Linemates (First Time Gay Hockey Romance)

by Van Barrett

  I know I should ask what has happened. But it feels too dishonest. After all, I already know.

  “Tabernac,” he sighs under his breath at last. “I've been traded, Vance.”

  “What?” I try to act surprised, but I'm a horrible actor. I hope he can't tell.

  “Yeah,” he whispers. “Fuck. Tabernac.”

  “Traded to where?” I ask, this time feigning outrage.

  “Winnipeg. Winnipeg. For Callan fucking Jones.” He huffs and shakes his head.

  A thrill sweeps over me. Doug really pulled it off. This trade is a highway robbery. Yes. Yes!

  “Jones? Are you kidding me? Holy shit. Oh man. The guys are gonna flip out.”

  “At least I don't have to play with him. Feel sorry for you guys.”

  “No kidding.”

  A few minutes pass. No one speaks.

  “I guess I should get going. My flight's this afternoon. Can you believe that? No time to even absorb the news. Just up and out. Fucking unbelievable, man.” Fresno gets up and starts packing. His mind is clearly all over the place, and he paces back and forth, easily distracted and unable to stay on one task at a time. “We're playing the Kings at home.”

  I frown. I can feel it already happening: Fresno is truly no longer part of the team. The pronouns are changing. 'We' now means 'the Jets.' 'Home' is now Winnipeg.

  “I'm gonna miss you, Fresno,” I say, and at least this time my words feel and sound honest. “We went through it all together, man.”

  “No shit,” he laughs. “All the good times. The girls! And the bad times ... the Cup run ... ugh, the Cup run ...”

  Fresno shakes his head with disgust. I don't envy him one bit. Now that he's been traded, all his memories, good and bad, are tainted. Everything will be seen through a new lens. Our failed Cup run might haunt him even worse than before.

  He squeezes his suitcase shut and zips it up. “My wife is gonna be pissed. She loves that house.”

  Ugh, I think. Just make it stop already. Get him out of here. I can't do this.

  “I'm sorry, Fresno,” I say, overwhelmed with guilt.

  “For what?” he chuckles. “It's not your fault, Vance.”

  If only you knew.

  I don't say anything more. I watch him round up the rest of his belongings and give him a hug. The other players have gathered in the lobby – someone's already told them the news – and they give him a soulful goodbye.

  I watch all the guys squeeze him tight, dig their chins into his shoulder, and pound their fists into his back. They look like they're on the verge of tears.

  This is as close as you'll see men get, I think to myself. It always takes some event like this before men will let their emotions show. That's always struck me as weird. Why do we try so hard to be macho? What's it all really for, in the end?

  Fresno's cab arrives and he takes off. My teammates' sadness now turns to a wretched, burning, anger.

  “Fucking Jones,” Donovan growls. “Did that really fucking happen? You gotta go talk to Doug, Vance.”

  “And say what?” I ask weakly. “The deal's already gone through.”

  “I don't care about that!” Donovan roars. “Tell him how fucking pissed we are! Fuck!”

  I take a deep breath and nod. He's right. As captain I gotta let Dougie know.

  “Okay.” I head up to Doug's room, relieved that the boys aren't going to follow me with burning pitch-forks to make sure I scream at Doug.

  Knock knock.

  Doug answers his door. “Hey Tyler.”

  “Doug,” I whisper. “Got a sec?”

  He lets me in and closes the door behind me. “How's it going?”

  “Fresno just took off. And uh, the guys are pretty pissed.”

  “So are the fans.” He chuckles. “You should see the stuff they're writing online about the trade. Hoo boy. Think I'll keep my face out of the public for a while ...”

  “So, uh, I'm supposed to be here right now to represent the players. So I want you to know, ahem, what a terrible mistake you've made. And how you've damaged team morale.”

  “Memo received.” Doug grins. “But seriously. I hope this works out, Tyler. I hope you're right about him.”

  “Me too.” I let out a heavy breath. “So, uh, when's he get in?”

  “He's joining us in Tampa for tomorrow's game. Since you lost Fresno as your roommate, Jonesy will stay with you. Which is good, 'cause I want you to watch him. Keep an eye on him and see what his deal is.”

  “You got it.”

  THE TEAM HAS A FEW hours of down-time before our flight to Tampa. The boys are still fuming – actually, their anger seems to be growing by the minute as they struggle to accept what has just happened.

  It was a morose moment when we watched Fresno walk out to his waiting car. After, the guys were too stunned to even go anywhere else. Everyone lingered in the hotel lobby, angrily talking about the trade and speculating why it happened. But when a group of people recognizes us as players from the Hawks, we knew we had to get outta there and talk shop elsewhere.

  So we quickly picked a lunch spot and headed out. Conversation at the lunch table was quick, with banter and wild speculation going back and forth across the table:

  “Why the hell would Doug trade for that guy? Fresno is, was, a huge part of this team.”

  “Do we even know why Jones was on the trading block?”

  “Seems like he had some kind of run-in over there in Winnipeg. Don't forget, he was a healthy scratch the night before the trade.”

  “So Doug traded Fresno to get a guy who is an asshole on the ice, and apparently has problems off the ice as well. Great.”

  “There's a bunch of rumors right now on Twitter. Some say he was fuckin' around with another player's wife. Others think he has a drug problem.”

  “If he even looks at my wife, I'll knock his ass out.”

  I stay quiet for the most part. I feel like a damned spy ... but then again, there's still a lot I don't know about the situation, either. The truth is, they're right, we don't know exactly why Jones was available. The trade is a risk.

  “You're awfully quiet over there, Vance,” Donovan said at last. “What do you think?”

  I sigh. Rock and a hard place.

  But I know the responsibility that was given to me. And I know Jones could help this team. So I gotta start smoothing the way for him to succeed.

  “Look. I feel like I grew up with Fresno. He's like a brother to me. I hate to lose him. But like it or not, Jones is part of this team now. Yeah, he pissed us the hell off – but that's his job, guys. And he's good at it. Let's see how he does for us before we decide to burn him at the stake.”

  I feel the weight of 20 pairs of eyeballs, all regarding me skeptically. It feels like an eternity passes. But then a few heads start to nod, a few murmurs begin to agree with me.

  “Hm.” “Yeah ...” “He is good, gotta give him that.” “He's the kinda player you love to have, hate to play against.”

  But Donovan isn't so easily swayed. He clings to his anger instead. He huffs and rolls his eyes. “Figures you'd say that. He's a disgrace to the game. I'm actually disappointed in you, Vance.”

  The guys go quiet, and I feel the nervous glances slowly turn to me. Donovan is challenging my leadership. This is the kind of thing that can tear a locker room apart. It has to be stamped out before it grows into something worse.

  “Yeah, it does figure that I'd say that, Donovan. My job is to do what's best for this team and lead us forward. And right now, gossiping about what Jones did, or how much we hate him, isn't gonna help this team at all. It's only gonna divide us. Jones is part of this team now, no matter how much you don't want him to be. You don't have to like it, you don't have to agree with it. But you better keep it to yourself, because I'm not gonna let one of our teammates get trashed like this. I wouldn't let it happen to anyone else here either.”

  Eyes locked on mine, Donovan takes a bite of his burger. He chews with an open mouth, t
he meat and bread grinding to a pasty mush, his eyes never darting from mine. He gets the hint of a twisted smile after he swallows.

  “Okay, Vance,” he says at last. “Sure. You got it. No more from me.”

  A silence falls over the lunch table. The atmosphere is wrecked, the room split once again, and I know we'll suffer through the rest of our lunch.

  “Hey uh, guys, look at this!” McNabb says. He busts out his cell phone and awkwardly tries to repair the mood. He starts trying to show off the cat memes that he's saved on his phone, but no one wants to look.

  The guys all groan. “Not the cats again ... fuck's sake, Nabbers ...”

  One thing I've learned about McNabb is that he's a sensitive soul. He hates the tension and wants everyone to get along. His methods are strange, but they work, and soon most of us are laughing again. I know he'll be a good leader someday – when he's a bit more seasoned and polished.

  But Donovan I'm worried about. He's been around for years and has a certain idea how things should be done. Which is fine, we all do. But he's starting to get too rigid. And now, when things don't go his way? He's becoming more vocal about it.

  I know it's not over with him. I hope I'm wrong, but that's my feeling.

  After lunch, we'll head back to the hotel, pack our belongings up. Before we check out of the hotel, Doug assembles the team in the conference room and addresses us.

  “Okay boys, as you obviously know by now, we've made a big trade today. I know Fresno was a good friend to a lot of us, and he's been here for years, and we've grown very close to him. It hurts to lose him, I get that, boys. But we have a job. To make the playoffs. And I had a chance to improve this team, a chance I think will help us make the playoffs, and I took it. It's rare that you can add a young player like Jones. He'll be joining us in Tampa before the game tomorrow. Let's try and give him a warm welcome, alright? Make him feel like he's part of the team. Let bygones be bygones.”

  Everyone agrees with a mumble and shuffles out of the hotel.

  For the first time, I've got a hotel room by myself on the road – no Fresno. And I feel strangely lonely.

  12.

  No Call, No Show

  Tyler

  The games, practices and travel have all taken their toll on us physically. Fresno's trade has exhausted us mentally. Thankfully, the coach cancels our pre-game morning skate and lets us sleep in.

  I'm excited to meet Jones. I'm hoping he has a big game tonight and impresses all his new teammates. He's supposed to touch down in Tampa by noon, so he shouldn't have any problem making our 6 o'clock game.

  I'm at the arena a few hours before the game. I'm the first one there, as usual, and I'm doing my pre-game routine. The stick-handling, the Mozart, the stretches and warm-ups. Then the banter with the boys once they start to show up.

  Every time a body shows up in that doorway, my heart jumps – is this him? I think excitedly.

  But, oh, no. It's not. It's someone else. It's Emerson. Then it's McNabb. Donovan. Brickley. Tanner. So on and so forth.

  Game time is getting closer and closer. I'm starting to get nervous. Did his flight get delayed? But if it did, surely Doug would've come in here by now and told us.

  At 3:50, every other player on the team has arrived. Jones has a stall in our dressing room, but his stall is the only one that's empty.

  Our deadline is 4:00 PM. Anything after 3:59 is considered late.

  Every time I look Donovan's way, I see him smiling, looking up at me.

  He still has ten minutes, I think to myself. I'm hoping and praying Jones shows up. C'mon Jonesy.

  But every time I look towards the door, I see Donovan instead. Still staring at me. Somehow, he knows Jones is gonna be late.

  He's still got five minutes, I think desperately.

  Then, He's still got three minutes.

  Then, He's still got a minute ...

  “Aaaaand ...” Donovan stands up, making a big show of staring at his wrist watch.

  “Damn it, Jones,” I mutter under my breath. Where the hell are you?

  “He's officially late!” Donovan smiles from ear-to-ear the moment his watch hits 4:00 PM.

  He walks over to Jones' unoccupied stall and picks up the new guy's skates, which his former team mailed to us overnight after the trade. He shoots me a look as he pulls out his pocket knife. “Team rule is a team rule, Vance. You know that.”

  And he's all-too-happy to enforce it. Gleefully, Donovan saws his blade through the laces of Jones' skates. That's the team rule: if you're a minute late, you get your skate laces cut. It's a minor inconvenience, really. The point is more in the message that it sends: we're all here on time, so you better be, too.

  Of course, if you're so late that you miss the warm-up skate ... then you're suspended for the game, and you'll have to answer to team management.

  “Where the fuck is this guy?” people start to wonder out loud. “He doesn't have much time left.”

  Dougie pops his head into the room and looks at me. “Still no sign?”

  I shake my head.

  “Hm.” He makes a worried frown.

  Fuck, I think. It's time for us to take our warm-up skate, and no one's heard anything from Jones. First day with the team, and he's already got himself in hot water.

  And I start to think I'm gonna be in deep shit, too. I told Doug I was confident we could get it to work. But what the hell do I know about Jones? Maybe he really is a problem. A locker room cancer. Who the hell starts off like this with their new team?

  LOSING FRESNO ... GAINING Jones ... Jones not bothering to show up for the game ... all the inner-team turmoil swirling about the room.

  It's a perfect recipe for disaster.

  We get slaughtered on the ice. The Lightning don't care how bad our night is. They don't care how slow our feet are moving, how we can't make a single clean pass, how we can't even get the puck out of our own zone. They take advantage. They're more than happy to enjoy a great night for themselves. They run the score up for their hometown fans, who have plenty to cheer for as the Lightning trample us.

  “Wake the fuck up! Pull your fuckin' heads outta your fuckin' asses already! Shit, boys! You fuckin' suck tonight!” our coach yells at us in the dressing room between periods. He's furious. But he knows there's nothing that can be done about it. Our team has just taken one too many blows in too short of a time.

  The only person who seems to be okay with tonight is Donovan. Normally, he'd be right there with the coach, yelling at us to stop sucking so goddamn bad. Tonight, though, he is oddly silent. He does not play with his normal fire. He lets attackers get around him a little too easily.

  I know why. Donovan is content to let management suffer their mistake. To let me see what a fool I was to stand up for Jones. He wants it to hurt.

  And I have to say, it does. It hurts alright. And I'm starting to see things his way.

  The game ends. 9-1. No one speaks after the game. No one speaks on the bus. We head to our hotel rooms and every last door on the wing slams shut, one after another.

  Tomorrow is another day. And Jones better be there.

  And he better have a damn good excuse.

  13.

  My Secret

  Callan

  The Sun is setting over the water, but I'm still soaking up the rest of the day's rays as I kick back on my beach towel.

  And what a Sunset! It's a swirl of tropical colors, pinks and yellows and blues and reds, all reflecting over the ocean.

  “Man,” I laugh to myself. “This is beautiful. Fuck Chicago. They should've traded me to Tampa.”

  I figure the Hawks are probably wrapping up their game against the Lightning right about now. I take a sip from my bottle.

  “They're probably wondering where I am,” I snort, gagging as the drink goes down the wrong pipe. I wipe my mouth. “Probably bitching so hard about it, too. Fuckin' Jones this, fuckin' Jones that.”

  My phone rings. It's been ringing all day, ever since my fl
ight landed. I saw the hired chauffeur outside the airport, holding the sign with the Hawks logo and my name – Callan Jones – right under it.

  Something about the scene, something about seeing my name and the Hawks logo together, filled me with dread. And instead of meeting my chauffeur, I panicked. I ducked my head and walked right past the chauffeur and prayed he wouldn't recognize me.

  He didn't. I wandered off, got in line for a cab, and told the cabbie to take me to the beach instead.

  I didn't know what the hell I was doing – but I was doing it, alright. And booze helped me forget about it pretty quickly.

  This time my phone rings, though, I actually pick it up and look at it.

  The caller ID reads Grams.

  “Oh shit,” I whisper. She's been trying to get a hold of me ever since the news broke that I got traded. But I couldn't bear to tell her why, so I let her calls go to voicemail.

  The phone rings again and again. My thumb hovers over the answer button, but something stops me. A jolt courses through my hand and my thumb taps the green button, whether or not I meant for it to happen. I grimace and pull the phone up to my ear.

  “Hi Grams.”

  “Callan!” she gasps. “I've been trying to get a hold of you for days! Where are you?”

  “Um.” I sink my teeth into my bottom lip. “What do you mean, Grams?”

  “What do I mean?” she laughs sardonically. “I'm watching the game on TV, Callan! I wanted to at least see you with your new team since you won't call me back ... but then the announcers say you're not playing? That your new team doesn't even know where you are? What's going on, Callan? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I grumble. “I'm uh – I made it in okay, Grams. Everything's fine.”

  “So why aren't you playing? Why aren't you out there? Is there a problem?”

  Man. I dunno how to even tell her. I take a long pull from my beer bottle instead. She patiently waits for me to find the words that just don't wanna come out.