by Avon Gale
“And I’m here to tell you I’m sorry. I didn’t understand that, in my desire to protect you, I’d.... Lane, honey, it breaks my heart to think you would ever, ever feel you were a disappointment to me or your father because of someone you loved.”
Jared finished his beer in one long drink, He was going to be having a similar conversation in a few months with his own parents. Lane hugged his mother for a very, very long time, and then he pulled back and said, in classic Lane fashion, “Well, if I’d fallen in love with someone with no manners, maybe that would be disappointing. But you met Jared, and see? He’s great.”
“Yes. I hope that you will forgive me, honey. And that your father and I can get to know Jared too. I’m not going to lie. We’re both thrilled someone is willing to emigrate to another country to put up with you.” Michelle kissed Lane on his forehead. “We made a mistake. Like you and that drop pass. Let’s not do that anymore. All right?”
Lane made a noise and hugged her again. “It was a good fucking drop pass, Mom.”
“Language,” his mother said, smacking him on the arm. “And that isn’t the point, Lane. My intentions were just as good as yours, you know.”
“You weren’t trying to win a game,” Lane informed her.
“You weren’t trying to raise a child,” she said pertly. “Don’t backtalk to me. I’m not perfect, but I’m still your mother. Good lord. I need to get home. Your father will be worried sick.”
“You can stay here,” Lane told her. “We can sleep out here. And we’ll just sleep. Promise.”
“Lane,” Jared spoke up finally before Lane embarrassed the hell out of him. “Please stop talking.”
Michelle decided to stay and went to call Lane’s father. Lane ended up talking to his dad on the porch, and Jared hastily searched their room to see if there was shit he needed to hide before Lane’s mom slept in there. God, they hadn’t washed the sheets since.... Oh, lord. Had they ever washed the sheets? What was wrong with them?
“I’m going to sleep on the couch,” Michelle said, when he came back out to casually see if she wouldn’t mind sleeping on top of the comforter. “I’m not kicking you out of your bed, Jared. Besides, when was the last time you washed the sheets?” At Jared’s horrified look, she laughed. “I just need a blanket.”
He found one, a fuzzy, old Avalanche blanket that he had stowed away in a box somewhere. “You know, I remember watching Roy’s last game in Montreal. Me and Lane’s father were in a bar, here in Toronto. I’ll have to see if I can remember which one. Lane was three, and he was staying with my mother. The entire bar was cheering every time he let in a goal. I think they gave us a shot for every goal he let in.” She shook her head. “I hate the Habs. If Lane gets traded there, I will watch his games, but I will never, ever cheer out loud for anyone but him. And even then, it might be pushing it. Maybe I’d clap. Quietly.”
“Please adopt me,” Jared said very seriously. “I think we might be closer in age than you might be comfortable with, but I don’t care. My parents don’t even know who Patrick Roy is.”
Michelle patted him on the arm. “Be nice to them, Jared. I don’t know what kind of reason they had for not wanting to watch their son play hockey. But whatever it was, I bet it made sense to them, and it was only because they loved you.”
Right. Moms were good at the whole guilt thing. Even if they weren’t yours. Jared felt sheepish. “I know. I realize that. This is the same conversation I’ll be having with my dad over the holidays.”
“People think parents are perfect. Like we’re saints, or something. But you know, just like Saint Patrick, we all let in a few goals.” Her smile was remarkably like Lane’s. “Not as many as Patrick Roy, though, because fuck the Habs. Don’t tell my son I used vulgar language. Please.”
“Cross my heart,” Jared promised. “Thanks for coming to the game, Michelle.”
She surprised him by stepping in and hugging him. “Thank you for putting up with my son. It won’t be easy. Ask Lane’s father, because Lane and I are exactly alike.”
“I noticed,” Jared said wryly. “Maybe he’ll give me some pointers.”
“Yes. Only not embarrassing ones. I won’t let him.” Michelle nodded. “Now you tell me when your team plays their games, Jared. I expect a schedule that I can hang up next to Lane’s. If you’re my son-in-law, then I’ll be going to your games too.”
Jared didn’t know what to say, so he nodded, mumbled something, and ran away to the bedroom before he did something dumb. He fell asleep waiting for Lane—on top of the bed and still fully dressed.
“Your mom wants to come to my team’s games,” Jared murmured, sleepily, kissing Lane and yawning at the same time. “Now I better make sure we win.”
“My dad wanted your e-mail address, because apparently he wants to tell you about his thoughts for defensive systems and ask if you need some coaching advice.” Lane smiled against Jared’s neck. “I’m so happy, J.”
Jared smiled. “Me too. But mostly I’m sleepy. And your mom told me she did shots for all the goals Patrick Roy let in during his last game in Montreal.”
“My mom hates the Habs,” Lane said, settling against him. “If I got traded there, she’d show up, but no way would she cheer for me. Jared?”
“Yeah? Wait. Lane? We are not fucking right now. No way. I’m tired, and that was like a Hallmark Channel special in our living room.”
“I wasn’t going to.... Okay, maybe I was, but... thanks.”
“For what? Reminding your libido that your mom is asleep on our couch?”
“No, for... liking me even though I say stupid things and stuff.”
Jared smiled in the dark. “You’re welcome. You can pay me back with box seats to Leafs games, a king-size bed and those threesomes with supermodels.”
“Not anytime soon, though. You’ll have to settle for magic presents,” Lane informed him, shifting so his back was to Jared’s chest.
Jared threw an arm over him and rested his hand on Lane’s chest. “Deal,” he said and felt Lane’s heartbeat, steady and strong, against his palm until he fell asleep.
Epilogue
Six months later
“You can’t do that. No. That’s not even.... Jared, your goddamn.... Stop scoring on that play. Ugh. Fuck the Capitals. No wonder they choke in the second round of the playoffs every year.” Lane threw his controller in a fit of temper, though he made sure to aim it where it wouldn’t hit anything breakable.
Jared laughed his head off next to him on the couch. Lane should have thrown the controller at him. “Stop being a brat, Courtnall. There’s still an entire period left. You could come back.”
“It’s not an entire period. It’s only five minutes,” Lane snapped, but he was distracted by how hot Jared looked, wearing his dress shirt and pants without a tie or a coat. “Can we just fuck, because that’s more fun, and I don’t have to yell at Ovechkin for not having another fifty-goal season.”
“Good. Because if you shouted that out in the middle of sex, I would be.... Actually no, Lane. You know what? It probably wouldn’t even faze me at this point. Holy shit. What the hell does that even mean?”
Lane climbed on his lap and kissed him. “The magic’s gone?”
“Stop trying to distract me so you can win. I paused it.”
Lane smiled. “You should put the rest of your suit on and yell at me.”
“You are so weird.” Jared leaned in and nipped at his mouth. “Hot, though. And I guess I did teach you everything you know when it comes to sex.”
“Heh.” Lane snickered. “That’s true. C’mon, Coach. I can show you what I learned.”
Jared pretended he didn’t like it when Lane called him “Coach” in bed. Lane pretended he was doing it just to be annoying, and not because he knew it got Jared hot. “The bedroom? What’s wrong with the couch? The floor? Are you too good to be fucked on the floor, Courtnall. Is that it?”
“No. I was just thinking about your back, old man.” Lane reach
ed down to mess with Jared’s belt, teasing, grinding on his lap.
“Really? And here I am, thinking about you on yours.” Jared knocked at Lane’s hands, undoing his belt himself.
“But I wanted to do that thing where I ride your cock,” Lane said, hands on Jared’s shoulders. “So you have to be on yours. Unless you want to ride mine? That’s cool, if you want.”
Lane was kissing him when his phone started ringing. Which would usually not distract him from Jared’s hands on him, but the phone was on the table next to the couch, and the vibration made it fall onto the floor.
“Think you should get that?” Jared’s voice was low and rough, his eyes darkening in that way that made Lane’s mouth dry.
“It’s probably my dad,” Lane murmured, not really thinking about what he was saying. “I don’t know why he calls me when he just wants to talk to you.”
“Do you remember that rule about not talking about our parents while we were...?”
“Oh, right.” Lane looked at the phone, which stopped ringing. And then immediately started again. “Huh. Wonder why someone keeps calling?”
“Hmm. If only there were a way to talk to the person. Maybe someone will invent a device to make that possible.” Jared pushed him back. “Answer the phone so we can get back to this discussion about you riding my cock.”
“Is that what we decided to do?”
“Lane.”
“What? I just want to be clear on what play we’re running, Coach.” Lane grinned and did a half backbend to pick up his phone.
“Because you can do that, you’ll be doing the cock riding,” Jared said. He sounded impressed. “That’s my final decision.”
“Hello?” Lane hoped whoever it was, they didn’t want anything that would involve a lot of time. Or talking.
“Lane, it’s Coach Barker.”
“Hey, Coach.” Lane felt Jared’s involuntary reaction as his hips pushed up sharply. He covered the phone with his hand. “No. This is my actual hockey coach. Not my boyfriend sex coach.”
“That’s not where you cover the mic, dude,” Jared said, snorting a laugh while Lane turned six shades of red.
“Courtnall, I don’t—look, let’s pretend I didn’t hear that and start over.”
“Okay,” Lane agreed. “What’s up?”
“You,” Coach Barker said, and because his brain was focused intently on sex, Lane looked down at his lap in confusion. “As in called up,” Barker explained. That made sense and made Lane feel a lot less like his coach had spy powers.
Until he understood what he was hearing. He sat breathing—or trying to—while the coach gave him the information. Lane nodded a lot and made a squeaking sound once, but that was all he could do.
“Call your parents, Courtnall,” Barker said, and he sounded amused. “Call everyone you know and tell ’em to watch Hockey Night in Canada this Saturday. You get all that information? Don’t be a weird space cadet, or I might never call you to tell you this again.”
“Yeah. I got it.” Lane tried to say something—anything—but his coach ended the call before Lane could make his mouth work. He put the phone down and looked at Jared. He still couldn’t say anything.
He didn’t need to. Jared took one look at him and knew. “Call your parents. I’ll see if Zoe can get up here. When’s the game?”
Lane’s answer was a series of blinks and small, inarticulate noises.
“Saturday night, I take it?”
Lane blinked once. That came in handy for when he couldn’t talk, either because he had something in his mouth, or because he’d just been told the dream he’d nurtured since childhood was finally coming true.
“Holy shit, Lane,” Jared said, his eyes wide. “Goddamn.”
Lane nodded sort of wildly. “That means you could maybe ride my cock. Huh.” That was not what he’d meant to say, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t true.
Jared picked up the phone and shoved it at him, then kissed him. “Call your parents. And I’ll think about it.”
Lane tried not to look too nervous on the bench, but his leg kept jostling, and nothing seemed to help—not glaring at it, not telling himself that he looked like a rookie, not pressing his hand firmly down on his thigh to make it stop.
He got some teasing from the guys on the bench about it, but they could have put bubblegum in his hair and poked him with sticks, and he wouldn’t have minded. They’d all been there, where Lane was, and they knew what it was like. It was good-natured teasing, all part of the experience.
He would probably have been fine if it hadn’t been for the news he’d gotten about three minutes before the game started. The coach came over to see how he was doing, if everything with practice went all right—he’d practiced? Lane didn’t remember that. If he felt good about warmups—there were more people watching those than some of his games in Jacksonville. And if he’d thrown up yet—twice.
Three times actually, because he did after the coach clapped him on the shoulder and said, “We have a tradition around here, Courtnall. When it’s a kid’s first game in the majors. Especially a hometown kid who was smart enough not to cheer for the Red Wings. What’s wrong with people in Chatham?”
“Wings tickets are cheaper?” Lane answered, and maybe he shouldn’t have said that, but luckily the coach laughed.
He threw up when the coach said, “Anyway Courtnall, the tradition is you get to start tonight.” And then Lane laughed and wondered if he could pinch some skin through all this gear. While wearing gloves. So that he’d wake up.
He was at least with-it enough not to ask the coach of the Toronto Maple Leafs, “Hey. Could you smack me really fast? I might have fallen asleep watching Jared’s game tapes and listening to him mutter about neutral-zone coverage.”
The coach smiled at Lane and said, “Enjoy this, Courtnall. It only happens once. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t turn the puck over and let them score off the face-off. Okay? Don’t ruin it for the kids who come after you.”
He managed to stammer out a thank-you, and told himself firmly “No drop passes, not a single one,” while he made his way to the locker rooms so he could throw up quietly. All he’d had after the last time was some water. But still.
When the team skated onto the ice, all Lane could hear was his own breathing and the pounding of his heart, which had relocated to his throat. Even though it wasn’t possible, he looked up at the stands for Jared, his parents, Zoe—who’d flown to Detroit the night before—and Jared’s parents, who picked up Zoe at the airport and brought her to Toronto.
She screamed and hugged Lane until he couldn’t breathe, talking a million miles an hour and in that drawl that momentarily made him think about chocolate shakes and walking on the beach in the warm Florida sun, falling in love, and letting all the pieces of who he was finally come together.
“It’s really cold here,” she exclaimed, and then proudly showed him a toonie coin. “Look. I got one. I’m gonna bring it back. Ryan says ‘Hi.’ He has a game, but we’re TiVoing this one. Lane, you’re here. You’re really here!”
His parents were happy to see her again, and his mother hugged her and said, “Do you know Lane’s boyfriend, Jared?”
“Yup, I took that picture of him stoppin’ Lane’s goal,” she said, scowling. She turned and hit Jared in the arm. “Still mad about that, Patrick Roy.”
It was so cute how she said it, that no one bothered to tell her Roy’s last name was pronounced Wah.
She wore Lane’s old Jacksonville Storm jersey, and she brought one for each of his parents too. “They were 50 percent off in the store,” she said. “I bought another one, just so I could keep one and sell the other one when Laney here wins the Cup.”
Jared’s parents looked a little bemused by Zoe, who told Lane later that they were very, very quiet people and didn’t really understand why they were picking up a tattooed Southerner in Detroit to bring her to a hockey game in Toronto. “They made sure I’d eaten and kept asking if the temperatu
re in the car was all right. Midwesterners, Southerners, Canadians... it’s like we’re all the same people.”
“We are the same people,” Lane said, still hugging her. “There’s only the one kind. Do you still have your tits pierced? I decided just to use that word unless another girl tells me not to.”
“I’m so glad fame hasn’t changed you, Lane.” Zoe hugged him back after she hit him for that comment.
Jared’s father shook Lane’s hand, and wished him good luck in the competition. He looked like Jared, with the same hair and strong jaw, and while Lane couldn’t say that Jared and his parents were close or anything, their relationship was a lot better than it had been. They spent Christmas there, and it was weird and formal and no one watched any sports.
Jared’s parents got Lane a Christmas present—a very sensible piece of luggage. “Jared says you’ll be traveling.” It was made of leather, had his initials on it, and wasn’t the kind of thing you threw around on a bus. He also met Jared’s sister, who was a very serious lawyer, and his brother, who talked to Lane for ten minutes about keeping hydrated and taking calcium and warned him about the damage that long-term hockey playing would do to his bones.
He did get to see pictures of little Jared, which was hilarious, and a home video of Jared trying out his sister’s figure skates. Jared fell over a lot, and Lane watched his little face screwed up in concentration as he climbed back up, brushed the snow off his pants, and tried again. It was the same look on Jared’s face during that last game of the conference finals, when they’d taken the face-off before Lane’s goal-winner-that-wasn’t.
The best part was Jared’s nephews, who thought Lane was cool, asked about hockey, and told their parents they wanted to learn how to play, because Uncle Jared and Uncle Lane said you could even play hockey in Texas.
It hadn’t been a bad visit, but Lane was relieved when, on their drive home, Jared asked if they could spend the next Christmas with Lane’s parents instead.
Lane’s mother immediately glommed onto Jared’s mom, in a completely obvious attempt to explain hockey and the history of it in Canada, and what it meant to the country as a whole. It seemed to get Elizabeth Shore’s attention. Or else she was just being polite.