by Van Barrett
At last, I open my mouth and try. “I can't play hockey anymore, Grams. It's over.”
“What on Earth are you talking about? Are you injured?”
“No ... I'm fine. But my career is done.”
“You're not making any sense,” she laughs, but it's not an amused laugh. “Have you been drinking, Callan?”
“Yup,” I say arrogantly, popping the 'p.'
“Callan ...”
“They know, Grams.”
“Who? Who knows what?”
“The Jets. That's why I got traded.”
“... What do they know?” she asks, her voice quieting.
“My secret.” I roll my eyes. I hate calling it that. But we both know exactly what my secret is. That's how I broke the news to Grams back when I was 17 – that I had a horrible 'secret' too awful to share. I was visiting her after a year away from home, playing Junior hockey in Erie. I hadn't wanted to tell her at all. But she knew I was hiding something. And she finally wrestled it out of me.
A long pause before Grams speaks again.
“So what? You're giving up on your dream that easily, Callan?”
“You don't understand. When word gets around, they won't wanna play with me. I don't want to give it up, but it's over anyway.”
She laughs. “After all the trouble you've been through. After all the people who told you that you weren't good enough. All those people who didn't believe in you – me included!” She shrieks out a bitter, pained laugh. “You know I've never forgiven myself for that, right?”
I frown. “Aw, Grams ...”
“I just can't believe that after all you've been through, you'd give up now. Because of who you like. Don't give up now, Callan.”
“This is different, though.”
“Why?”
“Because ... the guys in the room ... they'll get freaked out. They'll think I'm looking at them, Grams. They'll never truly accept me or be comfortable around me ... I'll always be 'the gay guy.'”
“Remember how scared you were to tell me your secret? How you thought I'd disown you?”
“Yeah,” I say with a gulp.
“And?”
“And ... you didn't.”
“So maybe you're wrong about this time, too?”
“I dunno. I really don't know about that. You're not around these guys when we're out having fun. You don't hear the way these guys talk. It's really not an okay thing.”
“I just don't see how it's different. Anytime someone said you couldn't play hockey, you fought to prove 'em wrong. I wish I had supported you better back then, Callan – well, now I get to make up for it. Go back to your team, Callan. Please. I'm so proud of you – and who you are – and what you do. Don't break my heart. Go back to your team.”
“Grams ...”
“Promise me you will.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Fuck. I can't break her heart.
“... I promise.”
“Thank you, Callan.”
“Yeah.” I gulp. I can't lie to Grams. I don't know if I'll be able to get myself out of this mess. But I have to at least try, or she'll be disappointed in me.
I hear the hockey game on her TV in the background. “Hey Grams.”
“Hm?”
“... how are the Hawks doing without me?”
I hear her take a deep breath. “You really wanna know?”
“Yeah.”
“They're gettin' a whooping, Cal.”
“Shit.”
“Language!”
“Shoot. Sorry. They're gonna be mad at me.”
“So you'll apologize, and then you'll make it up to them and earn their trust right back.”
“Yeah.” I close my eyes and nod. More like, yeah right.
“You call me later and let me know how you're doing, alright?”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I toss my phone in the sand at my side. Dammit. I really f'ed this one up. I wish I had just walked up to that chauffeur like a normal person would have ... what the hell is wrong with me? Now I look like a run-away crybaby to the rest of the team.
I'm getting off on the total wrong foot with the Hawks. I made the GM look stupid for trading for me. The coach will hate me because I shortened his bench and made his team play like shit. And the players? Ha. Huge uphill climb with them. They won't trust me for pulling this garbage. And that's before they find out about me. It's just a matter of time 'til that happens.
But oh well. When it happens, it happens. At least then I can say I tried. Grams is right about that. Right now, the only way I could make this situation worse is if I don't even try to make it right.
“Idiot,” I mumble at myself. I stand up and dust the sand off my butt. I pour the rest of my beer out on the beach and grab my things. On the walk back to my hotel, I dial the Hawks' GM on my phone.
“Hey, Doug. This is Callan Jones ... listen, I'm really sorry, ...”
14.
Straggler
Tyler
After getting trounced by the Lightning, all I wanted to do was lay in bed and watch some stupid TV and forget the night ever happened.
I strip down to my boxers and jump on top of my comforter. I pick up the remote and put on some cheesy crime drama. As soon as I start to get into it, there's a knock at my door.
“Ugh,” I grumble. “Hold on. Comin'.”
I get up and answer the door. It's Doug.
“Hey Doug.”
Although he's still got his trousers and dress shoes on, his Oxford has come off. His plain white undershirt, a size too small, swells over his burgeoning potbelly. It's always strange to see a business professional out of their suits, when that's all you see them in. It's jarring to realize that they're, well, human.
“Got a sec?” he asks.
“Sure.”
I let him in and sit on the edge of my bed. “What's up?”
“Jones got a hold of me.”
“So what's his deal?”
“He told me his flight went fine, that he made it in okay. He saw the chauffeur waiting for him, even, but he panicked. Said that the trade really upset him, and he was in a weird place, and it all happened so fast that he just blew by the chauffeur without thinking it over. Said he accepts full responsibility for his actions, and that he understands he'll have to be punished for it.”
My brow furrows and I want to laugh, or make a snide comment, but I'm actually left speechless. “He ... said all that? Really. Huh.”
That kinda blew me away. I mean, it's rare for a trouble-maker to, you know, own up to the trouble they've just created. Normally they try blaming their fuck-ups on somebody or something else. As worrying as his little disappearing act tonight was, this turn-around is at least a little reassuring.
I guess I can say one thing about Jones: he seems like an odd dude.
Doug continues. “Yeah. Tough, right. I wanted to yell at him, but it sounded like he already beat himself up for it quite a bit. So I guess I went pretty soft. I told him I'd have to think about it, but first things first, I wanted him to rejoin the team ASAP.”
“When's he gonna be here?”
“He's supposed to make it in tonight. He'll be with us on the flight to Chicago tomorrow.”
“Oh,” I say, my brows arching. Somehow I hadn't expected to see him for a while.
“Now, obviously the other guys aren't the happiest with him right now ...”
“You can say that again.”
“On the other hand, I kind of understand where he's coming from. I mean, finding out you're traded, then immediately joining a team on a road trip on short notice like that has to be tough. And, of course, he's young – which doesn't help.”
“Yeah.”
“Then again, I've traded for lots of players, and never had any of them flake out on me like this. So I wanted to ask you first, Tyler. What do you think? Should I suspend him? Or should we gloss over it and just tell the boys that he had some kind of travel mix-up
that kept him from getting to the game on time?”
I rub my chin. “Damn. I dunno. I'd hate to bend the rules for a new guy. That could set a terrible precedent. But ... it might not be such a bad idea, given the trouble with the other guys.”
Doug nods. “Not to mention the media, the fans, etc. So now you see my dilemma.”
I shrug. “First things first, let's see if he even makes it in tonight. I guess we'll go from there.”
“He better.” Doug shakes his head and blows off a nervous exhale. The thought of Jones not showing up clearly scares the shit out of him.
Hell, it scares me, too. Losing Fresno for a guy who doesn't even wanna play for us would be a death-blow to this team.
KNOCK KNOCK.
The rapping at the door is light. I open my eyes. The lamp is still on, the TV too – and I'm still in my boxers lying on top of the hotel bed comforter. I must've fallen asleep. Now I'm not sure if I actually heard a knock at the door or if I dreamt it instead.
But then I hear a key-card slide into the lock and swipe. The door lock clicks open.
Oh, I think. This must be him.
I stare at the door, in nothing but my boxers, waiting and expecting.
At last the door kicks open and a young man shuffles through with a duffel bag hanging from his shoulder. It's Callan Jones alright. He's wearing a snug-fitting and well-worn pair of blue-jeans. The thighs and knees are thread-bare, and his muscular quads peek out of the tattered denim. His top is a tight, navy blue t-shirt. The sleeves are small and only barely cover his shoulders, which are rounded with muscle and surprisingly well-toned. So too are his biceps – like hard knots that make his sleeves bulge. And his thick forearms, which ripple with a network of veins.
At least he looks like he takes his conditioning seriously, I think, my eyes sweeping up and down his frame.
“Hey, Vance. It's uh, good to meet you,” he says, and I can tell he feels a little skittish. If he had a tail, it'd be firmly stuffed between his legs right now. “Listen captain ... I'm really sorry about today, man.”
I sit up and scowl. “Well where the hell were you, Jones?”
He slides the strap of his duffel bag over his head and off his shoulder. The strap grabs his shirt and pulls the hem up, showing me his bare waist. His abs are hard and chiseled – his obliques, too. His diet must be good.
It's a good sign. Too many guys are naturally good at hockey, so they feel like they don't have to take their workouts or their diets seriously. I don't know what Jones' deal is, but at the very least, he seems dedicated to staying in shape.
He sighs and takes a seat on the edge of his bed. “I don't wanna make any excuses for myself, Vance. I got off my plane, and I saw the chauffeur who was supposed to pick me up, but I just got psyched out, man. I don't know what came over me. I've never been traded before. I just kinda froze. And I ran away. But I'm here now.” He raises his palms. “Here I am.”
I give him an angry look. “We could've used you tonight. Did you see the score?”
“Yeah. Nine to one.” He frowns guiltily. “I know I put the team in a bad spot—”
“Nine to one. You didn't just put us in a bad spot with your little 'no show' act. You demoralized us – right after we traded for you. You made us look bad. Every last one of us – and team management, too!”
“I know. Believe me, I know.” He sighs. “I'm really sorry. I'm actually gonna go to everyone else's room and apologize to 'em before I go to bed—”
“Well,” I gulp, remembering my conversation with Doug. I need to stall Jones. “Hold off on that. Not yet.”
“What? I have to. It doesn't feel right that I've rejoined the team, that I'm in here with you, and they don't even know where I'm at or if I'll ever play for the team. You know?”
Damn it, I think to myself.
“Look, Jones, half the guys are probably asleep already. You wanna wake 'em up and piss 'em off more? Just wait until tomorrow, alright?”
He's quiet for awhile. Thinking it over, no doubt.
“Yeah,” he nods with a defeated sigh. “You're probably right. I just hate the way this feels.”
Good, I think to myself. I want him to hurt for what he's done to us. So he never pulls any shit like that ever again.
“Well, you brought it on yourself. You made your bed, now you gotta lay in it.”
“You're right,” he admits. His shoulders slump.
I've succeeded in making him feel bad. But ... it doesn't feel good. It makes me feel bad.
“And with that said, it's time to sleep.”
“Okay.”
As I climb under my sheets, I peek over at Jones. He pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it on the floor. I reach over to turn out the lamp just as he unbuttons his jeans and wiggles his butt free. He's wearing a pair of boxer-briefs.
My finger hovers over the light switch, but I hesitate to flip it just yet. I watch Jones as he struggles to pull the denim off his thick, muscled thighs.
I'll wait 'til he's undressed to turn out the light, I think.
I'm still pretty pissed at him for the shit he's pulled today. But the sight of him at least makes me feel better. He's jacked. He'll easily be one of the strongest players on the team. He's built like a stud.
No wonder he can hit so hard, I snicker to myself as I shut the light off at last.
“G'night, Jones,” I say.
“Night captain.”
15.
Rumors
Callan
I must've stood outside Vance's hotel door for 15 minutes before I actually knocked.
Of course he's my roommate. That's all I could think as I stood there with my fist balled up, ready to knock on that door. But I just couldn't find the willpower to follow through.
I guess it's better that Vance is my roommate rather than, say, Donovan. Actually, if it was Donovan? I'd probably walk through that door, and he'd jump up and rush at me, and we'd get into a fist-fight. Call it unfinished business from the last time we played.
Maybe that wouldn't be so bad, actually. Because then it'd at least be over. Once guys fight, all that pressure that's been building up finally blows off.
Usually.
Instead, my roommate is Vance. The calm, collected captain. The one guy on that team who doesn't hate me. The center I practically idolized as a kid.
Hell. I remember watching Vance play during his rookie year. I was just 11 when he broke into the league as a 19 year old, right after his freshman year in college. That surprised the hell out of the hockey world – because Vance wasn't a highly-touted draft pick. He wasn't even a first rounder. He was a third rounder, a guy who was considered a long shot to ever make the jump to the big league. He only had a chance if he absolutely worked his ass off in the NCAA hockey league to improve his game.
And so seventy guys got taken in the draft before Vance. And of those seventy? More than half have never even sniffed the NHL. And today, Vance has more points than all of 'em.
How does a guy slip that far down the draft? How do so many scouts, how did so many teams, not see what they had right before them?
Shrug. Sometimes hockey is weird like that. Some guys have an x-factor that other guys don't and it's not always apparent when you watch them play. Whatever the mystery ingredient is, Vance has got it in spades. He's smart and hard working. It's why I respect the hell out of him. It's why I watched him play and studied his game – so I could play like him. With my own twist, of course.
My fist is still balled up, ready to knock on his door. Do it, I tell myself. Meet your new captain. Meet the guy you grew up watching.
I also remember seeing his heart break on TV four years ago ... that sucked. I watched the game with my Junior teammates. I was so afraid they'd see my eyes were a little misty.
And now this guy is my teammate. My captain. My roommate.
Weird.
At last my fist hits the door. Knock knock. I wait a few moments for him to answer. A few moments stretche
s into what feels like a few minutes. I don't know how long I've been standing outside this door, waiting for Vance to answer, but I start to feel like an idiot.
Maybe he's not even in there?
I pull out my key-card and slide it into the lock. It unlatches and I open the door. I walk in only to see Vance himself. He's lying in bed, stretched out on top of his bedsheets with the TV on.
He turns and looks at me and I can see the sleep in his eyes. Poor guy. I must've woken him.
And oh, by the way, he's only wearing boxers. But I'm not gonna get excited about that. Because I'm really gonna make an effort here. To fly under the radar. To avoid any suspicion. Because if the news comes out, and the guys feel like I've been giving them looks? Well, it's not gonna do me any favors, I'll say that much.
Of course, the gods tempt me – because Vance's body is mouth-watering, I mean delicious – the total package. His pecs are just stacked. Washboard abs. Thighs like freakin' tree trunks. And his white pinstripe boxers are so fucking cute. And thin, apparently. Because even from across the room I can see the long and thick shaft, bulging out of his crotch and snaking down his thigh ...
Fuck, Callan! I said don't look! Way to get off to a great start!
I shake my head, resetting myself mentally. “Hey, Vance. It's uh, good to meet you.”
Good thing I didn't say: So good to meet you! I've had a crush on you since before I even realized I liked men!
Vance has a lot to say, and he lets me have it. Deservedly so. I'm not sure what else I can really say – except that I want to apologize immediately so I can serve my punishment and we can all get on with our lives.
But Vance seems kinda surprised by my attitude. Maybe he was expecting me to snivel and shift blame? But I can't do that. I know this is all my fault. He's right. I made my bed. Now I gotta lay in it.
Vance wants to go to bed. I'm not sure how much I'll be able to sleep, but I know I gotta try. God only knows how bad it'd look if I left the room and went down to the hotel bar or something ...
Before he turns off the light, I'm hoping to steal one more glance at his sexy boxer situation. I mean is he already half-hard? Or is his cock naturally that thick?