by Van Barrett
Linemates (First Time Gay Hockey Romance)
Van Barrett
Published by Van Barrett, 2016.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
LINEMATES (FIRST TIME GAY HOCKEY ROMANCE)
First edition. April 28, 2016.
Copyright © 2016 Van Barrett.
ISBN: 978-1386402909
Written by Van Barrett.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prologue | Next Goal Wins | Tyler Vance
1. | Morning, Stranger | Tyler
2. | M.E.B. | Tyler
3. | League's Most Valuable Pest | Callan Jones
4. | Crush the Jets | Tyler
5. | Don't Look | Callan
6. | Sources Say ... | Tyler
7. | The Walk of Shame | Callan
8. | Versus The Panthers | Tyler
9. | Pull the Trigger | Tyler
10. | Time Bomb | Callan
11. | Au Revoir, Mes Amis | Tyler
12. | No Call, No Show | Tyler
13. | My Secret | Callan
14. | Straggler | Tyler
15. | Rumors | Callan
16. | A Welcoming | Tyler
17. | Show Me Yours, and I'll Show You Mine | Callan
18. | Macho Man | Tyler
19. | Gather Ye Rosebuds | Callan
20. | Comfort Zone | Tyler
21. | Private Time | Callan
22. | Can. Not. Unsee. | Tyler
23. | Not My Fault | Callan
24. | Last Game of the Season | Tyler
25. | WTF Confessions | Callan
26. | Deal's a Deal | Tyler
27. | A Secret History | Callan
28. | In the Rain | Callan
29. | Putting the Bag in Bag Skate | Tyler
30. | Just Friends | Callan
31. | Meet Jay | Callan
32. | Round One | Tyler
33. | Burn Out | Callan
34. | Cease and Desist | Tyler
35. | Secret Getaway | Callan
36. | Tastes Like the Outdoors | Tyler
37. | Blue Hour | Callan
38. | Perfecto | Tyler
39. | Game 7 | Callan
40. | Wanting What You Can't Have | Tyler
41. | Talk to Yourself | Callan
42. | 5 Min. Major | Tyler
43. | Gran Partita | Callan
44. | Sin Bin | Callan
45. | A First Time | Tyler
46. | Busted | Callan
47. | Big Day | Callan
48. | Press Conference | Callan
49. | Tease | Tyler
50. | Ping! | Callan
51. | Close 'Em Out | Tyler
52. | The Cup Comes to Toronto | Callan
53. | Cup Rings | Tyler
Epilogue | The Years to Come
A Word From Van Barrett
Prologue
Next Goal Wins
Tyler Vance
I want it more than anything.
A humid night in early June. Our hometown Chicago arena, packed to the gills with our rowdy fans, has its air conditioning set on full blast. But in the dog days of summer, the air conditioning can only do so much in the battle against Mother Nature.
The air is hot, heavy, and almost dripping with moisture. Under my jersey, my pads are soaked with sweat. Beads of moisture trickle down my muscle-hardened chest and back, a ticklish respite to the heat. After the game, it will be a struggle to peel the damp clothes off my tired body.
The game has already run the full 60 minutes of regulation time. After regulation ran out, we played an overtime period. When no one scored in OT? We went to double-OT. Since we're in the playoffs, we'll play endless overtime periods – until a puck hits the twine at last.
And then it's over. No chance for redemption: this is sudden-death overtime hockey. First goal in OT wins it all.
Until then? Our pads will get wetter, heavier. Our muscles, filled with lactic acid, will get more swollen and sore. The air will get muggier. The ice will turn slushier.
When a sheet of ice turns into a slog, the game slows down. You can't skate the same – you can't make those quick cuts or stops and you can't skate nearly as fast.
The puck doesn't glide like it should, either. Instead, it becomes a stubborn little disc with a mind of its own, refusing to go along with your plans. It bobbles and jumps errantly – and water from the melting ice drags the rubber to a crawl long before your pass reaches its intended target.
So you've got to be careful. You've probably heard it said before – that hockey is a game of mistakes. If hockey is a game of mistakes? This game – with tired athletes, with a puck that won't stay flat on the ice – is ripe for one big-ass mistake.
Oh yeah – this double-overtime game is a Game 7, by the way. Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals. Next goal truly wins it all.
And as I watch the play from the bench, waiting for my next shift, the only thing that goes through my mind is: I'm ready. This is the moment I've been dreaming of my whole life. And I can feel it – the end is near.
I watch, impatiently, as our third line fights to get the puck out of our defensive zone. At last they succeed – and the tired third line hurries back to our bench for a line change. Forty-five seconds into their shift, they're beyond gassed and ready to come off the ice.
Line change.
It's time for my line to go to work. It's time to end this already and raise the Cup.
I hop over the boards with the rest of my linemates. We set up in the neutral zone, clogging up the Kings' passing lanes. I find my assignment – their all-star defenseman, TJ Brown, and he's got the puck. I close in on him, funneling him towards the boards.
Fast and skilled, and with hands smooth as silk, Brown is one of the best in the league at moving the puck. But I'm one of the league's best forecheckers. My skill is taking away an attacker's time and space – and stealing pucks away from skilled guys like Brown.
As I near, Brown tenses up. The pass he wants to make isn't there. He's tired – I can see it in his eyes. And I also see that look of desperation a trapped man gets before he does something stupid. It's a glossy look – like his eyes glaze over just before he does something selfish. Something 'heroic.'
Brown's teammates on the bench see it all unfold. They jump up onto their skates, screaming a warning at him from the bench.
“No Brownie, no!”
“Man on you! Man on you!”
But it's already too late. I've saved one last burst of energy in my tired muscles, hoping and praying there would be a time to use it.
And now that I've closed in on Brown, it's time to let loose.
I explode into my stride and lift Brown's stick blade, stealing the now-unprotected puck so smoothly, it almost seemed like an after-thought. By the time Brown manages to get his momentum heading in the right direction – I'm gone.
My winger, Michel Dufresne – or Fresno as we call him – sees the play develop. He yells at me from across the ice as he takes choppy strides to join me on the rush.
“You got me, Vance! You got me!”
There's nobody standing between us and the goalie. A two-man breakaway. As good as any chance you can possibly get.
This is it, I thought. The crowd knows it, too – the growing roar is already as loud as a train as they leap out of their seats, all eyes on us.
I slide the puck across the ice to Dufresne. The goalie comes out of his net, to the top of his crease, challenging Fresno's shot – and I know that the puck is coming back to me.
Time slows to a crawl as Fresno
sends a quick return pass right across the slot. I wind up, ready to blast the puck off my stick the moment it lands in my wheel-house.
With my stick cocked high in the air, I realize I'm putting everything I have into this shot – not just my body weight, my strength and resolve – but so much more. My boyhood hopes and dreams. The hopes and dreams of an arena, of an entire city who are all glued to their television screens and watching me. All knowing in their hearts that I can do it, that this is how this story must end.
And all I can think is one thing: this is the moment you've been waiting for.
And it's taken so goddamned long to get here.
I've dreamt about this moment as a kid – too many damn times to count. I've spent countless hours in the rink, in the garage, in the basement, on a frozen pond – imagining this very moment. Stanley Cup Playoffs, Game 7, Overtime. With the game on my stick.
In my fantasies, I was always the hero. I'd shoot it top corner. The puck would ring off the iron and go in. The crowd would go nuts, my teammates would mob me from behind, and I'd fall to the ice, screaming and laughing and crying tears of joy.
Now it's time to make it happen for real.
The puck slides on the ice a foot in front of me, right where I want it. Dufresne couldn't have placed it any better. But I don't have time to admire his pass. I lunge at it, pounding my stick into the ice and smashing at the puck.
And an image flashes through my mind. A weird apparition – something I've planned, but it's not how I pictured it. Not at all.
I've already got a bad feeling about this. But the puck's left my stick. All I can do is hope that ominous feeling in my gut is dead-fucking-wrong.
The goalie stretches across the crease. I'm surprised by how quickly he manages to get across. He throws his glove out, sprawling, and for a second I'm afraid he might actually snag the puck outta mid-air.
But he misses. The puck flies just over his glove. My shot sails past, beating the goalie clean.
And then it happens.
Ping.
The sound of frozen, vulcanized rubber clanging off iron.
In my fantasies, this is always what happened, too. I'd hit the crossbar. But the puck always managed to bounce down and in to the net after.
In real life? Well. Time returns to normal. Actually, it speeds up, as I watch my shot deflect off the crossbar and come flying out of the Kings' zone. The puck bobbles back to TJ Brown. He skids to a harsh stop on the crappy ice, spraying a mist of ice and water and almost falling over in the process – man, how differently it might've gone – but he manages to catch his footing and stay up instead.
And then a sense of dread swallows me. I never give up on a play, and I certainly don't give up on this one. I put my head down and skate hard, hoping I can make it back in time.
But I've spent the last of my energy. And I also know how momentum swings work in hockey. Just managing to survive a close call can inspire a team to victory. The 'Hockey Gods,' as us professionals like to call them, can be so cruel. They giveth, and believe me, they taketh.
Harder and faster I skate, with Dufresne behind me, both of us rushing to get back – but that sense of dread turns even uglier when I see what Brown has in front of him. An open lane, right up the middle, to his star center – a young gun named Kevin Westbrook.
A perfect pass from Brown splits our defense. Westbrook receives it cleanly and skates in, all alone, on our goalie.
Oh no, I think, my feet working harder, even as my stomach sinks to lower depths.
I see Westbrook move to his backhand. Our goalie bites, but then Westbrook pulls it forehand. I don't see the puck after he shoots it. But I do see Westbrook's arms fly into the air. His gloves shoot off his hands like rockets. And his teammates throw up their arms, and their gloves all launch into the sky, too. And then it all comes back down again. Sticks and gloves, helmets and elbow pads – it all comes raining down on the ice. Westbrook's teammates jump on him, knock him to the ice, one player after another throwing himself on top of the heap of bodies.
My legs buckle. I drop to my knees, too weak to hold myself up, and watch the Kings celebrate.
Oh God.
My whole life has led up to this point. I'd pictured it going one way ... and I'd come so close. Only to fall short. And all I could think was ...
The hell happened? What's wrong with me?
1.
Morning, Stranger
Tyler
Four years later.
Ktt-tsch! Ktt-tsch! Ktt-tsch!
I wake up in my hotel bed to the sound of a cell phone camera's shutter snapping over and over. Groggy confusion sets in. I'm not sure if I'm still half-dreaming, or if someone's actually in my bed taking photos. If someone's next to me – how'd they get here? I can't remember, 'cause last night's still a blur.
I try to open my eyes, but my vision is hazy and the shapes around my room haven't yet come into focus. My head is cloudy and my thoughts swirl and churn in a muck-filled bog.
I do remember being at the bar with a bunch of my teammates. It was Fresno's birthday last night and he dragged us all out for drinks. But I don't remember leaving ...
The blinds are drawn and the room is dark, but the eerie blue light from the cell phone next to me is too harsh for my still sensitive eyes. I squint my eyes shut, wishing the light would go away, but I know it won't.
Besides, it's time to get up anyway. I let out a tired moan and stir to life.
“Oh, you're awake!” a bubbly, feminine voice next to me says, and she quickly turns off her phone and lays it on her far side.
“Yeah,” I grumble, rubbing the bridge of my nose. I try to recall the events from last night, but I can't remember how the night ended. All I remember is being at the bar with the rest of the boys. What happened afterward?
She flips over on her side and faces me. Her reddish, strawberry-blonde hair, done in braided pigtails, frames her face. She's a real cutie, no doubt about it. She's got that youthful, cheery brightness behind her eyes. The world's still her oyster and all that.
But after sleeping on them, her pigtails aren't as neatly braided as they were last night. And that thought is what triggers my memory. Random snap-shot memories from last night rush through my mind.
I remember getting ready to head home at 11 PM with the other players.
I remember Fresno urging me to stay just a bit later. “C'mon, Vance! It's my birthday! Just one more drink!”
But one drink turned into a lot more.
I remember Fresno jabbing his elbow into my side. “Pst. Babe alert. Nine o'clock. She's looking at you, man.”
I slyly took a peek. There she was – this cute redheaded girl who'd end up in bed next to me – staring at me from across the bar. She gave me that sultry stare. Pushed her tits together and leaned over the bar, giving me a better view.
“Eh,” I said to Fresno. “We're already gonna be dead tired tomorrow. I should just head home.”
“Dude, c'mon!” he jabbed his elbow into me harder. “She wants you so bad. And you need to get laid, man, it's obvious. You're gripping your stick so tight lately, you can't score!” He made a hand-gesture like he were giving a cock a tug. “Don't be a coward, man.”
“Alright, alright, Fresno,” I mumbled. “Lay off already. I'll talk to her.”
So I approached her. She didn't know who I was. That was a plus.
(Or, if she did recognize me, she didn't mention it. But now I'm not so sure.)
The rest of the night – after we rushed out of that bar and jumped into a cab and zipped back to my hotel – comes back to me now, too.
A filthy set of images, like a porn video on fast-forward, flashes through my mind. Her tongue sliding up my hardness, my balls gripped tight in her hand, her innocent-looking pout gazing up at me as she pushed her lips down my length. Then I'm on top of her. The bed's headboard banging against the wall as I crashed my pelvis into hers, thrusting into her as deep as I could. Then I'm behind her. My thighs slamm
ing into her pale, round ass from behind. My hands pulling at those pigtails, yanking her head back. The sound of her screams reaching higher and higher as I fucked her harder, faster.
She went wild. Screamed, at the top of her lungs, some embarrassing things about what an animal I was, how good I'd fucked her. Things I'm sure my neighbors appreciated learning about me at 2 AM.
But truth be told, I was only trying to feel ... something. Anything. And it's the same story as it ever was. No matter how deep, how hard, how fast I go?
Sigh. It just doesn't do much for me. I don't know how I became so broken. But those kinds of thoughts don't help me. So I push them away.
“Tyler Vance,” she says, using my full name like the star-struck fans always do. She runs her fingers through my chest hair. “I still can't believe it. I actually slept with Tyler Vance last night.”
“Ah.” I grin at her, walking my hand over her flat stomach. “So you knew?”
“Of course!” she giggles. “You think I'd just go home with anybody?”
I grimace. How the hell should I know? I don't know anything about her. And besides that, as rare as it is for me, I just went home with an 'anybody' ... so what's that say about me? Am I some kind of slutty scum?
She gets ticklish with my hand sneaking across her waist. She thinks I'm going to pull her naked body closer until it's tight against mine, and she's loving it.
“I knew who you were the second I saw you at the bar, silly. I love the way you play. I know things aren't going great this year, or heck, the past few years ... but I know you've still got it in you, Tyler Vance, you can turn this year around. I know you can. I know it.”
I resist the urge to groan. Fans always want to share their messages of inspiration with you. They think that all it takes is faith; total, uncompromising belief in one's self. And magically, things will fix themselves.
They don't know the reality of it. That it takes so much more, things far beyond your control, for a team to come together. The stars have to align perfectly.
And those things are not happening for the Hawks this year. Right now, we're a hot mess, and we're about to miss the playoffs for the second straight season.