by Avon Gale
Bossing Laurent around was turning out to be more enjoyable than he thought. And even though he was still taciturn and didn’t look anything close to happy, something about not having to talk seemed to relax Laurent.
They went up to Isaac’s room. It was a dormer room with its own bath and had three windows and a pitched roof. His bed fit in a little alcove, so it was nice and snug. Isaac even had a dresser for his clothes, a closet, a desk, a chair that he knew Misha bought for him and pretended he’d just had lying around, and a television/stereo set that had belonged to Coach Ashford.
When he’d first moved in, Isaac made it a point to make the bed every morning and put everything away neatly before he left the house. Not anymore. His shoes were strewn about, his clothes were heaped in the laundry basket, his bed hadn’t been made since before the playoffs last season, and on the desk were no fewer than three Coke cans, ranging from empty to almost full.
He’d put up a poster of last year’s team and some pictures of him with Hux and Murph at Myrtle Beach from one of those photo booths. A ton of old goalie pads and gear were shoved in one corner.
Laurent dropped his gear and, in the way of goalies everywhere, immediately sank on the floor and started stretching.
Isaac and his old backup, Anthony Lathrop, used to stretch together. But Anthony was not as hot as Laurent, and it was never quite so distracting.
“Okay. So look. You don’t mean all that dumb gay shit, which means you’re saying it because… why? I don’t know, and you can’t talk yet, so let’s move on.” Isaac paused. “Wait a minute. We need food. Stay here.”
Isaac bounded down the stairs, grabbed a few cans of Coke and some snacks, and went back to his room.
“You actually eat these?” Laurent said as he picked up the box of Twinkies.
“Hey. I didn’t say you could talk.”
Laurent rolled his eyes, but he took a Coke, and opened a bag of pretzels. He watched Isaac with an expression of well?
“Okay,” Isaac said. He took a breath. Laurent was there and being quiet. It was weird to see someone he’d loathed up until about an hour before sitting on his floor and unwrapping a Twinkie. Isaac wasn’t sure what to say.
Laurent didn’t look any friendlier than usual, but it was hard to find a guy threatening when he was eating a Twinkie. And he shouldn’t be looking at Laurent’s mouth wrapped around that anyway.
“So here’s the thing. My parents kicked me out when I was seventeen. And it wasn’t because I told them I was gay. I told them that when I was thirteen, and they pretended not to hear me. It was because I’d told them I was going to come out at school. So they told me I could either go to one of those conversion camps or get out. So I left.
“And there’s a lot of shit I’m not going to get into because honestly, I don’t like you enough to tell you yet. But I stayed with friends until their parents made me leave, and then I ran out of friends. I had nowhere to go, and I tried to be this cool, defiant street kid, but I was just scared. I went behind the Kroger’s—the one where my mom always shopped—and it was cold, and I cried when I realized I had to sleep there because I couldn’t go home. I know how that feels, to have nowhere safe. To think no one cares about you.
“I still remember being that kid, Laurent, and how it felt. So I didn’t walk out when I heard you in the shower, and that’s why I brought you to my safe place. Because when you say that shit to me? I don’t care what you think about what I do with my dick. But when you spit on me and call me a fag, it’s like you’re trying to make me feel like that kid again. And no matter what you do, I won’t let you.”
Laurent looked down, but not before Isaac could see he’d touched some kind of nerve. He didn’t want to say Laurent looked ashamed, but he sort of hoped he felt that way.
“I won’t let you do it to anyone else on the team either. I don’t know if there’s someone on our team who’s still in the closet—and honestly, our team is so gay, I don’t know why we don’t fly a rainbow banner behind the Spitfire on our logo and call it good. But I won’t let you make them feel like that either. So I don’t know what shit happened to you or what had you upset, but unless you’re the worst person in the world—and for a while I thought you totally were—I don’t think you mean to make other people feel bad.” Isaac narrowed his eyes. “Do you? You can talk now. But if you use one gay slur—one—I will punch you so hard you’ll wish you hadn’t eaten that Twinkie.”
“I already wish that,” Laurent said. He bowed his head again and stared at the floor.
Isaac resisted the urge to start throwing pretzels at him. “Is that all you have to say?”
Laurent looked up at him, his eyes wary. “I don’t even know why you’re bothering with me. I’m not worth it.”
“I didn’t think you were. But maybe now I do.”
“Why? Because you saw me crying?” Laurent’s face flushed, and he looked away again.
“Because you’re my teammate.” Isaac wanted to hit him. “And you’re a goalie—a good one too. I’d like to play with you as a friend, instead of hate you for being a homophobe. And yeah. Okay. Maybe because I saw you crying. Because it means you might not be the asshole we all think you are.”
“I threw those games in Asheville.”
Isaac blinked. Of all the things he expected to hear…. “What?”
Laurent’s cool, dark gaze was unreadable. “My father said if the Storm swept us, he’d make sure I was traded. So I made sure we lost.”
Isaac stared at Laurent as he tried to process that someone hated their father enough to deliberately cause his entire team to lose in the playoffs. “Oh my God. That’s the—that’s the most awful thing I’ve ever heard.”
Laurent’s face managed to look even more closed down and remote, and then he gave Isaac that mean little smirk that meant he was going to revert back to dickhead mode. “Still want me as your teammate, Drake?”
“Of course. Wait. You thought I meant the fact you threw the games was awful? No, you asshole. I meant the fact your father is so terrible that you had to do that in the first place.” Isaac pushed the pretzels over at him, which he thought was an improvement over chucking them. “I thought—you know, I watched you play those games, and it was weird. You let in a few goals that I was surprised you didn’t stop. But we all fuck up, and goddamn, I hated you so much I was just happy to see you lose.”
“Thanks,” Laurent said. He hesitantly reached for the pretzels. “It’s all right. I wanted to see us lose too. So I made sure we did. If it helps, even my teammates were mad at me for what I said to you.”
“You think they weren’t saying the same thing?” Isaac popped a few pretzels in his mouth. “If I had a dollar for every time I got called a gay slur on the ice, I’d have a brand-new Jeep and a penthouse. If they have those in Spartanburg. Which I don’t think they do.”
Laurent raised his eyes again. He looked wary and uncertain. “I never meant to make you feel like that.”
That was good to hear. It meant Laurent wasn’t hopeless. “We could try and be friends. I’m pretty cool. I yell a lot in goal, but that’s because my playing style is aggressive.”
“You remind me of Tim Thomas.” Laurent had the first honest-to-God hint of a smile that Isaac had ever seen on him. “Only you probably don’t have terrible political views.”
“Wasn’t your dad a Hab? Like, a legendary one? And you’re saying I remind you of a Bruin goalie?”
That small hint of a smile vanished like it had never been. “I hate my father, Drake. I thought you’d figured that out.”
“So you’re a Bruins fan? Oh my God. Well, that’ll make Coach Samarin like you a lot more.”
“My father played for the Nordiques and the Rangers. But I’m not a fan of any team. I hate hockey. Hate it.”
Isaac was at a loss. “Uh.”
Laurent ate another pretzel. His gaze was watchful, and he said nothing.
“Why are you playing at all if you hate it?”
/> Laurent scoffed. “Why do you think? There was no way to escape it. I hate hockey, I hate playing goalie, and I hate my father.”
Hockey had been the one thing that kept Isaac going, even before he joined the Spitfires. He couldn’t imagine how it could make someone miserable. “Not that I’m trying to get rid of you, but can’t you just quit?”
Laurent laughed. It was a horrible, aching sound. “Drake, your story. Do you want to know what I felt when you were telling me that?”
“Dunno. Is it gonna make me want to punch you in the throat?”
Laurent shrugged. “Probably. I was jealous.”
“Jealous? Did you miss the part where I was crying behind a grocery store in the suburbs? Seriously?”
“Jealous because you ran away, and your parents let you go.”
Isaac felt so far out of his league, it wasn’t even funny. “I think maybe you need to talk to Coach,” Isaac said. “He’ll be home soon, and—”
“No.” Laurent jumped up, graceful even in the midst of what appeared to be a panic attack. “No. I can’t. Don’t. Please.”
Isaac stood up, eyes wide. “Dude, calm down. Look. I’m just saying he might be able to help you.”
Laurent made the horrible faux-laugh noise again. “No. He can’t. No one can. My father—you have no idea. Trust me. You want me far away from you and Coach and everyone else, Drake.”
“Saint,” Isaac said and held his hands up. He was way out of his comfort zone. Laurent looked like a cornered animal, and Isaac could see the whites of his eyes. “Okay, man. Come on. Just… I have to say something. You’re miserable.” And terrified.
“Then I’m going to be a jackass,” Laurent snapped, and there he was again—the sneering, cold-eyed asshole Isaac despised. “I’ll go tell the ECHL board that Coach Samarin and Coach Ashford came on to me.”
“Oh the hell you will,” Isaac snarled. Then he realized he was reacting exactly the way Laurent wanted him to, and he scowled. “Stop talking, Saint. Just shut up again.”
Laurent probably expected Isaac to hit him, so maybe it was just surprise that motivated him to follow that directive, but he did.
“I’m not going to let you ruin someone’s life just so you—” Isaac stopped before he said, “just so you don’t have to deal with your dad.” He took a deep breath. “Stop doing that. Stop making me mad. If you don’t want help, that’s fine. But don’t say shit like that anymore. Okay?”
Laurent’s expression was stony, but he didn’t say anything.
“Just nod or something,” Isaac said, flushing a bit. It was doing weird things to Isaac to have that sort of power over Laurent. But it was also freaking him out. Why was Laurent letting him have it?
Laurent didn’t nod and kept staring at Isaac, unblinking, his fists clenched at his sides.
“How about this,” Isaac said, casting about for something that might help. The team needed the constant stress and Laurent’s infectious bad attitude to be over and done with. “You don’t act like such an asshole, you stop the gay slurs and try and get along with the guys. And I won’t tell Coach about what… what you just told me.”
Laurent’s expression gentled for a moment, and he looked confused—like he didn’t understand why Isaac gave a shit about any of it. But he nodded, and Isaac expelled a breath he hadn’t known he was holding and offered a tentative smile. “So. Friends?” He held out his hand.
Laurent took a step away from him. His cold mask was back in place, and he eyed Isaac’s outstretched hand with mistrust.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Isaac snapped. “What?”
Even though Isaac told him to speak, Laurent didn’t say anything. But he reached out and shook Isaac’s hand, and as cold as Laurent was, his skin was just as warm as anyone else’s.
Chapter Five
IT WAS never going to work.
He should have kept his original plan. He should have spit on Drake again, in his eye or something. He should have made good on his threat and called the ECHL on his coaches. He should have done whatever it took to not make Isaac Drake think they could be friends.
Except he hadn’t. Isaac had seen Laurent crying and hadn’t done what he should have, which was make fun of Laurent or mock him for his obvious weakness. Instead he’d taken him home and given him a Twinkie.
Laurent didn’t think he’d ever even had a Twinkie. It wasn’t very good, and he never planned on having another one, but still.
He was sitting in Drake’s room, and Drake was trying his damnedest to make small talk, but Laurent wished they could go back to him not having to talk.
That had been so… maybe nice wasn’t the right word. Relaxing, maybe. For the first time in a long while, Laurent felt like he could breathe.
“So Murph thinks you went all homo hater on me because you’re secretly gay.”
Laurent’s head snapped up from his perusal of an old copy of The Hockey News he’d found on Isaac’s floor. “I’m not secretly anything.”
Drake sucked on his lip ring. He did that a lot, and Laurent still couldn’t quite believe he got away with having it in the first place.
“You’re straight?” Drake asked.
With a little extra oomph, Laurent flipped past an article about how much everyone hated shootouts. They should try being a goalie. “I just told you. I’m not anything.”
“Uh,” said Drake. “I… What?”
The thought of anyone touching me makes my stomach turn. “My father always said I could fuck when I’m famous.”
“Oh my God. Every time I think I couldn’t hate him more.” Drake eased into a stretch, though it appeared to be mostly so he could reach for the pretzels. “Your dad is a prick, Saint.”
That nickname. Laurent had never had one before. His father was always Savvy, of course, and his teammates on the Ravens called him Savvy J, for Savvy Junior. Which he hated more than anything.
“My father has two Stanley Cup rings, a Vezina, and a Conn Smythe. He’s probably going to be inducted into the Hall of Fame next year.”
“Your father is a douchebag who needs to be knocked over the head with all of those trophies,” Drake said. “And you don’t know if you’re attracted to men or women?”
The conversation made Laurent uncomfortable, as that sort of conversation always did. “I don’t know.”
To his surprise, Drake didn’t push. “Okay. That’s cool. But if you’re gay, you know… you can talk to me about it.”
Laurent’s stomach churned with unhappy nerves. “Why are you even doing this?”
Drake didn’t bother to ask him what this was. “Because I hate what’s happening to my team. And I hate knowing you’re not an asshole but you don’t know how to be anything else.”
“I’ve never been anything but awful to you,” Laurent mumbled. He wanted to go home, but the idea of walking all the way to his apartment was exhausting.
“Yes. Believe me, I know. And you’re going to stop, because we’re moving past that.” Isaac’s voice was even, implacable. As fiery as he was in net, he had a certain immovability that Laurent found he envied.
Would Isaac have let his father push him around? Probably not. He’d run away, and that was that. But Laurent wasn’t lying when he told Isaac that he was jealous Isaac’s parents let him go.
Isaac. He was thinking of him like that, with his first name. Everyone else called Isaac “Drake.”
“I probably still will,” Laurent said gloomily. “I’m not… I’ve never had a friend before. I won’t be good at it, and you’re going to get mad at me.”
Isaac shrugged. “Probably. I get mad at Hux and Murph. Like today. Which…. Fuck. I need to text them and yell some more. Idiots.”
“They were standing up for you,” Laurent said, as though he weren’t still horrified by how it had felt, being helpless and so close to having all his secrets laid bare. It was humiliating to stand in that shower and know he had no way to stop it.
The same way Isaac must have felt on
the ice when I spit on him. Laurent hung his head.
“Yeah. Well, I can do that myself. They’re not bad guys. You’ll see.” Isaac flopped on his back and idly messed with his phone.
Wait. What did that mean? “Isaac, I can’t be… I can’t be friends with them. You can’t make me,” Laurent said, panicked.
Isaac looked up, and his dark blue eyes narrowed in thought. “You want to say something mean, huh. So I’ll hate you.”
Laurent nodded desperately.
“Stop talking,” Isaac said, and Laurent felt the relief at the simple instruction and went back to his magazine.
Isaac returned to his phone, Laurent read back issues of The Hockey News, and it was maybe the best afternoon he’d ever spent around another human being. He wanted to lie down on the floor and fall asleep.
“Hey, Isaac. Get your ass down here and help with the groceries.”
Coach Ashford’s voice. Somehow Laurent had managed to forget there was a house connected to Isaac’s bedroom, and that his coaches lived in that house—his coaches who hated him.
“Yeah. Coming,” Isaac called. He looked at Laurent. “We’re going to have to explain what you’re doing here.”
“Why?” Laurent asked, panicked and trying to fight the instinct to run into Isaac’s bathroom and throw up the snacks and sugary soda. “You promised.”
Isaac gave him a strange look. “I know, dude. But I can’t just be like, hey, me and Saint are friends now.” He crossed his arms, chin tilted. Despite being shorter and leaner than Laurent, it never made Isaac appear weak or ineffectual. “Like I said, we gotta come up with something that’ll be mostly the truth, because I know what I promised, but I’m not lying to Misha. Not for you, not for anyone.”
It must be nice to respect someone that much.
“In case it wasn’t clear, we’ve already been to the store,” Coach Ashford yelled up the stairs. “Carry your weight, Drake.”
Isaac rolled his eyes, and a fond smile edged at the corner of his mouth. “Stop making my life so difficult. Let’s go.”