by Van Barrett
All he has to accomplish with his fight is to inspire his team. Lead the way, make an example. And did he ever.
I felt bad when I saw his face. His eye's already puffy, a cut on his cheekbone, with blood running down his cheek. Damn it. I wish I could've fought in his place. After seeing him do that, I sure as hell wish I had.
When Vance got taken back into the room for stitches, only a few minutes left in the game remained. I turned to the bench.
“C'mon, boys, let's get one for Vance, yeah? Make him proud.”
Everyone grumbles and agrees.
We might have played like shit all game long, but at least we were able to end on a good note – after Vance's fight, we played the rest of the period in the Jets' zone, making them chase us as we cycled the puck. Emerson managed to shovel a rebound goal in to make it 4-1, and that was the score when the game ended.
AFTER THE LOSS, WE march our way back to the dressing room. There's Vance, freshly stitched, a rust-orange smear of iodine slathered over his sutured wound. The boys come in and smack his butt and congratulate him.
“We got one for ya out there, captain.”
He nods stoically. But he's not in the mood to celebrate. Neither is anyone else, but at least there's a feeling that we've ended on a better note. Not letting them get the shutout was key if we want to have any hope of winning Game 2.
“We gotta figure it out, boys. I didn't come this close to the Cup to let it slip through my fingers again,” Vance says.
But the whole time he's trying to rally us up, he's staring right at me. I feel like he's looking deeply into my heart, my soul. But what the hell does he expect me to do? I dunno what to do ...
Then it's media time. The reporters come in and fill me in on all the details I've been purposely avoiding: Jason has told them everything. When and where we met, how we fucked all night, that I stayed the night, even the fact that he stole my money right out of my wallet(!) in the morning, and how he'd planned to extort me for a million dollars when he showed me apartments in the city.
Which I'm now learning, by the way, is a detail that cost Jason his job. Apparently his company didn't appreciate that part of his story.
I shrug after the reporters give me the run down. “I'm still only here to talk about hockey.”
“So no comments?”
“Nope. None.”
“What do your teammates think?”
Shrug. “I think they wanna play hockey and not be bothered with this stuff. It's stupid.”
“Well, you can't deny it's starting to sound like ...”
Groan. On and on they go. At last the media is shown the door and we can finally shower up. I head to the shower, keeping my eye out for Vance. I haven't seen him anywhere in a while.
After I get cleaned up and dressed, I still haven't seen him. His clothes are still in his stall so I know he hasn't gone anywhere. But where could he be?
“Anybody seen Vance?” I ask. I'm answered by shrugs, butt scratches and I dunno's.
“Huh.”
The boys head out for the bus, but still no sign of Vance. I leave the dressing room and head out to the ice – and that's where I find him. Running up and down the stairs.
“Oh no,” I mumble under my breath. “C'mon Vance, not this. Not tonight.”
The only other people in the arena are the night crew as they clean up. It's always struck me as eerie to be in a place this big, which is usually teeming with so much life and energy and excitement – and then be in it when it's not. When it's more like a ghost town. And all you can hear is the droning of the rink's powerful lights, the bristles of the janitor's brooms as they sweep trash from the floor, and the soft patter of Vance's jogging shoes going up and down the endless stairs.
I'd heard the rumors – that when Vance was so unhappy with one of his performances, he'd jog up and down the arena stairs long after everyone else had left. Call it some kind of twisted self-punishment he picked up along the way. I just wasn't sure I believed it ... yet, here he is. When he's the only guy who looked like he cared tonight.
I cup my hands to my mouth. “Vance! Vance!”
He doesn't stop. He's shirtless, and even from this far away, his muscle definition is impressive.
“Vance!”
Can he not hear me? Or is he ignoring me?
“Ugh, fine,” I mutter.
I hustle up the stairs until I'm side by side with him. My leather loafers aren't made for running, though, and I'd really rather not run in a suit.
“Hey, Tyler! You really doing this tonight?”
He doesn't look at me. He just huffs and puffs as he pushes himself to work harder. His manly chest hair is damp and plastered to his skin.
“C'mon, Ty. The bus is about to head out, dude. It's gonna leave without us if we don't hurry back.”
Huff, puff.
“Are you really not gonna talk to me?”
“I'm ... just ... huff ... doing what I gotta ... to get over it.”
“We played shitty, but it wasn't your fault. It's crazy to punish yourself like this when you were the only guy who showed up tonight.”
“Huff ... I don't mean the game... puff ... I don't care about the game.”
“Then what?”
He stops running. His hands go to his knees, and he bends over at the waist. I put my hand on his back. He's as hot as a freakin' blast furnace and his back is slick with sweat.
“Well?” I ask.
“I said I don't care about the game and I mean it. At all. I don't care if we lose the Cup, Cal. I lost it before and I can lose it again. Won't kill me.”
I make a sour face. “You don't sound like yourself at all.”
“If we have to keep running around in secret, pretending like we're something we're not ... this shit isn't worth it to me, Cal. It actually pisses me the fuck off. If I can't be with you, then winning a Cup doesn't mean a goddamn thing to me.”
What.
He doesn't waste any time. He trots right off, sprinting up the stairs again. Speechless, I watch him run off.
He can't be serious.
I look at my watch. Time's running out, and the bus will leave without us any minute. But I can't leave Tyler. He could be here all night if someone doesn't stop him.
“Vance!” I yell. “Come back! Vance!”
But he waves me off and keeps running.
“Motherfucker,” I whisper under my breath.
But then I get an idea. I take the concourse exit and make my way up to the hockey ops offices upstairs. I try Carol's box-office door – the arena organist here in Winnipeg. Thankfully, it's unlocked. I step in and sit at her bench.
Carol's trunk is under the keyboard. I open it and find all her sheet music.
“C'mon, Carol ... c'mon ... have what I'm looking for!” I say as I flip through her thousands of alphabetized books. And at last I find what I'm looking for. “Mozart! Fuck yeah.”
Vance's favorite – Gran Partita, or Serenade No. 10, was written for wind instruments and won't sound nearly as full on a piano – but he'll get the idea if I don't butcher it too badly.
I power the keyboard on and hit all the PA power switches. With a crack of my knuckles and a furious palm-rubbing, I'm as ready as I'll ever be.
“Fuck it. Here goes nothing.”
I watch out the window as my music blares over the arena's speaker system. Tyler jogs up the stairs, his sweaty back glistening. But he hears the music and stops jogging. Slowly he turns, with his fists pinned to his hips, and scans the windows.
At last he spots me in my box. I wave.
I can see his smile. Even from here. That coy, amused, disbelieving and missing-a-tooth smile.
I don't hear the security guy rush in behind me. He pulls the plug on my keyboard and powers the PA system off.
“Hey, man!” I yell. “The hell! I was doing good! You know how long it's been since I played?”
“You can't be here – wait, is that you, Callan?”
“Yea
h, yeah,” I grumble, rising from the bench.
“Sorry Mr. Jones, but you can't be in here right now. We're closing down. You gotta go.”
“Alriiight.”
44.
Sin Bin
Callan
I head back down the concourse and find Tyler waiting for me. He's taken a seat in the stands. I sit next to him without saying a word.
“You can play,” he says softly. “You never told me you could play.”
“I can't play, really, it's been way too long. You probably heard me fuck up a few times.”
“Bullshit, man! That was lovely.”
“Well ... thanks.”
“When did you learn how to do that?”
“Grams taught me, dude. I told you she was a piano teacher.”
“Yeah, but you didn't tell me she taught you.”
“My heart was in hockey, not piano.” I shrug. “So it's not something I really brag about. I guess Grams thought piano might keep me out of trouble.”
“Did it?”
“Hell no,” I laugh. “Maybe just this once though? Ha.”
We sit in silence, staring at the empty ice. “I'm parched. I could use a drink,” Tyler says at last.
“They keep bottled waters in the penalty box. I used to spend a lot of time in that box so I know it pretty well. C'mon.”
He follows me. We head down to the ice level, hop onto the bench, and carefully walk over the ice in our shoes. We step into the box and take a seat.
“The penalty keeper's name is Fritz,” I tell Tyler. “He's a nice guy. Been doing this job a long time. Way before I got here to Winnipeg, anyway. He always keeps this cooler right here stocked with water bottles.”
I open the cooler and take a water bottle off the top. And then I laugh. “Whoaaaa!”
“What?” Tyler asks.
“Looks like Fritz's got more than just water in here.” I grin and hold up a few bottles of beer. “Think he drinks these on the job?”
“Maybe. Who knows.”
I hand Tyler his water. I take one too. We sit in silence – a silence that reminds me that it's still technically 'weird' between us. With the way things ended in the hotel and all.
“That was an awesome fight, by the way,” I say softly. “Your eye's a little puffy. How's it feel?”
“Not too bad.”
I touch the skin around his eye gently. It's already starting to turn bluish. He winces. I pull out some of the ice from Fritz's cooler, wrap in it a towel, and hold it to his face.
“I wish you could've seen yourself. You were like a drunken master out there.” I imitate his stance – left hand gripping Burky's jersey, right hand throwing fierce jabs and wild uppercuts. “The guys were going nuts. We thought you were gonna die at first, but you held your own.”
He nods quietly.
“C'mon, Tyler. Talk to me, bro.”
He looks over the ice with a thousand-yard stare and cracks a cynical smile.
“What's so funny?” I ask.
“I really don't know what to say.”
“Just tell me what's on your mind. Tell me what's making you smile.”
He pauses. “I didn't care at all if Burkhardt beat the piss out of me.”
“Well, that was obvious,” I chuckle.
He takes a mouthful of water and spits it back out. “No, I mean. I'm thinking about retiring after this season.”
“What?” I gasp. “No way, dude. Why the hell would you do that?”
“I'm really ... I'm over it. I don't care anymore, Cal.”
I scoot closer to him, sliding right into the aura of his blistering body heat, and bump my shoulder into his. “You don't mean that. You've got a long career ahead of you still. And think of all the money you'd be leaving on the table.”
“Fuck the money,” he snaps. “I've made enough, and it can't buy me a damn thing I actually care about.”
“So ... what do you care about?” I ask, even though I'm afraid of the answer.
He looks at me like I'm joking and snorts.
“What? What? Seriously, what?” I ask.
“Do I really have to embarrass myself again?”
I gulp. He can't be talking about what I think he is. “Vance ...” I say softly.
He chuckles. “And now I'm Vance again. Yeh – that's what I thought.”
He starts to get up to leave. But I grab his forearm, pull him back down and make him sit. “Wait. Tyler. Wait.”
He looks at me. He looks hopeless. I've never seen him like this and it's fucking killing me.
“Dude, Tyler. Fuck, man. Look – I don't know how else to say it. I can't be your training wheels, alright? You've got a future. I don't. Simple as that.”
“I told you I'm this close to retiring.” He holds up a small pinch of air between his fingers.
“That's just because you're being dramatic. You're just trying to tell me what you think I wanna hear.”
“No. I almost retired after the Cup loss and the media frenzy after it. Ask my agent if you don't believe me. He had to talk me out of it.”
“Yeah? Well if we got together, you'd have to retire anyway. And I'd never forgive myself if I was the reason I nuked your career.”
“I'd never forgive myself if I let you walk away.”
Those words steal the breath right out of my lungs. What? I gasp, but no sounds come out. He can't be serious ... he just can't be.
“Tyler ...” I say softly.
He wraps his arm around my back and tries to pull me closer. I freeze up. “There's people around here who could see us, man.”
“I don't care.”
And then the arena lights go out. All of 'em. We're in total darkness.
“There,” Tyler says. “Looks like everybody went home. No one can see us now.”
“Great,” I chuckle. “You know we missed the bus, right?”
“Yeah. Oh well.”
I can't see anything. But I feel Tyler's hand rest on my thigh. And then I feel his breath on my neck.
“Cal ...” he says softly.
“Yeah?” I swallow nervously.
“I've never felt anything like when I'm with you.” His lips kiss and suck at my neck. I hate it, but I can't resist it – his lips make me blossom for him like a flower, and I give him more of my neck. He eagerly drinks it right up, like a bee after nectar.
“When I'm with you, I feel like a kid again. Like I've still got so much more to learn. And I'm excited to learn, too.”
“Fuck, Tyler,” I sigh. He presses himself into me.
I writhe against him, softly saying his name in protest. I want him to stop.
But not really. Not at all.
His hand crawls higher up my thigh.
“When I'm with you, Cal ... I feel like everything finally makes sense.” His breath is hot on the cool spots he's left on my neck.
“Fuck,” I whisper hoarsely.
His mouth moves higher up my neck, moving slowly towards my lips. His hand inches higher up my thigh, teasing me. My manhood snakes down my trousers and toward his hand, reaching like a vine toward the light of day.
“If you can't play in this league because you like guys, then I don't wanna play in it either, Cal. 'Cause I like you.”
Why? Why does he have to say those words ...?
“Fuck,” I sigh, the last gasp of my resistance blowing away. “Tyler ... I like you too ...”
And then, in the pitch-black darkness, I don't see him or hear him move. But I feel him. There is a plump, tender touch of his lips against my own. His lips, like warm honey, melt into mine. His taste, his electric feel, his scent fills me. And I know he's right. I can't lie to myself any longer. I can't fight him any longer.
I let him in. I kiss him back. His lips part, and I give him my tongue. Our tongues touch and gently slither and slide against each other.
Each kiss strengthens him and makes me succumb to his mounting power. Soon he is on top of me, and I topple over, my back on the bench, his c
hest against mine ...
“Cal ...” he grumbles, his hand finding the hardness down my pant leg. He slides his palm up and down on it, and I moan softly. Shit, this is so wrong but awesome!
“Yeah?”
But all I hear in reply is the sound of my own zipper slowly clacking open. I feel his hand reach into my pants, reach under my boxers, and grab my stiffness. He pulls it up and out into the open. Slowly, he tugs it in the darkness, his hand pulling my skin up and down.
“Damn ...” I sigh. “Never thought I'd be doing this here.”
“Me neither,” he chuckles.
And then there's a sweltering heat suddenly sucking at my tip. My hands shoot over my mouth to keep from shouting in surprise. The deliciously wet, hot suction slowly slurps me down ... plunging down my length ... until I feel the cold tip of his nose press against my belly.
“Shit!” I stifle the bubbles of laughter coming from deep within. “You're really doing this in here, aren't you!”
“Mm-hmn,” is his satisfied reply.
And those lips slide further up and down my member in the dark. His hands fondle my nuts, coaxing them to swell up in his hand until I'm begging for mercy.
“You better stop, Tyler ...” I warn, my voice rising. But he never stops when I freakin' warn him. “Dude I'm gonna cum if you don't stop! Oh – Ty – uh oh ...”
My troubled noises only encourage him. He sucks me faster, harder, deeper. I grab a fistful of his hair, hanging on as tightly as I can as his head bobs up and down my girth.
“I'm cumming!”
“Mmmf!” he groans as I climax. He strokes me into his mouth, his lips pulled taut on my glans, and he sucks my cum right down.
“Oooh!” I groan, my whole body trembling until he's swallowed my last drop.
And then his mouth comes off me. My cock flops against my bare belly with a wet thud. And then I feel those plump lips again, pressing against mine – but this time with the salty, slick heat of my seed slathered all over them.
“Damn, Ty ...”
I reach my hand between his legs. I wanna return the favor. But Tyler grabs my arm and pulls me off him.
If he could see anything at all in this darkness right now, he'd see I was lifting my eyebrow at him. Huh?