by RJ Scott
“I’m trying, but I can’t keep on him, Coach,” Henry shouted to be heard over the boos of the Raptors fans. Totally deserved boos.
“Let me play,” Aarni barked up at Terri, who glanced at me with a frown. I’d let Aarni play only when Tennant Rowe’s line wasn’t on because I simply did not trust my player enough to let him hit the ice with his nemesis out there. There was no way in hell I would be party to an incident like the last one with Aarni and Tennant. He could bitch all he wanted. He could report me to the players’ union. He could call me names. He could even keep dropping nasty comments about cheap hotels and pretty rich bottoms. I shook my head, and she continued shouting at the lines who were catching their breath.
I stood there, insults and jeers raining down on my head, and followed the next moment of play with a keen eye. Our young defensemen were just clearly outmatched by Rowe and his line. But perhaps we needed to juggle things a bit and see if instead of trying to defend a phenom, we could shove our hotshot rookie up the Railers hotshot vet’s ass.
“… dominate board play and—” I stepped into Terri’s play discussion, which was something I normally did not do. “Coach?” she asked, staring at me in confusion.
“I want our second line out there against their first line,” I said and then smiled at the look that Ryker Madsen gave me. It was part terror and part joy.
“Yes, Coach,” Ryker barked, swinging his leg over the boards. Alejandro and Sam Bennett rounded out the second line and were ready to go. I gave Terri and Art a smug wink. We were down by four. Either we pulled the goalie, which still might happen if Colorado didn’t find his mojo, or we put new faces into that monster of a line the Railers had.
Rowe smiled at Ryker when they approached the faceoff circle. I leaned up and glanced down over the heads of my men to find Jared Madsen. Or was it Madsen-Rowe now? Whatever. The man was always cool as a cucumber behind the bench, but I did see a bit of a glowing admiration on his handsome face. Watching his son—who was the highest-scoring rookie in the league and destined to be going to the All-Star game come voting time—lining up against his husband must be a rush of about ten million emotions.
Leaning back, I folded my arms over my chest, gave Terri a nod, and then let the hockey gods work their magic. The next two minutes was perhaps some of the greatest offensive hockey I had seen in many a year. Right from the faceoff, which Madsen won by shouldering his stepfather out of the way, to the shot on goal that Colorado kicked out of the way with the end of his skate, then back to the other end where Ryker took a flaming cross-ice pass from Garcia that got him a sneaky little shot that made the massive Russian goalie, Stan Lyamin, flash some serious leather to rob the kid of a goal, it was all poetry in motion. Like ballet on skates.
Then something went awry, and the small jolt of momentum we had been getting with the rush of young blood fizzled out. Actually, it was more of a wet raspberry than a fizzle. And it all happened because of a hothead goalie who thought he was still standing in the spotlight of center stage. I would have liked to have pinned it on Aarni, who was out on the ice with his defensive partner now that the Railers’ fourth line was out, but nope. This one all came down on Colorado and his famed temper. Aarni and Adler Lockhart were scrapping it out in the corner for the puck. Adler got it free, skated around the back of the net, and tried to tuck the puck in. The wraparound attempt failed. Colorado had his skate firmly to the post, and the puck was held to the ice by Penn to get the whistle and stop play.
Lockhart, who was known for talking all the damn time when he was on the ice, said something to Penn. It seemed to be a chirp of some sort, for Lockhart’s quirky smile was evident. Whatever he said incensed Penn, and our goalie took a chunk out of Lockhart’s chin with his stick. Whistles blew. Penn shoved Lockhart, who was bleeding like a stuck pig. The Railers gathered around our goalie and began pushing. Aarni and the rest of the Raptors, raced to Penn’s defense. When it was all sorted out, we had a double minor to serve. The Railers’ power play unit took the ice, and within fourteen seconds, the captain fed the puck to the superstar, and he took a shot on one knee that put the puck high and over Penn’s shoulder. The puck hit the crossbar and bounced into the net. Rowe leaped to his feet and pumped the air. Penn beat the crossbar with his stick until it shattered, and the fans threw the evening’s giveaway—little stuffed raptors now minus their heads—onto the ice.
“Jesus H. Hairy Christ,” I snarled, wondering if we would ever reach thirty-five points by my cutoff date. If not, Mark could send me packing, which I didn’t think he would do now that we were fucking like rabbits, but his motherfucking brother Cam would in a heartbeat. I tossed Art a glower. “Tell Andre he’s going in for the rest of the game and will get the start for the next one against Los Angeles.”
Art nodded and went to our backup goalie, the young Andre Lemans, who nodded briskly. We managed to limp through the second half of that four-minute fiasco without being scored on again. When we filed off at the end of the period, I rode up hard and fast on Penn, taking him to the side and explaining to him that this was not the fucking Roxbury or Studio 54, which got me a look of confusion.
“Doesn’t matter. The point is that this is a team game. You’re not the fucking star here on this stage. You’re sitting out this game and the next.”
Penn’s outrage was only matched by his shock. “What? That’s bullshit! What he said to me needed a reaction!”
My eyes narrowed. Had Adler Lockhart said something homophobic or racist? I had a hard time thinking that anyone on the Railers would get nasty. Not with all the rainbow tape, flags, stickers, and Love is Love radiating from them.
“What did he say?” I’d fight for my men if someone slung a slur at them. The Railers’ dressing room was just down the hall. I’d go find Lockhart and take him to the rug if he—
“He called me a Barry Manilow wanna-be!” Penn seethed, his pine green eyes snapping. “Fucking soft pop shit music. I’m a metal singer!” He pounded his chest with his blocker.
For fuck’s sake. “No, you’re a hockey player who won a spot on this team. My team.” I leaned in close. I could smell the sweat and anger and stench of hockey pads rolling off him. “I don’t care if someone calls you Liberace, you do not act out and draw a penalty. You see Lyamin losing his cool?”
“He’s a crazy damn Russian who talks to his fucking pipes!”
“Well, maybe you need to take up talking to your pipes or the ice or your damn skates. Whatever it takes to keep you in control and in the game. I fought hard to get you on this team, Colorado. Don’t make me regret that.”
He bit back whatever it was he was going to say. “Yes, Coach,” he mumbled instead, spinning around and stamping back to the Raptors’ dressing room. I drew in a long, calming breath. One of the Raptors’ equipment managers hustled past, pulling a cart of clean towels behind him, whistling a Christmas tune. The one about rocking around a Christmas tree. Rocking and rockers were on the bottom of my twinkle lights and candy cane list right now.
“Ho-fucking-ho,” I whispered to myself as I stalked to my office to grab a Dr Pepper and calm my own ass down. The next two days off were calling loudly. Perhaps Santa would bring me a trip to the Gila Monster Motor Court, a way to rid my bench of a festering sore of a player, and a fitting comeback to someone calling you a Barry Manilow wannabe to pass along to my metal-worshipping goalie. Things couldn’t possibly get much worse, of that I was sure.
Fifteen
Mark
I was counting down the hours until I finally got to meet up with Rowen, only first of all I had Christmas with the family in the big old Westman-Reid mansion, with Mom presiding over what so far had been a good day. Apart from missing time with Rowen, that was. The motel room was block-booked for the entire two days we had off, and even though my skin crawled at the thought of what bugs might be sharing our room, the lure of sex and time with Rowen outweighed the cons.
“This is for you, Uncle Mark.”
I to
ok the brightly wrapped gift from Lewis, who stood expectantly in front of me. He was a lovely kid, very much like I remembered Jason in a lot of ways. Quiet, thoughtful, but passionate about his interests. He loved Lego to the point that every one of his presents was Lego. I recalled Jason had once owned the biggest collection of Star Wars figures in the entire world. Or at least it had seemed that way. On one Saturday afternoon, stuck indoors with strep with the rain pouring down outside, Jason had even let me play with him. I could remember Jason demanding that I played all the Wookie parts. Funny I thought about that day because Cam and Leigh had joined us, and the four of us had all kinds of amazing made-up adventures in Jason’s room.
“It’s a book,” Lewis said and waited for me to open it.
“Don’t tell him!” his sister, Deborah, shouted at him.
He rolled his eyes, in that patented big brother way, and yep, that was a mini-Jason standing in front of me.
I made a show of shaking the gift, then carefully untied an entire roll of curling ribbon before pulling out a photo book. The minute I saw it, I could feel my chest tightening. I don’t know who’d made the book, who’d chosen the photos, but I wasn’t ready to take a trip down memory lane.
“It’s pictures of all of us,” Lewis said with excitement. “Look.” He took the book from me and turned a few pages, then sat next to me on the sofa. There wasn’t much room, so it was a tight fit, but I couldn’t help but love the way he leaned in on me, trusting that his uncle Mark wouldn’t care. Steeling myself for what I was going to see, I looked down at the open book.
There was a photo of two children. A toddler holding a baby who was propped up by cushions.
“That’s me an’ Deborah,” he announced, then reached over to turn the page. “And this is Annie and Monica, when they were born.”
Annie and Monica were Cam’s kids. Both of them favoring Cam’s wife, Ailsa, who was stunning and always smiling. How could someone as angry and closed off as Cam have produced such gorgeous kids? The book carried on, images of the children from the day they were born right up to a few weeks ago. The last photo was of my three nieces and one nephew, holding up a sign “Welcome Home Uncle Mark.” Something stuck in my throat, a ball of emotion that I couldn’t shift, and I smiled down at the photo.
“I love it,” I said and proceeded to receive hugs from Lewis, Deborah, and Annie, with a wet sticky kiss from Monica, who’d only just turned three. Monica stayed on my lap, cuddling in with the stuffed animal I’d bought her for Christmas. Of course, I’d also given my brothers cash gifts for all four of them, to invest for their future, but then I’d gone out and bought something for each of them myself. A stuffed dog for Monica, dolls for the other girls, and a Lego set for Lewis. Sue me if I’d stuck to gender stereotyping, but I didn’t know the newest parts of my family so well.
I caught Ailsa’s gaze and gave her a smile and mouthed a thank you.
She, in turn, thumbed at Cam, who was resolutely not looking at me at all. “Cam did it,” she murmured, and at his name, he turned, and for a moment our gazes locked. He nodded. I copied him, and in that brief moment, there was a connection between us. It was up to me to build a bridge, I knew that, but I hadn’t wanted to do it in this mausoleum of a house, with the ghost of our father looming over us. Then again, a person couldn’t choose when and where to make things right with their brother.
Mom was the last to open a present. It was a book similar to mine, but it was filled with photos not just of her grandchildren but of her children, and there wasn’t one photo of Dad in there.
I knew that. I checked as it was passed around. And Mom cried, but then when we all thought we were done, it seemed Mom had one last present for all of us.
“I’m in remission,” she said, through tears, and although that word didn’t mean much to the little ones, they picked up on her joy and everyone’s excitement. Even I was happy because I was coming to realize that I loved my mom. Right down in the darkest parts I’d hidden away when Dad threw me out, there was love for her and my siblings.
Presents done, we dispersed into smaller groups, the kids hyper, Mom and her daughters-in-law sitting and chatting, Leigh leaving the room to take a call, which left me, Jason, and Cam standing in the kitchen, each armed with a beer.
“He’s called Leigh again,” Cam said grumpily.
“I like him,” Jason said.
“Who?”
Cam huffed. “Leigh is seeing this football player. Yeah, you heard, a freaking football player. A player with more money than sense.”
“Who?” I queried, although from Cam’s narrow-eyed expression I could tell that it was seeing and maybe more.
“Dean Hendersley, plays for the Cardinals, and yeah, I think it’s serious. He’s taking her away for a post-Christmas break.”
“That’s great,” I said with a lot of enthusiasm.
Cam stared at me and then sighed. “Yeah, I guess he’s a nice kid,” he finally admitted.
“He’s older than you,” Jason pointed out.
“I need details.” I decided. After all, I was home for a year. I should be able to play protective brother, right? Jason laughed then, which made me laugh, which meant Cam joined in. We all stopped abruptly, and Cam looked right at me.
“Shit, Mark,” he muttered.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted.
Then, in the cold kitchen of the big heartless house, we hugged.
And everything was beginning to right itself in the world of the Westman-Reid brothers.
Rowen picked me up a little after nine in the evening. He’d spent the day with Terri and a couple of the players, and the plan was we would go find a spot in the motel, fuck each other’s brains out, and celebrate Christmas sated and sleeping.
Only I didn’t want that.
For one, in my great brotherly love hugfest, I’d come to a decision without even realizing it. I was staying the full year. I was making the conscious choice to stay here, and it wasn’t just to be close to the family or to work with the team. There was Rowen as well, in all his snappy, confident, toppy glory. I more than liked the prickly man. I certainly loved sex with him. I wanted more of the liking and the loving, and that was the weirdest feeling of all.
Worse than that, I couldn’t imagine not seeing him each day—making it clear when I visited him in his office that I wanted his company. He never sought me out, but he never turned me away. And it wasn’t always kissing or sex. Sometimes it was me bringing him a can of that evil-tasting Dr Pepper shit, or it was him making me eat something when he said I looked tired.
Of course I was tired a lot. I was juggling responsibilities for the agency in New York, along with the worries about money and the Raptors. I was also having regular mind-altering breathtaking sex. Any guy would be tired with all that going on.
“Where to?”
I realized he hadn’t restarted the car, parking it at an angle next to the front gate to the Westman-Reid mansion and waiting.
“Are we not…” going to have sex in a sleazy motel?
“I have my own place. I mean, it’s a rental, but it’s mine. I even have a bed that has clean sheets on it.”
He said that so seriously, but cleanliness was an important thing, and after some of the stuff we’d seen at the motel, fresh sheets sounded fabulous.
“Your place?” I wasn’t questioning the statement, more the intent behind it.
Rowen crossed his hands on the steering wheel. “Damnedest thing happened today,” he began. “I was at Terri’s, and a couple of the team were there, and we were relaxed, chilled. Or at least they were as chilled as they could be with their coach sitting right opposite them.” He laughed then. “Actually, Alex spent most of his time trying not to engage with me. Think he spent a lot of time in the kitchen making nonalcoholic mojitos that he never drank. I’m not that scary, right?”
“Says the man who made the entire team run up the steps to the top of the arena and then back down. Five times in a row.”
/> “You have a point.” He smiled then, and it was the most beautiful smile, and I wanted to tell him I wanted more than just a motel. Even if it was only for a year. I wanted to wake up next to him and make breakfast and sit naked in bed with him talking TV shows or music or feed each other toast and bacon.
“They respect you and fear you at the same time,” I said.
“Yeah, so I’m sitting there, sipping this god-awful fake mojito, listening to Terri and her friend chatting about how they wished they were in the Bahamas, and I had a moment.” He glanced out the front window, at the dark skies, and stared thoughtfully. “I don’t want to go to the motel today.”
Disappointment coursed through me. I knew it wasn’t something that was going to last. I’d been fooling myself if I was—
“I’d like this to be something better than that, back at my place, with clean sheets, breakfast in the morning, talking, and not just sex.”
Oh. Words escaped me, and I stared at him, probably looking like a complete fucking idiot, and I saw the moment that he was saddened I didn’t say anything, then the moment when his expression changed and he smiled again.
“I’ll take your silence as a yes, then?”
We leaned toward each other and kissed awkwardly until he pressed a button and his seat went back. I clambered onto him, getting caught on the console, yanking at my shoe, losing the shoe, nearly kneeing him in the balls, and then flailing as I lost my balance. He caught me and held me in a close hug.
“I’m too old for car sex,” he said and took another kiss.
“Then let’s get back to your place.” I scrambled back to my seat, retrieved my shoe, and then clapped a hand on his thigh. “Drive!”
He took his sweet time pulling off from the gate, but as soon as we were out on the empty Christmas Day roads, he followed the speed limit, and we made good time back to the apartment complex that I knew a lot of the players rented in.