by R J Scott
I didn’t argue with them, but I disagreed. The city was open and secure and I could be myself. I could get a boyfriend, and drink fancy coffees, and wear a suit, and be the first person in my family to go to college and get a degree.
Again, Adler was there in my thoughts.
He didn’t have that luxury, nor did Ten, and I needed to know more about the toxic environment in hockey that potentially judged a man on the sort of relationship he wanted. Seemed to me from some of the conversations I’d had that it was a problem bigger than “hating on the gays,” as Dieter had so colorfully put it. That had been after I’d suggested that any shade of sexual innuendo was a bad one. He’d looked really uncomfortable, then brightened as he quickly apologized for the 69 on his jersey again.
Head meet desk.
So I hadn’t gone home as planned, and I was watching the game, mostly to avoid having to talk to my mom. I had a pass to sit in the press box, or at least perch on the edge of a chair in the corner and not take up much space. Management had assigned Jane to give me some insight on the game, and I made notes. Copious amounts of scribbles that I hoped would make sense when I looked at them later.
“Each game has three periods,” she began, and I couldn’t help asking questions about that, a mess of whys and whens that ended with her all confused over what to explain first.
“Sorry,” I apologized when she stopped talking and frowned.
Her frown eased, “No, don’t be. It’s difficult to get a handle on things if you’ve never watched a game before. I get it.”
“Is that what you were like?” I asked, hoping I would have a friend in ignorance.
“Me? No, my dad and granddad were both players, and my dad is a coach, so I was brought up in a hockey family.”
I looked down at my notes, “So, PK and PP are something different?”
She explained something that sounded like a math equation, and I dutifully wrote it all down.
“Some penalties are two minutes,” she said, “some five, some have both, or more, sometimes the player will…” She stopped and shook her head. “Tell you what, let’s watch the game and just experience it for real.”
I nodded, because my head was spinning, and while I waited for her to get drinks I ordered Hockey for Dummies from Amazon, paying extra for next day delivery. Maybe the rules that guided this game were the reason for the hyper-masculinity I’d sensed in the day’s short meetings. I knew hockey players fought; maybe the perception was that if you were gay you weren’t able to fight? Should I start with the concept that players accepted and perpetuated stereotypes as normal?
I thought about Adler. Damn man had got into my thoughts again. He was a stereotypical bad guy, or at least how I perceived a bad guy, even though there was a softness in his eyes. He’d worked hard to become what he needed to be. In doing that, he’d had to hide the real him, the same as Ten. I made some extra notes about other sports to research. Arvy had mentioned in his meeting that one of the slurs he’d heard was a hockey player being called a figure skater. I assumed the implication there was that figure skating wasn’t hard or something, or maybe it was too flamboyant. I made a note of that to follow up on. Maybe the guys on the team needed a bonding day with a figure skater to see that it was hard work, which I assumed it was.
When Jane got back with two coffees and her trademark smile, there were skaters on the ice, but they weren’t doing anything dramatic. They were lining up, mostly—well, five of them from each team, the rest of the guys on separate benches. The Railers were in a dusky blue, and the visiting team in orange. The national anthem played over the sound system, and I considered what the guys on the team—the Norwegians, Germans, Russians, and more than a couple of Canadians—thought of the national anthem being the American one. Did that cause any friction? Was that a core issue as well?
Jeez, my mind was racing.
“The skaters out there now are what they call the first line,” Jane explained. “Three forwards, two defense, and obviously the goalie.”
“Stan.”
“Yep.”
I mentally fist-pumped that I had at least one name right. “And is Ten on the ice to start?”
“No, he’s our second line center, with Lockhart and Lehmann on his wings—he’ll be on when they change.”
Something shifted inside me at the mention of Adler’s name. Stupid.
The clock on the Jumbotron showed 20:00, and then the puck dropped and I didn’t have a second to make any more notes. The changes were all over the place, men jumping the boards in a rhythm that made no sense to me at first, the numbers on their jerseys a blur as the puck moved up and down the ice.
Well, I say it moved. I couldn’t actually see it. In fact it took an entire two periods before I realized I was trying to track the wrong thing and needed to look at the bigger picture. The Railers scored twice in that second period, but the Flyers scored one, so going into the last period it was like the entire crowd of supporters in blue were on their feet every time the Railers had the puck.
Ten was fast. He hadn’t scored a goal, but he’d got an assist, which was a good thing, apparently. But boy, he skated rings around the other team, and I couldn’t help but think the speed, skill, and absolute confidence were sexy.
And there was Adler, coming over the boards and… wait, there was confusion. Hadn’t Ten been out just finishing a power play or something? Ten had the puck, he passed to Adler, there was some fancy moving about, and then the entire stadium erupted as Adler shot the puck into the net.
The goal horn sounded, the East River Arena in chaos, and I didn’t even think about it—I was on my feet next to Jane and cheering for the Railers.
For Adler.
Damn man.
I watched him hug Ten and the others on the ice, then fist-bump his teammates. The mood in the arena changed, the fans chanting for Stan over and over, like everyone could feel a win.
The last few minutes passed in a blur of fighting and tired men, and no more goals.
We’d won. The Railers all lined up and did these cool head-bumps with Stan, and then they all skated off the ice, the crowd still cheering.
“This way,” Jane said, and took my elbow to guide me out of the press room, down convoluted corridors, ending up outside the locker rooms. “This is media availability,” she explained, and ushered me in.
Right into the start of what looked like a porn movie.
Okay, so no one was naked, in fact a lot of the players wore thin shirts, and some were still in full uniform. But Adler wasn’t. He was bare-chested and back down to those skinny shorts already. And he was being interviewed.
I was shoved forward, I guess so I could experience the post-game interview, but that put me way too close to Adler, who caught my eye and held my gaze as he answered a question about a shorthanded goal, whatever that was. Something passed between us, an acknowledgment of sorts, and I watched as he blinked, my chest tight. I didn’t understand what had just happened. Maybe it was just a way of me saying that I believed what he’d told me and that I would hold his secrets.
“Talk us through the goal,” one woman asked, thrusting a microphone in front of him and waggling it under his nose. He was hemmed in, ten people around him, all with microphones or recording devices, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to handle that. He began talking about the technical side of the goal, and there was nodding in the small group, and some congratulations. He held up a puck, and a couple of them took photos. He was slick with sweat, a towel around his neck, and he looked so relaxed and happy.
“How did you feel about the goal?” someone asked.
He looked at me again as he answered the last question. “Awesome,” he said.
I couldn’t help it, I smiled at him, his joy and excitement infectious, and he grinned back. Someone shoved me from behind, not deliberately, but I tensed, and the smile dropped from my face.
I turned and walked away.
But not before I’d seen the flash of some weird
expression on Adler’s face. Concern, maybe?
Last thing I needed was someone worrying about my hang-ups, and anyway, by the time I was back in the small office space with my notebook, I was absolutely fine. I pulled out a fresh notebook and began transcribing the scribbled notes into order. I headed everything accordingly—observations, outcomes, conclusions, and an area for possible research. Figure Skater. Endemic gender bias. And something else I needed to add, but I couldn’t make it out in my notes.
When I realized what I’d written, I deliberately closed the rough notes and slid the book into my drawer.
Adler Lockhart, 62, second line, summer-sky eyes.
By the time I left the office, it seemed like East River just held staff and some players. The parking garage that was assigned to staff was half full, and all I really wanted was to get into my car and go home. I spotted Adler before he saw me; he was standing by a gorgeous silver sports car, one of many down here. Actually, you could tell which cars belonged to players; they were shiny and low and sported logos like Porsche or Ferrari, either that or they were huge SUV monstrosities. .
I braced myself to talk to Adler, but when I got nearer I saw he was talking to someone, and I took a detour to get to my car. The conversation they were having seemed deep, and the other person, a dark-skinned man sporting a Railers jersey, had his hands crossed over his chest and appeared to be listening to Adler intently.
Was he Adler’s boyfriend? They were standing very close to each other, and when Adler pulled the guy in for a hug, I guessed I was right. Then I glanced around the parking area. What if someone walked out and saw them? I thought Adler wanted to keep his secret.
They climbed into the car, and I stood in the shadows near my own car until they left. Jumping into my car, I drove home, and resolved to mention to Adler that secrets didn’t stay hidden if you went around hugging your boyfriend in plain view.
I certainly didn’t think about the look we’d exchanged or the unidentifiable thing that had loosened in my chest.
Not at all.
Six
Adler
I woke up feeling great. I’d scored the game-winning goal last night. Apollo and I had played a wickedly badass round of some zombie first-person shooter game on the Xbox before bed and I’d whipped him like a soufflé. Do you whip soufflés? Whatever. He’d got turned into a mindless zombie and I hadn’t, so go Adler.
Layton and I had made eye contact, and there had been something… tender or caring in his look. I’d dreamed about touching his face and kissing his spine all the way down to his pert ass.
Hoping to continue the good vibes into a new day, I jumped out of bed, beat off in the shower, because spine-kissing fantasy, ate the plate of eggs and bacon Apollo put in front of me before I was made to comment on what kind of holiday window cling he should put on the sliding glass doors. I didn’t care, because no one would see them and I’d ignore them. He could put window clings of naked Layton Foxx up there and…
I paused and glanced at the icy sliders. If naked Layton Foxx were a window cling, I’d notice. Hell, I’d be over there tonguing the damn frosty glass. Shit, my dick was already noticing. That man was turning me into a six-foot-four walking erection. I checked on the nicely wrapped pen set in my duffel, pulled a coat on over my suit jacket, and made my way to the barn.
Listening to Cinderella as I poked along in early morning Harrisburg traffic, I ran over a few scenarios about the gift-giving in our scheduled sensitivity meeting after morning skate. I practiced several lines, but none of them sounded convincing, so I opted just to wing it. What could go wrong? I mean, come on. I was giving the man a Montblanc pen set. Maybe he’d be so grateful and awed by my gift that he’d allow me to give him that blowjob I’d secretly daydreamed about the night before while trying to fall asleep. Bet those gray eyes of his darkened like a thunderhead when he was being loved well.
“Ah man, come on,” I growled at my dick as it stiffened yet again. Great. Fucking dicks. I drove around the parking lot of the stadium until my boner went away.
Morning skate took forever. Rowe was all over me the minute I returned to the dressing room after skate, jabbering away about feeling that my addition to the team was obviously a good one, how sweet he and I skated together, and how he and Coach Madsen had set up their Christmas tree last night.
“First Christmas together,” Ten said as a peachy-pink blush colored his face. My coloring went from lost-what-little-tan-he-had white to jealous shamrock-green. I excused myself, claiming I had to use the bathroom because of a bad breakfast burrito I’d bought at the gas station coming in. Envy was a nasty emotion. I disliked being jealous, but it was a familiar feeling. I’d spent my childhood being jealous of the time my parents spent at work as well as on their hobbies, traveling, friends. Apollo’s relationship with his mother and father. Even the Wright Brothers, because they’d been the ones who’d discovered how to get people off the ground. So yeah, I’d grown up being jealous of airplanes because my parents, Cole and Karrie Anne, spent more time with their jet and personal pilot than they did with me.
Ugh. I had to stop. “Think happy thoughts,” I told myself as I snuck back into the changing area.
A fast strip and shower, fingers through the hair, and a quick check on the tie. Package wrapped in silver foil with a blue bow in hand, I jogged past the weight room. I jammed the gift inside my suit jacket. The door to the small office Foxx had been given was open, so I rushed in before anyone could see me and flung the door closed. Layton looked less bug-eyed upon seeing me barge into his space this time. I worked on pulling my shoulders in so that I didn’t take up so much room in the cramped area.
“You’re early,” Layton said. He looked outstanding today. The dark-gray pinstripe fitted him well, showing off his broad shoulders. On his lapel was a rainbow flag pin. “Glad to see you’re so enthusiastic about bettering your social interaction skills.”
“Right, yeah, totally on that. So, here.” I pulled the package out from under my jacket. Layton’s slate-toned eyes widened. I shook the gift at him. “This is for you.”
“Christmas is three weeks away,” he murmured as he eyed the present like it might blow up in his face or something. “And I’m not sure you and I should be exchanging—”
“It’s not a Christmas gift. It’s an apology gift.” I shoved the set at him. He drew back. Okay, he seriously thought it was an incendiary device. Why else would he not take it?
“That wasn’t necessary.”
“It was.” I laid the box on his desk, right beside that stapler he always seemed to have close at hand. He looked up at me. I stared at him… at his eyes… losing myself and my train of thought as I watched timidity and desire swirling in those pewter depths. I sat down to make myself less intimidating. “Open it.”
“Mr. Lockhart…”
“Adler, Mr. Lockhart is my father. Well,” I let my gaze touch his firm jaw,” that’s not what I call my father. He’s Cole to me. Like mom is Karrie Anne. That’s how my gifts and the checks are always signed. Cards, too. ‘Love, Cole and Karrie Anne Lockhart.’ Funny, huh?”
“Well I…”
“I mean, the gifts are always top-notch, so it’s not like they’re cheap gifts. I wish you’d open that and see how sorry I am.” I reached over the desk to nudge the nicely wrapped box through papers and notes.
“You didn’t need to buy me anything. Just a heartfelt apology works.”
“That’s an apology from the Cartier boutique.” Was there a reason he wasn’t getting it? Love comes in boxes from Cartier, Tiffany, or Van Cleef & Arpels. Everyone knows that.
“I can’t accept such an expensive gift, Adler. But thank you.” He pushed the box back at me. My mind scrambled to make sense of this. “Maybe we should start talking about how some words can be misconstrued when used in—”
I got to my feet. He did as well. Okay, that was fine. He looked good standing. Sitting, too. Lying under me in bed as well, I’d wager.
&nb
sp; “I don’t get it. This is me trying to make you happy. This isn’t a dumb little gift from K-Mart or something. I spent hours getting this for you yesterday. I was almost late for the game because they had to courier this set from King of Prussia to Harrisburg. That’s a lot of thoughtfulness being put into an apology, Foxx. The least you could do is take the damn thing.”
His nice jaw jutted out. Ah, well, now he was showing some fire. It made him even more attractive, to be honest. I’d bet he was a lively bottom once he got past being so meek, because there was obviously fire in the man’s breast.
“I think I told you that I couldn’t accept it.” He folded his arms over his chest as his gaze found mine and locked with it. “I’m sorry you got into trouble because of it, but that’s not my fault. Now can you sit back down so we can begin work on your sensitivity training?”
“I’m being all kinds of sensitive!” I barked.
He cocked a dark eyebrow.
“What? You think spending hours playing a gem drop game while the perfect pen set for the man you fantasize spine-kissing is en route to me isn’t sensitive?”
“What?” He coughed. I blinked. “What did you say?” His brows tangled.
“That I spent hours playing some stupid gem drop game on my phone while I waited for the courier to arrive from King of—”
“No, not that. The other part of your comment.” He looked flushed and hot. Well, he was always hot, but hot under the collar, I meant.
“I don’t know what I said.”
His mouth opened and shut a few times. Nothing came out.
“Are you having a seizure or something?” I enquired as he worked to speak or breathe. Wasn’t sure which. Maybe he’d need mouth to mouth. I could get into that.
“That’s why you need to learn not to feel and speak simultaneously,” he finally said.
“Apollo said the same thing in the parking garage last night. Actually, he says that to me all the time,” I commented.