by Van Barrett
MSG
– River –
Madison Square Garden. We came here to play 60 minutes of hockey. But, our room being quiet and tense, it felt more like we were about to be thrown out into the Colosseum to fight for our lives.
There was a buzz in the iconic building in Midtown New York, just minutes before we took the ice. Even in the visitor's dressing room, with the door shut to all outsiders, we could feel it.
It began as an idle chatter that grew all around us as thousands of people streamed into the rink and took their seats. Then the arena staff turned the dial up on the rock music. And the dressing room walls, the wooden bench below our asses, bumped and trembled with the aggressive beat. The crowd responded to the angry music until the soundwaves were clogged with their battle-ready roar – raaaaah!
They wanted us. And they wanted us now.
That's a strange thing you can feel, physically, in a building like this: the crowd's animal energy. It's a base vibration. A hum so heavy, the weight saddles the center of your heart. We were the visitors. That meant we weren't welcome. And that hum, instead of charging us, was meant to intimidate us. Fill us with nerves and make us sluggish and afraid.
Normally, the team benefits from Jono's antics to help lighten the mood before a game like this. But it wasn't going to happen tonight. Jono looked like a sulking teenager in his stall, his shoulders dropping, his chin propped up on his fist. He wasn't offering any comic relief anytime soon.
I'm not as good as Jono is at making people laugh. But I know when the mood needs to be adjusted. To set our minds on the task at hand. (Even if my mind had a billion other things running through it for the past twenty-four hours. Thankfully, all those thoughts and what-ifs and worries vanished when I set foot in the arena.)
“Alright boys.” I stood in the middle of the room and slowly, methodically wrapped the blade of my stick with cloth tape. Like this were any other game. I wanted them to pick up on my vibe: calm, cool, and collected. “First thing is, we use the hometown crowd against them. The crowd will be dying for something to cheer for, and Boston's gonna be eager to please 'em.”
“That's right,” Nick Ochoa mumbled.
“We take the crowd out of the game with safe, smart play. Let's come out hitting, boys. Hit 'em hard and hit 'em often. We don't have to do anything fancy just yet. We don't have to make the perfect play. Short passes, dump the puck on the entries, and bang bodies when they go to retrieve it. All we gotta do here is take the wind outta their sails. We'll build from there.”
I put the finishing touches on my tape job. From the corner of my eye, I saw my teammates bob their heads in agreement.
“I'll tell ya what though, boys, nothing feels as good as coming in here and shutting up a crowd like this.” I peered up at my teammates with a sneaky grin. “Fuck 'em, boys. We got this.”
They roared in agreement. “Hell yeah!” “Fuck 'em!”
And then a magical thing happened: the nerves were gone, spirits were lifted, and the boys started joking again. Everyone was giddy, talking and joking and laughing. Everyone except … Jono. Jono was the guy who needed lifting up – or else he might bring us down, one way or another.
Robby Cooke tried to brighten his mood first. “Hey Jono! What's the matter over there? First night away from your new girl, and now you're worried she's gonna hop on the cock carousel?”
Fuck. I sunk my teeth into my lip. Cookie has a bad habit of not knowing where the line is … and completely stumbling over it. The boys laughed, but it was more of a cringe-laugh, and a hope that Jono might let the stupid joke go.
Jono shot Cookie a death stare. “Fuck off, man.”
“Yeesh!” Cookie grimaced. “Hey, sorry bro. Forget I said anything.”
The door swung open. Coach J waltzed in. “Game time, boys. Let's go.”
My teammates hopped up and rushed out the door to take the ice. But I grabbed Jono's jersey and kept him behind.
“You alright, man?”
“Yeah, River, I'm fuckin' fine.”
“You sure?”
“Even if I wasn't, there's nothing I can do about it now.” He raised his gloved hand in the direction of the ice. “Game time.”
“Just play your game, Jono. Put everything else outta your mind. You'll be fine.”
“Right.”
28
Can We Talk?
– Lane –
I was happy when the hockey game started – it meant me and Devon could stop dancing around the secrets that we were so obviously keeping from each other. It gave us something to talk about, something that united us again.
“It's so weird watching them on TV,” I said as the two teams lined up for the opening faceoff. I pointed out River. “Like … I know that guy. I see and talk to him regularly.”
I even sucked his dick and swallowed his cum less than twenty-four hours ago. But hey, nobody needed to know that, right?
“Yeah,” Devon agreed. “It's a mind-fuck, isn't it?”
“C'mon Jono!” I cheered at the TV as the puck dropped for the faceoff. But Jono lost the faceoff to Boston. “Ahhh. Darn.” I peeked at Devon. With a thousand yard stare going right through the television, she didn't look like she cared much about how Jono played.
Something's up between them, isn't it …? Not that I had any right to pry.
I turned my attention back to the game and found River. He hounded after the Boston puck-carrier with long, graceful strides. God, River was fast. He really knew how to squeeze every bit of power and speed out of those long legs.
River closed in on his man in a hurry. The Boston player frantically passed the puck to get rid of it just as River barreled in on him. River pushed his shoulder into the guy's chest, powered through it, and sent the guy flying backwards – his arms and legs flailed in the air before he hit the ice with a heavy thud, like a sack of potatoes. The Boston player's night got even worse when his body slammed into the boards with a loud crash.
The crowd at Madison Square Garden went “oooh.” It was the collective sound of 18,000 people getting kicked in the nuts. I was relieved to see the Boston player climb to his feet uninjured, even if he looked a little shaken and woozy.
And River, cool as a cucumber, stopped on a dime and skated after somebody else. Hell, the whole team started following his lead – the Fighting Hawks were hitting everybody and playing like rabid dogs.
Umm, does that mean River's playing angry? I thought with a gulp.
“Damn.” Devon looked at me with wide eyes. “Those guys are fired up.”
“Yeah.” I swallowed.
***
Well, I don't know how much you can divine someone's mood by the sort of hockey game they play, but I'll say this.
The game started off very … um … violent. River and the boys hit everything that moved. It almost looked like they didn't even want to play hockey. Maybe they just showed up to hit people! I started having paranoid delusions, where River was in the dressing room before the game, telling everyone how furious he was that a gay dude tricked him into getting his dick sucked, and everyone started balling their fists and punching their palms and mumbling with pure rage and hatred, “that's it I'm so fuckin' mad boys let's go murder EVERYBODY out there, rahhh!!”
… But those fears started to die out half-way through the first period. Boston started playing a lot more tentatively, almost like they were afraid. They'd see our UND guys coming after them and they'd just sort of freeze up or dump the puck away so they didn't get hit. Even a hockey newbie like me could see it happening.
And over time, the crowd – which sounded like completely mad banshees when the game started – fell oddly quiet. So quiet, you might as well have heard a pin drop in the arena. And that's when our guys took over the game.
That's when it started. River was everywhere. My fears about him just being angry started to melt away. Now that he and the others had gotten inside Boston's head, River focused on playing beautiful hockey. He looked faster and smoother than I'd
ever seen him. Which, to be fair, wasn't a whole lot. But still, he looked happy out there. Really happy. Like a guy who has just shrugged off the weight of the world and was having the time of his life.
He scored goals. He set goals up. He slowed the play down when it was too fast; sped it up when it was too slow. He controlled the game, really, and every time he was on the ice, it looked like UND was about to score again.
The TV commentators seemed to think so, too. “We're watching something special tonight in River Brame. He looks like he's taken yet another step and proving to everyone that he's ready to play in the pros. But we're gonna miss him when he leaves us at UND, that's for sure …”
Hmph. Yeah, that was true. But that was still a few months off. And it was something I didn't like to think about.
***
The final score was 5-2. River had 2 goals and 3 assists – he played a part in every single goal. The bar went nuts. Beating Boston that bad at MSG was the excuse everyone needed to over imbibe.
The only bad part of the game was that Jono hadn't played such a great game. I couldn't really tell it, but the commentators kept noticing how Jono looked slow and couldn't keep up with River. They wondered if he was perhaps nursing an injury? Then, during the course of the game, they told us that Jono had been demoted to the third line.
Devon didn't say much. I felt bad for her. I frowned at her sympathetically, patted her back and said, “I'm sure he'll play better next time.”
She rolled her eyes dismissively. “I don't care how he plays,” she grumbled.
“Wha'?” I muttered.
She sipped her drink. “I don't wanna talk about it.”
“Oh.” My eyes grew. “Well then.”
“Yup.”
I knew she was being intentionally cut and dry because I had been the same way with her. If I wasn't sharing details, why should she? Still. It sucked to hear.
But her telling me that much was like some kind of magical spell. It was as if she'd shouted I'm available! into the universe. And the universe heard, because not even a minute later, a cute boy sat next to her at the bar and struck up a conversation. I occupied myself with my drink, trying not to eavesdrop on their flirting – a back-and-forth exchange of cocky masculine bravado and cutesy feminine giggles.
I had no desire to be third wheel. Once my drink was finished, I said bye to Devon and her suitor and made my way back to River's. I fed Deke and let him out to potty one last time. River would be back around midnight. I locked up, left his apartment and went back to mine for the night.
After what happened between us, it felt kinda weird not to be there to greet him. But this was the plan we'd agreed to. And we still hadn't talked since the other night. Who knows? Maybe he needed space.
Argh. Back to worrying.
***
While River was flying across the country at 35,000 feet in the air, I couldn't sleep. I spent a short little while in bed, staring at my cell phone. I composed a plethora of text messages to River. Some cut to the heart of the matter. Most didn't. But none of them survived – all were deleted.
The ball was in his court, technically. Right? I sucked his dick. I'm the guy that obviously would like to fool around more. The question is whether he's up for that. Therefore, I should sit back and let him contact me. Yeah. Definitely.
I stayed up late. I was too worked up to go to bed. And I'm glad I did, because shortly after midnight, my phone buzzed. I snatched my phone up eagerly.
A text from River: “I'm home.”
Oh … well … that was a little disappointing. But okay. It was something to work with, at least. All I had to do was figure out how to reply.
I said: “Glad you made it safe. Great game BTW! Everything ok?”
… where 'everything' was certainly a loaded word.
River replied a minute later: “Can we talk?”
“Aw, fuck,” I groaned sourly. I knew what a 'talk' meant. People never wanted permission to talk about good things. Only bad things. My heart pounded.
“Sure. Text? Or phone call?” I asked him.
“I can meet at your place.”
“Oookay,” I said aloud as I tapped out my address.
“Be there in 15mins,” he replied.
“Well, fuck, here we go.” I jumped out of bed and rushed over to my wardrobe to change out of my pajamas. But it's kinda hard to dress when you don't know what the event calls for. Was this a funeral or a wedding?
Guess I'll know in 15 minutes.
29
Pretty Mouth
– Lane –
When my buzzer rang a few minutes later, I said fuck it, threw on the nearest pair of jeans and a plain t-shirt and ran downstairs to grab River. I opened my building's door and found him standing there with a serious look. Ball cap (as always), blue jeans, and a shirt with a deep v-neck that showed the fine brown hair that dotted his massive pecs.
“Hey,” I said, hiding behind the door. I'm sure I looked hesitant. Because that's how I certainly felt. He looked cute as hell, but nobody wants to be ogling the person that's about to dump them. At least have some dignity and willpower, for heaven's sake!
“Hey,” River said, his voice quiet and low and betraying exactly zero emotion. His lips looked so sad and pouty, but then, they always did – it didn't mean anything. At least I hoped not?
“So. You wanted to talk?” I asked lamely.
“Yeah … can I come in?”
“Sure.” I opened the door wider. “I'm upstairs.”
We climbed the flight of stairs to the second floor. I tried to make small talk. “Hey, you had a great game, River. The commentators were really freaking out about it too.”
“Thanks,” was River's muted reply.
I led him to my door and invited him in. River took a tentative step inside.
“Sorry for the mess,” I said as I sheepishly picked up an armful of shoes by the door that I tend to kick off in a hurry and never put away. I whisked them away, out of sight and into the closet.
River looked around my small apartment. “It's not messy at all. It's really homey, actually. Feels good in here.”
“Well, it's not clean like yours.”
“My place is clean because it doesn't have anything in it.” He went over to the window and gently touched all the leaves of my house plants. “Plants. Why don't I have any plants? They really add a lot of life to a place, don't they?”
“Yeah.” I grinned. “They sure do.”
He shook his head. “My place doesn't feel very alive, does it.”
“Umm.” I stalled. “Your place feels kind of like … a state-of-the-art training gym in Soviet Russia.”
River laughed softly, his head lowering with a touch of shame. “Yeah. I should get some plants for my place.”
“Well … I could help you pick some out, River.”
He turned around and blinked at me. Again. Zero emotion.
I cleared my throat. “So, uh, speaking of your place. Everything was alright, I hope?”
“Yeah, everything's fine. Deke didn't give you any trouble, did he?”
“No, no. He was a good boy.”
“Good.”
We both stood, arms folded, at opposite ends of my apartment. My breath was short and tense … I couldn't stand the wait! What was River going to say? What was our fate?
River took his cap off, ran a hand against his short hair, and put his cap back on. “I was a little worried when you didn't text me about Deke like you said you would.”
My eyes bulged. “Oh shit! I totally forgot! Sorry, River, I had – uh, other things on my mind. I wanted to text you, but I uh … didn't know what to say.”
Because of the fact that I sucked your dick and made you late and stuff.
River nodded. “Yeah. I understand. I know the feeling.”
“You do.”
“Yeah. I do.” River stepped closer. “The whole flight to New York … the night I spent in the hotel … and the whole flight back tonigh
t. I've been thinking about what happened.”
I gulped. “And?”
“And it's complicated. It really is.”
“Yeah. I understand.” My heart sunk – even if the word 'complicated' might imply that it wasn't all bad.
“All I could think about over these past twenty-four hours?” River paused. “All I could think about was how that can't ever happen between us again, Lane.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I understand. I don't blame you. I'm sorry that I got you into this mess, River. Fuck, it's all my fault! Ugh … I'm so embarrassed.”
“Can I ask you a question?” River asked as he continued to near me.
I nodded guiltily. “Yeah. Sure.” I spoke quietly, filled to the brim with shame.
“How'd you even find that dildo?”
“I – I found it the day you were in the shower and I needed socks.”
River's eyes widened with surprise. And I could've sworn I saw the hint of a devious smile chase it.
Wait a minute, is he enjoying this?
“Oh, you little fucker. You played with my cock then too, didn't you?”
Mm. Just hearing his husky, gritty voice when he said those words – my cock – made mine stiffen and prod against the crotch of my jeans.
“Sorry, River.” My half-hearted apology was confession enough, and he knew it, too. Of course I'd played with his dildo when I found it. He smiled from ear-to-ear.
“Did you know it was modeled after me?”
“I figured, yeah.”
“And how did that make you feel?”
I frowned. A fake frown. A frown that said I didn't regret a single minute of it.
“Like I had the real thing in my mouth. Like I really was sucking you off.”
“Ohh.” River winced, and I knew a wave of delight had just crashed over him. “I bet you liked that.”
“I loved it, actually.” I let out a sigh. “And that's why it's a shame that can't ever happen between us again, River.”
“It sure is.” River stepped closer. He stuck his hands against the wall and trapped me between his thick forearms. “Because I really wanted to try some more things.”