Empty Net

by Avon Gale

  Laurent followed him, but he cast a look at the bathroom off Isaac’s bedroom. “Can I just—”

  “Come on, Saint.”

  It was the nickname, Laurent figured, as he followed Isaac down the stairs. It made him feel like a different person, like someone who could maybe not be a disappointment. And oh fuck. Who was he kidding? It was going to end badly, just like everything else.

  When Laurent appeared behind Isaac in the driveway, Coach Ashford’s face might have been funny if Laurent didn’t want to crawl into a hole and disappear.

  “Umm,” Coach Ashford said, but he recovered quickly. His smile for Isaac was affectionate and warm, but it cooled considerably when he saw Laurent. “Here.” Coach Ashford thrust a bag at Isaac, his eyes still on Laurent.

  “Oh, Saint came over for dinner,” Isaac said casually, as if that were normal.

  Coach Samarin must have been in the house, because he suddenly appeared in the doorway—tall and looming ominously, like a gatekeeper in front of a castle. “I don’t remember inviting him,” he said, his English slightly accented. Laurent knew from practices that when Coach Samarin sounded more Russian, you were probably in trouble.

  Isaac was stupid to think it would work. Laurent tried to think of what to do and had something awful on the tip of his tongue, and then Isaac stepped neatly in front of him, looked at their coach, and said, “I did.”

  Laurent’s words all fell away, and he had no name for the emotion that suddenly overwhelmed him.

  “Look, me and Saint here had a nice chat. Okay? We cleared up some stuff. So it’s cool.”

  Coach Samarin and Coach Ashford didn’t look convinced. But they did look right at Laurent, as if they wanted confirmation.

  All right. Laurent could do that. “I’m sorry.” That’s all he could manage, and it didn’t sound… well, it didn’t sound genuine, but it didn’t sound hateful. He wanted to put his face in his hands and scream. He’d learned how to be hateful, mean and withdrawn, but he’d never learned how to be nice. To anyone. Ever.

  “Saint here decided he was going to stop acting like such an asshole. Right, Saint?”

  Isaac had to be using the name on purpose. Laurent nodded and stared down at his shoes. “Yeah. Yes.”

  “Then he can look me in the eyes and apologize for how he’s treated his teammates, his captain, and his coaches,” said Coach Samarin, his voice as unyielding as steel. “And he can promise me that my boyfriend and my friend won’t be subjected to that in their home.”

  Laurent’s heart stopped for a second, because his father made him do shit like that all the time and always demanded Laurent say things or make promises or atone for things. Usually at the end of a belt, or while kneeling on grains of rice. But Coach Samarin was just asking for something that he had every right to ask for.

  Laurent raised his head, expecting Coach Samarin to be glowering at him. But he wasn’t glaring as much as staring straight into the heart of Laurent’s soul, like he could see every truth hidden behind the hate Laurent wore like armor.

  “I’m sorry for what I’ve said, and what I’ve done,” Laurent said, very carefully. “I’m not proud of it. I’m trying not to be that way anymore.”

  He could have said, “I won’t do it again,” but he knew, even if Isaac didn’t, that it wouldn’t be that easy.

  “I won’t put up with any of that in my house,” Coach Samarin said, but he went back to unloading bags of groceries and handed one to Laurent.

  With nothing else to do, Laurent followed Isaac into the kitchen and put the bag on the counter.

  “Good job, Saint. That wasn’t bad. There’s hope for you yet.” Isaac smiled at him.

  Maybe, but the second he could get away, Laurent excused himself, ran upstairs, turned on the water in Isaac’s bathroom and threw up everything in his stomach.

  Chapter Six

  ISAAC GOT back from dropping Saint off at his apartment, which looked like a boarding house from 1939, and tried his hardest to sneak upstairs to his room.

  “Oh. I don’t think so,” Coach Ashford said as he leaned against the wall. “House meeting. Kitchen. Now.”

  “If I come quietly, do I get vodka?” Isaac asked and followed Coach Ashford through the house.

  “No.”

  “I’m twenty-five, Coach Ashford,” Isaac reminded him.

  “Isaac, you’ve lived here long enough, can you please just call me Max? And yeah. You can drink the bottom-shelf stuff. Not the good kind.”

  “You can’t drink that either,” Isaac said, and sat on his stool next to Coach—Max.

  Misha was doing the dishes by hand. Isaac had learned that when Misha wanted something to do with his hands, it was usually because he wanted to wring someone’s neck.

  Isaac’s, probably.

  “Isaac, I do not like having surprise guests for dinner.”

  “He doesn’t like Laurent, and you should have told him he was coming,” Max said.

  Misha turned his dark glare on Max, who looked nonplussed. “What? It’s true. I’m translating.”

  “Do I have to send you to our room?”

  Max winked at Misha and gave him a naughty grin. It made Isaac hate the two of them for being so happy and not racked with interpersonal drama.

  In front of Isaac’s place was a glass of milk. He glared at Misha, but drank it anyway.

  “I can’t stand the way the team is,” Isaac said, by way of explanation. He wasn’t going to tell Laurent’s secret, but he meant it when he said he wasn’t going to lie to Misha. He also didn’t want to get Hux and Murph in trouble, but they’d been acting like assholes and bullies, and that shit had to stop. “I caught some of the guys giving Saint a hard time, so I made them stop. Then I told Saint we were gonna have a chat until he knew what the score was. Captain stuff, Misha.”

  “Mmm.” Misha leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. Strands of his blond hair hung in his face. Isaac had never seen a natural blond with eyes as dark as his before. “Who was it?”

  “Uh.” Isaac looked over at Max.

  “You got yourself into this mess,” Max said.

  “Do I have to tell you?” Isaac hated that his life, which had been pretty great and uncomplicated a few weeks earlier, had just turned into a soap opera in which he was playing the leading role… and was still forbidden to drink any of the goddamn good vodka.

  Misha looked at him with his piercing stare for a long time. Isaac was not immune to it, or the way Misha knew how to loom.

  Isaac sighed theatrically. “I need to take care of this. Please, Coach.” The title was deliberate. “It was something stupid that someone did on my behalf, and I have to be the one to make it right.”

  “Oh my God. It’s like you’re his son,” Max said.

  “I don’t think I’m old enough to have a son Isaac’s age.” Misha thought about that. “Also, Max, I’m gay.”

  “I noticed,” Max said dryly. “That doesn’t mean you can’t have kids, though. You’d be good with them. But God, you’re like the same person.” He turned to Isaac and said in a voice bordering on singsong, “Isaac, this is an issue that affects the whole team, so you can’t shoulder the responsibility of fixing it as if there aren’t other people here to help you—who are supposed to do that kind of thing.”

  Isaac looked at Misha, but Max cleared his throat. More than once. “Hello?”

  Isaac groaned and put his head in his hands. “I know, Coach Ashford. Max. I know. But even if Saint hadn’t been a dick since he got here, the guys would have hated him because of what he did during the playoffs. To me.”

  “To a member of my team,” Misha pointed out.

  “And that’s why you got mad at Penis St. Dickhead,” Isaac answered reasonably. “Because you know he put Laurent up to that.” Isaac didn’t know that for certain, but it seemed a good guess.

  Max choked on his vodka. “I—sorry. Sorry. That name’s funny,” he mumbled. He shot a grin at Misha. “Come on. You’ll laugh about th
at later, and you know it.”

  “I do not know why this is not something you are addressing seriously like it deserves,” Misha said, his anger evident in the convoluted way he’d phrased the sentence in English. So convoluted that both Max and Isaac stared at him, heads tilted, to work out what he meant.

  Misha stared up at the ceiling. “I spoke this afternoon with Belsey about trading him.”

  Isaac felt his throat tighten. “Wait, you—no. You can’t. Give him a chance, please. I know he can be… well. Awful. Can you trust me that it’s a defense mechanism? I promised I wouldn’t go into it. And please, you trusted me when I needed you to, and I trust you more than anyone, Misha. And mostly you, Max.”

  “Thanks, Isaac.”

  “Don’t mention it. But I can’t…. Just let me try and make this right,” Isaac said as he slid off the barstool and moved toward Misha.

  “Whoa. You better not be going over there to convince him the same way I usually do,” Max said. His irrepressibly sunny outlook and constant good humor sometimes made Isaac want to throttle him.

  “I don’t want to live in a broken home,” Isaac shot back, still looking at Misha.

  Misha’s dark eyes narrowed. “I do trust you, Isaac. As long as it isn’t about things like hair color and facial jewelry.”

  “Ha.” Max cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

  Isaac felt relief flood through him. “Thanks, Misha.” He held up his glass. “Can I wash this?”

  Misha waved a hand. “Just put it in dishwasher. The dishwasher. And that was very convincing, Isaac, but you act as if Belsey would ever agree to me reducing the drama in my locker room to manageable levels.”

  “He’s gonna make a new commercial if we’re not careful,” Max said. “He’ll set it to that Radiohead song.”

  “Creep?” Isaac grinned at Max and sang the chorus about being a weirdo.

  “I like that you live here, because you get my music and pop-culture references,” Max said and lifted his empty glass.

  “So I’m pulling my weight after all?”

  “Maybe I liked living alone,” Misha sighed, but he was smiling. Not a lot, but enough that Isaac knew serious conversations were over for the evening.

  “You didn’t. You were bored and sad.” Max stood up as well and took his glass to the dishwasher. “But seriously, Isaac, if you need help with any of this…. Well, you know where to find me.”

  “Yup.” Isaac smiled. “Thanks, C—Max.”

  “No problem. Misha? You can stop glaring and doing dishes now. Let the dishwasher do its thing and maybe let Isaac have some vodka.”

  “You know that is very hard to get, don’t you?”

  “No. Because we always seem to have some in the freezer. And can we finally discuss how I can’t believe you used the word boyfriend about me, earlier?”

  Misha’s arms were still crossed over his chest, but he gave Max a smile that Isaac didn’t see very often. “Neither can I.”

  Isaac thought about going to Hux and Murph’s, but he was still pissed at them, and even though he had a text message that was an apology of sorts, he thought they might not want to see him either.

  Instead Isaac went to his room, grabbed his laptop, and pulled on his headphones. He recognized that look his coaches gave one another. So he could spend the evening watching goaltending videos or he could watch some porn… or he could search the Internet for things about Laurent St. Savoy—things like where he’d played peewee hockey, what development teams he’d been on if he’d actually ever played hockey on a team not coached by his asswipe father, and maybe take a look at his numbers and see if St. Savoy Jr. was a better goalie than St. Savoy Sr. had been, and maybe that’s why his dad was so mean to him.

  Or he could log on to Cockyboys and watch some hot guys fucking each other.

  Even Isaac was a little surprised by the one he chose. But by the time he gave in and clicked over to watch the hot guys fucking, he knew enough to know that it was a damn shame Laurent hated hockey.

  Chapter Seven

  LAURENT SPENT the night after his impromptu dinner with his coaches fighting the urge to throw up. He wanted to. He felt sick and there was too much going on in his head, crowding him and making him want to scream. In the end he decided to read his comics and draw.

  Oddly by the time he got into bed he felt… not good—he hardly ever felt good—but at least not miserable. The sick feeling had abated. That wouldn’t last, but it was nice.

  He put his hands behind his head and thought about what Isaac had asked him earlier in his bedroom—if Laurent was gay or straight—and how he didn’t know the answer.

  Getting off was as enjoyable as hockey drills for Laurent. It was a brief respite and the relief of a physical need. That was about it. He didn’t look at porn when he did it, he didn’t read erotica or whatever, and he didn’t think about anyone in particular. He just touched himself until the pressure and friction did what it was supposed to, and then he went to sleep.

  But people did that, and they liked it. They let other people do it to them, and they liked that too. Isaac wanted other guys to do it to him. The thought made Laurent too warm, and he kicked at the covers in sudden restlessness.

  Laurent didn’t like to be touched, and he couldn’t imagine that ever changing. But as he lay in bed with the crooked fan blades whirring above him and the sound of the occasional car passing by on the road outside, he thought about how it had felt to be silent.

  Silent because someone told him to. Someone who called him Saint.

  And he was hard.

  He slid his hand over his stomach and shivered a little, despite the flush on his skin. Usually when he did that, it was in the shower, to get rid of the inevitable mess, and he made sure to turn his brain off as much as possible during the whole thing. But this time, he let his fingers drift over his stomach, down the front of his boxers. And he kept thinking about how it had been earlier, when he hadn’t needed to talk.

  Was he gay? Laurent didn’t know, but he tentatively thought about Isaac touching him, and immediately stopped what he was doing. It didn’t feel wrong or bad. It just frightened him, because he didn’t want Isaac to touch him. But not for the reason he usually didn’t want other people to touch him.

  Isaac had done something nice for him. And Laurent didn’t want Isaac to be someone who touched him, because that was never nice.

  Isaac, who touched other people. Men. Like Coach Samarin and Coach Ashford touched one another, and like guys on the teams he’d been on touched girls. Or other guys, like Xavier Matthews. Men his father hated and reviled, like he would hate Laurent—

  Laurent’s erection softened immediately and killed the slow, tingling beginnings of desire.

  He exhaled, made himself go through breathing exercises, and stopped trying to think about anyone touching him. Instead he thought about being quiet, being told not to talk and having that burden removed from him. How it had felt to have Isaac, standing in front of him, standing up for him.

  Isaac, sucking on that lip ring of his.

  The image stuck in Laurent’s mind when nothing else would. The way Isaac flicked his tongue over it, pulled it between his teeth, and clicked at it. He did it when he was on his phone, when he was putting dishes away, when he was driving.

  Laurent’s hand was on himself then, moving faster. He shifted on the bed and felt hot and restless and… something else. He didn’t stop.

  Does this mean I’m gay?

  The thought crept in and reminded him of Hux’s and Murph’s hands on him—how it felt to have men touching him. And instead of the slow burn when he pictured Isaac and his lip ring, Laurent just felt frustrated and still restlessly turned on in a way he didn’t like.

  He tried two or three more times, and the last time, he stroked himself brutally. He tried to make himself get off and wanted so badly for it to be normal like it was for other people.

  You’re a bully. Just like your father.

  You can fuck wh
en you’re famous.

  Finally Laurent got up and went to the bathroom. He ran the water, washed his hands, got out a towel and a glass of water, and sat on the bathroom floor. He made himself sick, and then, when there was nothing left inside him, he got in the shower, and came silently when he was thinking about nothing at all.

  When he crawled back into his bed, he pulled the covers up around himself and wondered if he could ask Isaac, maybe, to order him to be quiet when he was at home by himself, and if that might work next time. He would never do it—could never do it—but the thought of it was the only thing that lulled him to sleep.

  THE NEXT day before practice, Laurent felt cold and clammy when he went into the locker room, like he had a fever.

  He had no idea what was going to happen. Isaac, for all he knew, might have been pulling some elaborate hoax on him. Maybe the whole “let’s be friends” thing was just a trick, and Laurent would walk in and expect something nice and only get something painful in return.

  Like you’re not used to that by now?

  But Isaac came up to him immediately. The locker room fell silent, and everyone was unabashedly watching. Laurent couldn’t blame them as he and Isaac usually went out of their way to ignore one another.

  All the things he could say felt sharp and barbed like wire. But he didn’t say them because Isaac gave him an easy smile and said, “Hey, Saint. What’s up?”

  Everyone stared at them. Laurent swallowed. Get away from me, you disgusting fag.

  No, no, no. Laurent didn’t think that, didn’t want to think that, and he did not want to say it to Isaac. “Hi, Isaac.” He realized he hadn’t called his captain Drake and flushed scarlet. A mistake. He slid into that cold place and the core of meanness he cultivated so easily.

  Isaac sucked on his lip ring. In and out. In and out. He was clearly nervous and wanted it to work out.

  Laurent was nervous too. He tried to relax a little. They didn’t say anything else, but the team immediately noticed their lack of antagonism.

  “Is it Opposite Day?” Drew Crowder looked between the two of them. “Huh.”