Benoit (Owatonna Book 3)

by RJ Scott

  Ethan yawned, and I followed suit. I tossed the box back into the dresser, then finished emptying our suitcases, stripped down to my underwear, and crawled into bed with him. He curled up behind me, chest to my back, and his soft snores eased me to sleep. My dreams were pleasant. Good times with old friends, Christmases past, Ethan and I in the future with a big yellow dog. The town we and our dog lived in was a lot like Edmonton. I prayed that dreams did come true.

  The Christmas break went by far too fast. Ethan and I spent two weeks in Notre-Dame-du-Portage, and in all truth, I had to push myself to return to Owatonna. Mom’s cooking, the sound of my father’s laughter, the teasing lilt of my sister’s jokes, and the happiness in Ethan’s beautiful eyes made me yearn to stay here forever. We’d spent days eating, playing stupid board games, enjoying pick-up games with some of my old hockey chums, and lazing around in bed touching and kissing and making plans for that future with a yellow dog.

  Sadly, the glow of Christmas was replaced by the second semester of my senior year. And the first week back on campus, I knew why Jacob and Hayne had been so fried last year. Ryker, Scott, and I were starting to look the same. January brought with it a heap of schoolwork and hockey. Studying and hockey—that was all I had time for. I needed to pick a senior thesis topic, work on my high glove side, and try to balance a relationship. Thank God, Ethan was so laid-back. He got me, got it, got the weight that was piling up class by class and game by game.

  “So, what are you doing for your thesis?” Ryker asked one morning over breakfast. Ethan had made coffee and burned some toast for us. Hayne stepped in after waking up and saved us all with a pan of scrambled eggs, and ketchup. “My brain is unable to compute. I seriously need a tutor or something. How did it get to be the final semester? My head hurts.”

  “Is yours a one-or two-credit thesis?” I asked.

  Ryker moaned and shrugged. “I don’t know,” he whimpered.

  Scott patted his head and forked more eggs into his face.

  “I can help anyone who needs it,” Hayne said, sitting on his chair, legs to his chest, sipping some coffee and nibbling on burnt toast. “I did really well on mine last year. And I’m not inspired to paint, so I need something to do.”

  “Hey, I’ll gladly take any help offered,” Ryker moaned as he shook more ketchup onto his eggs.

  Ethan made a face at the mess on my friend’s plate but remained silent. He always seemed as if he felt out of odds with college talk, and I understood that. Hard to really grasp it when you’d never lived it.

  “I think I have my topic narrowed down to Multiculturism in Education and How to Integrate it into the Classroom of the Future. What do you think? That sound like a good topic?”

  Everyone nodded, even Ethan, so I felt a small weight of worry lift off my back. No sooner had I gotten that settled than my phone alarm went off, reminding me that I had an interview at The Aviary with a reporter from QYT—Queer Youth Times—a hip and trendy magazine that everyone who was LGBTQ or straight on campus read. They’d reached out to me several times after that mess in Michigan, and I’d put them off. Ethan, over our Christmas holiday, had persuaded me to do one interview. One sit-down that would cover the ugliness I’d faced and how, hopefully, one young kid would read it and see that we all faced hardship, but we battled past it.

  I’d asked Ryker, who contacted the Railers’ social media guy for assistance. Layton Foxx was sharp, knew everyone and everything, and had set the interview up with my chosen outlet in five minutes. Layton had agreed to handle the social media related to the story when it came out next month. I had no time to worry over Instagram and Facebook posts. I had school and hockey. The Frozen Four loomed ahead of us, and the Eagles were looking like real contenders.

  “I have to get ready for this interview,” I said, sighed, and got to my feet. “Dibs on the shower.”

  Ryker and Scott waved me off. Ethan had already hit the shower, so as soon as I was dressed and ready, we walked to the eatery, hand in hand, the winds of a Minnesota January sanding any exposed flesh with bits of ice and snow.

  The place was empty, all the patrons either in classes or heading there. A young guy jogged over to me, rich brown skin and beautiful chocolate eyes, his black hair was styled into a deep undercut, and his teeth were white and straight. A beautiful man really, not much older than me. Bright rainbow scarf dangling from the lapels of a thick wool duster.

  “It’s so nice to meet you, Benoit. I’m Arjun Gokhale from Queer Youth Times. And you’re Ethan Girard. A true pleasure. I grew up in Boston and got to see you and Brady Rowe play all the time. My dad is a season ticket holder.”

  “Pleasure. Why don’t we sit down and get some coffee?” Ethan gestured to the empty tables. Within minutes, we were seated at a round table, coffee in hand, and a cell phone lying on the table recording everything that we said. Seeing that phone made me edgy.

  “Listen, I know this interview is about empowerment, but can we not make me and Ethan a huge thing?” I asked, laying a hand over the phone to blot out my request. “We’re not making a big announcement here, okay? We just are. You can say that we’re dating, but don’t make that the headline. I’m not here to titillate people with juicy gossip.”

  “Sure, that’s cool. I’ll merely make mention of Ethan sitting supportively but silently at your side,” Arjun assured me, and I found the truth in his dark eyes. I removed my hand from the phone, nodded at him, and then took a deep breath.

  Arjun was good at his job. He eased me into things with perfunctory questions about my past, how I came to play hockey, fun tidbits about my family, my best times as a hockey player, and then he slid right into the meaty part.

  “So, we’ve touched on the best times you’ve had on ice. Care to fill us in on the not so good times? What exactly happened in Michigan? It’s been a source of online discussion, and we’d like to know how you feel about being an African-American playing a game that’s predominately filled with white men and fans.”

  “Okay first, I’m not African-American; I’m Canadian. I can only speak about my own experiences, not those of Black Americans, although we all suffer the same injustices.”

  “Oh, sorry, okay. I knew you were from Canada.” He made a face at his gaffe. “I don’t think we need to rehash the slurs. Our readers are familiar with them all. Do you feel as if you’re getting hatred from both barrels being a queer man of color?”

  I glanced at Ethan. He raised an eyebrow, sipped his coffee, and said nothing. Lots of help from that quarter. My gaze fell to the liquid in my mug as I mulled over my reply.

  “I feel as if people need to stop worrying about who I take to bed or how much melanin my skin has.” I glanced from my coffee to the reporter. “All I want to do is play hockey. I have to think that someday the color of a player’s skin or their sexual identity won’t matter. What will matter is playing the game you love for the joy of the game itself.”

  “Excellent. Do you have any advice for kids out there who are struggling with being ripped on for their race or sexual orientation?”

  I nodded. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. Live your life, eyes on the prize. If you want to be a teacher, an astronaut, a ballerina, or a hockey player, you keep that pride in yourself, and you do not let others squash your self-esteem. Believe in yourself and the goals you’re working towards. And hey, I am online, although I’m the worst at social media, but if anyone out there is having trouble because of bigotry, just drop me a line, okay, and we can talk.”

  “And one final question. Who do you predict to win the Stanley Cup this year?” Arjun inquired. Ethan snorted into his cup at the expression on my face.

  “Edmonton, naturally.”

  We chatted a bit more, and Arjun left after a handshake and a sincere thanks for allowing QYT to be the source I chose to speak with. He assured me that I’d know as soon as the magazine hit the racks. After he pushed back into the winter weather to return to Minneapolis-St. Paul where the home office was,
I sat down and looked questioningly at Ethan.

  “What do you think? Did I blow it? Or was I okay? Man, I hate interviews,” I moaned, wishing I’d had better replies. Wittier ones. Ones that made me sound smart instead of like a dimwit.

  Ethan sat up and kissed me on the lips. “You make me incredibly proud to be known as your boyfriend.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  Luck seemed to be on my side finally. So, feeling lucky and full of myself, I grabbed Ethan’s coat lapels and yanked his mouth back to mine. To hell with the workers watching us from behind the counter. Life was good. Hell, life was more than good; it was great. And I wanted to share this wonderful new phase of my life with Ethan.

  “Guys should be in class by now,” I whispered over his kiss-slicked lips. “Want to go to my place and fool around until I have class?”

  “When’s your next class?”

  I glanced at my phone on the table. “An hour and forty minutes.”

  “Check please!”

  Fourteen

  Ethan

  I could tell Benoit was nervous about the interview going live today, so I took him out on the ice to focus him, and because I really wanted to get back on the cold stuff.

  “My damn leg is taking so long to heal.” I said as I wobbled for the second time. I didn’t do falling over. I was solid on my skates, but my leg felt weird. I think it would have been better if I had been on the team still. PTs would have been working with me so I could get back on the ice, but I thought I’d become a bit lazy these last few weeks. Even though I’d managed those few pickup games I wasn’t steady yet.

  “It’s old age.” Benoit smirked and skated backward, daring me to follow him. Which I did. He let me catch him, but given we ended up kissing in the empty rink, I think he might have done it deliberately.

  The interview was posted, and, and by the evening, it had gained traction, picked up by several big ticket websites. In general, it was well received. Of course, there were comments from people who said that Benoit wasn’t fit to play professional hockey, due to the color of his skin or his orientation. It wasn’t a surprise—there would always be intolerant entrenched fans. For the most part, Benoit stayed away from the social media crap and instead listened with a soft smile as I read out the comments that were all about approval and acceptance. The other ones, the garbage ones, I kept those to myself.

  We were up against a strong Falcons team this Saturday in Sioux Falls, the first West Regional game in our fight to win the NCAA Championship, aka the Frozen Four. One team wins college hockey's national title, every year, along with all the glory and kudos, but for that one team to win, fifty-nine others have to lose. In fact, only the sixteen best teams go through to this competition, and we’d made it through to the last sixteen by only one point. Four regional teams would meet, and the winner of that group would take one of the coveted final four places. We weren’t the favorites by any stretch of the imagination, although everyone expected great things from Ryker and Benoit. Getting through to the next round was all the team could think about. Benoit included. He’d deliberately gotten ahead in his studies just so he could stop for the two days before the game, and he spent a hell of a lot of time either at the rink facing off against our dedicated forwards or working with me and the defensemen. Edmonton would be watching, as he was one of their picks, and he was desperate to get noticed and be given a place on the team.

  I knew they’d want him this year. I felt it in my bones, and not only because I’d fallen in love with him and everything he did was pretty damn fine in my eyes. I’d seen his level of skill and focus before in top-line goalies I’d gone up against in the NHL, and he had so much promise.

  He had to focus, and I knew better than to disrupt what he had going on in his head. All I could do was try to make things easy for him; by cooking for him, which I loved, by keeping an eye on his schedule, which made me feel a little like his mom, and just by being there. It gave me something to focus on other than the fact that out there was someone who was watching him, us, and that I felt as if our lives were being invaded.

  Thinking about being watched had made me cautious with the PDAs; not that we were hugely demonstrative in public. We weren’t like Scott and Hayne, who regularly hugged and kissed anywhere they could. Still, even holding hands might mess with our stalker’s head, so I’d backed off a little.

  That hurt a lot, but it might just keep Benoit safe for a while until the cops tracked down whoever was sending the notes.

  Benoit didn’t have to worry about them at all, because I’d taken to checking for pink envelopes on an almost hourly basis, and we’d had all the locks changed in the guys’ locker room, just so there was no chance something could be slipped in without us knowing.

  I’d found two of them slipped through my front door. Two that Benoit didn’t have to know about, that I gave straight to the cops. Ryker assured me there had been nothing at their place, so I guess the fact that Benoit was spending nearly every night with me was certainly being noticed by whomever was sending these damn letters. A week ago, the final security installation had been finished, four cameras on rotation and superior locking systems; hell, it was as if we lived in Fort Knox, and I knew it made Benoit feel on edge, but I never made a big thing out of how he felt, and hid my own worries.

  Today was our last practice before the first tournament game, and Coach Quinton was out there directing the team with all the calm self-assurance of a guy who instinctively knew his team was on fire. Everyone here had bought into his system, and the team crackled with barely contained excitement. I was envious of Coach; he was on the ice, getting into the center of the drills and creating chaos for the guys to work around. I’d seen this tactic before and wished more than anything I could be out there doing the same thing. I wanted Benoit prepared for the mess that would hit his crease; anything to keep him safe. Coach Quinton used his size and his stick to obstruct passes and made his players work around him to get the same job done. He was up in Benoit’s face, and my man stood there and took everything thrown at him.

  And now, here we were in Sioux Falls waiting for game one of this championship to start. Only two games stood between us and moving to the semi-finals. The Eagles wanted the win today, and they were restless and twitchy with unrestrained energy that made even the normally calm Ryker pace.

  When they hit the ice for the game against the Hogs, they hit it hard and took the game to a three-goal lead after the first period.

  “Okay, guys.” Coach Quinton crossed his arms over his chest, and the entire team fell silent. I knew they were on a high because they were in the lead, but that was dangerous because it could lead to complacency. The Hogs hadn’t come out fighting, but that would change.

  “What do you think the Hogs’ coach is in there saying to his team?” Coach Quinton asked.

  “That they’re losers,” a voice called from the far end of the room. I didn’t know who it was, but a couple of the guys snickered.

  “Ryker?” Coach prompted.

  The captain, with two of the three goals due to him, and the heart of this team, cleared his throat. “My guess is he’d be saying that Owatonna’s ability to snarl up the Hogs’ offense in the neutral zone and create turnovers on the forecheck is killing them.” There were murmurs of agreement. “He’d be telling them that this isn’t a practice and that they have to go out fighting in the second period.”

  “And Benoit?” Coach asked. “What is he telling them about our goalie?”

  Benoit glanced up from where he’d been tapping a rhythm on his pads. “About me? Uhm… Well, it wouldn’t be about me. More likely they’re having their asses reamed and told they need more shots on goal. Right now, they’re not even making it past our D to get to me. So yeah, they’re probably being told to shoot whatever they can to get through.”

  Coach nodded. “Three goals in the first period? We’re flying.” He looked around the room, slowly, catching everyone’s gaze. “But
this is an elimination game, their only chance, and they will come out fighting now, fired up, ready to crash the crease, throw everything they can at Benoit, so keep focused, play the game, stick to the Owatonna way of playing. Everyone got that?”

  There was a resounding “Yes, Coach,” and the level of intensity in the room notched a little higher. I caught Benoit’s gaze as he passed me, and I winked at him. He smiled and led the team onto the ice for period two.

  We were going to win this; I could feel it in my bones, and with the final score six-two with us taking the win, the locker room was ecstatic. No one wanted to say it, but the win had been a strong one, and I saw how dejected the Hogs had been as they’d left the ice.

  The Eagles were in a hotel near the arena, and we took up almost an entire floor. I knew for a fact that Benoit was four doors down from me, sharing with Ryker, and I also knew there would be celebrations for the team but that I should stay away as I was one of the coaching staff. I wanted to go down and kiss him and hug him, but I didn’t. We’d hugged in the locker room, and I’d congratulated everyone, not just Benoit. After all, the team was a step closer to the final, and that was all that mattered.

  The knock didn’t surprise me, though, but Benoit didn’t come in when I opened the door. We weren’t going to break rules, and we had our next game against a very strong side in the Cheetahs tomorrow. He needed sleep and focus.

  I forced my hands into my pockets so I didn’t reach out and yank him in. He copied the motion and gave me a wry smile.

  “I miss you,” he said, very simple and straight to the point.

  “I miss you too,” I replied.

  He quirked a smile at me, and I gave him one of my trademark winks.

  “Night,” he murmured.

  “Night,” I said back and mouthed “I love you.”

  He briefly made a heart with his hands before he strode down the hall to his room, letting himself in without looking back.