by Rachel Reid
“I know I ask this every week,” Tarek said, “but is it supposed to burn this much?”
“Yes,” Fabian said. “It burns because your face sucks. It has to work extra hard to fix it.”
Tarek flipped him off.
“Oh!” Vanessa said suddenly. “I have something for you, Fabian.” She grabbed her messenger bag from the floor. It was covered in patches and buttons that loudly identified her as the queer, sex-positive feminist that she was.
“Does it vibrate?” As well as working at a sex shop, Vanessa also had a reasonably popular sex toy review blog. It wasn’t unusual for her coerce her friends into being product testers.
“Honey, it does so much more than that.” She produced a shiny purple box from her bag and handed it to him. “Be sure to tell me what you think.”
“Do I have to?” Fabian peeled his mask off, crumpled it into a ball, and set it on his empty waffle plate.
“Come on. I don’t have time to review all of these toys myself! And it’s not like I have a prostate!”
“You get bullet points,” he said. “If I even use the thing.”
“You’ll use it. It does all the stuff. And it’s purple!”
“Does that...make it better?”
“It makes it cuter. Be a better lover than Claude, probably.”
Fabian glared at her.
“More pleasant to talk to, for sure,” she added, grinning. “Better Instagram posts.”
“Anyway,” Fabian said, desperate to change the subject to anything else. “How was work last night, Marcus?”
He rolled his eyes dramatically. “Exhausting. I hate it when Halloween is a Thursday because it turns it into a week-long festival. The club was packed with barely legal kids in devil horns being sloppy all over the place. I was so done when we finally closed I couldn’t even be bothered to go home with the Ezra Miller-looking guy who’d been flirting with me all night.”
“Tragic,” Fabian said.
“No one looks like Ezra Miller except Ezra Miller, but okay,” added Tarek.
“He was hot, he was into me, I turned him down.” Marcus glowered at them. “Now I’m eating waffles with you assholes instead of sharing a morning shower with Ezra-light.”
“Mm,” Tarek said. “I was going to fuck Nick Jonas last night but I didn’t want to.”
“Fuck. You,” Marcus said. But he was laughing.
Fabian almost mentioned running into Ryan to his friends, but it was too confusing to explain and too insignificant to bother with. He’d run into someone he hadn’t seen in over a decade, and now he would probably never see him again. The end.
It’s not like he’d been thinking about Ryan since running into him. It’s not like he had been secretly looking for him whenever he was walking around the Village.
God. Enough. Ryan was a hockey player. He wore one of those blue jerseys Fabian hated so much to work. And Fabian didn’t need any distractions right now, no matter how tall they were, or how adorable their smile was.
So he thanked his friends for yet another lovely time, grabbed his bag—now heavier, thanks to the dildo—and headed home to hopefully lose himself in music.
And, he supposed, if he got bored, he had a new toy to play with.
Chapter Five
Ryan wrapped his hand around the other man’s arm, pulling him close in a firm grip. He dipped his head, and brought his lips close to the man’s ear.
“You sure you wanna do this, kid?”
When Ryan pulled back, he could see the fear in the young man’s eyes. Hell, he could smell it coming off him in waves.
“F-fuck you,” the man spat out.
So Ryan punched him across the jaw. And the crowd went wild.
Ryan had hoped the one punch would do the trick, and the younger player would fall to the ice. Then the refs could step in and break it up, the kid would get to say he fought Ryan Price, and Ryan wouldn’t have to hurt this rookie too badly.
But the kid didn’t go down. Instead, he pulled back his right fist and hit Ryan in the shoulder, which probably hadn’t been where he’d been aiming, because Ryan could hear his knuckles cracking against the hard plastic of his shoulder pad.
The kid—a twenty-two-year-old rookie for Minnesota named Corkum—stared in horror at his own fist for a second, and then turned his wide eyes to Ryan’s face. Ryan sort of shrugged and gave him an apologetic look before landing a second punch to the right side of his face.
This time, Corkum hit the ice. Ryan made a show of covering him with his much larger body and pulling his arm back as if he might hit him again. He wouldn’t—the kid was turtling now, and Ryan would never hit a guy in that position—but he wanted to get the ref’s attention.
It worked. In a moment, one of the linesmen was roughly hauling Ryan off of Corkum. The crowd was chanting now as Ryan was ushered to the penalty box.
“Pay. The. Price.”
Ryan hated that chant. Truly, and deeply despised it. It had followed him from his junior hockey days to the eight different NHL teams he had played for, and now to his ninth team.
“Pay. The. Price.”
He settled into the box, took his helmet off, and shook out his long, sweaty hair.
“I was starting to miss you,” the penalty box attendant joked. Gerald was in his sixties, and chattier than most of the attendants around the league. Ryan would know; he was very familiar with them.
“You’re going to be expecting a proposal soon, I’ll bet,” Ryan said. “All this time alone together.”
Gerald laughed, but Ryan found himself wondering how many hours of his own life had been spent in penalty boxes. How many days, if he added up all the two-minute and five-minute intervals.
Well, less than Gerald. Maybe.
When the crowd had settled down, and the play was underway, Ryan heard Corkum yelling at him from his own penalty box. “Hey, Price!”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks!” Corkum was beaming, and flushed like he’d just had the best sex of his life. Ryan snorted and shook his head.
“You made his night!” Gerald said cheerfully.
“He’s an idiot,” Ryan grumbled. He grabbed a water bottle and squirted it over his head, then finger-combed his damp hair, pulling it away from his face before putting his helmet back on. It wasn’t unusual for young players to challenge him to fights; Ryan was known to be one of the toughest fighters in the league. A youngster could quickly earn a little respect by challenging him. It was probably Ryan’s least favorite kind of fight, though. The last thing he wanted to do was truly hurt someone, so he had to concentrate on pulling his punches, and making sure they didn’t land on the guy’s temple or his nose or eyes. At six-foot-seven and almost two hundred and sixty pounds, Ryan was usually the biggest guy on the ice, so evenly matched fights were rare.
Ryan inspected his left hand before putting his gloves back on. He’d probably have a bit of bruising on his knuckles, but nothing serious. He was more concerned about the fact that his back had been bothering him again.
He glanced up at the clock. He doubted he’d see more ice time tonight; his team was up by two goals with a little over eight minutes left to play, and he had done his job for the night.
When the five minutes were up and play had stopped, Gerald opened the door to let Ryan out of the penalty box. He quickly made his way to the Toronto bench, where he wedged himself between his defensive line mate Marcel Houde and Wyatt.
“Good fight, Pricey,” Marcel said halfheartedly when Ryan sat next to him.
“Thanks.” Ryan didn’t mind the lack of enthusiasm; it hadn’t, truthfully, been a good fight. But fighting was all his teammates expected of him, and if he didn’t get perfunctory acknowledgments for punching people, Ryan would never hear praise at all.
“Who do you think the stars will be?” Wyatt asked
with a grin.
“I don’t know. Maybe—”
“I mean,” Wyatt continued, “obviously the first star of the game will be me, but who will the second star be?”
Ryan laughed. “You and me, buddy. One and two.”
Wyatt shook his head. “I’m one, the Zamboni is two. You’re three.”
“I’ll take it,” Ryan said. The game was now into its final minute, and Ryan realized he was in a good mood. His team was going to win at home, and it would be days before he inevitably started worrying about the next flight he needed to board.
The game ended and Ryan joined his teammates on the ice in celebration. Wyatt, in his ball cap and clean, dry uniform, had launched into his usual routine. “Whoosh, that was a tough one, boys. Couldn’t have done it without me! Where are we drinking?”
The celebration continued into the locker room. Ryan sat in his stall in one corner and quietly removed his gear as his teammates whooped and hollered and made plans for later that night.
It was Wyatt who thought to ask him. Of course.
“You comin’ out with us?” Wyatt, who hadn’t played and thus hadn’t needed a shower, was already dressed in a dark gray suit, ready to leave the arena.
“Oh, uh, I think I’m gonna head home, actually. I...” Ryan didn’t finish his sentence because he didn’t want to tell Wyatt about his plans. He had decided to go to see Fabian’s show that night. He had been wrestling with the idea all week, and he’d finally decided that his desire to see Fabian perform outweighed his anxiety about going out.
Thankfully, Wyatt didn’t require an explanation. He wouldn’t have been expecting Ryan to accept his invitation anyway. Ryan was sure of that. “See you Monday, then,” Wyatt said. “Have a good day off.”
“Right. Okay. You too.”
Ryan needed to hurry. It was already after ten o’clock. He took the fastest shower ever, and cursed the rule about wearing suits out of the arena after games. He wouldn’t have time to stop at home to change; as it was he needed to haul ass to the club and hope he hadn’t missed Fabian’s set entirely.
* * *
When Ryan arrived at the Lighthouse, Fabian was already onstage, but it looked like he was just setting up. The room was quite full, which was good for both the charity the concert was raising money for, and for Ryan, because he would rather Fabian didn’t see him. He didn’t want anyone to see him, really. Especially since he was wearing a full suit, which made him stick out even more than he would have anyway. Everyone in the room was dressed casually, but in a way that suggested their outfits had been carefully put together. He saw everything from button-up shirts with loud prints on them, to overalls, to plain white T-shirts and skinny jeans. Definitely no other suits, though.
He stood at the back of the dark room, mindful of his size and not wanting to block anyone’s view, and watched Fabian fiddle with a complicated-looking setup that included several floor pedals, a laptop, and a keyboard. He could also see Fabian’s violin case on the floor behind him. Fabian moved quickly and efficiently between each of the components, occasionally chatting with people in the audience near the stage. Ryan saw him smile and laugh, and he was struck by how surreal it was to see him again as a beautiful and confident adult.
And that was before Fabian was even performing.
The first song started with a simple drum track that Fabian played from his laptop. To that he added layers of music from the keyboard, which he seemed to record and loop using the floor pedals. When he was satisfied with how that sounded, he would add another layer, building a wall of sound all by himself. He moved away from the laptop and keyboard, and picked up his violin, and when he stepped in front of the microphone, Ryan felt like the wind had been knocked right out of him. Fabian stood, alone, under the stage lights in a black, transparent shirt, sleek black pants, and several sparkling necklaces. He was also wearing dramatic makeup—Ryan could tell, even from the back of the room—and it all made him look like a mythical creature or an angel.
Ryan may have gasped a little when Fabian brought the bow to the violin and played the first notes. Ryan had loved listening to him devotedly practice his instrument as a teenager, and hearing it again now was bewildering. The slow, dreamy melody was recorded and looped with the pedals, and then Fabian rested the violin and its bow at his sides, one item in each hand. He turned to the mic, closed his eyes, and sang.
It was the most beautiful thing Ryan had ever heard; haunting in a way that sent sparks dancing down Ryan’s spine and into his abdomen. Fabian’s voice was kind of soft and high, but also clear and confident. The music could probably be called pop, but it was so complex that Ryan wasn’t sure it fit any category. Fabian’s lyrics were cryptic, but they were also unmistakably sexy. Ryan couldn’t quite follow the story of the song, but he definitely felt every word.
He held his breath, not wanting to make even the faintest sound that might compete with this perfect gift Fabian was giving the audience. Ryan couldn’t believe this was actually happening in front of him and that there were people in the world who were not here witnessing what was surely humanity’s most impressive achievement.
The song ended, the audience erupted into cheers, and Ryan, gobsmacked, nearly forgot to clap. And then he realized that was only the first song.
“Thank you,” Fabian said quietly, as if he hadn’t just done something completely amazing. “This next song is new. I haven’t named it yet, but I wanted to try it out tonight, if that’s all right with you.”
There was scattered applause and a few whoops of appreciation. Ryan had considered, as he’d been walking to the club, just staying for a song or two, but there was no way he was going anywhere now. He stood, barely moving, for however long it took Fabian to finish his set. Thirty minutes? Forty? Ryan had no idea how much time had passed because he was transfixed. When the last song finished, Fabian sort of half bowed and blew kisses at the crowd.
The show was over, and Ryan should leave, but now he really wanted to talk to Fabian. Just to tell him how much he had enjoyed the show. Fabian hopped off the stage and Ryan lost sight of him for a while. He considered getting a beer, or maybe finding a table to sit at, now that some of the people were starting to clear out. Instead, he leaned back against the wall and stared at the floor for a few minutes, just to keep himself from obsessively scanning the crowd for Fabian.
It was probably twenty minutes later when Ryan saw Fabian standing alone next to an empty table, drinking from a bottle of water. Ryan decided this was his chance, and took a step toward him. He ran a hand quickly over his beard, hoping he looked all right.
He stopped in his tracks when he saw a man wrap his arms around Fabian. Fabian beamed at the man, and kissed him quickly on the mouth. The man was stocky, with skin slightly darker than Fabian’s, and he was wearing a stylish outfit complete with dark-rimmed glasses. He was cute. And of course Fabian had an adorable boyfriend.
The man’s hand stayed on Fabian’s arm as they chatted. Possessive, Ryan thought. He didn’t blame him. But he did hate him a little.
Jesus. What the hell gave him the right to think badly of Fabian’s boyfriend? Ryan didn’t know the guy. Ryan didn’t know Fabian. Ryan needed to get out of this bar. He didn’t belong here. This was why he never went anywhere. This was why he was so fucking lonely. He was about to turn away when Fabian suddenly locked eyes with him.
Shit.
Fabian’s face broke into a smile, and he gently tapped the other man’s arm before making his way to Ryan.
“I thought that was you,” Fabian said. He was still smiling—a full, delighted smile that showed his teeth. Ryan realized his own mouth was just sort of hanging open, like a dead fish.
“Hi. I, um, was just—you mentioned you were playing here. Tonight. When we were talking last week. In the, um...”
Fabian stepped closer. “I remember. I didn’t expect you to actually come.
”
“Sorry. I probably shouldn’t have—”
“No! No, I’m glad you’re here. It’s...really sweet. Actually.”
“Oh.”
“I perhaps should have been clearer about the dress code.” Fabian’s gaze swept over Ryan’s light gray suit, and his lips twisted into a teasing smile.
“I came straight from the arena. I didn’t have time to change. I know I look ridiculous.”
“Not at all.”
For a few seconds, they stood in silence, and Ryan wanted to both run away, and to reach out and touch his fingers to Fabian’s gorgeous face. Standing as close as they were, Ryan could now clearly see the artistry of his makeup; Fabian’s eyelids were painted in smoky layers of black and silver, and there was an iridescent shimmery powder on his face that highlighted his sharp cheekbones.
“Did you enjoy the show?” Fabian asked.
Fuck, Ryan. How rude are you? “Holy god. Yeah, it was unreal. You are...really good.”
Fabian pressed his lips together, then said, “Thank you.”
Ryan wanted to say more, but he couldn’t find the right words to describe how incredible Fabian’s music had been. So instead he said, “Well, I should let you get back to—”
“Come sit with us,” Fabian interrupted. “You can meet my friends. I have drink tickets. What can I get you?”
“Oh. You don’t have to—”
“Come on. You can tell me some more about how great I was.”
Ryan laughed at that. “Okay.”
Fabian led him back to the man he’d been hugging, and kissing, and touching a few minutes ago. “This is my friend, Tarek. He lives with my other friends, Vanessa, who is here...somewhere...and Marcus, who isn’t here because he’s working tonight.”
Friend. “Nice to meet you, Tarek.” Ryan extended his hand. “Ryan.”
Tarek’s face clearly expressed that he had no idea who Ryan was, but not in a rude way. “Ryan,” he repeated back as he shook his hand.