Him

by Sarina Bowen

  Pat holds up a hand. “Just give me a minute to think.”

  Chastened, Jamie is silent again. He doesn’t glance at me, though, and I wish he would.

  “Okay,” Coach says. “You two can head back to your room, I’ll text you when it’s clear how this jackass is going to play it. And I want to apologize, Jamie, for bringing up that bit about your female friend…”

  “Not necessary,” he says quickly.

  But Pat is shaking his head. “No. It shouldn’t matter! I don’t give two fucks if you have a girlfriend or not. But I let him get me flustered. The fact that the situation took me by complete surprise only means you’ve both behaved impeccably.”

  Now that’s not true. Good thing Coach Pat doesn’t follow us around when we’re skinny-dipping and fucking in the car.

  “I’ve run this camp for twenty years,” he adds, looking us each in the eye in turn. “There have been times when I’ve had to ask staff to be more discreet. But that is not the case here.”

  And now Jamie is the color of a tomato. He looks like he’d happily activate any trapdoors in Pat’s office floor.

  My fists finally unclench. “Pat? I apologize if I’m making your day more complicated, but I’m not going upstairs to wait for your text. We’re supposed to be scrimmaging, right? I don’t run. My private life is my business. Not many people know my secret. But if some asshole decides to confront me, I never duck him. That only looks weak. I have every right to be here. I have every right to coach those kids.”

  Pat squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Of course you do. I was just trying to shield you from any more ignorant bullshit. Get your skates on, then. Fuck ’im.”

  30

  Jamie

  Maybe it makes me a pussy, but I take Pat up on his offer to sit this scrimmage out. I’m not afraid of Killfeather’s dad. And I’m not afraid to have people whisper about me.

  But what I am is sad. And I don’t want it to show.

  Before today I didn’t really understand what Wes was up against. I’d never heard anyone give a homophobic rant except in movies. I didn’t know that one man in a hundred-thousand-dollar car could wreak so much havoc.

  Since everyone is supposed to be at the rink, the second floor of the dormitory sounds deserted as I turn my key in our lock. Inside, I stretch out on my bed.

  Sad as I am, I can at least take one heart-lifting thing from this experience. One piece of insight I’ve been reluctant to give a label to.

  I’m…bisexual.

  Yep, I know, not exactly a mind-blowing M. Night Shyamalan plot twist over here, but it’s the first time I’ve allowed the word to take root in my consciousness. I’m bisexual, and it’s not just a physical connection I feel with Wes.

  I can also see myself in a relationship with him. I can see myself being happy with him and never feeling like things were lacking.

  I’d had this idea I could find a job near Toronto. That Wes and I could keep up… whatever it is we are to each other. But that isn’t going to happen. Wes all but told me to go to Detroit. He needs me to stay four hours away.

  We only have the summer, he’d said the night we argued. He was right. That’s all we’re going to get.

  Some time later I hear a commotion out in the hallway. The place echoes, so even though Killfeather’s room is on the opposite end of the building it’s easy to hear him. “I don’t want to leave!” he yells after a door bangs open.

  “You will get your ass in my car right now.”

  “You can’t make me!” The kid is putting his best effort into the resistance. But I know very well who always wins these fights.

  The voice that answers him is low and steely. “If you’re not in that car in sixty seconds, you’re not playing in the Labor Day tournament this year.”

  Ouch. Hit the kid where it hurts, why don’t you?

  I hear the inevitable—the sound of a suitcase rolling across the tile and feet on the stairs. When I look out the window a minute later, I see my goalie slouching toward the passenger seat, and his father heaving suitcases into the trunk. That asshole didn’t even get a ticket for parking in the fire lane.

  They peel off a minute later, and that’s the end of the Killfeathers, both junior and senior.

  * * *

  I blow off the barbecue, too.

  Since I’ve missed the scrimmage, Pat doesn’t really need me, and I use the time to regroup. I need to face the fact that summer will end soon.

  So I call my mom on her business phone—the one that’s always smudged with clay. “Hi baby!” she chirps when she answers. “Are you calling to tell me that you’re coming home?” The woman always cuts to the chase. With six kids, she’s always had to. There just aren’t enough hours in the day for small talk.

  “I am, as a matter of fact. Coach Pat hasn’t replaced me yet, but I’m going to tell him I need that week off.”

  “Excellent,” she says in the same tone of voice she’d always reserved for good report cards. “We need to see you before you join the NHL. While you still have all your teeth.”

  “That’s uplifting,” I complain.

  “I don’t know why my boys choose dangerous careers,” she says. “I always tell your brother to make sure he visits while he still has all his vital organs.”

  My brother is a cop. “Gross, mom. And Scott has never drawn his weapon in the line of duty.”

  “Truthfully, bullets aren’t his biggest problem right now.” She fills me in on the fact my brother has moved back home for a little while. He’s the one whose girlfriend recently dumped him. And since they lived together, he needed a temporary place to land.

  “So he’s in his old room?” I ask, trying to picture it. Scott is twenty-eight years old.

  “He is, but rarely. He’s picked up a lot of extra shifts lately. I think he’s just trying to stay busy.”

  “Ouch,” I mumble.

  “James,” my mother says sharply. “Why are you blue?”

  “I’m not,” I try. But bullshitting my mother is impossible. You don’t raise six kids without having laser-sharp perceptive abilities.

  She clucks her tongue. “If you say so. But I’ll be taking a good look at you later this month, young man. I’m going to make lasagna and hold it under your nose while I grill you with questions.”

  Mom’s lasagna is damn good. I’ll probably confess everything if she does that. “Can’t wait,” I say truthfully. Home sounds pretty good right now.

  “Love you, Jamie boy,” she says. “Buy your plane ticket.”

  “I will.”

  Talking to Mom has improved my mood. So I go out and treat myself to a bacon cheeseburger in a bar on Main Street. While I eat it, I watch the Red Sox lose, and think of Wes. He’s at the barbecue right now, where parents are probably grilling him about the NHL recruitment process. And he’s the best man to answer their questions.

  That’s not me brooding—that’s just a fact. Wes has always wanted to play in the NHL. It’s the first thing he told me about himself when we met as teenagers.

  Me? I chose hockey because my brothers had already broken every football record our high school had ever recorded. I love hockey. But you can’t ever say I love it more than Wes does. Because nobody loves hockey more.

  When I get back to the dorm, the place is still empty. I brush my teeth and dig out a military thriller I’d brought with me to camp and haven’t had time to read. I slide into bed in my underwear. Maybe Wes will come home in the mood to burn off some tension.

  I fall asleep with the book on my chest.

  Some time later I wake to the sound of the key turning in the lock. Bleary, I blink at Wes as he walks over to my bed.

  “How was it?” I ask, my voice rough from sleep.

  Wes doesn’t answer me. But he removes the book and sets it on the floor.

  “You okay?”

  He’s still silent, but it doesn’t seem weird. Because he’s perched on the side of my bed now, just admiring me. Lifting one hand, he pushe
s my overgrown hair off my forehead. Then he bends down and kisses the cheek that had caused all the trouble earlier. In the exact same spot.

  The brush of his lips makes me shiver and lean in for more.

  Soft lips continue to press kisses on my face. On my neck. Their gentleness feels unfamiliar to me now. And the contrast between the size and strength of this man and the softness of his touch makes goosebumps rise on my chest.

  A warm hand lands on the juncture between my legs, settling over the thin fabric of my underwear. The gentle pressure encourages me to roll my hips into his hand. A little friction would feel terrific right now. But all I get is the soft sweep of his thumb across my groin.

  Apparently Wes is in the mood to torture me with kindness. And I’m in the mood to let him. Sinking into the bed, I close my eyes while he bathes me with soft kisses and even softer touches. When I reach up to put my hands on his chest, he corrects me, gently moving my hands back down onto the mattress.

  “Fine. Be that way,” I grumble.

  He doesn’t even chuckle. Instead, he clicks off my lamp and begins to shed his clothing. Every scrap. I lie there on my back while my eyes grow accustomed to the dark, admiring each newly exposed inch of smooth skin and hard muscle. An impressive erection bobs against his stomach. I want to sit up and take him in my mouth, but I wait lazily instead. Whatever Wes has planned, I’m pretty sure I’m going to enjoy it.

  Then he’s bending over me, kissing the strip of exposed skin between my T-shirt and my briefs. “Mmm,” I sigh. I’m so hard, and he hasn’t really even touched me yet. His hands slide into the elastic of my shorts and I lift my hips. Whoosh, they’re gone. The next second, he puts a hand across my mouth and then deep-throats my cock in one gulp.

  The heat and pressure are so swift and shocking it’s a miracle I don’t bite his hand. Wes works me over with his eager mouth, while my stomach quivers and my hips roll. Jesus Christ. I know we have to be absolutely silent, but I may not survive it.

  By the time he releases me with a pop, I’m trembling everywhere. Wes disappears from my line of vision for a moment. When he returns with a condom and a bottle of lube, I sigh with relief.

  He offers me a hand, and I take it, allowing him to pull me into a sitting position so he can remove my T-shirt. Then he straddles my thighs, crouching there on his knees. For the first time since he walked into the room, we’re kissing for real. And I’m so hungry for it. All the softness from a few minutes ago burns off like steam, leaving a brush fire in its wake. These kisses are hard and molten. I capture Wes’s tongue in my mouth and suck hard.

  He moans—the first real sound I’ve heard from him tonight—and I swallow the sound down my eager throat. On his knees, he ruts slowly against my body, our chests bumping, our cocks aching. Wanting him hurts so good.

  Eventually he sits back a bit, breaking our kiss. I reach for the condom, hoping to move things along. But he takes it out of my hand, tearing the package.

  Instead of sheathing himself, he reaches down and rolls it onto my cock.

  The breath halts in my chest. “Really?”

  Wes kisses me instead of answering. Another tongue-tangling scorcher. Then he pops open the lube and applies some to his own hand. He reaches back, a serious expression on his face. I can tell when he penetrates himself, because he bites his lip.

  “Let me do that for you,” I whisper. I lube up my hand and reach between his legs. Wes puts both fists on the bed and leans into my body, kissing my jaw.

  I caress his taint, and he sighs into my ear. When I finger his crease, he lays his head on my shoulder. “That’s it,” I breathe. When I penetrate him, he freezes for a second. Then I hear him take a deep breath, and I feel him relax.

  He’s hot and tight and like nothing I’ve ever felt. I ease inside. He alternately fights me and then relaxes. I stop to apply a ridiculous amount of lube to my hand. And now I’m able to reach his spot. I move my finger in a beckoning motion, and he shivers against my body.

  Wes’s face is still buried in my neck. I like it there. I wish he’d never leave.

  31

  Wes

  I’m struggling.

  That’s the theme of today, apparently: flat-out struggle. But this is a struggle I’ve chosen. Letting another man into my body isn’t easy for me. I don’t know why. It just isn’t.

  I want to, though. Every time I tense up against the intrusion, I tell myself the same thing: this is Jamie. It’s okay. And then I’m able to relax. Jamie’s taking it slowly. He reads me in the way a talented goalie would. He’s firm and gentle in this as in all other things.

  Fuck. I love him so much.

  Today was another reminder of the way things are. The first time I ever touched Jamie, I pretended to be giving him something when in truth I was taking. He forgave me, of course. Unfortunately, this summer has been more of the same. I give him my affection. And in return, I put him at the mercy of assholes like Killfucker.

  Today Jamie lost his star player. He’ll probably never see that kid again. And it’s all my fault.

  Jamie’s free hand warms my back while his other one preps me. “Baby,” he whispers. “Can you take more?”

  I nod into his neck. A second finger joins the first one. At first I struggle against the burn. It’s Jamie. It’s okay. Another deep breath and I make myself relax.

  “That’s it,” he urges. “I want you to ride me, okay? And when you come, I want you to shoot all over my chest.”

  A bolt of lust races down my spine. I bear down on his fingers, and I’m rewarded with a brush against my prostate. Yes. That zing of pleasure makes me shiver, and I can feel Jamie’s smile against my cheek.

  After a few minutes, he gets me to three fingers. I start riding his hand in small thrusts. He murmurs encouragement while I ask my body for a little more stretch. It’s been years since I tried this. I was hoping it would just seem easy, but like everything else in my life, I have to work for it.

  But I do it. And it leaves me with yet another reason to appreciate Jamie. My daring, big-hearted man. He does this for me, and he makes it look easy.

  He’s amazing.

  I sit up a little straighter, kissing him hard to let him know I’m ready. Jamie’s mouth welcomes me in. I take a few more exquisite sips of him. For courage. Then I rise up on my knees, readying myself for him.

  Jamie settles himself so he’s propped up on the headboard, pillows at his back. He applies some lube to his cock, and the sight of him rubbing himself makes my mouth water. He positions himself beneath me.

  Right then, with those brown eyes looking up, full of lust for me, he’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

  So I do it. I sink down onto his dick. Jamie’s mouth opens on a silent groan, and those beautiful eyes go half-mast. The burn returns, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. I give myself a minute to adjust, and I use the time to take Jamie’s gorgeous face in my hands. For a second I just admire the view. He’s flushed and sex-tousled, burning up with arousal. I came to Lake Placid hoping we could still be friends. I got much more than that. And I’m so grateful.

  The kiss I give him tries to let him know that. He’s almost whimpering into my mouth now, so maybe he hears me. I give my hips an experimental thrust, and I like the results. So I brace my hands on Jamie’s shoulders and begin to slowly fuck myself on him. I shift my hips until I get the angle just right. And when I do, it’s miraculous. Pleasure pulses through my body each time I thrust. It’s so, so good.

  Beneath me, Jamie takes my weeping cock in hand. His lips are parted, his throat working. I see yearning anywhere I look at him. It’s in the set of his jaw and in the ripple of his forearm while he jacks me.

  He licks his lips. “If you come, you’ll take me with you.”

  Now that he’s said it, I really want to. Closing my eyes, I slow my pace and focus on the pleasure of each stroke. Out and in blur together. There’s only the ruffle of bliss I get from him.

  When I open my eyes again, it�
��s Jamie’s expression that finally takes me there. It’s a cocktail of desire and wonder so potent that I feel myself tip over the edge. “Jamie,” I gasp, chasing the sensation. Leaning into it.

  I shoot and he shudders beneath me. I collapse on his messy chest before it’s over. My lips land beside his ear and I moan quietly while my ass clenches around his cock.

  “Jesus,” he whispers.

  Indeed. I wrap my arms around him and hold on for as long as I dare.

  I honestly don’t know how I’m ever going to give him up when summer comes to an end.

  32

  Jamie

  Camp is almost over. Seriously, these past five weeks have flown by. And now there’s one week left and I can’t wrap my brain around it. I guess time flies when you’re playing hockey every day and getting laid every night.

  As the afternoon scrimmage winds down, the kids are in high spirits. Correction—the offensive players are in high spirits. My goalies, on the other hand, are grumpy as hell. It was a high-scoring game for both sides, and there was no stopping Wes’s forwards today.

  Killfeather’s absence is definitely noticeable. He had real talent. Has, I correct myself, because it’s not like the kid dropped dead. His gay-bashing father decided that pulling his son from one of the most prestigious training facilities in the country was a smart move. You know, because Elites is crawling with perverts. Moron.

  I skate over to the net, where my fifteen-year-old goalie lingers, scowling as he removes his helmet.

  “I was dog shit today,” Brighton informs me.

  “You had an off day,” I say with a smile. “But you weren’t dog shit. You stopped more than you let in.”

  “I let in seven.”

  “It happens, kid. You did everything right out there.” I’m not lying—Brighton heeded every piece of advice I gave him today. Just happened that Wes’s advice to his forwards was better.