by RJ Scott
“Penny for them,” Benoit said at my side.
“Nah, I’d want at least a dollar,” I said.
“Not sure I can afford a whole dollar,” Ben teased. “You ready to go?”
We joined everyone else and headed for The Aviary, their coffee place turned into a space for celebration today. The door was wide open, students and parents spilling out onto the grass outside, sprawled on the ground with plates of food and plastic glasses of something fizzy. We grabbed food, pulled one of the tables from inside, collected chairs, and all sat around in a big informal circle.
The only dark spot was when Charlie Wilkes joined us by dragging over a chair and sitting next to a beaming Tamara.
“I’m gonna kill him,” Benoit muttered under his breath so only I could hear.
I loved his big brother routine, the one where he was going to hurt anyone who went anywhere near his sister. In fact, I loved everything about him from his nose to his toes and everything in between.
“I love you,” I blurted, and he shot me a grin.
“So you’ll help me find somewhere to bury Charlie?” He seemed pathetically hopeful.
“No, but I’ll wait for you to get out of prison.”
He shook his head. “You’re not the man I thought you were.”
This kind of back and forth, a lighter Benoit, was lovely to see. After the whole Dom situation, things had been dark for a while. She was receiving psychiatric care, and I hoped she received all the help she needed. I hadn’t exactly forgiven what she did, but Benoit seemed to have gotten to a good place right now, and I wasn’t going to rock the boat. I just wanted to have this, and him, for the rest of my life.
“Benoit?” I asked cautiously, the words I really wanted to say on the tip of my tongue.
“Yeah?”
I never got the chance to vocalize the thoughts I had when Ryker crouched in front of us and glanced up at me. “Coach Girard, do you think we could talk? If you have a minute?”
“You can call me Ethan now, you know.”
He shook his head, with his stubborn-Ryker expression very obvious. “You’ll always be Coach Girard to me.”
“Benoit? You should follow Ryker’s example,” I said with a laugh.
Benoit shook his head. “If you think I’m calling you Coach Girard for the rest of our lives, you’re mistaken.”
“Well, damn,” I joked and then stood up, leaning on my cane. “Of course we can talk.”
Ryker walked away from the group, and I followed until we reached a stand of trees. I seemed to be spending a lot of time in and around trees today.
“What’s up?” I asked, although I had a good idea of what he wanted to ask me. Benoit had already explained that Ryker was growing more messed up about joining the Raptors training camp in fifteen weeks. I guess he couldn’t really unload on his dad and Ten, not after what had happened to Ten. I bet Mads was worried about his son playing with the man who’d nearly killed Ten.
Ryker cleared his throat. “So, Jacob said I should talk to someone who isn’t Dad or Ten. I’d just like your take on things. The Raptors… I could turn them down, right? I mean, there have been drafted players who refuse to play for the team that drafted them if the franchise is struggling, like Zach Hyman did in 2010.”
“Yeah, that can happen, but the team could make things really bad for you, lock you up in contracts for the longest time, alter future events on both sides of the table. You could lose a year, and your career might never recover.”
Ryker kicked at a blade of grass, disgust in every line of him. “Everyone knows that the Raptor’s strategy right now is to aim low and secure a high draft pick. I don’t want that. I want a team that plays to win every damn time they hit the ice.”
He was right. It was easy to see that the Raptors had pushed out some crappy results last year, finishing fourth from the bottom of the table, and it could be said they were doing this deliberately. So much so that they might do the same thing again this next season. I understood Ryker’s reluctance completely.
“You’re not a quitter, Ryker,” I reassured him.
He frowned. “But what if the rest of the team are?”
I wished I had wisdom to give him, words that sounded clever and meant something, but I had none, and in the end, I went with a blunt assessment of the situation.
“Even if you hate it, you keep your head down, you work hard, and you shine the brightest you can among the crap you’ve landed in. The Raptors are in a bad place, yeah, but every team has had its bad times. You need to get in there and make a difference from the inside out.”
He looked so hopeful for a moment. “You think I could change things?”
“I don’t see why not.” I clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Hockey is like a game of chess. Stay patient, keep thinking, and you’ll make it out the other side.”
“Chess with hip checks,” Ryker pointed out, and I tightened my grip on him briefly.
“Yeah, imagine it as chess with hip checks if that makes it better.”
Benoit hovered at a distance, and Ryker waved him over, exchanged fist bumps before leaving, and then it was just Benoit, me, and the big old tree.
“You fixed everything?” he said and handed me his drink.
I sipped the fizz and then nodded. “Clearly, I am a god to all young hockey players,” I deadpanned. “I know all, see all, and—”
He stopped me with a kiss, and the fizz slopped over the edge and down my shirt. I didn’t care. I wanted all of his kisses, all the time.
“You should marry me,” I announced when we parted to take a breath, and his eyes widened. God, I hadn’t meant to drop that on him so dramatically. “Shit. Listen to me. I have a job offer from Edmonton, okay, but I worry they’ll do that whole thing about not dating a teammate, but we wouldn’t be dating; we’d be married. Like permanently together.” He seemed shocked and had gone very quiet. “Benoit? Say something? Fuck, it’s too soon, right? I’ve messed this up. I should have waited for—”
Yet again, he stopped me from talking with a kiss, and as usual, I let him. Anything not to hear his reasons why what I’d asked was a bad idea. But when we separated, he was grinning at me.
“Yes,” he said with conviction and no hesitation at all
“Really?”
“Hell, yes.”
“There’s something you should know first.” I had to be honest about the money I’d used for his dad, and it had to be now that I told him.
He sighed dramatically. “Okay, but is this about your snoring because I already know that. Or is it that you’re funding the medication for my dad?” He tilted his head, and I was tongue-tied.
“You… how… who…?”
He tapped my nose. “You think my mom could keep that secret? I love you for doing it, but I will be paying every cent back when I’m earning my millions.”
“You can put the money in a trust fund for the kids.” What? What did I just say?
His mouth fell open. “Kids?” he squeaked, then cleared his throat.
“Maybe,” I offered cautiously and waited for Benoit to run away screaming.
“Okay then, I can do that. Marry you, be a professional NHL goalie, have a big house with a yard in Edmonton, get two dogs, then add kids to the mix.”
“Two dogs? What if I’m a cat man?”
He faked horror and punched my arm. “It’s like I don’t even know you.” Then he sobered and cradled my face. “We’re getting married.” He sounded so blown away, as if me asking him had rocked his world, and I hoped it had because the thought of being together forever was my only focus. “I love you.”
“I love you, Benoit, but there’s one thing we need to clear up.”
“What?”
“I don’t freaking snore.”
Epilogue
Benoit
The sun creeping through our bedroom window woke me. I rolled to my left, to hide my face from the bright rays, but couldn’t get to my other side, due to a warm body ta
king up all the room. Grunting a bit, I shimmied around until I could stare at Ethan sleeping. His face was soft in repose, his lips parted, his arm flung over the pillow. He was breathtaking with the soft glow of morning on his whiskery face. The need to touch him was overpowering, so I ran a hand over his back, enjoying the swells and valleys. From his deltoids to his obliques to his firm glutes, the man was hard and toned, a masculine creation of beauty who belonged in one of Hayne’s paintings. The thought of Hayne reminded me of FaceTime Friday, the one day of the week we all took thirty minutes—or longer—to touch base.
Now that Ryker, Scott, and I had graduated and had gone our separate ways, it was important to all of us to maintain contact. They were my best friends, my teammates… well, not anymore. As of tomorrow’s opening day of training camp, I’d be wearing the orange Edmonton home jersey. How long I stayed in that jersey all depended on if I made the main team. Not everyone who was drafted did. Some tried out and were sent to the feeder teams. I felt confident about my chances. Scott and I were sure about Ryker’s. He was going to set the hockey world on fire.
I leaned over Ethan, pressed a kiss to his spine, inhaled his scent, and then slid from the bed and pulled on some lounge pants. My routine since moving to Edmonton with Ethan three weeks ago didn’t vary. Wake up, look down on the city as I did a moment of thanks, yoga for thirty, shower, gym, ice time, home to Ethan. Routine was critically important. At least for my goalie mind, it was. I padded to the sliding doors and pulled them open, stepping out onto the balcony with a view of Ellerslie Road. Our apartment complex was in a high-class community close to Blackburn Creek Park and only twenty minutes from the arena. We’d chosen a two-bedroom unit already furnished, my fiancé stating he was a decorating slob who couldn’t care less if the throw pillows coordinated with the drapes. I really had no time to devote to kitting out a place, so fully furnished it was.
Edmonton was already awake and moving at seven in the morning. I drank in the city, enjoying the blue skies and cool fifty-degree air on my bare chest. Canada. No matter where I went in my homeland, I could always feel the sense of home.
My skin pimpled up when a light breeze tickled the sides of the blue-and-white building. We were only four floors up. That was as high as all the elite buildings in this small grouping went. Sneaking back inside, I went to the guest room, leaving Ethan snoozing, and unrolled my mat.
I took several minutes to center, legs folded into a lotus, and then began my morning sun salutation. I’d let my mind wander, and it landed on Dom. She’d been shipped back to Canada for her trial. Her sentence had been light as I had advocated for her to be placed into a mental health facility instead of serving time in prison. She’d never had a good home life and had no one on her side, her parents having long ago slid into bottles of vodka. It had been tough to turn the other cheek, and every time I saw Ethan’s slight limp, I questioned the advice my folks and Ethan had given me. But what was done was done. She was getting help for her mental health issues, and I’d attempted to get past it. Mostly. Unless it was dark and Ethan was driving, or a pink envelope appeared in our mailbox. Then I’d get a flashback, but other than that, I was working my way through it. We all were. It was the only thing to do. Move forward or get mired down in the past.
When I was done, I thanked the universe for all the blessings in my life. Then I raced to the kitchen, fired up the Keurig, fixed myself a twisted cherry protein shake and a bowl of fruit and yogurt, and dropped down at the island—where we ate all of our meals—and opened Ethan’s laptop.
Ryker, who was in the same time zone as I was and probably rolling out for his day, quickly accepted the request to FaceTime. Scott, who was an hour ahead of us, but never seemed to be in any hurry to get up, took longer to answer the call. When he did, the loser was still in bed, his hair a ratty mess.
“Dude, you have pink paint on your face,” Ryker immediately pointed out. The lump behind him in bed giggled. Ryker rolled his eyes. I almost inhaled a grape whole when Ethan slid up behind me, arms going around my midsection, his warm lips falling to my shoulder.
“Morning,” he murmured against my skin. “Hey, guys,” he said to Ryker and Scott, his voice still thick with sleep. After a quick hug, he grabbed a cup of coffee, gave me a wink, and went off to read the morning paper out on the balcony. I hoped he’d pulled on some clothes before he plunked his ass into one of our white patio chairs.
“Okay, I am totally filing the past two minutes under hashtag envious,” Ryker grumbled, then shoved his hands through his still damp curls.
“Sorry,” Scott and I both mumbled.
Ryker had left Jacob behind on the farm a week ago to settle into his new place in Tucson. I felt really bad for them having to be that far apart. How they’d juggle their relationship with that great of a distance was beyond me. I worried for the two of them but kept my concerns to myself.
“No, don’t be sorry. I’m being petty. I just…” He blew a strand of hair from his face. “This is the dream, am I right?”
“Yeah, man,” I replied as Scott yawned and sat up slowly, his eyes flickering from Hayne at his side, then back to us. “I mean, for me it is.”
“My dream is right here.” Scott patted the energetic mound of artist hiding under the covers next to him. Another short burst of giggles could be heard. “Well, this and working with the kids at the rink. We’re kicking off our special needs skates tomorrow. Did I mention that?”
“Yeah, man, that’s super cool,” Ryker said, lifting his phone from the counter and crossing to his tiny and kind of bare living room. His place was nice. All shades of tan and brown and white, very desert motif, which fit his locale well. “I hope we can set up some programs out here like that. Community things. This team tanks at that. Well, they tank at mostly everything but…” He shrugged.
“You’ll get them moving in the right direction,” I said, forking up a chunk of pineapple, then dipping it into the mound of vanilla yogurt. Damn, this fruit was good. Ethan did groceries like a pro, filling the fridge with good food suited for an athlete.
“Totally,” Scott piped up, rolling his neck in a circle. “I’m thinking of going for my master’s. Maybe in special education. Want to see how things go with the Special Skates, but I’m really feeling this project.”
“That would be epic,” Ryker said. I nodded. As long as Scott was happy and not abusing, I was all for whatever career choice fulfilled him. With Hayne at his side, I was sure he’d have a loving and happy life. “Oh wow, dudes…”
I chewed, swallowed, and waited for Ryker to speak.
“Okay, wow, so I’m kind of reading the team group chat. Looks like the talk about bringing in Rowen Carmichael as the new head coach will be announced today. Shit, that’s kind of awesome! He’s coached at UWO for five years and led the Mustangs to two U sports championships. Cool. So, that’s good news. I like this trend of picking up college coaches for the pros. They know how to guide young players.”
“That is cool!” I gushed. “I seriously looked into UWO as a top three contender when I was picking colleges. I bet you’ll do great under Rowen Carmichael. Everything I read about him when I was scoping out the team was positive.”
“Yeah, maybe they’re seriously going to try to clean up this fucking team. First thing they need to do is trade asshole Lankinen to the Siberian Front league. I’m going to have to go in there in two days and look at his fucking face.”
Scott and I both sat silently. What could we say? Yeah, Ryker was going to have to share a locker room with the man who’d nearly ended Tennant Rowe’s career. I did not envy Ryker anything.
“Just show them you’re above the shit. Aarni will hang himself if you give him enough rope,” I finally said. Scott bobbed his head.
“Yeah, I know. I’m just… gah. Whatever. I’m a Raptor, and I’m going to go in there and give them one hundred percent. We Madsens play hard, and we play to win.”
Scott and I cheered. The talk then shifted to less inten
se shit like food, movies, and life far away from the dry, hot winds that blew around the Santa Catalina Arena. After we hashed out the latest YouTube controversy, we all had to cut off the call and tend to life things. Scott to work at the rink, Ryker and I prepping for our first ever professional training camps. With a vow to talk next Friday and well wishes, I closed the laptop, grabbed my fruit cup, and went in search of my man.
He was on the patio, in a hoodie and matching jogging pants, his feet in thick slippers, reading the paper and drinking his coffee.
“You look cold,” I said as I stepped out to join him.
He gave me a fast once-over. “I am cold. I’m old. My blood flow isn’t good anymore. Get me a hot water bottle and a handful of stool softeners, sonny.”
“Poor old man.” I closed the door, placed my breakfast on the white metal table our two chairs sat by, and straddled his lap, dropping myself to his thighs, then pressing against him, my hands sliding up into his tousled hair. “Let me warm you up. I’ve got plenty of blood racing through my young veins.” I rolled my hips so he could feel my lengthening dick on his stomach. “See?”
“Ah, youth.” He sighed, dropping his newspaper to the cement so that he could cradle my ass as I tongued his throat. “You and the boys get things talked out for the week?”
“Mm, yeah, Scott’s thinking of maybe more school. Special education.”
“Oh? Good on him.”
“Ryker is trying to be upbeat, but he misses Jacob, and the Raptors are… well, the Raptors.”
“Poor guy,” he replied, giving my ass cheeks a firm squeeze. I nibbled along the shell of his ear, my half-hard dick fully erect now.
“Yeah, they got a new coach coming in, rumors. Rowen Carmichael. Man, you taste good. Getting warm yet, gramps?”
“Getting there. Keep whispering dirty hockey nothings in my ear while you hump my dick, and I’ll be all kinds of toasty warm.”