by R J Scott
Huh. Maybe it wasn’t hockey at all that was turning me inside out. Maybe it was Mads. He inclined his head. I did the same. My gut flipped over. Right. Yep. Cool. There it was, then. I was officially crushing on my coach, who just happened to be older than me, and was also my brother’s friend. Way to rock the good life choices, Ten.
We managed to win that first preseason game, but just. The coaches had some work to do slimming down the roster, and we players had some work to do bulking up our performances. It would come, though. But me, for now, I was going. I needed to get some space from the dressing room, the guys, the smell of sweat and hockey gear, and the sight of Jared Madsen passing by every ten minutes. He never once said anything or did anything that would be considered… well, considered even friendly. Guess you’d call his behavior aloof.
I slid behind the wheel of my Wrangler. It was only four in the afternoon, the matinee game ending with plenty of time to whittle away. Traffic was non-existent leaving the barn. I slipped some Marianas Trench into the stereo, the music making my fingers tap as I waited at a red light a block from the arena. I threw a fast look to the left, and my mouth fell open. There in the big window of a second-hand shop sat an upright piano.
“No shit,” I murmured as “Stutter” blared out of my car speakers.
Some asshole behind me hit his horn. I jumped, pulled out of traffic, and slid into a parking spot right in front of the store. I nearly fell on my face getting out of my Jeep. I hustled to the window, my fingers resting on the dusty glass. I felt like a kid staring at puppies. Instead I was a grown man in a suit smiling at an abused upright piano. Damn, she was in rough shape. Her blonde wood was dented, gouged, and covered in fruit stickers. She probably sounded like shit, but still made me feel an instant connection to my mother. I was so twisted up inside… so lost and confused over my feelings for Mads… it was stupid to be missing my mother simply because I’d seen some shabby old piano in a window, right?
I went inside. The shop was stiflingly hot and dusty. An old man emerged from amid the shelves of old coffee pots, colanders, and other household goods. The dude was ancient, short, frowning and bearded.
“How much for that piano?” I asked before he could introduce himself. “Whatever you want for it, I’ll take it. Can you deliver it to my place today?”
By the time I left, I’d spent two hundred for the piano and eight hundred for the old man to get his sons to deliver the decrepit thing to my apartment. Yeah, I’d been taken to the cleaners, but two hours later I had the world’s ugliest piano in my space. Sure, some would say that having an upright piano when you didn’t have an entertainment system was stupid. Those people, obviously, had not been raised by Jean Rowe. Mom had always said that the arts were just as damn important as athletics—maybe even more so, because one could play piano longer than one could push a puck. I sat on the old bench, smiling like some sort of half-baked goof while paging through several of the old books of sheet music the shopkeeper had thrown in for free. I pulled one out of the damp-smelling box and placed it on the music rack. I’d toss them all into the storage area of the bench once I was off it.
I ran my fingers over the keys and was shocked to hear that it was in tune. It had been a couple of years since I’d sat down in front of a piano. Mom would be thrilled. Grinning widely, I dug into my back pocket, pulled out my phone, and dialed my mother. She answered before the third ring ended.
“Mom, hey. Guess what I just bought.”
“Tennant, I’m in the middle of a movie with James—”
I tapped out a couple of notes with my index finger.
“Is that a piano I hear?”
“It sure is. Upright. Found it in a thrift shop. Some kid plastered fruit stickers all over the sides, but it sounds tight. Want to see it?” I asked, knowing she would. Within two minutes, I had her on a video call.
“My gosh, Tennant, I remember playing on one like that for years when I first started teaching. Oh! Let me dash to the Steinway and we can play something together like we used to back before hockey took over.”
“Okay,” I said, and sat back as she whisked her phone up and ran to her music room.
It had once been Dad’s den. His man cave had somehow ended up in the basement and Mom’s music room had taken over. One whole wall was nothing but glass sliding doors that looked out on our back porch. Each Rowe boy had spent thirty minutes every night getting instruction in our chosen instrument. Guitar for Brady, sax for Jamie, and piano for me. My brothers say I chose piano because I’m a suck-up, since Mom’s first love was piano. Sometimes she joked that Dad was second fiddle to her piano.
“I’m so excited.” She sat down and got her phone situated on the music rack of her beloved Steinway. “Are you thinking of picking up your voice lessons again?”
“Mom, when would I have time for vocal lessons? I probably won’t have time to play this old girl much.” I ran my fingers over the gouged wood.
“You have a voice, Tennant, a damn good one. You should train for the day when hockey won’t support you anymore.”
“Mom, I’m twenty-two. I think I have a few good years left in me. You want to play a song together, or you want to harp about singing lessons?”
She made a sour face. “Fine, we’ll play, but I want you to keep vocal lessons in mind.”
“Yes, Mother. Pick your tune.” I wiggled around on the bench, rolled my head, and stared at my mother getting herself settled. She pulled the pink sweater around her shoulders off. Oh man. Shit was getting serious now. She’d taken off her sweater.
“Do you remember any of the classics?” she asked as she lifted the fall board on her Steinway.
“Concertos and stuff?”
“And stuff? Honestly, Tennant. How about “Für Elise”? You always enjoyed that one.” She sat up straight and proper, waiting for me. “Or we could warm up with “Turkish March” if you’re feeling cheeky.”
“Nah, I’m good with Beethoven. Then I get to pick one.”
“Remember your finger techniques.”
“Mom, can we just play?”
She gave me a wink and nodded at me to begin. The first few notes were a little rocky. Mom chirped at me to keep my fingers up. I eased into the piece, and then we rolled into that damn march of Mozart’s. Well, Mom blew it to bits. I kind of played backup. We’d glance up from the keys from time to time, see each other jamming, and smile at each other. The footwork came easily, but my left hand fumbled along, as it always did on this song.
“Mom. You are wicked skilled,” I told her after we had to end the song due to my major botch-job. She waved off the praise. “Okay, why don’t we do this one?”
I hit the opening chords to “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road”, and Mom bounced like she was at an Elton John concert. She’d been to twenty. No kidding. Twenty concerts. She adored Sir Elton. The man was her keyboard god. Dad teased her about being a Piano Man groupie. All of us knew that if Sir Elton ever knocked on our door, Mom would run off with him, the fact that he was gay of no concern to her at all.
“Sing for me, Tennant.”
Like I could not? I sang for her because she’d asked and because I missed her. I so wanted to talk with her about Mads and the feelings that were growing inside me for him. But I couldn’t, and it hurt. Mom and I had always talked about everything. Everything but my being gay, that was… I stumbled over the lyrics, winced a little, and got back to focusing on the song. My voice wasn’t anything great, despite what she said, but I sure did like playing and singing. When I glanced up, Mom was rocking back and forth on her bench, pretending she was holding a lighter over her head. That broke me up. My fingers slid from the keys as I laughed out loud. It was during the lull in the concert that I heard the knocking on my door.
“Crap, someone’s at the door. Be right back.”
I jumped up and left Mom at the piano. Smiling at our silliness, I tugged the door open. There stood Mads, looking at me with humor in his incredible blue eyes.
&n
bsp; “Hey,” I said.
“Hey.” His smile made all my language skills evaporate. My eyes skated up and down his body. Jeans, hoodie, smile. Sin on legs.
“Nice hoodie.” Oh. Wow. That was stellar, Tennant, since, you know, he’s wearing a Railers hoodie just like the one you have. You are a moronic dick-slipper. “They look good on anyone.” Did that compliment sound bad?
“You should have said that with a strong Rodney Dangerfield inflection.”
I snorted stupidly and nodded.
“You have no clue who Rodney Dangerfield is, do you?”
“No, I really don’t.”
“He’s a comedian.” Mads had that same weary look my parents got when they talked about dial-up internet, eight tracks, and Sassoon jeans.
“I listen to a lot of Bo Burnham.” And now it was time for Mads to look blankly at me. “He’s a comedian.”
“Christ, I’m old.” He chuckled lamely at his own not-really-a-joke. “I dropped by to see if you were okay. After that fight and our talk? You seemed disconnected and distant from the team during the game, and—”
“Can we hold onto this discussion for a few minutes? My mom is on the phone and I don’t want her to hear us talking about this.” I jerked my head in the direction of the piano.
“Oh, sure, it can wait.”
He started throwing off a vibe like he was going to leave. I really wanted him to stay and smile at me a little longer.
“No, it can’t. I want to talk about it.”
That was a lie. I didn’t want to talk about the fight or the slur or how it sucked having to worry about people finding out I liked to sleep with men. I opened my door wider.
“Just later, okay? Like, after I hang up,” I added softly.
“Sure, that’s fine.”
Mads stepped into my place. I hurried to close the door so he couldn’t bolt like a stray cat. I plastered on a smile and jogged back to the piano. There on the phone sat Mom, sipping something hot from a mug that had white flowers on the sides.
“You remember this guy, right?” I asked, all casual Friday as I sat back down on the bench.
Mads sat down beside me. My mother’s face lit up when she saw him at my side. His arm resting snugly against mine made me sunny too. The bench was really too small for two hockey players, but who needs to have both ass cheeks on their seat?
“Jared, how are you? Brady said you were coaching defense on Tennant’s team.” Mom lifted her phone, as if bringing it closer to her nose would make Mads bigger. Parents. Sheesh. “You look good.”
“It’s nice to see you again as well, Mrs. Rowe.” Wow, Mads was all proper parental-unit manners. “I feel good, thanks for noticing. You haven’t aged a bit.”
Mom giggled. “Oh, stop. You always did have a silver tongue. I’m going to go make myself a fresh cup of tea and get back to my Jimmy Garner movie so you two can talk hockey. Jared, it’s been too long. Please stop by sometime. Tennant, make sure you practice your scales and arpeggios daily now that you have a piano.”
“Music teachers,” I murmured to Mads after we’d said our goodbyes. “You want a beer or something?”
“Water would be better for both of us,” he said, then pulled his hoodie up over his head.
I sat beside him, hands on my thighs, and gawked as his T-shirt came up with the hoodie. Thank you, static electricity. I got a great peek at his chest as he struggled to tug off the hoodie but not the T-shirt. The man was seriously cut. Hard, firm pecs covered with fine golden hair. Tight abs that needed to be touched. By me. With my tongue.
“Right, water.” I shot up and hustled into the kitchen.
When I returned with two tall glasses of ice water, Mads had gotten his clothing back in place and was flipping through one of the sheet music books that had come with my new used piano. The cubes in the glass clinked against the sides. He glanced up at me standing there staring at him. I held out a glass of ice water. He put the book in front of the other one resting on the music rack.
“I didn’t have any lemon or flavoring, so it’s just plain Harrisburg city water.”
“Yum,” Mads joked as he took the glass.
I sat back down on his left and sipped at my chemical-rich water. Mads took a sip, made a face, then gently placed the glass on the floor by his feet.
“When I was a kid, we used to go to this lodge up in Chicopee to ski,” he said. “Along one of the slopes, someone—years ago—had run a pipe back into the mountain, and fresh spring water ran from that pipe all year round. I’d always stop and drink from it. It was so cold it would make your head hurt like ice cream.”
I nodded.
“That was the best water I’ve ever tasted.”
“Maybe when you retire for good you should move back to Chicopee and have that water every day,” I offered, because he was sounding kind of wistful.
“Maybe I will. So, how are you feeling about things?”
Shit. He’d spun that back around to me fast. I glanced at the sheet music book. It was a Disney one. A few quiet seconds turned into several awkwardly quiet moments. Mads shifted around on the bench. The time had come for me to reply, but I didn’t know what to say. Lying seemed shitty. Telling more lies, that is. But admitting to him that my feelings were all over the place when he was near didn’t seem like the way to go.
“Ten, if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.”
“It is?” I stared at the cubes in my water. They had tiny little air bubbles frozen in them. That was sort of how I felt. Like I had things trapped inside.
“It’s completely fine. Why don’t you play me a song?”
His request brought my head up and my eyes from my cubes. He was smiling again. Why did he do that? Didn’t he know he was deadly lethal to any man when he smiled?
“You do play,” he said. “I heard you rocking out in here. I’d forgotten that you did, to be honest. Brady plays guitar, right?”
The last person I wanted to talk about was Brady. “Uh, okay.” I bent to the side to put my glass of water on the floor. “What song do you want to hear? I’m kind of rusty, which is why I got the scales and arpeggios comment from my mother.”
“And I thought only Aristocats did those.”
“Okay, now that one I get.” I chuckled as he reached for the Disney sheet music book.
“And we thought we’d never find anything in common aside from hockey,” he joked, and flipped to a random page then plunked the book back into the rack. “Play this one.”
I glanced at the title. Wow. It hardly seemed like the kind of song I should be playing with his hip keeping mine warm. Then again, it had gotten Simba some face-rubbing. I’d take a face-rub with Mads. Whiskers on whiskers… Oh man…
“Okay.” Playing seemed less dangerous than thinking about his whiskers.
“Are there words?” he asked after I played a few notes.
“Yeah, they’re just not on the sheet music. You want the words?”
“Do you know them?” He seemed really into this for some reason.
“Dude, I was brought up by Sir Elton John’s biggest fan. I could sing this in my sleep.”
That made his smile wider. Yep, I was going to melt, and all those stupid fizzy bubbles trapped inside me were going to float free. Instead of liquefying all over the man, I took a breath in through my nose, let it out the same way, and began playing and singing “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” for him. When the last note faded, I shook off the hold that playing had over me and chanced a peek to the side. Mads looked spellbound or something.
“I told you my finger work was a little weak.”
He needed to say something, because I was getting majorly self-conscious. Mads blinked… then leaned in to press his lips to mine. It was a chaste kiss, but it nearly knocked me backward off the bench. His lips were soft but firm, like he was determined there would be no tongues. As soon as my brain touched on tongues, he sprang up from the bench as if he’d sat on a hornet. I heard him kick over
his glass of water, but that was the last of my concerns.
“That was not supposed to happen,” he coughed as he aimed himself at my door.
I climbed over the bench.
“That was not supposed to happen,” he repeated.
“Why not?” I asked as I cut him off at the door.
The man was beyond rattled. He was freaked out, blue eyes darting all over the barren room, looking for an escape route.
“Why not?” he barked, his hands twitching like he had no clue what to do with them. I wrapped my arms around my middle to protect myself from the gutting that was going to happen. “Do you need me to recite the reasons? How about I’m your damn coach?”
“You’re not my coach. You’re the defensive coach. I’m a forward.”
He stared at me as if I had a mongoose smoking a hookah pipe seated on my head.
“You’re nitpicking. The fact is, I’m your coach. It’s totally inappropriate.” He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it into weird angles. It made him look freshly fucked and ten times hotter than he normally did.
“Oh, bullshit. It’s not like I’m fourteen or something. We’re both adults,” I fired back.
His jaw worked for a second. “What about Brady?”
“Fuck Brady. Who cares if we get together?”
“I care!” he shouted, then drew himself back from that place he was headed. I hugged myself a little tighter. “Your brother would kill me if he found out I was screwing around with you. And your parents would hate me. They trust me not to force myself on you.”
“You wouldn’t have to force me. I’d go to your bed willingly.”
I bit down on the inside of my mouth. There was no taking that one back. Mads’ face fell, all the anger dissipating to be replaced with shock. He looked like he’d been blindsided by Bobby Orr.