by Van Barrett
“No,” I roll my eyes with a laugh. But then I look upward, contemplatively. “Actually, aren't we all? We all play roles of some sort.”
He gives a condescending snort. “Deep.”
“Yeah yeah, fuck you,” I kid him back.
“So you're really not gonna tell me what it is you do?”
I shake my head. “Not really. Does it matter?”
“I dunno ... we just slept together ... feels like I should know something about you.” With a devilish smirk, his hand reaches over and slides down my abs. “Besides the fact that you've got a huge cock. One that loves to pop off.”
My cock tingles and stirs in his palm. He strokes it slow, and with a loose grip, letting my girth grow in his palm.
“Jason,” I gasp, digging deep to find my will power. “I ... I really can't. I got a flight to catch.”
“Oh, Brad,” he flirts. “If I learned anything about you at all from last night ... it's that this will only take a minute. You'll still make your flight.”
“Ugh,” I whimper meekly. He's right. And he knows what buttons to push. My cock firms, and he squeezes my shaft tighter and jerks it harder.
But then his eyes narrow, and he gets a certain look in his eye – and it's one I don't like too much.
“... Of course, if you wanna cum, you'll have to tell me what it is you do. Otherwise, I'll just sto—”
I grab his hand and take it off my junk. “You can stop now, then. I really gotta go, dude.”
“Really? Why are you so antsy? Who are you?”
“Why do you care so much?” I try to laugh it off, but I know I sound a little ruffled. “I don't know what you do, either, but you don't see me making a stink about it. I don't care.”
“I work in real estate.”
“Well, okay. I didn't ask though.”
He looks miffed. I know it's time to make my getaway before this turns sour.
“Listen, Jason. I had fun last night.”
“Me too.”
“But I really gotta go.”
“How often are you in town?”
I shrug as I sit up on the edge of the bed and step into my boxers. “Every couple months, I guess.”
“Will I see you again?”
“Uh.” I look at him. “Not really my style.”
“Oh.” His eyebrows raise and he snorts a little. I can tell he's judging me. “Gotcha.”
“Look, I had fun. Just not looking for anything serious.”
“Nobody said anything about being serious.”
“Even still.”
“'Kay.” Jason gives a bitchy little shrug – you know the one. The one that people do when they're mentally writing you off forever and want you to know it.
He thinks I'm scum. But whatever. He's definitely not the first person to think that. And besides, it's not my problem. I'll never have to see him again.
I finish dressing and tie my shoes. “Later dude.” I give his ass a big slap, and that makes him shoot me an annoyed look. I chuckle to myself – good thing I'm leaving, 'cause now I know he wants me outta his place. Heh heh.
I RUSH OUTTA JASON's apartment and hit the downtown Chicago streets. It's a chilly morning, and I'm a bit under-dressed for it. But I'm lucky today, 'cause a cab comes right up the street like it was destined to save my ass. I hail it and off we go, zipping across the city to my hotel.
Technically, I broke team rules. Every night we're on the road, we've got a curfew – and every player has to be back at the hotel by midnight. Anyone caught breaking curfew will be suspended for the next game. And even though the rules are strict – it's pretty hard to get caught breaking 'em. I mean, it's not like the coach wants to go door-to-door at midnight, making sure all his players are tightly tucked in and snuggly in their beds.
In other words, it's up to us, the players on the team, to enforce the curfew on each other. That means someone has to snitch for us to get in trouble. If my roommate was Burky – then yeah, I'd be fucked, because Lord knows he'd run crying to the coach if I was even a minute late.
Thankfully, my roommate is Cody Smith. And despite the fact that he's always telling me I need to be more careful, he at least turns a blind eye when I'm out late. He says he won't narc on me, but he also says if the coach gets suspicious and asks, he won't lie for me either.
Which is all I'm asking for, really. I don't wanna put any of my teammates in a bad spot. I just wanna have a little freedom to get away from the team and be myself every once in a while. It's hard enough as it is.
So, yeah, despite the curfew, you can stay out late if you're smart. Keep a low profile, basically, and no one has to know. And as a closeted athlete playing in the pros ... that's one skill I've got mastered.
Today I'm cutting it close, though. I check my watch nervously as the taxi nears the hotel. When I pull out my wallet to pay, I'm shocked to see my $100 bills are gone. I have to pay with my card instead.
“Jason,” I mumble under my breath. Yup, don't stick your dick in crazy ...
I hurry back to my room and sneak in. Thankfully, no one sees me.
Cody is standing in front of the mirror. He's buttoning his shirt up and I see he's already got his suitcase packed. I'll have to be quick to get my shit together in time.
“Fuck, there you are!” He gasps when I enter. “I've been trying to call you all night!”
“Yeah? Sorry. Ringer was off. What's up?”
“Where the hell were you, Jonesy? Actually – I don't wanna know.”
My ears perk up. What's he mean by that? As far as I know he's never suspected anything about my night life ...
Cody makes eye contact at me through the mirror and shakes his head. “You're fucked, man. Fucked.”
“What's up, Codes?” I ask, swallowing down a nervous lump.
“Truth is, I don't know. But the GM came looking for you late last night. I mean real late. Like 2 AM. Woke my ass up, pounding on the door.”
“The fuck?” I scoff. “Why the hell?”
“I dunno. But he didn't look happy. And he looked even less happy when he demanded to see you, and I told him you weren't back yet.”
“Shit,” I hiss.
“I told you to be more careful, man. You can't be out that late all the time and not have it catch up with you ... damn it, Jonesy! You always put me in this spot, man. He was asking me how often you pull this disappearing routine. Now he doesn't even trust me, man.”
“Sorry, Codes,” I sigh. “Alright. Well shit. Guess that means I'm busted, eh.”
I'll have to sit out the next game. That sucks balls. For a hockey player, watching your team play without you is one fucked up form of torture. It's like watching your ex-boyfriend fool around with someone else right in front of you. Driven mad with jealousy, you can't look away. But the sight of it turns your stomach. Your chest gets all tight and constricted and then you can't breathe, and your heart is pounding in your throat ...
That should be me out there, you say to yourself over and over.
“You better go talk with the GM, pronto, Jonesy.”
I suck my cheeks in. “Yeh. You're right. Alright. I'll catch up with ya later.”
“Good luck.”
I grab my bags and head out. I go to the GM's hotel room and knock, but he's not there.
“The hell,” I mutter. Where could he be?
I sit in the lobby. The bus is out front waiting for us, and guys start to trickle out from their rooms and board it. The boys stop and chat with me as they go. Well, everyone except Burky – when he walks by, he stares right through me, pretending like he can't even see me.
What crawled up his ass and died? I wonder. Still pissed about the IcyHot, I'm sure. Guy can't take a joke. But that's his problem.
When I still haven't seen the GM, I give up waiting on him and head out to the bus. But the second I take my seat, I see the GM come walking out of the hotel in a hurry.
“Shit,” I mumble.
He boards the bus and calls me out
by name. He sounds pissed.
I stand up. “Sir.”
He gestures with his head back to the hotel. “Off the bus.”
I let out a disappointed huff. The guys murmur, whispering to me as I walk to the front of the bus.
“What's this about?” “The hell happened, Jonesy?” “What'd you do this time CJ ...”
“I tried to find you earlier,” I say to the GM as I reach the front. He walks me off the bus and back into the hotel.
“Yeah, well, I was looking all over for you last night.” He shakes his head. “Listen. We gotta have a talk.”
Here we go, I sigh to myself.
8.
Versus The Panthers
Tyler
Trade rumors are the worst. You never know if there's something to them. You never know when you'll be told to pack your bags, it's time to move across the country. Maybe you'll go to Phoenix. Maybe you'll go to Canada. Who knows.
So I didn't sleep a wink, and first thing at 10 AM, we've got a morning skate before the game tonight.
At least I'm not the only tired looking guy at the skate. Back-to-back games are tough on the body. They're even worse when travel is thrown into it. Coach probably should've made this morning skate optional, but I'm not going to question his decision making. If the team is thinking about trading me, I gotta keep a low profile.
Still, I keep waiting for the hammer to drop. I pass the GM Doug Johnson in the arena hallway, and he says hi, good morning, acts totally normal. I flinch and grumble out a greeting. Coach Stevens doesn't act any differently, either.
What can ya do. Just part of the business. Put your head down and work.
The game starts at 6:30. I manage to take a nap before the game, but I'm still running on fumes when the puck is dropped.
Seeing your captain drag his ass can have a negative effect on the team. After all, I'm supposed to be the guy that leads by example. But tonight, my example sucks. I'm playing hesitant and disinterested. It's hard to play with heart for a team that wants to give up on you.
I'm turning away from hits and avoiding the dirty areas of the ice. I know I'm doing it, not intentionally, but I can't stop it anyhow. It requires a certain mood to willingly take physical abuse. You gotta have a reason to take it. And tonight, I don't have a reason.
Thankfully, we've got Dufresne. And even though he got destroyed by Donovan yesterday, you wouldn't know it by his play on the ice tonight.
Fresno is the yin to the team's yang. He's a streaky scorer, and when he scores – he scores a lot. The puck goes in the net for him in bunches. But, as I've started to notice in recent years ... Fresno plays well when the team is bad. When we're playing a solid team game, it's Fresno that disappears. Some nights, when we win, you wouldn't even know he took the ice. He's that invisible.
It's strange how that works. As much as I love my roommate, I've started to worry that this is becoming the norm with him. It really seems like something in his personality, part of his psychology. He needs a team to need him before he plays well.
Tonight, though, I can't criticize him for it. Because it's my game that sucks, and Fresno is the one making up for it. He's doing the things he normally won't do when we're playing well.
He's stepping up to hits. He's playing physical in the corners, grinding it with hulking defenseman – massive guys who have a few inches and more than a few pounds on him.
After his shift, as we suck for air on the bench, he yells at us and spits. Trying to get us motivated.
“Tabernac! Come on, you guys! Fight for it out there!”
We hang our heads in shame, cursing ourselves to do better on our next shift – so Fresno won't be the only guy doing the heavy lifting. But something blocks us. Something prevents us from ever getting it together. We defer to Fresno. And so Fresno is our best skater all over the ice, all night.
We watch as he scores a pair and sets up two more. I get one of the goals, but he did all the work – all I had to do was put my stick on the ice, and he practically shoots the puck off my stick and into the net.
Despite our team play, and because of Fresno's individual efforts, we end up winning the game, 4-2.
After the game, we undress in the visitor's dressing room. The room takes on its post-victory atmosphere – which is a total 180 from the stale and stuffy funeral-vibe that clouds the room after a loss. Instead, we're chattering and laughing, making jokes and rehashing the highlights of the game.
But even though we've won, and guys are happy, there's still an underlying feeling ... a feeling that we didn't deserve this victory. I look around the room and I can see almost everyone else understands that. Yet, Fresno doesn't. He's glowing. I mean glowing. Hell, I can't blame him – he's just played a great game and willed the team to victory, after all. The national media will be talking about what a stellar night he's had. And he deserves that.
But some part of me wishes that he fit in with this team better. That he didn't need us to be bad in order for him to be good.
Who knows. Maybe I'm making a mountain out of a molehill. Maybe it's all in my head.
Hell, maybe this won't be my problem at all in a few days – when I'm traded.
THE BOYS WANNA HEAD out to celebrate after the game. We find an upscale-looking sports bar and grill downtown. Most of the guys opt for a steak, or burger and fries. I spring for a salad with salmon. I try to eat a little lighter during the season.
I'm uncharacteristically quiet during our meal. For some reason, it feels like this is my last meal with the team. I still can't stop thinking about that phone call I overheard. Of course, I can't tell any guys why I seem so distant, either.
After dinner, some guys head back to the hotel. The rest want to stay behind and grab a few drinks at the bar and watch the hockey games on TV. Since I'm dead tired, I wanted to go home, too – but then again, this might be my last time hanging out with the team. I decide to stay and have a couple beers.
The Jets game is about to start. They're back home in Winnipeg and they're playing Calgary. The TV guys are talking about the starting lineups. They show the Jets' lines, and I notice right away something isn't right.
“No Jones?” I mumble to the guy next to me, not sure who it is. I take a look. It's the rookie d-man, McNabb.
“Guesso?” he smiles.
“I don't think he got hurt ...” I trail off, trying to remember if Jones finished his game against us or not. But, no, I remember him being out on the ice until the end. If he got hurt, it must've been something they didn't notice 'til late.
Donovan roars with glee. “I hope he's hurt! I hope he broke somethin'!”
The broadcasters finally make note of the curious absence. “And Callan Jones will not be in the lineup tonight. Jets team officials have said he is a healthy scratch and will be out indefinitely. No further word on that development yet ...”
“A healthy scratch indefinitely!” Donovan roars with laughter and knocks back the rest of his frosty mug of beer. “Sounds like he finally pissed in the wrong guy's cornflakes, eh boys?”
The line of players sitting at the bar nod approvingly and laugh and grumble and make comments.
“Eh, serves him right.” “Wonder what he did?” “Fuck that cunt.”
I watch the Jones-less Jets until my eyelids are too heavy. Then I say bye to the guys and head back to the hotel.
9.
Pull the Trigger
Tyler
By the time I make it back to my room and hit the sack, I'm resigned to being traded. It won't be the worst thing in the world, I tell myself. I don't have a family. No wife that I have to tear away from the group of friends she has painstakingly built over the years. No kids who will have to change schools and suffer the hell of being 'the new kid' in school.
Hell, I don't even have a house to put on the market, even. What will I do? I'll check out of my hotel room. Big deal. I can just up and go.
Most eligible bachelor is right, I guess. 'Cause I've got nothing. And no
body.
And for the first time, I realize that – it actually sinks in. And it sucks. There's a hole in my heart and it drops lower, it infects my stomach. Damn. And then I start to think, maybe being traded won't be the worst thing. Who knows where I'll end up going. Maybe a dump like Edmonton?
Sigh.
There's a knock at my door. I answer it. It's the GM, Doug Johnson.
“Dougie,” I say, surprised. I feel kind of ridiculous that he's standing there in a suit, and I'm standing here in my boxers.
“Oh, er,” he stammers, keeping his eyes above my neckline. “This a bad time, Tyler? I wanted to talk to you about some ... team issues. If you got a minute.”
Doug's a good GM. And for years, he's treated me well and made it known that he respects my thoughts on the state of the team. As captain, I'm something of the intermediary, the go-between players and management. It's a delicate job with a lot of 'balancing' issues – like balancing the trust that both sides put in me.
But something is obviously in the air. And this is not one of those meetings. It feels different.
“No, it's not a bad time,” I say hoarsely. “Lemme get dressed.”
“Great. Come to my room after.”
I throw on a t-shirt and some jeans. I have an odd impulse to pack my suitcase and bring it with me to the meeting, 'cause I feel like I'm about to get jettisoned off this roster and sent on a non-stop flight to some other city.
But I guess I'm not thinking very logically or calmly right now.
I put on my slippers and walk over to Doug's room. He invites me in and pours two glasses of whiskey. I feel like I'm attending my execution.
“So, uh, what's up, Doug,” I stammer.
“Just wanted to catch up with you. It's been a while since we've had a chat, huh?”
He's right about that. This year, there's been fewer and fewer of our chats. I've been trying to push away the nagging thought that this was a sign that I was losing favor with him, with the team ... but now I'm forced to face the reality. After all, I'm about to get traded.