by RJ Scott
“Hey, it’s all going to be okay,” Ethan whispered before we arrived in the kitchen.
“Sure, yeah, I know.”
And it was. Ryker, Scott, and Hayne welcomed Ethan into the fold as if he’d always been one of the guys. There was no weird “God he is so old” comments or looks as we sat around the table, stuffing ourselves on turkey, mashed potatoes, corn, dressing, and cranberry sauce. Part of the reason Ethan fit in so well, I felt, was that he never tried to be the adult in the group. He melded perfectly into the mindset of college students. Not sure if that was a good thing or not, but his laid-back, corny joking eased my worries. By the time we had finished the main course, Ethan had everyone laughing over some stupid story about a plane ride with a particularly gassy Boston goalie.
“I’m not kidding. By the time the plane landed in Tampa, everyone was in the back of the jet besides our tender, who vowed he would eat nothing but beans from that day forward just to ensure his flights were quiet,” Ethan said, then chuckled.
“No, let us clean up,” Scott said when Hayne rose and started picking up dirty plates.
Ryker and I nodded. “You sit. We’ll bring out dessert and coffee,” I told Ethan. He winked at me as I stood. Hands full of plates, I followed Ryker into the kitchen. “Hayne really cooks well,” I said, placing the dishes into the new dishwasher.
“He said his Mimi sent him all her recipes. Shame his mom and she were both sick with the flu. I bet he misses them,” Ryker said while scraping leftover corn into a smaller bowl.
“Yeah, I bet he does. Listen, I just wanted to thank you.” Ryker glanced over at me. “For being cool about Ethan and me. I know he’s older and all.”
“Dude, really? Like I’m going to give you shit over dating an older man? Hello! Have you ever met my two dads?” Ryker flicked a kernel of corn at me. I swatted it aside. It hit Scott on the nose as he walked in with a platter of half-eaten turkey.
“Assholes,” Scott mumbled, just as someone hammered on the door.
“I’ll get it!” I yelled, dancing around Scott with grace and slick dance floor moves that put the two losers in the kitchen to shame. I jogged to the door, snickering over the corn-to-nose incident, and yanked it open. There on the step was Jacob, his eyes glowing, his nose red, and his hands balancing a pie.
I gaped at him for a second. “Ryker didn’t say you were coming.”
“He doesn’t know. Here.” He handed me the pie and snuck inside, his finger over his pursed lips. I nodded, closed the door with my foot, and followed him into the kitchen.
“Some dude is here with a pie for dessert,” I shouted over Jacob’s shoulder. Ryker turned his head, and his mouth fell open. Good thing I now held the pie because Ryker launched himself at Jacob. The big man caught his boyfriend with a grunt, hands under Ryker’s ass, and kissed him for so long I began to wonder if they were going to get down to it right here next to the pie.
“What are you doing here?” Ryker gasped, sliding his hands over Jacob’s pink cheeks, his eyes more than a little dewy. “You said maybe Christmas.”
“Yeah, I kind of lied. My uncle is here from Montana, and he’s going to help with the chores, so Dad gave me an advance on my wages, and Mom gave me a pie, and they told me to get my ass to Owatonna. If you don’t want me underfoot for a few days, I can go back home.”
“Like hell!” Ryker pulled his mouth back to his.
“So yeah, why don’t we serve the pie and coffee, Scott?” I asked, slipping around the two men devouring each other.
“Right, yep, coffee and pie.” Scott nudged me in the side. Then we left the reunited lovers in the kitchen.
“Ryker’s boyfriend showed up and surprised him,” I said as we sat down. Hayne grinned widely. “We might not see them for dessert, but hey, we have pie made by a mom!”
Ethan made yummy noises and ate four slices of Mrs. Benson’s apple pie. I caught sight of Ryker and Jacob sneaking up the stairs as I was sipping my coffee. I had keen goalie vision. It was hard to slip something past me. We didn’t see either of them until the following morning. Which was fine because that was when my roommates snuck a peek at me and Ethan. No point sending him home now that the guys knew about—and were cool—with us. Besides, he had pie belly and needed someone to rub his distended stomach until he fell asleep. The things we do for love…
We had a game the following Saturday in Michigan. I kissed Ethan goodbye at home, wishing he could travel along, but he was really only a volunteer and it wasn’t appropriate. Also, as he pointed out, it was good to spend time apart. He’d be there when I got back, waiting, cast-free as he was heading in this morning to have it removed.
The team lucked out, and we jumped a charter flight, making what would have been a nearly thirteen-hour road trip on a bus a short ninety or so minutes. The Greater Michigan University campus was about forty minutes outside of Detroit, a town that took its hockey seriously. And the GMU Moose were the favorite sons of the state. They’d been ripping up their opponents. We had a good chance of slowing them down, as we had two things they didn’t—Ryker Madsen and me.
I know that was cocky, and my folks would’ve turned inside out if they’d heard me talking like that, but an athlete had to have confidence. And now that things in my personal life were settled, my focus had zeroed back in on hockey. Ethan understood. He’d lived his ice hockey dream. Now it was my turn, and he supported me wholly. I refused to dwell on the where and what of what would happen after I graduated, or those creepy notes. Hopefully, I’d be living in Edmonton with Ethan, and my secret stalker would have moved on to someone else, since I wouldn’t be around anymore. Laying low was paying off. Just had to keep my head down.
Right now, though, this game and this ice was my main focus. Michigan had crappy water. It was impure and made flaky ice that didn’t work well. I tended to my crease, sprinkling droplets of pure Canadian water on the blue ice, and then working it into a fine little frozen wall that would, I hoped, help deflect a puck. I tapped the pipes when I was done, looking up to find one of the Moose players staring at me oddly.
I threw my hand in the air, and he skated off, shaking his head. His last name was Devon. When we were finished with our warm-up, I skated over, handed our equipment manager my tiny squirt bottle of water from home, and sat on the boards, resting, sipping water, readying myself for the game. After a moment or two of waiting for the officials to join us, I took my mask from Ryker, patted the Eagle on the side, and skated to my net. Yes, the ice was good now, firmer, not flaky like before. This game would be ours. I felt it in my bones.
The first period was slow, few shots on goal for either side. The teams were feeling each other out, the coaching staff adjusting here and there as the lines began to show strengths and weaknesses. There were perhaps three or so minutes left. I was resting a bit in my stance, bent over, crossbar on my back, eyes on the action down at the Moose end of the ice, when one of the players in red stole the puck from our fourth line. He was fast, his gaze familiar as he streaked at me. Devon. His first name might have been David, but I wasn’t sure. His puck handling was fair, but he telegraphed his moves. I saw him shift left, and settled back on my skates, easily catching the weak shot from point. He lost his edge on the crappy ice and careened into me, knocking me off my skates and dislodging the net. It was a meager collision, nothing really, and my teammates hustled up as they always do when a player makes contact with a goalie.
There were some words exchanged, what, I couldn’t hear as the linesman was shouting at the guys to stop shoving. Ryker, who had just hit the ice after the breakaway, grabbed Devon, who was now on his feet, and threw a punch that leveled the guy. I sat there, stunned, puck in my catcher mitt, as several shades of madness erupted right in my crease. Ryker was off his mind with rage. It took two players and a ref to tug him off Devon, and even when they’d been separated, they kept jawing at each other. I got up and shouted at my teammates to find out what had been said.
“You know what I
called you!” Devon roared at me adding the N-word and cursing. I blinked, salty sweat in my eyes, unsure if what I had heard was what I had heard. “I said to get off me you dirty—” Ryker went at Devon again, hitting him in the back of the head with a closed fist that put the man down face-first on the ice.
The hometown fans were not happy. And then the chant began. The same slur about the color of my skin that had been slung at me by Devon was now being repeated by the fans. Just a few, not the whole crowd, but enough that the message was clearly delivered. My teammates all stared at me, horror and anger on their faces.
“Fuck them,” I said as Ryker was led off the ice, bruised and bloody knuckles, his face contorted with white-hot ire, his upper lip busted from a stick or an elbow delivered in the scrum. “Let’s play hockey.”
I got some back slaps and a few helmet rubs. The chanting eased off. I hoped that was due to security removing the racist fans from their seats.
“Hey, man, we’re not all like Devon,” Chris Milliken, the Moose captain, told me after making a point to skate over amid all the carnage. He offered me his hand. I shook off my blocker and took his hand. People applauded. Things returned to normal on the ice, and we wrapped up the final minutes with a shaky sort of subdued cloud hanging over us.
I left the ice feeling unsure of myself and the world I was moving in. I’d faced racism before, of course, being one of a handful of black players in a predominately white man’s game, but I’d never been chanted at like that. It was different to hear one man toss something vile at you; a group yelling racist slurs was something else. It was frightening.
“Hey, hey, you okay?” Ryker asked, meeting me at the door of the locker room, his upper lip cut and seeping blood around the quick four stitches he’d just gotten.
“I’m better than you,” I replied, hoping to sound nonchalant. I must’ve failed. Several of the Eagles gathered around me, roasting Devon verbally, saying they all had his number and were going to make sure the dirty bastard felt every check.
I nodded, smiled, tried to play it off as no big thing, but it had been. It had scared me, hearing that word bouncing off the girders, seeing the fans by the glass with clear hatred in their eyes. Yeah, that shit had unnerved me.
I glanced back when someone called my name. Coach motioned for me to follow him, so I pushed to my skates, gave Ryker a shrug, and plodded along after my head coach.
We went only as far as the skate-sharpening room when he turned to me. “I feel as if I need to apologize for the whole hockey community,” Coach said, twisting his hands as he searched my face for clues to where I was. “That was uncalled-for behavior. I want you to know that I’ve already filed a grievance against Devon and that the fans who were being so disgusting have been ejected from the arena. I wish I could promise you that they’d been removed from the campus, but some of them are students, I’m sure. Please be aware of that when you leave the rink.”
“Okay, I will be.” What more could I say? Now I had to look over my shoulder walking from the rink to the bus? When would people just stop with the hating of others? “Thanks, Coach.”
“You good?”
“Yeah, I’m good. Ready to play.”
“Okay, good.” He patted my well-padded shoulder. “You know I’m normally not a fan of these things, but I thought you might want to take this call. Make it short.”
He handed me his cell phone and walked back to the away locker room, presumably to talk to the team about the ugliness that had taken place. I turned from the hall, burrowing into a small nook that held a water cooler, and placed the phone to my ear.
“Son, are you okay?” Dad asked, his voice thick with emotion.
“You were watching on the streaming app?” I asked, my shoulders humped, my back and neck slick with sweat. Now I wanted to cry, and a stray tear slipped free before I could dash it away with the sleeve of my sweater.
“Yeah, I was watching. I am so sorry, Benoit. So horribly sorry. I can fly out. Would you like that?”
I drew in a shaky breath. “No, it’s cool. I’m fine. It’s just…” I blew out a breath. “I just don’t get it, you know? What difference does the color of my skin make?”
“None, my son, none at all. We love you. You go out there, and you show them just how fine a job you can do in that crease.”
“I will, Dad, I promise. I miss you. Can’t wait for Christmas. I think I might be asking someone to come home with me if that’s okay?”
“Well, of course it is, Benoit.”
“It’s a man.”
“Then we’ll make sure we put shaving cream in the guest bathroom instead of those bath bomb glittery things your sister is so fond of.”
I kind of wept hard then, just for a few seconds, and then sucked all the love and hurt and confusion back inside. How lucky was I to have a family this amazing? Damn lucky.
“You okay, son?”
“Yeah, I’m… phew, yep. I’m good. Tell Mom not to be upset about it. Some people are just stupid dumb.”
“Son, you know your mother. She’s ready to fly to Michigan and start kicking ass and taking names,” Dad replied, then laughed along with me. “Now you go out there, and you stand on your head.”
“I will, I promise. Thanks, Dad. I love you. See you over Christmas.”
“We love you too, son, and we are so proud. Now go give them hell.”
I hung up, and then I went back on the ice and showed the Moose and all their fans just what I could do in net. Which was stop forty out of forty shots and give the Eagles a win.
When we arrived back in Minnesota, the airport was snowy and the wind was blowing fat flakes around in whirling funnels of snow and dust. Ethan was there, waiting, and I couldn’t get into his arms quickly enough. He held me tight—too tight to be honest—but I didn’t try to break free. I needed his arms around me like I needed my next breath.
“I love you more than pie,” he whispered in my ear. A wobbly barking laugh escaped me, and I pressed a kiss to his neck. His skin was warm and soft right under his ear.
“That’s a lot of love right there,” I murmured beside his ear, my teammates rolling past us, not a one saying a word about two men hugging it out in public.
“Damn straight.” He gave me a final cinch, then released me, taking my bag from my shoulder and staring into my soul. “My place, your place, or the pie place?”
“There’s a pie place?”
“Well, it’s not a pie place; it’s a cupcake place, which is sort of as good as pie, but not really. Want to grab some cupcakes? We can lie around in bed, get all crumby and frosted up, and use our tongues to clean each other off.” He waggled a brow. I snorted. “That a yes?”
“Yes, it’s a yes.”
“I knew I loved you for a reason.” He leaned on his new cane, and we slowly left the terminal, his fingers linked with mine for all the travelers and workers to see. We drove home, touching lightly and avoiding the nastiness the world had dumped on me, stopping only for a run into the cupcake shop, then to his place, where we locked the doors on the outside world and carried those dozen delights to his bedroom.
“You do know that I was joking about the sexy cupcake times, right?”
I took the box from him, placed it on the bed, and began peeling his clothing off, one article at a time.
“I joke a lot, like when I’m nervous or unsure of how to handle a certain situation.”
I pulled his shirt over his head, dropped it to the floor, then I snapped his belt free from the loops, whipped it over my shoulder, and tugged down his fly after freeing the snap holding his jeans shut.
“I know you just suffered something really traumatic, and I’m not sure if sexing it up is the best thing to do.”
“What would you rather I do? Sit down and cry? Shake my fist at the bigotry of the world? Slam my head against the wall at the injustice of being judged for my skin color or my sexual preferences?”
“I, uhm, I don’t know. I’m just… sorry.”
And I knew he was. I could see it in his gaze. “Look, this here, what we have, this is pure love. It’s the two of us about to be one. No outside crap, no labels, just two souls seeking to be close, to feel one another, to pleasure one another. This is the most right thing in the world.”
He inhaled slowly, through his nose, and cupped my face between his hands. “Damn, you are something else.” He put his mouth over mine, the kiss gentle at first, but growing into something more as we went to the bed, his hands moving over me, freeing me of my shirt and pants, my socks and underwear, as I worked on his few remaining bits of clothing. He sat on the edge of the mattress, hands on my bare ass, and pulled me to him. “Don’t hate me if you end up picking sprinkles out of delicate places tomorrow during class.”
That made me laugh. He nipped at my chest, a nipple, my navel, and then he took me into his mouth. His tongue rolled over my cockhead; my fingers dug into his shoulders. He licked and lapped, sucking hard, then pulling off until I gave him a shove that sent him sprawling back onto the mattress.
I climbed over him, one leg settling by his hip, then the other, my lips tracing patterns over his flesh, tasting as much as I could before I was once again licking into his mouth.
“Give me that,” he growled when I reached for the cupcakes. I shook my head, holding the box upward, away from him. A wicked smile played on his lips. With a poke to my ribs, the box tumbled to the bed. We both pounced on it, laughing like idiots. The cupcakes didn’t fare well. I’d had this erotic imagery of using a finger to paint icing designs on his fair skin. Instead, we both ended up with mangled bits of cake and rainbow-toned frosting all over us, the cover, and the nightstand. Even the lampshade had purple icing on it, but that was okay. It was all okay. The blue icing on the box of condoms, the pink icing on the tube of lubricant, and the yellow icing worked into the fine hairs of his chest.