”

Darren held up a hand to Henry and nodded. “Here's the thing. All the papers say you suddenly quit, but then you wind up back here. You're keeping your skills sharp in the only quiet local venue you can. Our thought was this: you're hoping to get back into the game soon.”

“I'm not playing damn games trying to pretend I wasn't drafted. That's all public knowledge,” Cameron snorted. “If I had been, it'd be all over the internet by now.”

“Right. But a gentleman's agreement under the table, in effect as soon as your heart's fixed...”

Cameron narrowed his eyes. “It'll take a specialist and probably surgery to fix. Ablation, they said. A wait list.”

“Or you can go private, if you have a team willing to pay. We would. I bet Toronto offered.”

“They looked. They couldn't find anyone.”

“We know someone in Florida who will.”

Cameron tightened his jaw. “And after that, there's no guarantee I'll be in fit condition to play.”

“Kid,” Henry told him, “look at the offer. No strings attached surgery, and if it works, you join us.”

“You'll draft me after a season,” Cameron told them, boldly jutting his jaw. “I'm that good, and that's why you're so interested. How can pulling me to Florida get me closer to home?”

Henry shifted and glanced at Darren.

Darren chuckled. “Walker was right: you take no shit. Listen, you're smart. You know we get on well with Toronto. There's a trade or two we're looking at, and if we can give them something they want...”

“You get something – or someone – you want,” Cameron nodded. “Like Matty?”

“Among others.”

Cameron breathed out.
This isn't how I wanted my new life to go. Being traded, traveling all over the damn continent again...

“If money and fame isn't enough, we can do a lot. We can set you up with a good-looking new boyfriend. If that's your concern, it's not a problem with us. The team's willing to accept it. Don't quit your passion over it.”

How nice of them.
Cameron's jaw tightened. Fuck them for trying to replace Noah with some underwear model.

“A guy your age will have a lot of fun off the ice if he's willing to put everything into his game on the ice.”

Cameron shook his head. “And I'm not. My family needs me – my new boyfriend, who you
can't
just replace with some Armani model, needs me.”

“If you had surgery tomorrow and you woke up fit to play again, can you say you'd walk away?”

That was Henry, his gaze knowing as he watched Cameron.

The bastard already knew the answer. Cameron hated it. He wanted the answer to be
yes
, but... This tactic wouldn't work.

“I'm not signing up.”

“We called Gavin.” His old agent. Cameron hadn't minded the guy, but he'd been canny. “He told us you might take a good offer.”

“Then he didn't know me. What did Walker say?”

Neither of them said anything.

“That's what I thought.” Cameron rose to his feet. “Thanks for meeting me, but that was a colossal waste of time and money. If you want a star heading your team, get your ass to Toronto. There's half a dozen great guys that only need another season under someone like Coach Walker. Make your own stars.”

Henry and Darren rose, too. “Is that your decision?”

“Yeah.”

“If you change your mind...”

Cameron's vision went wavy around the edges. He interrupted, “I'll talk to the team that didn't hire a fuckin'
detective
to stalk me.”

He hated burning bridges, especially with how fucking badly he wanted to be on the ice. Yet he couldn't let them use that as leverage.

He bit back the worst of his vitriol to be calm and polite on his way out. “Thank you for the meeting. Good luck with the team.”

“Good luck with your new life,” Henry answered, walking him to the door.

Cameron strode down the hall without a backwards glance. His hands were curled into tight fists to keep his self-control.

That went about as well as he'd expected, and he
had
to calm down
now
.

It was the last thought he remembered. He stepped out of the elevator into the lobby and smooth marble flew into his face.

***

When Cameron opened his eyes, the sterile whiteness around him was the second thing to register.

The first was a warm hand in his own, fingers laced with his, and a murmuring voice. “--many months now?”

“About six weeks. It's an urgent referral.”

“Good.” That was Noah's voice. “Three months or more is unacceptable when he's fainting in public.”

Cameron stirred slightly and rolled his head to the side as strength returned again. His heart rate was back to normal. He was dressed in a weird paper gown and he had those fucking sticky patches on his chest. Damn it, he was going to rip off circles of his own chest hair again.

“Hello,” Noah greeted him with a little smile. “Fancy meeting you here.”

He wasn't panicking or freaking out. Noah looked calmer than Cameron felt. He sat up with confidence as he faced the doctor.

Cameron blinked and nodded. “Hi.”

“Hello. I'm Dr. Smith. I was discussing your referral with your, er--”

“My boyfriend, Noah, yeah,” Cameron said. He cleared his throat and blinked as he sat up slowly, licking his lips. “And?”

“Yes. And you're being bumped up the waitlist. I expect it'll be about a month, six weeks at the outside. As possible given your condition.”

Cameron glanced at Noah, wondering how much of a role he had in that decision. “Oh. Oh, that's great.”

“Noah explained some of the difficulties you've been facing, and we looked over your file and your activity level. You're unlikely to reduce your physical activity much. And it's obviously impractical to just
not
stress about anything at all for months on end.”

“Yeah.”

“Right. A nurse will be by in a few minutes to do some tests. I want to make sure you're clear to go and assess whether we need to keep you any longer.”

Cameron nodded and lay back again. “Thanks, Dr. Smith.”

The doctor strode out and they were alone. Beeps and babbling of voices in the background filled the air beyond the soft curtains of the emergency room space.

Cam took in Noah sitting in a chair next to his bed, still holding his hand. “How are you?”

“A lot better than you,” Noah teased with a gentle smile. “You?”

“I... I didn't tell you everything,” Cameron said before he stopped himself.

“So I gather. Want to tell me now?”

“Please,” Cameron murmured with a nod. “I'm here because my heart condition benched me, then got me to quit the team completely. I played pro hockey in the minor leagues in Toronto. I was about to be drafted. Then this thing developed, and they couldn't diagnose it. I just... quit.” He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, then ran it along his teeth as he looked away. His stomach twisted into a knot of fear when Noah let go of his hand.
I shouldn't have hidden it all.

Noah's hand pressed against his cheek to turn his face towards him.

Cameron blinked, then shifted onto his side to face Noah.

“I don't blame you,” Noah said, his voice quiet but clear. There was no hint of a lisp now. Was this his curator voice? “It's life-changing. The doctor said they don't know if you even
can
play after they fix... whatever's going on. The team can't keep you on under those conditions.”

“But they were willing to try. I walked away.”

Now Noah's lisp came out as he clicked his tongue against his teeth and rolled his eyes to the ceiling for patience. “You were forced off the ice. I'm glad you didn't kill yourself out of some hyper-macho bullshit weakness complex.”

Cameron's jaw dropped. After a second of staring at Noah, all he could do was laugh. “Don't hold back.”

“I'm serious,” Noah insisted. “If you'd died on the ice, I would never have met you. So you better not get yourself fuckin' killed over it. And next time, tell me about things that are important to you. Don't assume I'll apply the same bullshit macho standards to you that you apply to yourself.”