by Van Barrett
It's like I told him: I always wanted to come here with my ex, but she hated nature. So I came here with Callan instead. It seemed natural. And he seemed to like it.
I wasn't sure he'd want to stay and camp overnight. It'd be totally understandable if he didn't – if we get caught out past curfew, the boys would be seriously pissed at us – the day before a big playoff game. Even if I am the captain, I can't go breaking team rules.
But if I show up with Callan in the morning – and they see us? With all the other rumors swirling around?
Whew, boy.
I know it's a risk. But it's like I told Cal earlier. I'm tired of all the bullshit surrounding the game that makes me feel like I'm nothing more than an athlete. There's so much more to life than hockey – even if it the game is one of my main loves. I'm not gonna pretend like that's all there is to life.
And this is part of it – finding out who I really am. This is a part of myself I've kept hidden for way too long. And it wasn't hard to do – because hockey took up so much of my time. The sport occupied my thoughts for so long, it was easy to run from myself.
People look at my life and they're quick to glorify and romanticize it. 'Oh, you're so lucky and blessed to be a professional athlete!' they all say. And, sure, they're right – I am lucky. And I am blessed.
But at the same time it's not exactly that easy, either.
I don't know what it's like to go out and be an anonymous guy, free to walk the streets of my own city, to get lost and explore.
I have to approach every situation, constantly thinking and worrying which role I'm supposed to be playing.
Am I Tyler Vance, the hockey hero, the guy who is expected to be a role model to children twenty-four-seven?
Or am I Tyler Vance, the living, breathing human being – the guy who isn't perfect, who makes mistakes? Who might say things or do things every now and then that I wouldn't want to broadcast to the whole world?
I've missed out on so many things that 'normal' people get to do. I can't just go downtown and meet somebody random and make friends. I've always got this thing, this 'celebrity,' hanging over me and getting in the way. It makes people put me on a pedestal. I didn't ask for it, and I don't think I deserve it either.
And so my love life never felt right. Dates, love interests, late night hook-ups, whatever – they always looked at me as Tyler Vance, Pro Hockey Athlete and Millionaire.
I felt alone, misunderstood. Suffocated by my so-called 'status.' No one would ever see me for who I was. So it was easy to shut myself in my hotel room and ignore the world. A big piece of the puzzle was missing – I knew that much.
But things started to make sense when I met Callan. As fucked up and shocking as things seemed at the time ... slowly, it began to dawn on me.
I knew it was right when I kissed him in that car.
And I'd never felt so excited as when I had his manhood in my hands. The powerful pulse of his climax, throbbing in my hands, his cream shooting out in roping strands.
Whoa. This is real. This is really real for me.
We watched the Sun set. Then we watched night creep in. Then Callan got up and grabbed my hand and led me into the tent. I knew what he wanted. My cock stirred to life, inching down my thigh as he pulled me up to my feet and led me towards the tent.
AS SOON AS WE GOT INSIDE that tent, Cal shoves me on my butt and comes after me. I can barely fend him off – not that I want to. But he spreads my legs apart, works his hand between my thighs and rubs me through my trunks. Between kisses, he takes frequent peeks down at my growing hardness with a gleeful, ornery smirk.
He rubs me until I'm so hard, my cock head pokes out from my swim trunks and reaches for my belly button.
“You know what your cock reminds me of?” he asks at last.
“No ...”
“A cigar. A Perfecto, to be more precise. A big, fat, long one.”
“Oh lord.” I fight back embarrassed laughter and smack my forehead. I can kinda see what he means. The shape, the thickness. Yeah, he's spot on, and I'm kind of surprised I've never made the connection myself.
I tell him something I've never told anyone: “I used to be embarrassed by it.”
“Why?” he gasps excitedly. “Why the hell would you be embarrassed by this!?” He emphasizes 'this' with a sensuous pull on my shaft.
“My first few girlfriends ... they said it looked gross.”
“Oh my God,” Cal pants with indignant outrage. “What the hell did they think was gross about this?”
He pulls my trunks down until my balls hang over the waistband. He turns my cock from side to side, appraising it from every angle.
I chuckle. “Heh. I dunno. You'd have to ask them.”
“They didn't know what they had. It's a beautiful cock, dude. You've got some serious girth.”
“Thanks, uh, I guess,” I say softly. I watch him as he studies my cock. He bites his lip, and his eyes stay entranced on my arousal as he strokes me up and down.
“Damn,” he mutters. “Bitches be crazy.”
And then his mouth opens and he slowly leans forward, teasing me. I grunt in anticipation. But he doesn't make me wait long. He wraps his lips around my tip, seals them up tightly, and pushes his head down.
And I mean all the way down.
“Ffff-fuck!” I groan loudly. He's fit all of me down his throat. He's happy to let me stay there, too – all the while his tongue slides up and down my throbbing shaft.
“No one's ever taken me like that before ...”
He sucks his cheeks in tight and pulls off me, his tongue thrashing and drubbing my hardness as he pulls off me. Streaks of his saliva dribble down my base.
“Damn,” I mumble with awe at the sight.
My cock pops out of his mouth and Cal wipes his lips with his fist. “That's because you've never gotten head from a guy before.”
And I think hell, maybe he's right. Because he doesn't waste any time swallowing me right down again. Muffled sounds of pure, lusty pleasure escape his throat.
He pulls off me again. This time to state the obvious: “I love sucking your cock, man.”
Callan goes back to work. I spread my legs wider, letting him nestle closer, and run my hand over his short buzz-cut. His hair feels so ... short, and so satisfyingly smooth when my hand passes over it in one direction, but delightfully prickly in the other direction.
It's so unlike anything I've ever felt when someone's between my legs. And yet it feels just right.
“God, you're good ...”
I notice he's snuck a hand down his swim trunks and between his own legs while he sucks me. I see the motion in his shorts. The sight of Cal pleasuring himself while he sucks me is too much – it threatens to break me and I urgently warn him.
“Dude, Cal!” I push on his forehead. “You're gonna make me cum!”
But he doesn't stop. Actually, he slurps me harder and fondles my aching balls.
“Oh fuck!” I cry. “That's it – that's – oooh!”
I cum right in his mouth.
“Mmm!” Cal moans as he swallows my seed right down.
“Argh!” I groan, cumming so hard my legs thrash on the ground. “Fuck!”
Cal milks me for every last drop. After he's swallowed it all, he pops me out of his mouth and grins.
“Dude!” I chuckle, still gasping for air. “Holy shit!”
“So?” he laughs. “Were you right?”
“About what?”
“You said you and your friends used to joke about gay guys giving head ... and how great it must be ...”
“Oh! Uh, yeah, dude. I'm working from a limited sample size here, but yeah.”
He crawls up my chest and kisses me. I'm shocked at first – my cum was just in his mouth! – and I have the urge to push him away and flee. But Cal pushes forward anyway and makes me kiss him.
“Mmph,” I moan. God damn, his lips! I don't know what it is – if they're still hot with friction from all that sliding up and
down my girth ... or if my cum made 'em heat up or what.
But they're hot, and juicy and soft, and tinged with the salty musk of my own cock and seed. I guess I didn't expect to like it – I'd thought I should be outraged by it. But the truth is, tasting myself on his hot, swollen lips ignites a wild fire inside me that threatens to spread all over my body and out of control ...
“Mm.” Cal pulls back, leaving me panting for more. “Nice, isn't it.”
“Hell yeah.”
We lay on our backs, staring up at the ceiling of the tent. I reach down and tug Cal's trunks half-way down his thigh. His big dick springs free and smacks his belly.
“Damn,” I chuckle and take hold of him.
We're quiet. The only sound in the tent is the light, repetitive brushing of his flesh as I stroke him, and Cal's occasional grunt or moan.
Outside, we hear a chorus of crickets and the melancholy hoots from a family of owls.
Cal tries not to make a sound as I stroke him. But I can feel his excitement growing in his swelling manhood. His pulse beats in his shaft, and soon his whole body begins to tremble as a quake builds up inside him. It doesn't take long.
“Uahhh,” he moans quietly, warning me. I don't relent. I aim his cock straight up and he loses himself. “Oh yeah!”
Streaks of cum arc high in the air and splatter down on his chest and mine. I stroke him until his noises relent. And then I slide on top of him, his seed slick between our hairy chests, and kiss him again.
“You sure cum easy, don't you?” I grin.
“It's the best and the worst thing about me,” he smiles back.
I fall at his side. We stare at the tent ceiling together, our chests rising and falling rhythmically as we begin to settle down and catch our breath. And as soon as that happens, I realize how sleepy I am. I can tell that Cal is, too.
“Thanks for a great night, Ty.”
“Thanks for coming with.”
“At first, when you wouldn't tell me where we were going, I really thought you were gonna drive me out to some desolate spot and kill me.”
“Shutup,” I say and punch his shoulder. “Asshole. No you didn't.”
“No, I didn't,” he admits with a sneaky grin. “Okay. We gotta get those sleeping bags. I'm falling asleep for real.”
I get up and roll 'em out. We each climb into our bag and lay side by side. It feels kinda weird to be this close to each other – lying side by side – yet also be apart from each other, each with our own sleeping bag.
But that's enough closeness for one day, I figure. I've never been down this road and I should probably slow it down.
39.
Game 7
Callan
“Pst. Hey Cal. Wake up.”
“Mmm.” I groan sleepily. “What time is it?”
“Six AM. We gotta go.”
“This early? The Sun's not even up ...”
“Yeah, man. We gotta get back before the others wake up. Let's go.”
Oh. Right. Hockey.
After the night we had, I almost forgot about the playoffs and all the madness surrounding the team. But that was the point of this little run-away, I suppose.
We take the tent down, pack everything up, and carry it off to the car. Soon we're on the road again, heading back to San Jose to sneak back into the hotel and rejoin the rest of the team.
We're back at the hotel shortly after 7 AM. Donning hats, we scurry through the lobby and make it back to our room without being spotted. We shut the door behind us and change out of our dirty clothes.
Tyler's all smiles about it, too. “That was fun,” he gushes. “I don't think I've broken team rules since like, my first or second year.”
“You're so lame ...” I laugh.
“Hey, I gotta lead by example, y'know? Can't have your captain sneaking off all the time.”
“I'm only kidding you.”
It's a strange, quiet vibe between us. Not a bad one – not at all. It's light and happy. Like there's so much we want to say to each other, only we can't find the words. Maybe it's not yet time.
In a way it kinda sucks that we're roommates. After that magical experience last night, maybe some time apart would be good for us. So we can sit back and smile, and shake our heads with disbelief when we think about what happened.
Instead, we occupy the same small room. And we try to go about our business without getting in the other's way. And as much as I wanna grab him right here and now and tackle him on that bed and suck his dick all over again ... I know I can't. It'd be totally inappropriate.
Because, one, I don't wanna freak him out and scare him off forever by demanding too much. And two, it's time to go back to work. We're professionals and we've got a job to do – Game 7 tonight is kind of a big deal.
We clean up, dress, and get ready for our pre-game prep. First up is the morning skate. Then lunch, pre-game naps, and then we'll gather again at the arena a couple hours before the game.
I breathe a sigh of relief once we climb on the team bus and head off for our morning skate – because our teammates are happy to see us, and no one asks where we were last night.
Nobody suspects a thing. We really got away with it.
THE THING ABOUT PLAYING in a Game 7 is that every minute leading up to it feels like an eternity. We want to go out and play now, we want to go and pour our hearts out on the ice and get the damn thing over with.
But we can't, of course. We have to wait. And so each minute rolls by slower than the last, the game filling up more and more of our thoughts until we can't think of anything else.
Which, right now, is something of a blessing. Because it's helping me keep my mind off Tyler. And it's keeping my teammates mind off of the media circus involving my sexuality.
And so the morning skate feels like a time warp. We're all together in that room, but it doesn't quite feel like it. Because every player is actually mired in his own world, right inside his head. You can tell a joke, and before you get a laugh, you get a room full of blank faces slowly looking at you and blinking. Like a pasture of cows.
And then ... one, two, three beats later ... they get it. They laugh.
“Oh, ha ha.”
We're happy when the skate is over. That means its back to the hotel for the next stage of our pre-game anxiety routines. Some guys will go out for lunch, others will order room service. Tyler goes out with McNabb and Tanner for lunch. I stay in and eat a grilled chicken salad from the hotel kitchen.
Tyler comes back shortly after, and it's nap time for us.
Or, what we should actually call 'nap time' before a Game 7 – 'toss and turn in bed for a couple hours time.'
At last our alarm goes off.
“You sleep any?” Tyler asks me, sitting up on the edge of his bed.
“Not a wink. You?”
“Nope.” He hops out of bed and starts dressing. “Big game tonight.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Let's do it.”
THE NERVES GROW WORSE and more frantic as you get closer to game time. Truth be told, the entire bus ride to the arena, and all the time in the dressing room as we gear up before the game, is a total blur to me. I'm too psyched out and in the zone.
When we take the ice for warm-ups, the feeling in my stomach is almost unbearable. We go through our stretches, skate in dizzying circles around half the rink, and fire our practice shots at Brickley to get him in the game. But my gut feels absolutely wrecked.
Until the puck drops. As soon as the game starts, it's on. All worries and anxieties are gone. It's time.
We line up for the opening faceoff. McPhee, the Sharks' right winger, gives me a subtle bump as he lines up next me at the circle. He makes a kissy face at me, loudly smooching at the air.
“Well? Is it true, Jones?” McPhee asks.
I stare straight ahead, my eyes locked on Vance as he crouches low to the ice to take the faceoff.
“Huh. Not even gonna deny it?” he chuckles to himself.
I've been e
xpecting this. It's the Sharks' job to get my off my game. They'll be rubbing my face in the drama all night long. I won't respond tonight. All I have to do is focus on my game.
The puck drops. Vance wins the draw cleanly, and I try to break free of McPhee and dash up the left side. But as soon as I jump around him, he slashes at my ankle. The sting makes my foot buckle and I stumble.
“Fuckin' fag,” he says as he skates off.
I grit my teeth. Grr.
But remember, Callan, I tell myself. Focus. Don't respond with words. Respond with your play.
This might be my last NHL game, after all, and I want it to be memorable. Once that puck drops and the jitters go away, I become a man possessed. The Sharks won't leave me alone. After every whistle, someone gets in my face, gay this, fag that, Jones you cocksucker etc., etc.
Some people would have you believe that this kind of language doesn't happen on the ice between professionals. And in the rare cases that someone does say something hateful, he gets fined and suspended.
But I'm telling you that's not reality. Get caught saying it on camera, yeah, you're in trouble. But what happens on the ice stays on the ice, and the refs pretend that they can't hear a thing we say to each other. These words get tossed around all the time – literally every shift. Not that I've ever used them, for obvious reasons.
But now, with Jason spilling details of our night club hookup to the media ... the players actually feel justified calling me them. That the words actually apply to me personally, and aren't just supposed to hurt my feelings.
The Sharks continue to insult me. When they realize that I'm focused, and I'm not gonna retaliate? They start to attack me physically. They throw elbows at my jaw when the ref isn't looking, cross-checks to my kidneys. On and on.
Tyler's always there in the post-whistle scrums, shoving guys away and helping me keep a cool head. He stays in my ear the whole time. “Stay calm. Don't give 'em what they want.”
“I know, Ty, I know. I won't do anything stupid.”
“You're playing great. Keep it up.” He addresses the bench as we hop over the boards. “We got 'em on their heels, boys, keep it up. Good pressure, good pressure.”