by R J Scott
I shoved my mouth guard back in and threw my legs over the boards. I was always out for first shift of the penalty kill. And of course, when one Rowe boy was on the ice, here came the other.
“Would you stop following me around? Shit, little brothers are so fucking annoying,” Brady chirped as he skated past in all his “I’m the Captain, just look at my big C” glory.
The other Boston players thought that was funny. I kind of did too, but I’d never let him know it.
“I’m just staying behind to catch you in case you totter and fall over, old man.”
The Railers found great humor in my reply. I saw a spark of amusement in Brady’s dark eyes. I slipped into position for the face-off. The Boston center mumbled something about my mother that made me a little mad. I snapped the puck from under his big nose and fired it to a winger. That Boston center and I stayed at the dot talking to each other after the play headed down into our zone.
“You know you just called your team captain’s mother a dirty snatch, right?”
“No, I was calling your mother… Fuck. You suck dick, then. How about that, fucking pretty boy?”
I took a swing, because that was my mother he was talking about. Gloves hit the ice—his first, I need to point out. There was no way I was coming out on top of this fight, but I gave it my best. I managed to land a blow to his shoulder. He got a jab to my right eye in before we fell to the ice, pulling on sweaters and pummeling shoulder pads. Whistles were blowing steadily now. We were pulled apart and led to our respective penalty boxes, chirping all the while. I flopped down beside Arvy. He thumped me on the shoulder with the side of his fist.
“Good on you, kid,” Arvy crowed.
My brother skated over to the Railers box to hand me my gloves and stick. “You know we’re going to score now, right? That was stupid.” He shoved my gear at me, then skated off.
Yeah, he was right. It had been stupid to remove myself from the PK and leave us down two men, but it felt good to wrestle that asshole down to the ice. My mother was not a dirty snatch, although I did suck dick. Guess he was half right. And Brady was right about them scoring, the fuckers. Arvy and I both got our asses chewed when we were back in the dressing room between periods.
Third period seemed to get even more physical. Brady had gulped down some magic elixir or something, because I could not shake him when I was on the ice. He was all over me, pushing, pushing, pushing, until he pushed just a little too hard. I had the puck about ten minutes into the third period and was racing at the Boston net. Brady knew there was no way he could catch me flat out, so he had only one choice to pull me off my direct intercept course, and that was to grab my arm and hold it. Off he went for a two-minute sit in the sin bin. Now, finally, with a man advantage, maybe we could tie this puppy up.
There was lots of chatter on ice before the faceoff. I’d been pulled off to rest and prepare for the second shift of the power play. The first unit hit the Boston net hard, firing shot after shot, but all of them into the chest of the goalie. When I was on the ice, I decided that I was going to stop trying to elevate the puck on each shot. The Boston tendie was not going to let anything go high. Going low would be the only way to sneak one past him. Hopefully we could get lots of dusky blue sweaters in the crease to block his sharp eyes. We got our chance with fifty seconds left of the power play. After Boston had iced the puck, we were facing off in the defensive zone of the offending team, which in this case was Boston. My wingers were spaced out nicely and the two D-men were tight. Me and Big Nose smiled at each other.
“Nice eye. You ain’t so pretty now,” he mumbled as the puck dropped through the air.
I dug in, got the puck, and shuttled it to Arvy. He passed it to Addison, who took a weak shot that the Boston goalie deflected into the air. The puck came down behind the net. I shook off Big Nose with a quick move that sent him skating past me, his stick dangerously close to a hook around my middle. There was a pile-up over the puck, players lunging at it like a pack of hungry dogs. Sticks clattered, men growled, and the puck shot out of the assembly behind the Boston net and bounced off the corner board. Our ice is weird. I knew that the puck would come off that curved board and take a funky hop. It always did. Being the home team has its advantages.
I pushed out of the knot of men on skates, raced to the point I knew the puck would reach, and picked it up after that wonky bounce took place. I drew back and hit the puck with all I had. The slap shot bounced like a tennis ball, the puck juking up into the air then coming down right in front of the Boston tender. It rolled between his legs on its side and into the net. The red light behind the Boston goal came on. The horn sounded, and I threw myself against the glass, beating on it as the Railers fans on the other side did the same.
The other men on the ice swarmed over me, patting my helmet and congratulating me. Skating down the line to rap knuckles with all the players, I looked at the coaches. Mads gave me a smile and a nod. Benning seemed delighted. Then I tapped my helmet with my fingers at the Rowe brother who had just exited the penalty box. Brady just shook his head, then went to sit down.
No one else scored after that. The goalies had locked shit down. We pushed through a five-minute overtime and still no goals. The shootout would have to determine the winner. Getting one point for the tie was okay, but we needed that other point. Our division was killer tight already, and every point was going to be critical. Also, beating Brady was just a thing that had to happen.
Coach sent me out first to face off against the Boston goalie. He tapped the pipes as I skated out to center ice, kind of like a “Bring it, punk” gesture. Arrogant SOB. Turned out he had a right to be arrogant. I tried my best, pulling a trick out of my hat that I’d seen one of the Rangers wingers do once. It was a slow approach to the net with a quick wrist snap to send the puck past the tender. Seemed like that Rangers forward had that move locked down, because my shot went right into the Boston goalie’s big catching glove.
The bench was vocal when it was our turn again. Our captain snuck one in with a glorious little toe-drag move and a deke. After that it was the Stan Show. That massive Russian in our net turned into a brick wall. When the final shooter for Boston—my brother—failed to sneak a shot past Stan, we all went to our skates with hoots and shouts. Then we went out to hug the towering Russian, who was smiling broadly, the big chump.
Stan was chosen as the first star of the game, and rightfully so. He’d faced forty-two shots and only allowed one in. I got second star for my goal. It was a great game. The dressing room was wild pumped. I sat in my cubicle grinning, my gaze roaming over the gathered men. My team. It was time the men I played with knew they had a gay man in the ranks. But telling them there felt wrong. I didn’t want to bring down the emotions with what might be a badly received announcement. Maybe over food? Mom always baked Dad treats when she had something bad to tell him, like that time she’d backed into a tree with the new car. He’d come home to find a triple-layer white coconut cake waiting for him.
“Hey, dinner’s on me!” I shouted so that I was heard over the din. “And yes, that means I’m paying,” I added when no one responded.
Soon as they knew I was footing the bill, the team cheered. What a bunch of A-holes. We all agreed to meet at this cool little sports bar/eatery right off the Capital Beltway.
I found Mads in his office after the game. “Hey,” I called after rapping on the open door.
He glanced up from his laptop, and his smile almost knocked me out of my shoes. Have I mentioned how lush the man is?
“I’m taking the team over to Roger’s by the Beltway for dinner to celebrate. You coming?”
“I have videos to make for the game against Pittsburgh.”
“Oh man, that sucks.” I leaned a hip against the doorframe. “See you later, then?” Which was secret, gay-player-having-a-relationship-with-his-coach code for, “I’ll see you at your place. I love you and I plan to suck your dick as a private celebration.”
“Yep
,” Mads said as his gaze lingered on my mouth. “Oh. Nice eye.” Yeah, he was so getting his dick sucked as soon as I got home.
I jogged off to meet up with Stan and Addison. The Boston team was leaving. We met in the corridor. Brady dropped an arm around my shoulders.
“You guys got lucky this time,” he announced loudly while tugging me into his side a time or two.
“Yeah, right. You’re just all butt hurt over being whipped by an expansion team,” I countered. He tightened his arm playfully around my throat, then shoved me away.
“No one likes a wise-ass,” he said as we walked outside. Early November was damn cold in Pennsylvania. I didn’t like it. “You coming home for Thanksgiving?”
“Oh, uh, man, I really don’t know. Depends.” More secret code that meant I didn’t know what Mads was doing for turkey day, Mom and Dad didn’t know about Mads, and I wasn’t sure even where I’d be living by the end of the month. “I’ll see and let them know.
“No, none of that shit. You get your ass home. It’ll be cool.”
“Thanks,” I said as sincerely as I could. “Thanks for the two points.”
“Brat,” he chuckled.
He shook my hand, then hustled into the waiting charter bus that would take them to the airport and back to Boston. After waving, I hurried to my Jeep, got inside, cranked it over and turned the heat to the broil setting. Jesus. It must be forty degrees out there. Winter in the north was going to be tough for this beach baby.
Arriving at Roger’s Ribs got me a rousing round of cheers from the patrons of the sports bar and restaurant. Fans left their seats and meals to come talk to me, take selfies, or have me sign something.
“Man, Rowe, all the ladies do love you!” Arvy shouted when I finally wiggled free from the knot of females giggling and batting their lashes. “What’s your secret?”
I shrugged and sat down next to Connor. My captain inclined his head, then led the team into some long-winded tale about when he was playing in the minors up in Saskatoon. It was a cool move, although I was used to deflecting chick comments. Food started arriving then, as well as pitchers of soda. Steaks and pork chops, whole roasted chickens, platters of pasta of every shape and size. We dove in, eating and joking, telling our own stories and reliving beating Boston a few dozen times. The food disappeared quickly. Twenty hungry hockey players can really put grub away. Amid all the laughter and dirty jokes, I could feel us bonding. The servers were kept hopping, but were friendly and cute, flirting a bit with the guys as they cleared off the dinner plates and brought out desserts and coffee. I sipped some coffee and watched the guys interacting. Then I leaned to the side and whispered to Arvy.
“Hey, I’m gay. Pass it around the table.”
He drew back and looked at me as if I’d just said I was Queen Victoria. “Really?”
“Truth, man.” I smiled, and then jerked my chin at the team to make him get whispering.
We used to play that game all the time when I was a kid. Each man got the whisper, looked at me, then passed it on. By the time it had traveled around the table and landed in Stan’s ear, I was chuckling. The big goalie stared at me openly, scratched his long nose, and then asked the table, “Tennant Queen of May? What is mean?”
We all lost it, and we all stayed way later than we should’ve. I crept into Mads’ place around two. He was sound asleep, long arms and legs taking up most of the bed. I stripped and wiggled under the covers, seeking his body out in the dark. He barely stirred when I pressed my cold ass tight to his side. He did make a kind of purring sound of contentment, but then returned to softly snoring. I dropped off quickly now that I was warm and next to Mads.
When I woke up, I rolled around, groggy and confused, trying to figure out what had woken me. It hadn’t been Mads, because he wasn’t even in the bed. I flopped onto my back and yawned, then heard him talking. Okay, so maybe it had been Mads. And talking wasn’t the right term. He was pushing words through gritted teeth. Seething. Snarling. Whoever had called had the man fired up. I rolled my head and saw that it was five minutes after six. For the sake of all fucks, who was calling this early and giving Jared shit? I kicked off the covers and stumbled out into the living room, rubbing my eye while scratching the dry skin on my stomach. Heat and winter. It was making me itch. Ugh. I needed Southern heat and humidity, stat.
“Dude, what’s the issue? It’s not even seven yet,” I said, and got a look from my boyfriend. Was it cool to call him that? And was it cool to be eye-stabbed at asshole o’ clock in the morning by the dude you planned to suck off? No. No, it was not.
“Ten, please,” Mads snapped. “Ev, we’ve been over this before. He’s doing this my way.”
Mads’ glower was still resting on me. I gave him the middle finger, then fell face-first onto the couch.
“It’s no one. Look, who I have in my home is my business. Just as Ryker is. Yes, that’s my final word. Now drop this or I’m going to… Ev? You fuck, did you hang up on me?”
Face buried in the cushion, I heard the crunchy sound of cell phone meeting wall. I pushed myself onto my right side. Mads was standing in front of me looking like he was one blink from a full-on meltdown.
“You want a blowjob?” I asked.
Let’s face it, oral sex makes everything better. And he was naked and his dick was particularly tempting and I was kind of horny. Mads lowered his gaze from the phone-and-wall massacre to me. I gave him a quick waggle of an eyebrow. A creaky sort of smile appeared.
“I’m totally serious,” I said. “Blowjobs are the best.”
“Sex doesn’t solve every problem, Tennant.”
“So, are you saying you don’t want me to suck you off?”
“I’m saying that sex won’t make Ev less of a controlling… what’s that term you always use?”
“Dick sock?”
That one made him snort. “Okay, not that one, but it works.”
“Yep. So, about that blowjob…”
He sat down next to me, pulled me onto his lap, and just held me, his head cradled on my shoulder. He talked as he held me. Told me every damn sick thing that Ev—the cockmonkey—had ever done to him, his son, and Ryker’s mom.
“You okay?” I asked after several minutes passed with him stroking the tat on the back of my neck.
“I will be after a little more touching.”
“You want me to touch your dick?”
His big body shook with laughter. “My God, you’re single-minded. That will take you far in life.”
“Will it take me to your bedroom?” I wiggled around, bare ass rubbing on naked thighs.
“No, but it will take you a little deeper into my heart.”
He was lying. It did take me into his bedroom after just a little more wiggling. Never give up. Rules any coach and player should live by.
“Is there a reason you’re standing there staring at the closet?” Mads called as we were getting ready for bed that night.
I turned to look at him. “You made room for me.”
He nodded, and then went back to unbuttoning his dress shirt. I’d peeled my suit off as soon as we’d walked in and was now skipping around in just my briefs. Mads didn’t seem to mind.
“Are we sure this is what we want?” I asked.
“‘We’ as in ‘us’ or ‘we’ as in ‘me’?” He tossed the dirty shirt into the hamper.
“‘We’ as in ‘you,’ because I’m not sure if you get what that gesture means.” I waved a hand at the closet behind me.
“Tennant, I am fully aware of what making room for your clothes means.” A smile played on his lips. The man was so fucking lush, even with the shiner blooming. Fucking stupid Brady.
“If I do this, that means I’m going to have to come out. Like, there is no way we can live together with me not being out.”
“People do it all the time.” He picked my pants up from the end of the bed and chucked them in his hamper.
All this was getting overwhelming. Closet space, moving in, his
clothes getting friendly with mine in his hamper, maybe coming out.
“Yeah, but we’re not ‘people.’” I tossed some air quotes up. “I’m Tennant Rowe. You’re Jared Madsen. We’re involved in professional sports. We have cameras in our faces all the time, Mads.”
“And that scares you.”
“I don’t know. Maybe a little, yeah.” I pushed my fingers through my hair. “I never wanted to be the gay hockey poster boy, Mads. I just want to play hockey and love who I love.”
“That would be me.”
“Yes, you massive dork, that would be you.”
He winked. I chuckled. The pressure eased off just a bit.
“Now I’m totally wound up because the thought of moving in here with you makes me feel like I just ate a live squid.”
“And that’s a good feeling, I assume?” He tugged his belt free from the loops of his pants, rolled it neatly and placed it into a dresser drawer. Mine was lying on the floor by the foot of the bed.
“Well, mostly, yeah,” I said, and then padded over to pick up my belt. I handed it to him. He nodded, then rolled it up and laid it beside his. I found myself staring at our two belts coiled up in that drawer. “I really want to move in here with you. Bring my PlayStation and my piano and just be with you, but…”
“But the world.” He ran his hand over my biceps, pulling my attention off belts snuggling together. “Tennant, I’m not going to rush you.” His eyes were so brilliant and warm. Like a spring sky or a robin’s egg. “The space is yours whenever you decide to make use of it. I know you can’t just run home and grab your piano tonight.”
“Right, because that old bitch is heavy and will not fit into any duffel bag I own,” I pointed out. My gaze moved to the mirror attached to the dresser. I saw Mads and me standing side by side in the looking glass. “What should I do?” I asked the blond man in the mirror.