Straight Shooter (Rear Entrance Video, #3)

by Heidi Belleau

  Lalita made eye contact with him in the window’s reflection. They were stopped at a red light. She had a ruthless look about her, pitying and half-angry like Austin imagined a big sister would look. “Between you and me,” she said, “I think he’s a fucking coward.”

  Austin let out a single, bitter “Ha.” Not exactly a laugh; he hoped Lalita wasn’t expecting one.

  “I suppose I don’t need to tell you he doesn’t want to—how do I put this delicately—see you in this capacity anymore?”

  Now Austin did laugh, a raw sound that felt in his chest like it was a coin’s toss away from crying. “He got one of his girlfriends to break up with me for him? Shit, is this junior high?” And Austin had been worried that Liam thought of him as an immature teenager? “What the fuck? I mean—” Okay, that choked feeling in his throat was definitely the beginning of tears. “I mean what the fuck, right? What the fuck? So he lives with you—his ex—but he can’t break it off with his—his—his regular fucking booty call—” Austin was too upset to feel humiliated to name it that way, to acknowledge that’s what he was to Liam. “—can’t break it off with me like a fucking man?”

  Lalita pursed her lips. “It’s different, with me and him. We were one another’s first loves, I think, but as intensely as we felt for one another, we were only ever meant to be friends. Sometimes you mistake the nature of a relationship. What’s between the two of you is as strong as you think, but in a different way from what you believe.”

  Austin had no idea what any of that meant, other than that Lalita and Liam had to be some pretty fucking good friends to be doing porn with each other. “Shit,” he said, and laughed raggedly. He dropped his head into his hands. “Shit. So what does all that mean for me? What the fuck do I do?”

  Lalita didn’t answer—just continued to focus on her driving. She flicked her turn signal on, made a sharp right, and before Austin knew it, they were outside of his house. Liam must have given her the address—not that Liam had ever been here either.

  No point thinking about it, really.

  At least the lights were off. He didn’t want to face Bobby now.

  Sure, he’d have to talk to the guy eventually, but . . . not now.

  He didn’t think Lalita had anything more to say to him, but right as he was about to open his door, she spoke up one last time. “You want my advice, little one?” She flashed him a smile that was at once motherly and intensely sexual. Austin’s whole body prickled looking at her. It was like a static shock. Friction between two incompatible forces, sending off sparks. He wasn’t sure if it was a good feeling, or a bad one. “You and Liam had an intense connection, just like he and I do. And just like he and I, it didn’t take the form you initially thought it took. You want someone to dominate you? Find someone to dominate you.” She shrugged. He had the absurd thought that if he propositioned her now, asked her to take on that role, then she would say yes.

  Not absurd at all, really, not with the way she was looking at him, her eyes wide and dark and full of possibilities, a whole universe waiting to be explored.

  Her dark eyes daring him: “Find someone to dominate you.”

  He licked his lips and opened his mouth.

  But that was who Liam was supposed to be.

  And now I don’t want anybody else.

  He closed it again without saying a word.

  At least Liam had picked the ideal time of year to dump Austin’s ass. If ever he needed a distraction or something to keep his body busy or to make himself hurt, there was always hockey.

  Workouts. Drills. Practices. Training camp with his team. Preseason exhibition matches. Analyzing and planning strategy. Watching footage of rival teams’ games. More drills.

  Hell, as August became September, even if he and Liam had still been seeing each other, Austin wouldn’t have had time for the guy anyway.

  Okay, that was a lie. For Liam, Austin would have made time. Somehow. Now, summoning up the energy to use that time together would have been an entire other issue . . .

  What did it matter, though? It was all a daydream, because Liam hadn’t called, and wasn’t going to call, and the sooner Austin got his mind off the asshole, the better.

  So Austin played hockey.

  Week of September 1st

  (Five weeks to the start of the regular season)

  Their crop of first years arrived with the usual small town egos. Not much talent to go around, but plenty of attitude. Ronny Hanson from Prince fucking George up north thought he was God’s gift to hockey. Maybe he was in Prince George, but here he wasn’t exactly hot shit. More like lukewarm shit. And he didn’t like hearing it, either. Like it or not, though, he wasn’t good enough to be their team’s star anything. He’d likely spend this season on the bench. Maybe after a hard summer spent training next year, he’d be ready for minimal ice time. For now, though, he was just some asshole eighteen-year-old kid calling Austin a faggot for supporting Warren’s decision to put him on the bench.

  It wasn’t until after practice that day that Austin realized it: Ronny Hanson calling him a faggot hadn’t given him a boner. It had made him fucking mad that the kid could be so fucking disrespectful, and determined to straighten his ass out before he took his bullshit onto the ice.

  Week of September 8th

  (Four weeks to the start of the regular season)

  Austin wasn’t sure how long he’d been cured. Thinking back, he couldn’t remember the last time trash-talking had gotten him horny. Now that he was paying attention, though, he made it a whole week without a single incident. That was eleven pussys and four fags and even a couple you skate like a girls. Not to mention Ronny Hanson telling him to go suck off Johnny Weir when they did some figure skating–inspired exercises on the ice.

  He’d never been so happy to return a DVD in his life as he was to take back his pilfered collection of Rear Entrance Video discs. Good-bye emaciated Eastern European twinks. Good-bye buff muscle studs grunting and fucking in a tastefully decorated fake living room. Good-bye glory hole videos. Good-bye black guys still wearing their sneakers. Good-bye “artsy” compilation of tattooed guys sucking each other off in abandoned buildings. Good-bye football team gang bang. Good-bye STRAIGHT SUB SETUP.

  He deleted the stash on his computer, too. Cleared his browser history, so he wouldn’t be tempted to revisit any of the gay porn sites lurking there. That Friday, he went to a party up on campus and found a cute girl with wavy brown hair and very short shorts.

  He leaned over the back of her chair, resting his elbow on her small shoulder. “I’m on the hockey team,” he said.

  “I know,” she replied, not looking at him. “We slept together, remember?”

  Well, no, but . . . “Cool. That means we can skip the bullshit, then. Wanna go for seconds?”

  She cast a bored look around the party. “No, but this party fucking sucks, so you can eat me out. Take it or leave it.”

  Her disaffected tone kind of turned Austin on, so he took her by the hand, she led him back to her dorm room, and he ate her pussy until she fell asleep. It was as good as it had ever been, and in the middle of the night she rolled over and gave him a half-awake handjob.

  Cured.

  Week of September 15th

  (Three weeks to the start of the regular season)

  Austin got home from practice still keyed up, wanting to get the excess energy out. He thought of killing some pedestrians on Grand Theft Auto, briefly considered lifting weights in his room alone, but in the end, he saw Max in the hall with his running shoes on and his earbud cord hanging over the back of his neck.

  “Hey,” he called. “Going for a run?”

  Max stared down at his getup, giving Austin an incredulous look. “Uh, yeah? I mean, I’m not going to the Commodore Ballroom like this.” He laughed.

  “Good, good. Can I come? Can you wait for me to throw on a hoodie and my sneakers?”

  That surprised Max, but when he shook off the shock, he smiled. “Sure, man. Don�
�t make me wait too long though.”

  Austin didn’t. He trotted to his room, quickly changed into a pair of shorts and a sweatshirt, and threw on his running shoes.

  He and Max didn’t talk, but they did jog side by side, matching one another’s pace on Max’s usual route through their neighbourhood.

  When they got back, Austin was sweating and panting and in desperate need of a shower, but he hadn’t puked.

  “That was fun,” Max said when they parted, and it was only then that Austin realized Max’s hand was on the knob to the bathroom door. First dibs on the shower, damn. “We should do it again.”

  Austin didn’t take his eyes off that doorknob. “Yeah, sure, but next time I get first shower.”

  “I got a guy to fuck right after this. Can you say the same?”

  Austin grunted. Didn’t reply.

  “That’s what I thought. I get first shower.”

  It didn’t hurt as much as he’d thought, though. Thinking about it. Having it pointed out. In fact, it hurt so little, he called out, “Hey, Bobby, you wanna fuck?”

  He and Max both laughed.

  Max still got the shower first, though.

  Week of September 22nd

  (Two weeks to the start of the regular season)

  Practice. Class. Work. Tuxedo fitting. Practice. Running with Max. Video games with Bobby.

  Austin was alone so rarely, and bored so rarely, that when it finally happened, it completely threw him off.

  He had to assume that was why he randomly found himself on the Mischievous Pictures website, looking at the teaser clips for their latest STRAIGHT SUB SETUP DVD, coming out next month.

  There was Liam in his Puck getup, jacking off a blindfolded sub who was tied to a table and blubbering as Liam casually (borderline bored, really) edged him over and over again. Austin wondered if this sub was the guy who’d failed to show up that day. Had he rescheduled? Or was this a different guy, someone who’d been waiting in the wings for his chance?

  It didn’t feel good, watching this. Not the way it used to feel, and that goodness had been a very complicated thing.

  This was straight-up bad.

  Austin couldn’t blame it on jealousy. He’d never had—or wanted, honestly—any kind of claim on Liam. He didn’t mind seeing Liam with other guys. Kind of thought it was right, in a way, that monogamy was a rule pathetic slavering little fags like Austin would have to follow while masters like Liam did as they pleased. That was Liam’s right.

  In fact, it kind of got Austin hot to think about being forced to watch as Liam used other men, telling him he wasn’t as good the entire time. That he wasn’t worth being faithful to. That he could never hope to satisfy a guy like Liam and he’d just have to put up with the fact that Liam sought satisfaction elsewhere.

  Austin had a boner, now, so he definitely wasn’t jealous.

  But fuck, he was sad.

  No wonder he was sad. He was sitting here getting hard to his ex-Dom’s porn, thinking about his ex-Dom forcing him to watch while he fucked other—better looking, smarter, less sexually confused—guys. Or hell, Lalita. Maybe they still fucked sometimes. It seemed like the kind of friendship where they could.

  Even if they didn’t, shit, he was still below Lalita on the ladder, wasn’t he? At least Liam had broken it off with her mutually, not fucking kicked her out of his place and never talked to her again. He’d stayed friends with her. She was obviously worth the effort.

  And Austin? He wasn’t worth any-fucking-thing.

  How could he be worth anything, sitting here watching minute-long clips of Liam fucking other men? Men he’d chosen over Austin in every conceivable way?

  And he was jerking off to it now, too. Pumping his shaft dry, making it hurt a little, and feeling all the better for it.

  Oh, and crying too. Pathetic.

  He’d cry and jerk off, and then he’d come, and maybe he’d force himself to lick it off his hand, gagging the whole time, or maybe he’d wipe it off on his chest or his boxers, and then when the endorphins fled him, he’d be left with nothing but a compulsion to run and run and run and run. Get nowhere, but hurt himself, like he deserved. Like, deep down, he wanted.

  No.

  He didn’t want this.

  He’d never wanted this.

  And he’d never deserved it, either.

  He wiped his eyes with a sniff. Stabbed his computer off—hit the power button and didn’t bother with the shutdown command. Put his dick back into his boxers.

  And still in his underwear, still with a shameful erection, he got up and went to Bobby’s room.

  Bobby didn’t question. Just welcomed him in with open arms and a gentle, accepting smile.

  Austin was still sad, and he was still hurting, but at least he was trying to make the hurting stop.

  And at least he wasn’t alone.

  Week of September 29th

  (One week to the start of the regular season)

  Bobby and Dylan had a project due and had commandeered the kitchen table as a workspace for laptops and massive books of art and scraps of notebook paper. Whatever they were talking about, Austin didn’t understand a word of it, and they didn’t seem to want him around, anyway. Max and Noah were working—Max the night shift at Rear Entrance Video and Noah at the restaurant. Christian was locked up in his room doing lesson planning for the upcoming week of classes. All the sports channels were showing baseball. All the other channels were showing shitty reality TV. It was pissing down rain. He wasn’t feeling macho or motivated enough to play the latest Call of Duty. Also, Call of Duty was way more fun when he was using it to torture Bobby.

  After a half hour of channel surfing Austin finally gave up on the TV and headed upstairs, intending on doing some biceps curls. Instead, he opened up his computer and surfed to YouTube. His suggested videos playlist were all hockey clips, of course.

  And at the top of the list?

  CANADA WINS GOLD! 2010 OLYMPICS MEN’S HOCKEY FULL GAME

  Settling back in his seat, he selected it, and was lulled immediately by the familiarity of it all. The familiar stadium, the familiar team roster, the familiar rendition of the Canadian anthem. Now came the first face-off . . .

  He’d memorized every play, every call, every comment by the announcers, every snippet of music, every sign held up in the audience. There was no suspense. No tension. He already knew who won, and when, and how.

  But God, it felt good. Relaxing, safe, familiar. Like Liam. Like Liam’s couch, curled up in the Canucks blanket while Liam rubbed his shoulders and murmured the play-by-play in his ear.

  And then the older memory, sitting with his dad and stepbrother, cheering and hugging and practically fucking crying with joy. The only time it would have ever been okay, growing up, for Austin to cry.

  Liam had given him so much. Permission to be weak, to give in, to cry.

  And now, he’d given him this. This quiet, steady contentment, where everything went right, and there were no upsets or surprises. A calm, safe place. Austin rested his chin on his folded arms, the screen of his computer filling up his entire vision, and let the 2010 Olympic hockey team skate him to sleep.

  Their first game of the regular season, and they lost.

  No, lost was too generous. They were annihilated. Massacred. Humiliated.

  They made the fucking Toronto Maple Leafs look good.

  Ben choked in net first period, and by the time Coach finally benched him and brought Yves in, they were four goals down and pissed. But not the good kind of angry where you regrouped and turned your fury into an amazing comeback, the likes of which Liam would include in his collection of classic games. No, it was the kind of angry where you got sloppy.

  First, they got done in for icing after Calabresi let the frustration get to him and took a wild shot that went nowhere useful, and then some obnoxious dickhead playing pest for the opposing team goaded Riley into a two-minute penalty for roughing. Of which he served roughly forty seconds, because that was ho
w long it took the other team to score their fifth goal of the game. They skated around aimlessly after that, playing only marginally better than they might have done blindfolded or drunk or both, making stupid mistakes and fumbling passes and failing on every conceivable level to get their shit together and play as a fucking team.

  The third period started with Austin finally scoring their team’s first and only goal of the game thanks to an assist from Warren, but it didn’t mean shit, because there was no hope of tying up the game by that point and even if there was, nobody was in the mood to give Austin any credit for anything after the way Calabresi had played. Because Calabresi’s fuckups were Austin’s fuckups now, and Calabresi had been fucking up all night. Worse than Ben, maybe. Which probably came as a relief to Ben, but didn’t do much to improve the spirits of anybody else. Even Warren couldn’t summon up his reliable staidness for the team to rally around. Oh sure, he tried, and the words were all right, but the feeling was all wrong.

  By the time they shook hands with the opposing team and limped off the ice, they were demoralized, cagey, and set to eat their own.

  Austin, focusing too hard on unlacing his skates in an attempt to avoid the angry glares aimed his way, thought things couldn’t get any worse—and then they did.

  Because that was when Coach barged in for his postgame scolding-slash-pep-talk that he liked to give after they sucked bad on the ice, but this time he wasn’t alone.

  Liam was with him.

  Looking completely sorry to be there, like he wanted to fall through the floor, which was pretty much exactly how Austin and his entire team felt when they saw the look on Coach’s face.

  Guy was pissed. Red-faced, meaty hands in fists. “Just in case you weren’t feeling sorry enough about playing like crap tonight, I thought you’d like to know you embarrassed yourselves in front of one of our star alumni.”

  What? Liam was what? Austin gaped as Liam bashfully stepped forward.