by R J Scott
Adler was different around Apollo—calmer, franker, if that was possible, and so relaxed I thought he’d be falling asleep on the sofa.
“You want to see what I bought your family?” he asked me, and seemed more awake. He dragged me to the pile. The big pile. The enormous heap of things in embossed bags. I saw names like Cartier, Tiffany, Prada and Ralph Lauren.
“Adler, this is too much,” I said, and felt like a bastard when Adler’s face momentarily fell. The smile that came back was a little forced.
“I wasn’t sure what to get,” he said in explanation. “I’m going to wrap everything tonight, or at least Apollo and I will, and then get them shipped to your address.”
“Adler—”
He stopped me with a kiss, then hugged me. “Please let me. I need them to know the sort of man I am, and how much it means to me that they invited me.”
We were flying to Michigan the day after his final pre-Christmas game against the Blue Jackets, and that gave me some time to warn my parents that Adler was a millionaire who liked buying things, and that they shouldn’t feel uncomfortable.
I hoped my family would be able to rise above it and see the gifts for what they were. Not that the kids would care, particularly given the new game consoles and games I spotted right at the back.
There was more to these presents than a man spending his money. I saw something in Adler. A desperate need to be wanted and liked that I’m not sure anyone else apart from Apollo was aware of.
So I did what felt right. I pulled Adler in for a close hug and told him how much everyone would love the gifts.
When his smile became more natural again, I knew one thing.
I’d done the right thing.
Twelve
Adler
It’s the weirdest sensation sitting in a rink that had been your home away from home for four years, watching a homage to you on the Jumbotron, while wearing a different team’s jersey. The short video compilation during a TV timeout was a good one. Highlights of my four years with Columbus, lots of replays of goals I’d made and celebrations with Columbus players, many of whom I still called friends and would for years. When the homage was over, the fans stood and clapped. I lifted my stick to the people of Columbus in thanks. I’d liked my time there. It was a good organization and a great city with strong hockey love pumping through its veins. When I’d been traded, it had hurt, I’ll be honest. But a professional athlete is a commodity, we all know that. Hell, even The Great One had been traded, but it still stung.
My first couple of weeks in Harrisburg had been manageable only because of Apollo being there and doing all the shit-work a move encompassed. I’d just jumped on a plane and started playing hockey like the good boy I am. I’d spent lots of time comparing the two cities and found them to be equal in all ways. Then Layton Foxx entered my life and Harrisburg had brightened considerably. Now I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else, but Columbus and its great fans would always hold a spot in my heart. That didn’t mean I wasn’t going to try to beat the shit out of my old team. It was a point of pride. A sort of tweak of their noses to score on them as often as I could. Okay, it was a loud “neener, neener, neener” in my most childish inner voice.
I might have actually tossed that taunt at my old goalie, Steve Willis, after I deflected a blistering snap shot from Tennant Rowe into the net. I could see Steve’s green eyes narrow before I skated off to hug my line mates.
Yeah, I was just that immature at times.
Seated on the bench after the fourth Railers goal, my mind left the game just for a second. It was okay, since we were up by two goals with less than ten minutes in the third period. Plans for the next few days bounced around inside my head. I had to leave as soon as I could to get to Harrisburg. The team was pulling out in the morning, but I wanted to get home tonight and get a few hours of loving-Layton time before we left for Michigan, where there would be no loving-Layton time. I’d even gone as far as having a Lockhart jet sent to the John Glenn International Airport here in Columbus to whisk my ass back to Pennsylvania with all due haste.
“What the fuck?!” shouted every Railer, as well as the coaching staff.
I jerked back to the game, my gaze flying to the big screen over the ice. There I saw a replay of Stan being knocked off his skates as one of the big Columbus defenseman crashed the crease. There was a big knot of players pushing and shoving as Stan struggled to get to his skates. Stan made a beeline toward the linesman who’d been behind the net. Much yelling took place, most in loud Russian and directed at the man in black and white who was still indicating that it was a good goal.
Stan went back to his net and shoved it to the boards. Our bench was irate. Our captain was livid. Our head coach immediately challenged the goal, stating that there had been goaltender interference. When the decision came back that there had been no goaltender interference, things got a little vibrant on the Railers bench. Coaches were screaming at refs, refs were yelling at coaches, our captain was berating a linesman, and Stan lost his shit. I sat there amid the chaos and watched the towering Russian whip the ever-loving shit out of his net, his fat paddle of a stick shattering as he pummeled the pipes.
After that little fiasco, we lost our momentum. Columbus rallied and socked another one past Stan, this one scored while I was on the ice. Not a good thing. We went to overtime, which pissed me off because of the whole jet sitting on tarmac situation. Tennant Rowe pulled me aside before the five minutes of four-on-four began.
“We need to end this fast,” he said as we took a breather at the bench for another TV break. “I’m going to try to get it to you right after the faceoff. Don’t be fancy, okay? I know you’re known for the pretty stuff, but pretty stuff right now is going to get us a loss.”
“I’ll only do pretty if it’s needed,” I assured my center.
We gathered around for the faceoff. Tennant won it clean by tapping it between the Columbus center’s legs, then raced around the man to pick up his own pass. There was lots of room on the ice, so when the crisp pass from Ten near the boards settled on my stick, I took off at center ice and never looked back. No fancy stuff, just straight at the goalie, a deke left and then right, making Steve move with me. He got bold and went too far wide, which opened the net, and I socked it in.
I threw myself into the glass near the Columbus goal as the red light flashed. My old fans gave me the finger at the same time my new teammates leaped on me and started pounding my helmet. Beating my old team was a fine Christmas present. Not as good as the one I hoped to give Layton when I got home, though.
The only tiny hitch in the perfect night was Stan coming up to me before the press arrived and asking about Layton’s eating habits. I assured the goalie that he was fine, and he loped off, appeased. It stuck in my craw, though. Who the shit was Stan to be asking about Layton? Why was Stan asking about Layton? Were they hooking up? Did he know Layton and I were hooking up? How? Did they whisper about me after they had sex? Laugh at me, call me a disappointment…
A nugget of jealousy glowed bright and green in my breast. Then sanity returned. No. Layton and Stan were not hooking up. Stan was just being nice. Yeah. That was it. It had to be, because if it was something else, I’d have to pound the stuffing out of my own goalie, and that might cause a bit of a problem with team spirit and all.
I pushed through the postgame stuff, showered, dressed, and grabbed a cab after quick rounds of “happy holidays” with the team. The Lear 45 XR was right where it was supposed to be. A lovely young woman employed by CKAL—my father’s mergers and acquisitions consulting company—greeted me warmly with a smile and a cocktail. Being the A in CKAL had its benefits. We were in the air within seconds, me with a tall glass of imported beer in hand and a lovely woman to converse with. Tracy—that was her name—served me a massive platter with some of the biggest shrimp I’d ever seen and a large dish of cocktail sauce. I sent a cryptic text to Layton as I eyed the feast in front of me.
My place. 2 am.
Bring your appetite for all things delicious.
In little over an hour I was back in Harrisburg and on my way home. Apollo greeted me in the living room.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, hands filled with a large silver platter covered with gigantic prawns.
“I live here, remember?” he answered as he sauntered past with a pile of clean clothes. “I’m packing your bag for your trip.”
“Dude,” I said as I followed him to my bedroom. “You didn’t have to do that. I can pack my own bags.”
“No, you really can’t.”
He gently placed shirts and slacks into the titanium multi-wheel suitcase sitting open on my bed. It had been a birthday gift from Karrie Anne. She’d sent it over from Europe last year. The gift had been there for my birthday, but not her.
“I’ve also arranged for a car to pick you up from the airport and deliver you and Mr. Foxx to his mother’s house in Alton Heights. You’re free from engagements for two days, but need to be back here for a Friday night game against Philadelphia. I also watered the spider plant and dusted.”
“You rock. Is there anything I can do for you?”
He gave me some side-eye. “Try coming in your hand. The number of dirty handkerchiefs in the wash has tripled since you and Mr. Foxx became friends.”
“Layton doesn’t like to swallow.”
He rolled his eyes. “Far too much information. But I did pack about twenty clean handkerchiefs for your trip.” He closed the case, latched it, and turned to look at me. “Ad, do me a favor, okay? Try to keep a rein on yourself.”
“I know, you already told me not to buy anyone any more presents.” I shuffled the shrimp from one hand to the other.
“Yeah, there’s that, but I see how much you love this man.”
“I never said that. Never. Not once. Did I?” I didn’t recall saying the L-word in any way that was linked with Layton.
“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your face. Mr. Foxx is nice and very good-looking but deeply troubled. Don’t let your desire to be loved override what he can give you, okay?”
“Yeah, sure, okay. I’ll go slow. I promise.”
“You don’t mean a word of that, I know.” He sighed, padded over to me, and gave me a chaste kiss on the lips. I wiggled the prawn platter out of the way. “I’m leaving now. I want to get home, sleep, and be able to do Christmas Eve Mass with my parents.”
“Cool. Tell them I wish them the best holiday ever. Seems funny not to be going with you this year.”
“It’s nice that you have someone else in your life now. Just don’t suffocate the man, okay?” He patted my cheek, snuck a shrimp from under the plastic wrap, and walked off.
I heard the doorbell ring. My body reacted instantly knowing it was Layton on the other side of the door. It had been days since I’d last seen him. When I opened it he looked so good. Relaxed, calm, smiling, casually dressed.
“Missed you,” I said as his gaze moved over me then settled on the shrimp platter. “Treats for later. Come in. May I kiss you?”
“Sure,” he said as he slipped in around me. I leaned in, stole a tiny smooch, then jumped back out of the way when Apollo came charging at us with travel bags bouncing off his back.
“Hello, Mr. Foxx.” He smiled at Layton, then wagged a finger at me as he hurried past. “You, remember what I said. Have fun. Merry Christmas, Ad, Mr. Foxx.”
“Same to you,” Layton said before I closed the door on my best friend. “He doesn’t like me.”
“He does.”
“He calls me Mr. Foxx.”
“Tell him he can call you Layton, then.”
“Is that what he’s waiting for?” Layton looked bemused.
“He’s protective, is all. Worried about me falling for you too quickly. He seems to think I can’t control myself for some reason.”
“Your lack of a filter might have something to do with how he thinks,” Layton said, then lifted the shrimp platter from my hands. “Why don’t we put these in the fridge? Warm seafood makes me nervous.”
I followed him into the kitchen. He pulled open the refrigerator and slid the platter onto a shelf.
“I have the jet waiting at Harrisburg International,” I said. “I thought we could have some sex, eat some shrimp, grab a nap, then fly to Michigan.”
“Wait, what?” He closed the fridge and turned to look at me. “What jet?”
“The one I hopped on to get home early.”
I took a few steps closer to him, because I really wanted to get all over him right now. He folded his arms over his chest, the dark gray sweater really working with his eyes.
“It’s a Lear. One of about fifteen in the CKAL corporate fleet. It’s cool. I do it all the time. Cole doesn’t care.”
“I already bought airline tickets. Ad, you can’t just change plans at the last minute. I have everything worked out. I gave you a copy of the itinerary.”
“I’ll reimburse you for the plane tickets. You worry too much about details.”
I closed in on him, and he stiffened visibly. Maybe he was mad about the spontaneity of my actions, or maybe he was feeling pressured. I took a few steps in reverse. He still looked rattled, so I pushed my hands into my front pockets.
“Layton, this is a trip home. Why do we need an itinerary?”
“Because you have to keep things in life under control!” he barked. I gaped at him. His eyes flared, then he looked away from me. “Okay, that was not good. I’m sorry, Adler. I just… when you do this unscripted stuff it mildly freaks me out.”
“Mildly?”
He sighed. “Maybe more than mildly,” he confessed.
I reached out tentatively to touch his collarbone. His baggy sweater had slid off his shoulder a bit, and there it was, that sexy bone hiding under his kissable skin. He didn’t jerk or grow more anxious. He just stood there in front of my fridge, allowing me to stroke his collar bone.
“I’m sorry for being so unruly,” I said, which pulled a shaky smile from him. My finger traveled up the side of his neck. His eyelashes lowered and his head tilted to the side as he exhaled long and steadily. “I love the way you feel. May I feel more of you? I really need to do that, Layton.”
“Sure, yes, please.”
I got him naked right there in the kitchen, his clothes thrown over the island and counters. He melted into me, pliable and needy, just like I was. His mouth was hot, his skin sweet. I touched and then I licked, falling to my knees, tasting his cock and balls, then gently persuading him to turn, bend over the counter and offer me his ass. His acquiescence was timid and slow, but he did as I asked and I tried not to press into him too hard. He could still get away if he needed to. God above, he was beautiful spread out in front of me so trustingly. My hands shook just a bit as I massaged his tight ass cheeks. He tensed when my tongue flickered over his hole, the tension disappearing when I lapped hungrily at his ass. He trembled and groaned. I wet a finger and pressed it into him, taking his balls into my mouth.
“I need more,” he panted, his skin making a squeaking noise as his upper half writhed on the countertop. I gave him more. More sucking, more stroking his sweet spot, more of everything that I could give him right now. I so wanted to fuck him. Like this. Him gyrating around, skin stuck to the counter, me behind him, pulling his hair as I pounded into him like a man possessed.
“You close?” I asked between long, sloppy, wet tastes of his ass. A gargling sound rolled out of him that might have been a yes. I reached between his legs, found his prick, and gave him several strokes, making sure to twist my hand over the head each time. He blew apart loudly, rolling his hips to get my tongue deeper into his ass.
“Ah shit,” he groaned as I milked him, cum coating my fingers. His legs folded a little, the counter catching most of his weight. My own release was just a stroke away, his spunk and mine slippery and slick on my right hand. I nipped at his ass cheeks, nuzzled them, kissed each firm globe softly. Then I stood up and leaned my hips into
his ass, my still-hard cock settling between his cheeks. He inhaled sharply, his body tightening.
“It’s okay, babe,” I murmured against his skin. “I just want to feel you under me. Nothing more happens, I swear.”
“Ad…” he panted. “I— Shit…”
“It’s just me, Adler. I won’t hurt you. You’re safe with me.”
He shuddered deeply. I trailed my fingers over his ribs. I bent over his back, dropping kisses along his spine and shoulders until I reached the nape of his neck. There I peppered the fine, dark hairs with light kisses. He lay there under me, soft and supple, his breathing slowing, taut muscles loosening.
“You are a magnificent man. Strong, brave, smart,” I whispered beside his ear. “I adore you.”
He craned his head to the side, his smoky eyes still aglow with passion. I kissed his neck hungrily to keep myself from uttering what Apollo had told me not to utter even though I felt that L-word bursting to life in my breast. Maybe now would be a good time to suggest eating some shrimp.
The limo was a wee bit out of place as it cruised the lower-to-middle-class neighborhood Layton had grown up in. He seemed out of sorts and edgy when we pulled up to his mom’s house. I tried to pull him out of the weird place he was in, but he seemed resigned to being aloof. I let him be simply because my nerves were shot. I needed this family to like me, because I was crazy about their son.
The tiny Foxx home in Alton Heights was packed tight with people. Lots of people, all resembling Layton, who were trying to peer through my flesh to see inside me. I did my best to be funny, charming Adler, the guy everyone likes because he’s so clever and laid back. The one who, according to Layton, needed a filter. Maybe I shouldn’t be that Adler. Maybe I needed to be a less rambunctious Adler. I tamped down the need to tell the Foxx family a really funny joke Arvy had passed along a few days ago.
I shook hands with a Zach, an Oscar, an Eden and a Jack. Then I smiled and thanked Mrs. Foxx for letting me come. I wished I had my gifts in hand to shove at them, but they were already here somewhere according to USPS delivery tracking. Maybe the distrustful looks would ease up if they could open gifts. Kids shouted and bounced off the walls. Layton stayed by my side, working his bottom lip, as we made our way into the living room. I was tense. Something stupid was on the tip of my tongue.