by Van Barrett
Our kiss came and went when we were most vulnerable. When we were both panting for air, our cocks swelling up in Callan's hands, our hips trembling. I guess that's how the kiss had to happen. Spontaneously.
I might not have let him otherwise. Call me crazy, but a kiss is kind of a bigger deal than getting a hand job. It means there's an emotional connection, not just a physical one.
I wave down a cab and open the door for Britt. “Give 'em your address.”
“Oh ... you wanna go back to my place?” she giggles. “You know I have roommates, right?”
“Actually, I was thinking we part ways, Britt. I really need the alone time. Got a big game tomorrow and I could use the sleep.”
She presses against my chest. “You always put up a fight, don't you?”
I could swear I hear the sound of something in my brain popping. It's like the sound of a puzzle piece finally snapping into place after years and years of not fitting.
“No, not always,” I say meekly. “Sorry. I really gotta go.”
She frowns. “Aaaalright. Call me soon, Tyler Vance.”
I give her a hug. She climbs into the cab and I shut the door behind her. Then I call a cab of my own and head back to the hotel.
I think about stopping by Callan's room before I to mine. I'm curious how his apartment hunt went, but something stops me the second before I knock. The look in his face earlier today – the hurt I know I caused him. Argh. I hate it. I didn't want to hurt him ... I only wanted to feel like 'myself' again.
Problem is, I'm not sure who that is anymore.
I don't knock. Instead, I go to my room and hit the sack.
BEFORE OUR FIRST GAME of the playoffs, I stop by Callan's hotel room. I knock, but he doesn't come to the door. I try again, knocking harder, but still he doesn't show.
It's weird. He's always been home before a game. I've always picked him up beforehand.
I try calling his cell phone, but the call goes straight to his voicemail.
We've walked to almost every game and practice together since he's moved in. Obviously some stuff has happened since then, but ... all I can think now is, I hope he's alright.
When I get to the arena, Callan's not in the room. And I start to get a sense of deja vu when all the other players begin to arrive, and we're all shootin' the shit and messing around. But time passes and soon everyone is in that room but Callan. I keep stealing nervous glances at the clock, because he's about to be late.
An anxious festering fills the pit of my stomach. Don't do this to us again, please, Cal!
The clock ticks closer and closer to deadline. But with a minute left to go – Jonesy walks through the door.
Whew. He made it in time. I let out a big exhale smile from ear to ear.
Several of the boys roar happily. “Heyyy!” “He made it!”
But one look at Callan and I know something's not right. He storms through the room with purpose, deftly weaving between his teammates who banter and tussle in the middle of the room. He throws his bag down on the floor in front of his stall. He doesn't waste any time tearing his clothes off, wadding his clothes up into a ball and tossing the bundle into his locker with force.
Callan's got headphones plugged in his ears, and the heavy metal he's listening to is blasting so loud the whole room can hear it. He takes his clothes off, but the ear-buds stay in.
“Hey Jonesy! You're gonna go deaf buddy!” Emerson yells, gesturing at his own ears.
Callan nods, acting like he heard him. Everyone laughs. There's no way he can hear any of us and we all know it.
He doesn't have to say anything. It's obvious to everyone he's in a mood and we oughtta stay the fuck out of his way. He's fuming like a pile of hot coals, and if I look close enough I could almost swear I can see the air over his head shimmer and wave.
“Guess he's amped for the playoffs!” Nelson shrugs. “I'm callin' it now – big game from Jonesy tonight!”
Is he pissed because of me? I gulp. Just what we need. More controversy.
“Well, I dunno what's up with him,” Emerson chuckles and turns to someone else.
“He's in the zone, chief,” McNabb says, grinning at Jones admiringly. “I can tell.”
Donovan catches my eye from across the room. He grins and nods. I raise a brow at him. What now, Don-o?
Coach Stevens comes into the room and demands our attention. Only then does Callan pull the ear-buds out. Then Coach gives us the pre-game speech to rally the troops.
“Alright gentlemen. Game 1. It all starts here.” Coach paces about the room. “Jonesy, Vance, Nelson – big game from you guys. We need you guys to be big.”
Our line grumbles with agreement. I sneak a peek at Callan, but he stares straight-ahead, right at the Coach.
Shit, he looks serious.
Coach fires up the rest of the crew and then we march our way out onto the ice. I'm at center ice for the faceoff. We're playing the Coyotes here at home. Although we're the second-ranked team and they're the seventh, we know better than to take any opponent lightly. Anything can happen in the playoffs.
From the opening draw, it's obvious that Jonesy is on another level tonight. He looks fast, hustling on every play, and he's mowing guys over in every zone. He's playing with a focus I've never seen from him before. He makes the rest of us look like we're skating in slow motion.
And his uncharacteristic silence carries over to his on-ice play. He's not chirping guys and getting under the opponents' skin with his insults. He's letting his play do all talking. He races to every loose puck, grappling with his opponent before getting the upper-hand and throwing them into the boards. Shift after shift, Jonesy is flying down the ice and leaving a trail of bodies behind him.
The Coyotes quickly take notice. They see Jones is a man possessed, and they're constantly looking over their shoulders, needing to be aware of where he's at on the ice. And when he comes near, they dump the puck off in a hurry to get away from him.
Jones steals the puck from the Coyotes defenseman. He doesn't even settle the puck before he rips a clapper that zips right by the shocked goaltender. It's 1-0, good guys, but Jones doesn't even look happy about scoring.
“Holy shit Jonesy!” Nelson pats his helmet as our line skates back to the bench. “That was a rocket!”
Jones doesn't even respond. He takes his seat on the bench, his eyes locked to the action on the ice.
The Coyotes' coach knows his team is playing scared and he's gotta nip the problem in the bud. He gathers his group and tells them it's time to start fighting back.
When play resumes, the Coyotes start hitting the rest of us to take the wind out of our sails. On my next shift, I catch a nasty shoulder to the jaw and take a spill to the ice. I'm alright, a bit shaken up, and there's a penalty on the play ...
But out of the corner of my eye I see Jones curling back and rushing after the guy who hit me. Jonesy throws his gloves off, grabs the guy and pummels him with fist after fist. His elbow pads fly off in the flurry, and a mess of equipment litters the ice. The refs rush in and pull them apart and send the players to the penalty box.
And that's all it takes to neuter the Coyotes' physicality. They've tried to fight back, but Jones' fight takes it to the next level. The Coyotes realize they just don't have it in the cards tonight. We settle into our comfortable lead, and the Coyotes accept their inevitable defeat. Eventually the final horn sounds, and we jump to a series lead – 1-0 Hawks.
In the dressing room, Callan earns his butt-smacks and congratulations on a hard-fought, high-intensity game. But still he doesn't talk, doesn't joke around like he normally does. His mood hasn't changed.
The other guys think it's funny.
“What crawled up your ass today, eh Jonesy?” Brickley asks, followed by a chorus of laughs.
“Guy is pissed off,” Tanner says.
“If that's how he plays when he's mad ... hey, piss 'em off more often!” Nelson says.
But I don't think it's funny. I'm
actually a little concerned. I know he's in a good mood when he's joking ... and when he's quiet, something isn't right.
I keep taking peeks up at Callan. I can't help but wonder what happened.
We make our way to the showers. I grab the stall next to him. I wanna talk to him but I dunno what the hell to say.
I catch a glance at his flaccid cock from the corner of my eye. I quickly look away. It's still hard to believe what happened ... but now's not the time to reminisce.
“You ever gonna speak again?” I joke him.
He shoots me a look. His brow is heavy. That fire in his eyes still smolders.
“When the time's right,” he growls.
“Oh.” My throat tightens. “Uh. Okay.”
I don't know what the hell he means. But I don't feel like he's really willing to expand on it for me, either. Without another word, Callan shuts his shower off and storms away.
By the time I'm done and towel off, Callan's already dressed himself and left.
Donovan chats me up while we dress.
“Good fuckin' job, Vance,” he grins.
“Huh?”
“Jones! You straightened him out, didn't you?”
I look at him wide-eyed and blink. “Uh.”
Straightened him out? Not exactly ...
“I can tell,” Donovan says before I can answer. “See? The way he played tonight? That's what he's capable of, all along, I always knew it! All he's gotta do is shut his mouth, go out there and do his job. Bang bodies and put the puck in the net. Loved his game today. Loved that pissed off determination.”
Donovan slaps me on the ass for emphasis. “Good job, cap'. Glad you had it in you after all. I was starting to worry.”
“Um ... yeah, sure, Don-o.”
THE WALK HOME FROM the game feels – well – lonely, actually. Which is strange. Because before the Jones trade, I made this walk by myself every day. But I guess I've grown fond of having someone to walk with me, someone to chat with about the game we'd just played.
Instead I have to occupy myself with my own thoughts. And that's a shame, because my thoughts are a mess right now. Because while I agree that Callan had himself a great game ... I'm still worried about him. He didn't look like he was having fun – he looked like his game was coming from a dark place.
And knowing that I did that to him, that I put him there in that dark place, sucks.
I make it back to the hotel. I stop by Callan's room before I go to mine. I knock, but there's no answer. His phone's still off, too.
I guess I can't be mad. I told him we had to focus on hockey, after all. And it looks like he's doing just that ...
And the next week proves it. That first game against the Coyotes was just a taste of what was to come in the series. Over the next three games, Jonesy turns into an absolute beast on the ice. For the first time in my career, I'm having a hard time matching my teammate's intensity. He's everywhere on the ice, tearing through the Coyotes' defense, and me and Nelson can barely keep up with him.
Luckily, we don't really have to. Because right now, whatever has gotten into him has put him on another level. All we have to do is get him the puck and he'll find a way to do the rest.
And so he leads us to a sweep of the Coyotes, and we win the series 4-0.
Everywhere you look, fans are wearing his jersey. The sports radio guys can't stop raving about him. He's got the whole city worked up and frothing at the mouth.
This is our year. The team, the coaching staff, the whole city is thinking it.
Everyone but me. Screw the playoffs, I'm worried about what's going on with Jonesy.
Because no matter how well he plays ... he still won't talk to me. When we're on the road, he only comes back to the hotel room to sleep. We barely talk to each other.
And I'm getting real worried that he's not alright.
We're back in Chicago now – waiting for our series against the Bruins to start.
Knock knock knock.
I know he's in that room. I heard him come back from wherever it is he runs off to after games. But he never answers the door anymore.
33.
Burn Out
Callan
A trickle of sweat rolls down my temple. My arms tremble, straining to move the iron an inch higher to crank out one more rep.
“Fuck yeah!” I roar, summoning a burst of strength to move the bar higher. I explode through the rep and let the iron crash on the gym floor with a clank.
Heads around the gym turn and look, spooked by my outburst. I don't care. I'm done caring what other people think of me.
I was just getting started during that Coyotes series. Next up is the Ducks – a feistier opponent than the Coyotes, who were way too timid for my taste. The Ducks aren't afraid of a little dirty play. They wanna fight back.
But with the chip I've got on my shoulder, that's a mistake. I'm just daring someone to play my game and I'm crushing anyone dumb enough to skate near me. The more they hit me, the more pissed off I get. Anytime I get the puck in the offensive zone, I know I've got a chance. I'm shooting from everywhere on the ice and lighting the lamp like never before.
We vanquish the Ducks in 5 games. Next up, Round 3, San Jose.
It's kind of funny, in a morbid way, what's happening. My career is already over and dead, but nobody else knows it. Nobody but me. They're watching a ghost out there – the ghost of my career – clinging desperately to what's already been lost.
And the thing is, the fans and everyone else?, they love it. The sports shows, the talk radio, the internet forums ... I'm the talk of the league right now. I'm also not talking at all. Everyone wants to interview me, but I've made it painfully clear: Callan Jones is done talking.
The media pundits say I've reached the next stage of my career. That I've finally matured.
The fans say I'm just starting to hit my potential. That I'm only gonna get better.
My teammates, well, they don't know what the hell is up with me. But they love it anyway.
Some people say I'm gonna burn myself out playing like this. That the human body can't handle giving 110% every shift. That I'll wear myself down and eventually break if I keep hitting like I do.
Thing is? I don't care. I don't care because I don't know how much time I've got left. And I wanna make the most of it.
So this is how I spend my free time now. The trainers would kill me if they knew I was lifting after a game. We're only supposed to do it on their schedule so we don't burn ourselves out.
But that assumes you'll be with the team long enough to get burnt out, right?
Time is the one thing I don't have anymore. So no more goofing off with the team ... no more lazy off days spent relaxing and watching movies ... no more wishing things were different. I don't know how much longer I've got in this league, and I wanna make the most of it.
Because it looks like Jason was serious about his threat.
I grab my gym bag and head out. It's midnight, and I need to get back home. I check my text messages while I walk. Once again, Jason's sent me more than a few:
“Hey Callan! Just a reminder, there's still time to change your mind!”
And, “But you better act fast ...”
And, “Check out my new blog!”
I click on the link. He's set up a blog on the internet. He's only made a few posts. My heart stops while I read them. He's not releasing my name yet – just teasers and promises of a wild and sexy story with a popular but closeted pro athlete. He promises to spill it all if his demands aren't met.
Pft. Go ahead. Make my day.
There's no use running from it anymore. I'm just waiting for the bomb to explode.
Meanwhile, we face off against San Jose. The first-ranked Sharks are a lot more formidable of a team than the Ducks or Coyotes were. And the stakes are that much higher, since the winner of this series fights for the Stanley Cup. We trade wins, the home team winning each game, until the series is knotted at 3 a piece.
We'll
go to San Jose for Game 7.
AFTER BLOWING ME OFF, Vance sure seems suddenly concerned about me. But what the hell does he care? He wants to focus on hockey ... well, that's exactly what I've been doing. He doesn't want to get caught in the cross-fire of my disastrous personal life ... well, alright! Stay away from me, then!
Knock knock knock.
I know it's him out there. Ever since the series against the Coyotes, he stops by after every game and knocks on my door. He knows when I get back from the gym. He must hear me. Then he comes by and knocks.
Knock knock knock.
“Ugh,” I grumble. I've been able to avoid him surprisingly well. Even on the road. I stay out late, only coming back to the hotel room when I know it's past his bed time. Then I quietly sneak in and go to bed. I'll be up before he's awake.
But tonight, the night before we travel to San Jose for Game 7, he's banging on my door forever out there.
Would it be crazy to call security on him?
Ha. Yeah. That would be crazy. But probably pretty funny.
With a sigh, I stand up and answer the door. No use avoiding him when I've gotta sit next to him on a plane for three hours tomorrow.
“Christ Callan! There you are!” he gasps when I answer.
“Yep,” I say as if it's no big deal. “What's up?”
“I've been trying to catch you for weeks, but you—” Vance takes a cautious peek up and down the hall. He leans forward, poking his head into my room, and lowers his voice. “But you keep avoiding me!”
I shrug. “I'm not avoiding you now, am I?”
He grunts. “Are you gonna let me in or what?”
I turn away from the door. “Fine. C'mon in.”
“Why the hell do you look like you've just gone to the gym, Cal?” Vance asks suspiciously.
“Because, uh,” I stall. I'm still wearing my gym outfit. I wipe at my brow with the hem of my shirt. “Because I just worked out, duh.”
“Are you insane? Aren't you worried about your recovery time?”
I shrug. “Not really. I'm young, remember? Just gatherin' my rosebuds.”