Empty Net

by Avon Gale

  “You’re asking me?” Laurent ignored Hux’s comment. “I hate everyone. Remember?”

  Isaac actually gave him a fond smile. “I know.” He rubbed his hand over Laurent’s hair, which messed it up and made him scowl.

  “Simon’s mission in life is to be my dad’s adopted son,” Laurent offered.

  “So the answer’s yes,” Isaac sighed. “I should have known. He acted like he just scored a game-seven, Stanley-Cup-winning goal on me earlier.”

  “Relax, Saint. We’ve got your back.” Hux gave Laurent a slap on the back that nearly sent Laurent toppling over the table. It wasn’t that hard of a pat. It just wasn’t expected. Only Isaac ever touched him.

  “Hey,” Isaac snapped as he reached over and hit Hux on the back of the head. “Remember what I said about beating him up?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “You don’t know your own strength, dude,” Murph said cheerfully. “But don’t worry, Saint. It’s probably cool. Matthews ain’t that bad. Drake dated him and everything. Maybe he’ll keep Smushed Face from doing anything stupid.”

  Laurent wasn’t sure about that, but he was busy digesting the information that Isaac had dated Xavier.

  “Before you say anything, because you look like you’re going to, he wasn’t out, and I’m not into that.” Isaac shrugged as he watched Xavier make his way to the bar with his teammates. “And it wasn’t dating. We hooked up a few times. That’s all.”

  It seemed like everything would be fine at first. The Ravens players got their drinks and exchanged a few nods with the Spitfires. There was no reason why Laurent’s heart should be pounding as hard as it was. Guys who were not him, guys who were normal, left the game on the ice when it was over.

  He turned to Isaac. “Xavier Matthews is your type? He’s blond. I thought you went for brunets.” Laurent studied his former teammate and sipped his beer. He still felt weird about knowing Isaac had been with Matthews. Was he jealous? He didn’t think so, but the idea of Isaac being with someone else, someone who wasn’t him, made him frown.

  “I go for pretty.” Isaac elbowed him slyly. “You’re way prettier. Does that make you feel better?”

  “I don’t feel bad,” Laurent said, and he shrugged. Even if hearing that did make him happy. “I was just curious.”

  Isaac leaned back in his chair, and his shirt pulled a bit over his stomach. Laurent watched the way Isaac lazily studied their surroundings, the way his eyeliner was slightly smudged, and thought it was weird he ever had to wonder if he thought Isaac was hot or not.

  When it became apparent the Ravens weren’t there to start anything, Laurent went back to his conversation with Hux and put them out of his mind. After another few drinks, he realized he was actually having fun. Maybe it wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.

  Of course, when he went to the bar to get another beer for himself and Isaac, the universe had to prove him wrong. Because not all of his ex-teammates had left, and Tyler Simon stood in front of Laurent and smirked.

  “So Savvy J. Tell me, is Drake the Fag wearing makeup? No wonder I scored a goal on him. It’s like playing hockey with my little sister.”

  Laurent had no idea how to respond to that taunt, so all he said was, “Don’t call me that.”

  “And I can’t believe you’re bringing him a drink. Shouldn’t it be, like, a Cosmo or something girlie?”

  “Shouldn’t you go back to sucking my father’s dick and leave me the fuck alone?” Laurent snapped. The alcohol in his veins made it impossible to shut down and disengage, and Laurent was tired of doing it anyway. He wanted to stand up for himself, for once. The problem was he immediately resorted to cheap-shot insults, out of habit.

  “I’m not the dick sucker here, but it looks like maybe Drake’s gay is infectious.” Simon’s eyes glittered, and he smiled meanly. He made a blowjob motion with his hand next to his cheek. “Taking it up the ass from the fag, are you? Pathetic. Glad we traded you.”

  Laurent and Tyler Simon had never been friends, and Simon had always been jealous of him for being the coach’s son. Laurent would have gladly signed whatever paperwork was necessary to turn that dubious distinction over to his odious former teammate. “Yeah. Everyone wins. Now will you get out of my way or not?”

  “You’re such a pussy. Can’t even man up when I’m insulting your boyfriend?” Simon laughed. “Looks like you fit right in with the SpitSwallowers.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense, Simon.” Laurent thought that Assville Ravens was much better as far as insulting team nicknames. Just as dumb, maybe. But it sounded less lame. “And you’re not insulting anyone, because I don’t care what you think or what you say. Now get out of my way.”

  “Or what?”

  Jesus-effing-Christ. What the fuck? Were they twelve? Laurent leveled a stare at Simon. “I’m sure it wouldn’t get you points with my father if he found out you were trying to start a fight in a bar.”

  “Maybe not.” Tyler’s face lit up with cruel pleasure, and he leaned in and said, “But it might if I beat your gay ass up like you deserve.”

  “There a problem? Geez, Saint. Did you go grow the hops for that beer, or what?”

  Isaac was there, but his voice wasn’t lazy or amused, even if he was trying to come across that way. Isaac’s eyes flickered to Simon, dismissed him, and went back to Laurent. “You could stand a little closer, Simon. Jesus.”

  “Fuck you, fag,” Tyler hissed.

  Isaac rolled his gorgeous, eyeliner-smudged eyes. “Oh, wow. That’s so original. Wait. Let me go make an angsty Facebook post with some Slipknot lyrics about how sad I am that a meatbag dickhead called me the most unoriginal gay slur in the book. Saint? That beer? It’s not going to drink itself.”

  On autopilot Laurent handed him one of the beers. He was holding the other one so tightly, he was surprised the glass hadn’t given way beneath the force of his grip.

  “Fuck. You’re pussy-whipped, Savvy J. Or should I say dick-whipped?” Simon was clearly not done. He made a boohoo face and rubbed at his eyes. “Guess Daddy didn’t hit you hard enough to turn you into a man.”

  Laurent heard Isaac’s angry inhalation and knew he had to do something quickly, or Isaac was going to punch Simon and end up suspended. That was probably what his father wanted.

  And if Laurent was good at anything, it was not doing what his father wanted. So why stop? Before Isaac could take a swing, Laurent threw his beer in Simon’s face.

  “There,” he hissed. Simon blinked at him in astonishment, covered in the remains of Laurent’s pale ale. “That what you wanted?”

  Tyler wiped a hand over his face and sneered. He looked ridiculous. And ugly. He did look like someone had hit him in the face with a shovel. “It’s what I expected. A drink to the face. Here I thought Drake was the girl, since he’s wearing makeup.”

  Isaac laughed. “No amount of makeup would make you any prettier, so I see why you don’t get it.”

  They were attracting attention of course, and Laurent could see the bartender moving toward them to find out what the hell was going on. Laurent shouldn’t have even given the asshole the satisfaction of noticing him the first time he spoke, because he had nothing to say to Simon. But before he could stomp off, Simon said, “Your dad’s right. You never do hit back.”

  Laurent barely had time to process what he was hearing before Isaac shoved his beer at Laurent, reached back, and punched Tyler Simon in the jaw.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “PERHAPS YOU would like to explain,” Misha said as he handed Isaac a cold pack to press against his face, “why are we once again having a conversation about you hitting people.”

  Simon, the fucker, had landed one punch before Hux and Murph showed up—along with Simon’s teammate, Xavier Matthews—to break up their fight. Isaac was still pissed about that. Every time he remembered Simon’s comment, he wanted to deck the motherfucker all over again.

  Nothing else happened after that. Hux shuffled them all out t
he door before someone called the cops. Xavier gave Isaac an apologetic look as he dragged Simon off, which Isaac didn’t give a shit about, because he was so angry. No one called the cops, but someone called Belsey. It was probably the bar, wanting to know if they could charge any damages to the credit card he’d left behind.

  Belsey must have called Misha. Because he and Max were waiting for them the second they walked in the door. Misha pointed to the kitchen and said, “Both of you. Now.”

  Laurent’s expression was shut down like he was in goal, but Isaac knew him well enough to know he was probably terrified. He’d tried to get Isaac to just go back to his place, but Isaac had been moved by some, probably stupid, urge to confess to his coach before he heard about it from someone else.

  He’d forgotten for a moment how it must feel for Laurent to face the disapproval of an authority figure—and a coach, besides.

  Isaac was an idiot. And his face hurt. He pressed the cold pack against the bruise he could feel forming and said, “He started it.”

  “That’s what you said last time,” Max pointed out. “When it was Laurent.”

  Isaac remembered hitting Laurent in his coach’s office. He winced.

  “I deserved it,” said Laurent so quietly that only Isaac could hear him.

  Guilt twisted his guts into a tight, hot tangle. “No you didn’t,” he said and reached out to put a hand on Laurent’s face. “You don’t deserve to have anyone hit you. I’m sorry about that.”

  Laurent flinched at Isaac’s touch. It was a small but subtle gesture that made Isaac want to cry. Laurent’s wide, dark eyes looked blank and remote, but he didn’t say anything.

  “If we could get back to you beating up other players in bars,” Misha said, his voice firm.

  “I only hit him once,” Isaac mumbled. He couldn’t help but add “unfortunately.”

  “No,” Misha snapped and hit his hand on the island. It made Isaac jump. He wasn’t used to Misha displaying much of a temper. And from the corner of his eye, he could see Laurent flinching again. “You do know that was exactly what he wanted you to do. Tell me you know that, syn moy.”

  Isaac wondered what that thing meant that Misha just called him. “Stupid idiot goalie” in Russian, maybe. “Yeah. I know.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Laurent said suddenly. “It’s not like it wasn’t true. What he said about me.”

  That brought a long, definitely uncomfortable moment of silence into the kitchen. Isaac stared down at his lap, unsure what to say.

  “I would like to know what he said,” Misha asked, breaking the silence at last.

  Isaac chewed on his lip and pushed at the ring there with his tongue. He couldn’t answer, not without betraying confidences he had no right to betray. He’d promised Laurent. But Misha would never buy that Isaac did it over those stupid makeup comments and the “lazy gay” slurs Tyler was tossing out like so much trash. Isaac heard that shit all the time and ignored it.

  “He said that he should have known I’d do something like throw a drink at him, because according to my father, I never hit back,” Laurent said in a clipped, even tone. “And he’s right,” Laurent continued. “So you shouldn’t have hit him.”

  Rationally Isaac knew that he shouldn’t have, but he was miffed that Laurent didn’t even appreciate it a little bit. He expected the lectures from Misha and Max, but he sort of thought he might get a blowjob from Laurent out of sympathy for his black eye.

  “You are worth it, you know,” Isaac said to Laurent, because of course that’s what it was about. “Fighting back and me fighting for you. You are.”

  “Oh Jesus,” Max said. He sighed. “Misha, I think we should let them work this out.”

  “There is a very strong possibility you two will end up suspended for the remainder of the season,” Misha said as if Max hadn’t spoken. “And if the league doesn’t do it, I might.”

  Isaac’s head snapped up. “What? You’d do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” Isaac asked, all heated resentment, and his stomach sank even further at the idea that he might have cost his team a trip to the playoffs. “To send a message in the locker room so the guys don’t get in bar fights over their boyfriends?”

  “No. To teach you some fucking boundaries, Isaac, since no one ever has,” Misha snapped, and the swearing was so unlike him that Isaac needed a second to process hearing it in the first place.

  “Fuck you,” he snapped right back and slammed the ice pack down on the table. “You’re not my father, and I’m twenty-five years old.”

  Laurent got to his feet. “Stop it,” he said in a shaky voice. “Please. It’s my fault. I’ll just….” He looked around wildly, like he wasn’t sure where he was. “I’ll just go.”

  “Sit down,” Misha barked. He wasn’t going to give in or move so much as an inch.

  “Misha,” Max said with a warning in his voice.

  Misha pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m angry at you both for putting yourself in danger. It has nothing to do with the team. Now sit down. No one here is going to hurt you.” That last he directed at Laurent in a much gentler tone of voice.

  Laurent sat, but he fidgeted so much that Isaac finally reached over and put a hand on his thigh. To his surprise Laurent grabbed his hand and held it tightly. It was at odds with his expression, which was the haughty mask of disdain he put on when he was trying to be someone else.

  When he was trying not to get hurt.

  “Let me make this very clear. You two will have nothing to do with the Ravens or any of their players, either on the ice or off of it. The next time St. Savoy sends his goon to do his dirty work, don’t give him the satisfaction of falling for it.”

  “I hit him really hard,” Isaac pointed out. “I just want you to know.”

  “Physical intimidation is Denis St. Savoy’s way,” Misha said, his voice as cold as Isaac had ever heard it. “It is not mine, and I won’t let it be yours either.”

  Isaac looked away. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m not telling you this as your coach,” Misha reminded him.

  Isaac managed to look Misha in the eyes when he answered. “I know.”

  Misha’s stony glare eased somewhat at that, and he gave a slight nod. “I’m suspending you both for the next two games. We’ll call in the goalie from the Ice Gators,” he said, referring to the Spitfires’ affiliate SPHL team.

  “We don’t have to call Simon and tell him we’re sorry, do we?” Isaac asked. “Because I don’t think I could pull that off.”

  “No,” Misha said flatly. “It’s late. This conversation is over. The two of you should go to bed.”

  “If you don’t want to drive me, I can call a cab,” Laurent said, as Isaac returned the ice pack, which had melted too much to be of any relief, and ignored the bottle of vodka chilling in the freezer.

  Misha looked at Laurent and then back at Isaac. He opened his mouth, closed it, and turned on his heel. “You do this part, lisenok,” he said to Max. “I’m going to bed.”

  “What part?” Isaac asked, confused.

  “The part where I say that no one is going anywhere? I don’t know, but it probably means it has something to do with feelings or personal relationships.” Max went to the freezer, opened it, and took out the vodka. “If Misha asks, tell him I gave this to you for the pain.” Max gave Isaac and Laurent both his usual easy smile, albeit a tired version.

  He poured Isaac a shot, but before Isaac could take it, Laurent said, “Excuse me,” and bolted from the room. Isaac could hear his footsteps on the stairs, so at least he knew where Laurent was going.

  Isaac took the shot with gratitude and let the cold vodka warm him up as it surged through his bloodstream. He was tired, worried about Laurent, and ashamed that he’d disappointed his coach. But he was glad he hit Simon.

  Max put the vodka back in the freezer. He rustled around and emerged with a newer, fresher ice pack. “Misha uses the
se for his migraines,” he explained as he handed it over. “I think you should know something.”

  “What?”

  Max smiled. “The thing that Misha called you, in Russian? It meant my son. Night, Isaac.” With that Max flipped off the light and left Isaac standing in the dark, his face cold from the ice and the rest of him suffused with a rare, precious warmth.

  LAURENT GOT up from the bathroom floor when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He winced at the acrid, sour taste in his mouth and splashed some water on his face, which was damp with sweat. He borrowed some of Isaac’s toothpaste, put it on his finger, swished some water a few times, and repeated the process twice.

  He caught his reflection, stared at it hatefully, and wondered why he couldn’t make himself do what he needed to—which was break up with Isaac Drake, leave the team, the town, and everyone alone so he couldn’t fuck up their lives.

  He hated the idea that he could have caused Isaac any kind of friction with Coach Samarin. It was clear that the coach thought of Isaac as a son, and Laurent had almost ruined that, like he ruined everything.

  He glanced at the toilet. The urge to get sick again was strong, but there was nothing left in his stomach.

  He heard a brief knock at the door. “Saint? You okay?”

  “Yeah.” He took a deep breath and left the bathroom. “Too much to drink, I guess.”

  Isaac peered at him as he shucked off his shoes. “I didn’t think you had that much. Especially since your last one ended up on Simon.” Isaac’s smile was a little evil. “That was awesome.”

  Laurent wanted to smile or say something or act in any way grateful for Isaac decking that bastard in the face. All he could think about, though, was how much trouble Isaac might be in and what it might cost him. “Don’t do that again.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” Isaac said, and his smile vanished. He pulled his shirt off, leaving him in his jeans and nothing else, and padded over to Laurent. “Seriously. I get why Misha lectured me, but can we just pretend you thought it was hot and leave it at that?”