by Rachel Reid
It was time to bring out the big guns. He went to his favorites folder and brought up a video of a porn star that he particularly liked named Kamil Kock. He was small and slim and a bit femme, with an elaborate peacock feather design tattooed down the left side of his torso. He had gorgeous dark eyes and light brown skin. Ryan had a lot of his videos saved.
“Look,” he said to his dick, “it’s Kamil. We love Kamil.”
His dick gave a halfhearted twitch. It was something.
Ryan spent the next twenty-seven minutes watching Kamil Kock pleasure his lean, elegant body while Ryan punished his own. Kamil had a musical lilt to his voice, and his long, slender fingers were covered in elaborate rings. He was beautiful in a way that Ryan never could be.
Ryan had a type, no question. He liked men who...blurred the line, a little. He found androgyny very sexy, and it wasn’t just the physical beauty of a dazzling, decorated man that attracted him; he was in awe of their confidence. Of their bravery to openly be themselves and dare anyone to say anything about it. It turned Ryan on like nothing else.
He had been quietly out for years, which meant he didn’t actively hide his sexuality, but he didn’t talk about it either. Chatting online and hooking up in various cities had been Ryan’s go-to method of getting laid for most of his hockey career. His teammates didn’t ask him many questions about who he was hooking up with because they likely didn’t care. Playing for a different team every season had made it difficult for Ryan to form any close bonds with his teammates anyway.
And that’s how Ryan had flown under the radar as a sexually active gay NHL player for nearly a decade. And now, in this new era where Scott Hunter was kissing his boyfriend on live television after winning the Stanley Cup, it didn’t seem as necessary to hide. Hunter had been brave enough to come out first, and now being a queer NHL player was barely interesting. One of Vancouver’s goaltenders married his longtime boyfriend over the summer—a rugged older man who built cabins for a living. And a Swedish guy who played for Los Angeles had started posting photos on Instagram of him and his boyfriend, who was a model. Or an Instagram model. Or something. He was a ripped hot guy anyway.
One thing Ryan had noticed about the boyfriends of NHL players: they were all very masculine. Scott Hunter’s boyfriend was cute, but he wasn’t what Ryan would call a twink. And twink wasn’t even an accurate description for what Ryan was into.
So maybe it was suddenly acceptable for an NHL player to have a boyfriend, but Ryan suspected that hockey players were expected to have a certain type of boyfriend. And while Ryan mostly didn’t care what other people thought—he didn’t even have an Instagram account—he really didn’t want to have to explain his choices.
His other problem was that he was fucking shy around beautiful men. He couldn’t imagine they would want to look at him, let alone touch him, so he rarely pulled the kind of men he actually wanted. He settled for men who he felt were more in his league.
There had been one guy in New Jersey—a stunning young man named Anthony—who had been surprisingly hot for Ryan. He’d seemed to love Ryan’s size, and his strength, so they were a good match for a little while. But he’d wanted Ryan to hurt him during sex. Not actually injure him, but he’d wanted pain, and Ryan couldn’t give it to him. Ryan spent too much of his life causing physical pain to others, and the thought of bringing that into the bedroom made him sick.
So that had been it for Ryan and Anthony.
He hoped Anthony had found what he needed with someone else. Someone who didn’t have Ryan’s mountain of baggage.
Ryan realized that he had zoned out, and was just blankly staring at the screen where Kamil was teasing his asshole with a vibrator. Ryan’s hand was loosely holding his softening dick, unmoving.
Damn it. He’d gotten distracted. It was over.
He released his dick and it slumped, exhausted, against his thigh.
He closed the video and slammed his laptop shut. Stupid fucking meds. Stupid fucking anxiety. Stupid fucking porn stars and their perfect functional dicks.
He scrubbed his hand over his face. What a fucking catch he was. He’d taken down his Grindr profile a few months ago, and now wondered if he should reactivate it. Maybe provide an updated description: Looking for a disappointing time with a shaggy oaf who probably won’t come even if you blow him for an hour?
Fuck it. Ryan needed to go to sleep.
“We’re trying this again tomorrow night,” he warned his dick. “You, me, and Kamil. We’re gonna do this thing.”
His dick seemed to actually retreat farther into his foreskin.
“I should chop you off, all the good you do me,” Ryan grumbled.
Chapter Two
Fabian wondered if he could pull off the Stila Enchantress Glitter & Glow liquid eye shadow. It was really fucking pretty.
He brushed a little of the tester on the back of his hand.
So pretty.
He tilted his hand under the florescent lights of the store and watched the eye shadow shimmer. The color really worked with his olive skin.
He set the tester bottle back on the shelf and returned to his stool behind the cosmetics counter. He perched himself on the edge and swivelled back and forth, bored out of his mind. There were only forty minutes left in his night shift at the Savers Drug Mart, but the store had been mostly dead for the past hour and Fabian was beyond ready to go home.
He checked his own makeup in the mirror that sat on the desk in front of him. Everything was still totally on point. He’d done a particularly good job on his liquid liner today.
He was, he supposed, grateful he had a job that allowed him to wear some pretty wild and experimental makeup looks to work. He wore a black button-up shirt and black pants—the uniform for all Savers beauty department employees—but he could get creative with his face. The job was far from glamorous—it wasn’t even mall cosmetics store glamorous—but there were jobs that would have been far more soul-crushing. At least here he could be himself.
The automatic sliding doors opened, and Fabian glanced up. It was his job to warmly greet as many customers as he could when they entered the store, but he had a feeling this guy wasn’t here to buy cosmetics. He was an enormous man, with a full bushy beard and long red hair sticking out from under his gray toque. He looked like an autumnal Hagrid.
“Good evening,” Fabian said cheerfully. The man looked startled, and glanced around until his eyes landed on Fabian. “Can I help you fi—?”
Holy. Shit.
“Ryan?” Fabian blurted the name out before he could stop himself. Even if it was Ryan Price, it’s not like he would recognize Fabian. Probably wouldn’t even remember him.
The man who was possibly Ryan Price stared at Fabian, his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide. “Yeah?” he said finally.
“Sorry,” Fabian said quickly. “You probably don’t recognize me at all. It’s—”
“Fabian,” Ryan said, barely above a whisper.
Fabian beamed. “You remember!”
Ryan nodded. “Fabian,” he said again.
Fabian walked out from behind the counter and stopped a couple of feet in front of Ryan. Ryan didn’t move at all.
Ryan. Fucking. Price.
“Look at you,” Fabian said. “You look...humongous.”
He was even taller than Fabian remembered. Obviously he probably had grown since he was seventeen, but so had Fabian. Sort of. Fabian still had to be a foot shorter than Ryan. And the beard—his whole look, really—gave Ryan a rugged biker/Viking vibe. When Fabian had last seen him, his red hair had been short and his face had been smooth.
Ryan’s face finally relaxed into a shy smile. “I almost didn’t recognize you,” he said quietly. It then occurred to Fabian that Ryan might be a little weirded out by his (flawless) eye liner and shadow. The thought alone, whether warranted or not, made Fabian sta
nd a little straighter, daring Ryan to say anything about it.
But all Ryan said was, “You look good.”
Oh.
Fabian relaxed his shoulders, since it seemed there wouldn’t be a fight, and said, “So what brings Ryan Price to Toronto?”
Ryan’s smile widened, and his eyes grew warmer. “Hockey. I play for the Guardians.”
Well, that’s embarrassing. “I probably should have known that,” Fabian said. “Sorry. I’m still not a hockey fan, I’m afraid.”
Ryan laughed. “S’okay.” For a moment, they just stood in awkward silence, and then he said, “You still play music?”
Fabian lit up. “Oh yes. This,” he gestured at the store around him, “is just my side hustle. Music is my main thing.”
“Like...your own songs? Songs you wrote?”
“Mostly, yes.”
“That’s awesome! Do you play shows?”
“I do. I play here in the Village a lot. But all over town. Sometimes in other cities. I have a show at the Lighthouse next Saturday.”
Ryan frowned. “There’s a lighthouse here?”
Oh no. Ryan Price is still adorable. “No,” Fabian laughed. “It’s a bar, just in the neighborhood here.”
“Oh.” Ryan’s face turned pink. “Yeah, that makes more sense.”
“Yes. The show is a fundraiser for a shelter, and it’s a big venue. It should be good.”
“Oh. Cool.” Ryan looked at the floor. Then up at Fabian. Then behind him. “Uh, I have to pick up a prescription, so...”
“Right! Don’t let me stop you!”
“Yeah. So, um...it was nice seeing you again.”
“You too. And congratulations? For playing for the Guardians? I understand that is a very big deal.”
That earned Fabian another warm smile. “Thanks.” Then Ryan turned and headed for the back of the store.
Fabian hugged himself because suddenly he felt very exposed and weird. He hadn’t expected to ever see Ryan again, but suddenly he was transported right back to being seventeen with a confusing and ridiculous crush on the hockey player who had lived with his family for less than a year.
Fabian’s parents had housed members of the Halifax Breakers junior hockey team for years. Young Fabian had always resented it, and had actively avoided interacting with the obnoxious jocks who’d invaded his home every winter. To be fair, the hockey players hadn’t seemed at all interested in Fabian either.
Except Ryan.
Ryan had been different, and it had completely thrown Fabian off balance. Teenage Fabian had been all thorns, unable to hide his queerness, so he’d guarded himself by being a self-important grouch. Mostly, he’d just kept to himself, practiced his music, and dismissed anyone who’d tried to talk to him. A big dumb hockey player couldn’t hurt him if Fabian didn’t give a shit about him.
Which was why Ryan had been so fucking dangerous.
Ryan, who was in Fabian’s store right now.
Something occurred to Fabian: if Ryan was picking up a prescription at this pharmacy, it meant he probably lived in the neighborhood, which was not only where Fabian lived, but it was also Canada’s largest queer village.
Which didn’t necessarily mean anything. But it was interesting. Maybe.
Fabian spotted Ryan as he was leaving the store, a small paper bag in hand. Just as he was about to step through the doors, Ryan paused and looked over at Fabian. Ryan gave him a bashful little smile and a wave, and then he was gone.
Chapter Three
Ryan looked straight ahead as he entered the plane. He did not look at the bolts on the aircraft’s exterior, or the intricate mechanics visible around the open door. He didn’t think about how crucial it was for every single one of those bolts and wires and thin plates of metal to stay together; that the slightest malfunction could cause the fiery death of everyone on board.
Ryan couldn’t think about any of that. Instead, he ran through his usual preflight list of sensible, calming thoughts.
Millions of people fly every day without issue.
This plane has probably taken off, flown, and landed hundreds, if not thousands, of times without issue.
The pilot wouldn’t fly this plane if it weren’t safe.
The flight attendants are calm and happy and smiling. This is their job every day.
Your teammates are calm.
Flying is safer than driving.
Ryan knew all of these things were true, but he couldn’t stop the intense dread that gripped him every time he boarded an airplane. He couldn’t stop thinking that he was the only one who knew everyone on board was doomed. That they all needed to get off this plane right now because couldn’t everyone see how dangerous this was?
Ryan exhaled as he squeezed his large body along the narrow aisle. His suit felt too tight. Why did they have to wear suits on these plane trips? He tugged at his necktie as he searched around for an empty aisle seat.
“Pricey!”
Ryan looked toward the back of the plane and saw Wyatt Hayes waving at him from behind a seat. Ryan nodded in response, and moved toward him.
“How ya doing?” Wyatt’s tone was cheerful. Definitely not a man who was worried about dying today.
“Good as always, I guess,” Ryan said. He set his backpack on the seat next to Wyatt and opened it. He rummaged around and pulled out a crisp new paperback novel by one of his favorite authors, a small bottle of Tums, and a battered copy of Anne of Green Gables. He stuffed the items, along with his phone, into the seat pocket in front of him, shoved the backpack under the seat, and sat down.
“That’s why I like sitting with you, Pricey,” Wyatt said. “You’re a reader.” He gestured to his own seat pocket, where Ryan could see the top of a thick graphic novel sticking out. Wyatt loved comic books and superheroes. Ryan didn’t know anything about them. Maybe Ryan could ask Wyatt for entry-level comic book recommendations. That would be a friendly thing to do...
“Should be a smooth flight. I was looking at the weather between here and Nashville.” Wyatt said this conversationally, but Ryan knew he was doing his best to help. Maybe it was because he was Toronto’s backup goalie and spent more time watching games than playing them, but Wyatt was remarkably observant and considerate. Ryan nodded in response. He wished he could find comfort in Wyatt’s weather report, but there was really nothing that would make his brain calm down. His anxiety meds helped a bit, and were probably what was keeping him from running screaming off the plane right now, but no amount of common sense would make him stop imagining worst-case scenarios.
It’s a short flight. You’ll be in Nashville before you know it.
Ryan longed for the days when NHL teams traveled mostly by bus. When he’d played junior hockey, all travel had been by bus. He knew he was in the minority, but he would take a fifteen-hour bus ride over a two-hour flight any day.
He removed his phone from the seat pocket and sent a text to his sister, as he did before every flight. He told himself it was only because he liked hearing from her and not because he worried he may never see her again.
Ryan: Heading to Nashville.
Colleen: Who are you sitting with?
Ryan glanced over at Wyatt, who was pulling down the window shade in a gesture that was almost certainly for Ryan’s benefit.
Ryan: Wyatt Hayes
Colleen: He’s cute! You should date him!
Ryan flushed and angled his phone so Wyatt definitely wouldn’t be able to see the screen.
Ryan: Straight. Married. And shut up.
Colleen: Aw. He’s cute, though, right?
Ryan stole another glance at Wyatt, who caught his eye and grinned at him, all dimples and blond curls. He was attractive, no question, but...
Ryan: Not my type.
Wyatt wasn’t the one who Ryan couldn’t stop thinking about. It
had taken a long time and a lot of distance for Ryan to almost forget about Fabian Salah. And now a chance reunion in a Toronto pharmacy, over thirteen years later, had opened a floodgate of memories.
Even as a teenager, Fabian had been stunning—far from macho, and even farther from apologizing for it. He’d always been short, and couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and twenty-five pounds at the time, but Ryan had been thoroughly intimidated by him.
He had also been thoroughly infatuated with him.
A flight attendant was shutting and locking the plane door. Ryan’s stomach clenched. He sent another text to his sister. Taking off soon. Gotta go.
Colleen: Do you have Anne with you?
Ryan smiled, and touched his fingers to the frayed edges of his ancient copy of Anne of Green Gables.
Ryan: Always.
Colleen: Then you’re safe.
Ryan: I know. Thanks.
Colleen: Love you. Text me when you land.
Ryan: Ok. Love you.
He tucked his phone into the seat pocket so he didn’t risk crushing it in his hand during takeoff. Thank god for Colleen. His sister was only three years younger than him, and they’d been thick as thieves growing up together in a town of less than two thousand people. Leaving her behind had been one of the hardest parts of turning pro.
The plane began to move, and Ryan gripped the armrests. He closed his eyes, and went through his breathing exercises. It’s fine. Everything is fine.
When he opened his eyes, he could see the grinning, idiotic faces of Dallas Kent and Troy Barrett peering at him from around their aisle seats. As soon as he caught their eyes, they started laughing. Even though several rows divided them from him, Ryan could hear Dallas say something like “He looks like he’s going to have a heart attack.”
Assholes.
“Hey,” said Wyatt, who probably guessed what was happening. “Did you ever play for Nashville? I forget.”