by R. J. Scott
“… and so my brother and his husband were there that night. Poor defender got slammed, and I know it wasn’t the first time Lankinen has gone too far. We’re all glad he’s gone. I bet you are too.”
I held my breath. The party line was that no one on the team talked about Aarni—deflection was what it was all about, and I wondered how easily Alex would be able to work around this. I shouldn’t have worried when he looked up at her with an easy grin.
“I’m just there to play hockey,” he said and didn’t flinch when she touched him on the shoulder in agreement. Only when she’d gone did the real Alex come back, but it seemed he didn’t want to talk about Emma or the Raptors. “You didn’t even look properly at your menu,” he said instead.
“There’s a good reason for that.” I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “I’d rather spend time looking at you.” The words spilled out of me, and I watched him as he dipped his head, then appeared to gather himself and stared back at me.
“Oh,” he said as if he didn’t have the first clue what to say. Then he tipped his chin, smiled, and his whole face lit up. He was so gorgeous, every single part of him from his soft hair to his dark eyes. “I want to look at you too,” he said shyly, and there was less the fiery Alex, who tripped over his words, and more of a calm man with measured speech.
God, I itched to reach over and touch his hand, but instead I gripped my water glass so hard that I was concerned it might crack. For a few moments, we smiled at each other with inane grins, and then his bravery fled, and he dipped his head, only looking up when Emma came back with my beer.
“So, uhm, is that right what you said about living in London?” Alex asked, and for him, I would go into detail because it mattered, and he was actually listening to me.
“Not at all. It’s just easier. Everyone knows London, but not many have heard of a town in the Cotswolds called Bourton-on-the-water or even the Cotswolds themselves. They would have seen photos, though. It’s all chocolate box houses, but it’s two hours’ drive from London. I have a cliché stone terrace house with views over the hills. My mum and aunt have the house next door.”
His eyes widened. “Wait, you live next to your mom?”
“Yep, she keeps an eye on my place when I travel.”
“And you live right in the middle of a field or something? I mean, I’ve seen films, like The Holiday, where it snows, and everything is tiny with thatched roofs and chimneys and absolutely no AC.” He shuddered at that last thought, but he did live in Arizona, where AC was a given.
“I live on the edges of the town, which is a tourist trap, but when everyone goes home and it’s just me in my tiny garden with a beer, it’s home.”
He seemed intrigued, “Do you have any pictures?”
I took out my phone and scrolled for the only picture I had of my cottage, one I’d taken to send to Jason a year ago. It had stayed on my phone, even though I’d purged the photos on there at least twice. I was so damn proud of my place, two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen I was refurbishing myself, and a large lounge with a log burner. The windows were quartered, and the woodwork painted a pale green, and the house itself was Grade II listed, dating back to the seventeen hundreds. It was my slice of England, and I’d never been as proud as the moment I picked up the keys. My house paid for outright. All mine, and I wasn’t beholden to anyone. Turning the screen, I handed it to him.
He took the phone and examined the image. “It’s so pretty,” he summarized and zoomed in to have a closer look. “Tell me about your town. Does your family live there? Do you work there? Do you know London at all?”
I could answer most of those questions easily, but the family one I managed to avoid, as our dinners arrived, and we ate as we exchanged small talk about the team. As soon as I could, I asked about his family, and any nerves he had with being seen vanished in an instant. His whole face lit up as he talked about the entire Santos-Garcia family, about how it was Elizabeth’s quinceañera soon, and how much it meant to her as she turned fifteen. I could’ve sat and listened to him talk all day as the Spanish names slid out effortlessly, and I knew that if I was ever lucky enough to get him into bed, I would demand he only talked with the soft vowels of his first language.
“So you can see why I can’t tell anyone about me,” he ended after explaining about the church and his family’s expectations. All I heard was of a family that loved him dearly and that I would have given my left bollock to be part of as a kid.
“What do you think they would say?”
“I think they’d be sick with grief.”
I heard sadness and resignation, but his tone was respectful when it came to what his parents thought. What must it be like to keep a secret like this? To imagine for one minute that the family you treasured might not love you back just because of your sexuality must be a pressure that was tearing him apart, crawling under his skin. No wonder he wasn’t relaxing in the restaurant, and I decided there and then that this wasn’t the place for us to be right now.
“We should leave,” I said and called Emma over to ask for the bill, remembering it was called a check here and pulling out my wallet for the card reader.
“I understand,” Alex murmured and sat back in his chair as if he had a weight on his shoulders that was pressing him down. He looked defeated and more than a little lost.
“Understand what?” I said, but he couldn’t answer, and we tussled a little over who was paying as Emma was back with the card reader. I beat him to it, only because I already had my wallet out, and he laughed along with Emma at his defeat, although it was a hollow sound. But as soon as Emma left, he went back to appearing dejected and shrunk into his chair. The urge to touch overwhelmed me again. “Alex? What is it you understand?”
“You’re used to men who will hold your hand and not sit like a conejo asustado.” He made rabbit ears and grimaced, so I guess a koh-neh-hoh -whatever was a weird-arse scared rabbit. Which he wasn’t at all. He was careful and had a secret that scared him. “I understand why you want to leave and that I’m too difficult to handle.” He looked frustrated, and his hands were balled into fists on the table.
“I want to go somewhere else,” I began, “where I can hold your hand maybe and just talk to you, get to know you.”
“We can’t go to my place.” He looked pained. “Any of the team might be visiting.”
“And I’m in a Westman-Reid pool house,” I pointed out. Then inspiration hit. “Let’s just drive.”
“You’ll want more.” Alex was stubborn, and he didn’t move from his chair. “I shouldn’t have done this. I don’t even know what I’m doing…” He was frozen in place, and he wouldn’t meet my gaze, so I did the only thing I could. I slapped a hand on his fist to startle him, then pushed my chair back.
“Come on, let’s talk.”
I walked out then, hoping he would follow, which he did after a short while, loping out of the restaurant and checking around him as if he expected the paparazzi to be waiting. I’d seriously underestimated how discreet we had to be, and I could’ve kicked myself for suggesting dinner in a public place. The car wasn’t parked far, and I waited inside, wondering if he would actually join me. As soon as he was in and belted, I drove away from the main street and headed northwest with no particular destination in mind until I spotted signs for Saguaro National Park, which had to have some quiet spaces, right? Hell, it was the desert, wasn’t it?
“Ryker knows,” Alex blurted as we neared our destination. He’d been quiet up until now, sitting low in his seat and watching the landscape pass. “He says you look at me all the time.”
Shit. I do? “I will be more circumspect.”
“No, I didn’t mean it like that. He says I look back, so it’s not just you. I can’t believe I’m fucking everything up,” he said and then groaned.
I placed my hand on his knee and squeezed it reassuringly. “No one will notice,” I lied.
Hockey players had this whole locker room mentality that made no s
ense to me. It was all men together, and yes, there were players like Madsen who bucked the trend, but the chat was mostly about girls. I’d heard Alex join in, seen the way he held himself when he was in that room, and it was different from the vulnerability he was showing now. He’d grown so good at faking it that no one would think he wasn’t straight.
“See what I got?” He held out his hand, and there was a napkin on his palm, still neatly folded, a phone number in dark pen. “Emma says she has a thing for hockey players, and I took the fucking number.” He let out a string of Spanish, and the tone was sharp as if the entirety of what he’d added was one long curse after another. “She told me her brother and his husband love hockey, and I had the perfect opening to talk frankly, and I was terrified.”
The sign for the Saguaro National Park turnoff was up ahead, and I indicated and took the turn. The road into it was empty and pretty much like the Peak District or the Yorkshire Moors back in England. The Park wasn’t grass and swings but a vast open space of wild Arizona desert. There were cacti here and mountains. The heat made everything shimmer, and we followed signs for the first parking lot, pulling up in the final space, with no sign of any other human around. I left the engine on with the AC running, locked the doors, and took off my seat belt before turning to face Alex.
“I shouldn’t have suggested a restaurant.”
“I shouldn’t have freaked out.”
“Maybe we should have booked a hotel room—”
“Puta mierda! I’m not doing that!” Alex interrupted, unlocked his door, and fumbled with the door handle, clambering out of the car. I copied him, and we met at the front of the rental, the relentless Arizona sun, even in the evening, sucking the air from me and burning my lungs. I hoped to God that we weren’t doing this whole emotional scene, standing in the heat.
“I meant, to talk. Alex, nothing else, I swear.”
“I don’t trust you. I don’t want you to do that. I don’t want to do that. I don’t.”
I didn’t see the kiss coming, but I had an armful of sexy Alex, and I stumbled back. I separated us and saw his chest heaving. This was out of control and more than I could handle right now. What we had was the start of a delicate negotiation as to what we did, how we did it, and even if we did anything at all.
“Alex, let’s get back in the car,” I suggested, and after a moment’s pause, he nodded, and we were quickly both inside the cold interior. He faced me when he sat down.
“I’m such a fuckup,” he muttered. “Like a teenager on a first date, like a mocoso on a first day.”
I cupped his face and held my hands there until he looked less as if he was going to run, rubbing my thumbs on his cheekbones and holding his gaze.
“No one has to know, Alejandro. No one.” I tilted my head and pressed my lips to his, gentling his instinctive reaction of aggression, kissing him lazily, our tongues tangling, tasting the heat of him for the longest time.
Somewhere between the start and end of our first gentle kiss, he went still, and it was only then that I tasted the salt of his tears.
Nine
Alex
As February faded into March, and I was dipping a toe into secretly dating a man, I began to see myself as three separate Alejandros.
One was the Alejandro my family expected—cocky, macho, and super-straight. Then there was the Alejandro my team expected—respectful, macho, and super-straight. The third Alejandro was the one I was slowly getting to know as Sebastian and I grew closer.
This third Alejandro was so different from the other two that it was hard to align them all in my head. Alejandro the third was less aggressive, more receptive, and not super-straight. Of course, Alejandro the third came out when Seb and I were alone or, on occasion, when it was just me and Ryker kicking back at home. The gay man inside me was still far too scared to show any signs of not being Mr. Hetero Chick Chaser when I was outside. It was only inside, with my best friend or the man who was willing to let me kiss him, then stop when things got too heated, that I could let the real me out. His patience was through the roof. Seb never got mad at me for backing out or pushing him away. He never ridiculed me for being such a whiny brat begging for more time while rubbing all over him. I was terrified of losing him for not putting out, yet I was terrified of being intimate with him because once that line had been crossed, how would I ever shove Alejandro the third back into his dark, airless closet?
Times like now, even though I was home, was a for sure Alejandro Número Uno. And he was firmly locked in the cupboard.
“Buenos dias, Abueladías, Abuela,” I said, smiling at my grandmother as we had our morning computer talk. Her term for it, not mine.
Ryker fell over my back, his arms linked around my neck. “Buenos dias, Abueladías, Abuela,” he called right into my ear. I grimaced and swatted at him. Abuela laughed. “How are you today?”
“Ustedes dos son tan guapos! Ryker, pregúntame en español.”
My buddy gave me a blank look.
“She said we’re both so handsome.” Ryker blushed. “And that she wants you to ask her how she is in Spanish.” Ryker blanched. I whispered the correct words to him.
He grinned, climbed over the back of the sofa, and flopped down beside me. “¿Cómo está?”
Abuela shook a finger at us, but her wrinkled face was drawn into a smile. “Oh, mi niñito, why do you help your friend cheat on his Spanish learning? How will he ever learn good Spanish if you put the words into his ears?”
We both hung our heads in shame. She laughed out loud, then called us scamps.
“I’ll do better tomorrow, Abuela, I promise. Shower time!” He slapped my head, then clambered over the back of the couch. “And I’m using the last clean towel!”
“Loser.” I chuckled, then focused on the lean little old woman on my laptop screen. “He’s a loser.”
“He’s a good boy. Like you. Two good boys. Alejandro, tell me, who are you bringing to Elizabeth’s quinceañera?”
Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Would she die if I said Sebastian? Yes, she would. She would die of shame and embarrassment, as would my parents and siblings. My cousins would beat me senseless, then spit on the maricón lying on the ground bleeding.
“I don’t know yet.” She glared at me over the top of her glasses. “I don’t! Abuela, there are so many women who want me. How, how can I pick just one and disappoint all the others?” She rolled her eyes, but deep down, she loved the machismo. She could go on for days about how my Abuelo had been strong, possessive, jealous, and firm in his knowledge that certain things were not his place as a man, such as cleaning, cooking, and caring for the children.
“Such a cocky rooster,” she chided, her usually happy eyes decidedly unhappy. “You must choose a date, Alejandro. Your sister is being stupid about it and refuses to ask any boy we think is suitable.”
“Maybe you and Mamá could let her choose her own damas and chambelanes?”
“Pah, the damas are all lined up. What girl does not want to wear a beautiful gown and have her hair done like a queen? It’s the boys who are balking, and she is not helping for being so stubborn.”
I was eternally grateful that I’d been born male. “I think you and Mamá should just let her pick. She knows who she likes. If you don’t let her decide, she’s going to press me to be her chambelán de honor.”
Abuela whispered a quick prayer to the Virgin. “What if she picks someone who the family thinks is un zorillo apestoso?”
That made me snicker. “Well, if she picks a stinking skunk, then we’ll all have to wear masks. You should let her be with the boy she wants to be with, Abuela. Everyone should be with the person their heart tells them to be with.”
She stared at me hard. “Alejandro, is there someone who your heart tells you to be with?”
I blinked at the tiny little gray-haired woman. If only I could tell her…
“No, Abuela, there’s no special someone that I’d be able to bring home to meet you.”
Dark bro
wn eyes burrowed into me. I began to feel itchy. That denial of Sebastian—of me and him and us—hurt badly. “Alejandro, you are my favorite grandson, si sabes.”
“Si, Abuela.” She told my brother and me that all the time. “I know that.”
“You bring home whoever makes your heart sing, mi niño lindo.”
My heart flipped, and my gut lurched. “What if it’s not the right kind of person?”
“If the person makes you happy, then they are the right person. Blow me a kiss, Alejandro. I am going late for tai chi.”
I blew her a kiss. “Adiós.”
“Adiós, papito.” She tossed me a kiss. Then the screen went blank.
Kind of like my mind. Had I been reading too much into her words? Yeah, totally. She could no way have meant for me to bring some man home. I stood and shook off the willies that had made my skin prickle.
After a quick shower where I had to dry off with a stinky towel, fucking Ryker, my bestie and I stopped to visit Henry. He was down in the dumps, in pain, and surrounded by flowers from Adler Lockhart.
“Dude, he totally said he would buy you a pony,” Ryker teased. That made Henry smile for a moment. “I could see you riding through Tucson on the back of a hairy-ass pony.”
“Oh! We could each get one, and we’d be the Three Ponyteers!”
We all had a good laugh, and Henry, bless him, even tried to toss out some jibes, but they lacked heart. That was the core of his problems, well, the emotional and mental core. His injuries, of course, were the biggest issue, that eye becoming more and more problematic as time went on, but he’d just given up the fight. He’d lost his passion for life, and I got that. I really did. There were days when I felt life had its boot heel to my throat. Days that I’d been this close to saying fuck it and giving up. Living a lie was corrosive. Then I’d come to Arizona. I’d met Henry and Ryker, Colorado, Vlad, and our new coaching staff. Then Sebastian had arrived, and I was now living a dual life. When I was with him, the agony of my lies was gone. I could snuggle close to a man, touch a man, kiss a man. When we were apart, I was lashed to those damn three rocks and staring into the face of a serpent.