Linemates (First Time Gay Hockey Romance)

by Van Barrett

  One thing you're not supposed to do is watch the other team's practice. Because, you know, it's really rude, and it's totally a show of poor sportsmanship. The fear is that an opponent might watch your practice and, gasp!, see what you're working on! And then they'll steal your game plan and use it against you later!

  “As if!” I chuckle to myself and sip my steaming mug of herbal tea as I watch the Hawks skate some drills from behind the glass.

  I'm decked out in an athletic tee with our team logo on the front, basketball shorts and sandals. I don't care if the Hawks see me standing here – actually, I want them to. In fact, I stand as close as I can to the glass so they see my damn face staring right back at them.

  Look. Hockey is a sport that clings to its 'traditions' like no other. And while that's great for all the old folks who hate change, it also means there's a lot of outdated superstitions in hockey. This is just one of 'em.

  Maybe in the old days, when games weren't even televised, I could understand a team not wanting its practice to be seen. There was an advantage to an opponent not knowing how you played.

  But nowadays? There's no secrets anymore. The reality is, we all spend countless hours watching film of every player from every team in the league. We even have a video coach, for crying out loud – a video coach! A guy whose job is to sit in a dank, musty office and watch clips of hockey ... all ... freakin' ... day. He analyzes who did what, and in what situation, and how many times, and what his tendencies are ... blah, blah, blah. On and on.

  The point is, you're not gonna learn anything that you don't already know by watching an opponent practice. But this old-fashioned superstition still persists today.

  But it makes teams real mad when you watch their practice anyway.

  Honestly, I don't care what the fuck the Hawks do in their shitty practice. But I do care that it pisses them off so damn bad when they realize I'm in the stands watching! That's an advantage for my team. 'Cause it gets these guys off their game. It gets 'em all pissed at me before the game has even started.

  And that's my job. Get the opponent riled up. Get 'em so goddamn rip-roarin' mad they can't even focus. And as soon as they come for me, trying to take my head off? I've already won. Because they're not thinking about hockey anymore – they're thinking about getting even with me.

  Yeah, I got a target on my back. I'll earn a few black eyes and I'll take some nasty hits over the course of the season – but I'll do whatever it takes to help my team win.

  After a few minutes of watching, one of the Hawks players finally spots me. He does a double-take, realizes hey, that's Callan Jones!, and he tells somebody else. That somebody else – I think it's Michel Dufresne – flips his shit. He slaps his stick on the ice like an outraged beaver, slapping its tail on the water as a warning. He makes a big stink about me being here, and his chest-pounding ape-routine gets a few of the other Hawks players riled up, too. And then Fresno skates over to where I'm standing, scoops up a bunch of pucks, and starts shooting slapshots aimed right at me from 30 feet out.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Honestly, his aim is great. The pucks bounce off the quarter-inch glass right in front of my face, and loud, resounding booms echo through the empty arena. Fresno's got a blistering shot, and if that glass wasn't there, I gotta admit – I'd be in a world of hurt right about now. But I ain't worried, 'cause that glass isn't breaking anytime soon. I don't even flinch. I just sit there and laugh at his childish display.

  Another Hawks player, Donovan, can't believe what's going on. He points at me and mouths the words, “you're dead.” I just laugh some more, 'cause I know he's gonna be looking for me all game long. That gets a whole bunch of other Hawks players all good and outraged, and then they join Fresno in shooting pucks in my direction, too.

  Too fucking easy, I chuckle to myself.

  But their captain, Tyler Vance, doesn't take the bait. As usual. Vance takes in the scene – his outraged teammates firing pucks at me, the fact that I'm loving all the attention from behind the glass – and he gets the smallest and briefest of smiles. Vance is missing a tooth, his front-left tooth, and the gap where his tooth should be fucking melts my heart every time I see it. I guess I'm a fuckin' hockey player through and through, eh? Because I don't know anybody else who thinks a missing tooth is sexy ... but here I am, getting all worked up about it.

  But Vance shakes his head and that cute smile disappears and he goes back to what he was doing: shooting one-timers at an open net.

  For a guy like me – a guy whose job it is to get everyone else off their games – Vance is a bit of an enigma. Most guys, it's easy to figure out what makes 'em tick. How to get under their skin. People don't realize if you react to something, and you show me that what I'm saying pisses you off, well – you've just giving me more ammunition.

  But a guy like Vance? He gives me nothing.

  Still. I can't help but notice where Vance is shooting from on the ice: in the slot, top of the faceoff circle. The same place he took 'the shot.' His shots are ringing off the crossbar, just like that epic miss – but this time they're all deflecting right into the net after. I mean every last shot. Off the bar, down and in.

  Hmm. I make note of that. I don't think it's a coincidence. I bet that missed shot is still bothering him. A rink rat like him? A guy who practices every little aspect of the game relentlessly, until he has it down perfectly?

  I bet he's still haunted by that. I bet it's eating him alive, actually. I've given him a hard time about it before, but he didn't even react. Maybe I just didn't try hard enough? Maybe I didn't find the right scab to rip off?

  Vance has had a down year. So have the rest of the Hawks. My job tonight will be to make sure his bad year keeps going – to make sure he doesn't turn his season around against us. I almost feel bad about it – almost. Because secretly, I want him to do well. The game is more fun to watch when guys like Vance are tearing up the league.

  And even I have to admit, the way the media tore into him for missing that shot was total bullshit. After everything he did for the Hawks that year? He was the reason they were even anywhere near the Cup in the first place ...

  ... But maybe I'm just going soft because I think Vance is cute as hell. Yeah, I've got a weakness for the whole strong but silent, handsome and hard-working, jacked fitness freak thing – and that's Vance to a T.

  Apparently, the community of single ladies in Chicago feel the same way I do – after all, they voted him most eligible bachelor! Haha! I'll have to remember to give him a hard time about that shit later tonight, too.

  I've totally spaced out, staring at Vance, while a volley of pucks are still slamming against the glass right outside my face.

  “Oh, right,” I mutter to myself, snapping out of my trance. I let out a satisfied sigh, content in knowing that my job for the night is already half-over.

  “See ya later, boys!” I give the Hawks a little wave and waltz cockily back to my dressing room. The firing squad doesn't relent, though – and the non-stop barrage of pucks, banging into the glass, follows me as I circle around the rink and finally disappear into the tunnel.

  I walk back into the visitor's dressing room. More of my teammates have showed up for our practice, and they greet me as I enter.

  “'Ey Jonesy!” “There he is.” “Sup Jonesy.”

  Our captain, Dimitri Burkhardt, sees me and rolls his eyes. “Where were ya, Jones?”

  Some of the guys call him Meat-Tree instead of Dimitri – because at 6'6 and 240 pounds, that's just what he is. A freakin' gorilla of a man.

  “Scoutin' the competition,” I wink.

  The other boys – the ones closer to my age – laugh and make jokes.

  The older guys in the room aren't so amused by my antics. They mumble and shake their heads and roll their eyes and look at Burky, and I can tell they want him to speak up and say something. Probably something about how my lack of respect for the integrity and history of the game makes the team look bad ... same s
peech as always.

  “Fuck's sake,” Burky mutters under his breath. “Doin' that shit again, eh Jones?”

  “You know it. You should've seen how mad they got. Bet they take a penalty right off the draw.”

  “I bet.” Burky wipes at his mouth. “You know, it wasn't all that long ago when we could just grab a punk like you and make him eat a knuckle sandwich.”

  Burky's an older guy, something of a dinosaur, really – and he's not lying. Back in his days, you really could just grab a guy you didn't like and start punching him. But the league is changing. They don't want that kind of stuff anymore. The world's changing, and grabbing a guy and punching him without him wanting to fight? Well, that kinda thing ends up on the news, and the league isn't so impressed by the bad PR. If you try that today you'll get a hefty fine and a long suspension. So, uh, it's not really a smart thing to do.

  Instead, two guys have to agree to a fight. I mean, getting a guy's consent before you smash his face in – gee, what a horrific concept, right?

  But Burky has more to say and he continues. “Maybe you should be more careful, Jones? Some of us older guys might just forget that we can't do stuff like that anymore, and we might pound your face anyway.”

  I give Burky a cock-eyed look and laugh. He's been up my ass lately and I'm kinda getting sick of it. Yeah, my style is controversial – but I'm top 3 on this team in scoring, for fuck's sake. I'm not some talentless goon – I'm a good hockey player that knows how to put the puck in the net. Pissing guys off is just another dimension to my game.

  But I know as well as anyone else that you don't get to be known as one of the biggest pain-in-the-asses in the league without making a few enemies. And that includes your teammates sometimes.

  Burky isn't finished. “All I'm sayin' is, Jones, you go stirring up all this shit, and someone has to answer the bell when you aren't willing.”

  I snort. I actually take offense at the accusation. “I've never run away from a fight, Burky, and you know it.”

  My teammates, the younger guys, back me up. “Yeah, Burky, you can't say that.” “CJ doesn't back down.” “You can call Jonesy a lot of things, but turtle ain't one of em,” another one laughs.

  “Alright, alright,” Cody Smith, one of the team's alternate captains, steps into the middle of the room – literally and figuratively – and tries to put out the flames. “Let's all pull our panties up and fuckin' get along, alright boys? We got a game tonight, we need to get on the same fuckin' page here.”

  Both sides agree to a ceasefire with a grumble and retreat to our respective sides. Hands drop down and root through equipment bags and we focus on getting dressed instead of being at each other's throats.

  “Somebody pass me some tape, eh?”

  4.

  Crush the Jets

  Tyler

  With a few hours to go before the game, I make the walk back to the arena. I'm in the room first. I like to be first before a game. I need the silence – the alone time – to process my nerves.

  Even after ten years of playing in this league, I still get antsy as hell before every game. I'm not exactly nervous – if anything, I feel more like I've had an overdose of adrenaline. I'll need the adrenaline when I'm playing, but until the puck actually drops, it only makes me feel sick to my stomach. I tap my feet like crazy because my legs won't stop jumping around. Just gotta burn the adrenaline out.

  My routine before a game is always the same. First thing I do is make sure all my equipment is good to go. I tape all my sticks, make sure the curve on the blade is just how I like it. Then I do some warm-up stretches.

  After that, I need to warm up my hands. So I practice my stick-handling in the hallway. With my eyes closed. Also, I've got my headphones in, and I'm listening to my music, 'cause that really helps me calm down and focus.

  The music I listen to is kind of a big mystery in the room, by the way. All the boys wanna know what it is I listen to before games. But I don't tell 'em.

  See, you could pretty much draw a line right down the middle of the room – the older guys would all line up on one side, the side that said rock music was the best. The younger guys would all be on the other side, yelling about how rap's the best.

  The only thing the two sides can agree on is that the two guys who like country music have horrible taste in music.

  But for me? The truth is ... it's gotta be classical. Mozart's my favorite. When I'm listening to Mozart I feel like everything inside me is so neat and harmonious. That hot, jumbled mess of nerves and adrenaline and emotions gets ironed out until it feels smooth and I can breathe again.

  The guys would give me such shit if they knew! At least the country music guys can band together and form a duo ... I've got no one in my corner.

  But then, I never was like most guys.

  I guess I was both blessed and cursed with a mind that's constantly going. It's what got me here in the first place. I'm not the most athletically gifted or skilled player, but I've thought about the game obsessively. Broke down every aspect of the game in my head. So I know exactly where to be and what to do in any given situation.

  I guess that's also why it's a little harder for me to connect with the others – because the game comes more naturally to them.

  Anyway, when I'm listening to my classical, I like to think about the team we're about to play. I picture each and every player from their team in my head, and how he plays, and what I have to do to play against them.

  Tonight, we play the Jets. The Jets are an interesting team.

  A formidable team, for sure – and they've got one of the league's best records this year to prove it. But they're an interesting team nonetheless. I'm not sure what it is about them – something I can't quite put my finger on – but something about that team feels off.

  A normal team tries to have a good mix of young guys and veterans and everything in between. Your younger guys have a world of potential in them still – but they need to be brought up in the right environment. They need experienced guys who have been through the ups and downs of a season to show 'em the way.

  The Jets, though, are a bit odd with their mix. They've got a lot of aging veterans and the rest of their roster is made up of young guys with only a couple years' experience. There's not a whole lot of in-between in that dressing room, which is odd. Now I'm not saying that I know for a fact that they have problems in that room – but their play on the ice seems like it's split, somehow. Stylistically, the team plays like they're not all on the same page. I can't really explain it, it's just something I feel like I can pick up on.

  I flip through my mental pictures of the players on their team. Of course, one of the first pictures I get is Callan Jones. He's one of their young guys, 21 years old, and his name is quickly spreading around the league. And despite his antics this morning, I have to admit, I crack a smile when Jones' mug flashes through my mind's eye.

  Jones is the type of guy you hate to play against but would absolutely love to have on your team. He'll be in our faces all night, talking shit and pissing our guys off. Distract, disrupt, capitalize – that's his game.

  But unlike other pests, he's not a cheap-shot artist or a chicken shit. Jones doesn't back down when he's challenged physically. And he hits like a goddamn Mack truck every chance he gets – if you have the puck along the boards, and he's anywhere near you, get ready. He hits to hurt. And believe me ... it does. You might manage to stay on your skates – but you'll be reeling from the impact after he crunches your bones into the boards.

  He really got a lot of the guys wound up earlier during practice. I had to laugh – the boyish smirk he wore while he got our attention was something else. He has this totally innocent, wholesome looking smile – but it's the same grin he gives you on the ice, right after he's made some wisecrack about how good your sister was in bed or something like that. His short-cropped blonde hair makes him look even more like some innocent kid from next door, and thus even more hate-able.

  I think
that's what the guys hate about him too – there's just something about getting physically steam-rolled by a young, always-smiling pretty-boy that really makes their inner-caveman howl with outrage and shame.

  Me? I think it's kind of amusing, even if I will be on the receiving end of it tonight. The kid lives to piss everyone off – that's his game. What's the big deal? Once you know that, it should be pretty easy not to let it bother you. I'm not sure why my teammates don't understand that.

  But like I said, I guess I'm not like most guys.

  After practice, it's my job to settle the boys down. They were all talking about how they were gonna retaliate against Jones, how they wanted to catch him with his head down at center ice and knock him into next week with a big body check, and so on.

  “The thing I can't stand about him is his fuckin' face!” Donovan growled. He balled his fist and pounded it into the palm of his other hand. “He looks so damn ... ugh ... punchable! That stupid, shit-eating grin! Ugh!”

  “C'mon, you know this is exactly what he wants,” I told 'em as we undressed. “Listen, I don't want any stupid penalties tonight, got it?”

  I looked at Donovan. “Got it, Don-o?”

  “Yeahyeah,” he groans. “The fuckin' little shit head.”

  I shake my head. “A guy like that, if you don't play along, you'll end up driving him crazy. He thrives on you getting pissed off. Don't play his game. It's really that simple.”

  Honestly, I'd take a guy like Callan Jones on my team any day. He scores goals, he stands up for his teammates, he hits, and he fights. And oh yeah, he gets everyone so heated they can't even think straight. What's not to love?

  The boys would kill me for saying that, too. But, again, ... I'm not like most guys.

  Game time nears closer and my teammates are starting to trickle into the room. I turn off my Mozart and take my headphones out.

  Before long, more and more guys start to show up, until everyone else rolls in and the room is full again. The room still has that good vibe feeling from earlier, except it's a little muted now by pre-game nerves. No one would ever admit it, but you can tell the nerves effect everybody. Everyone has their own way of dealing with it.