One Way Street

by Laney Cairo

  "I can't help that,” Shane said. “I just had to get out. Is there any chance you could go and rescue some of my stuff?"

  There was silence on the other end, apart from the frantic barking, which was punctuated by howls.

  "The dog was one thing,” Lindon said. “I didn't want to risk her hurting the mutt."

  "I'll have to go myself then,” Shane said. “I need some of my stuff."

  "I'll go with you,” Dale said. “You don't have to do it alone."

  Lindon said, “I'll need to know where you're staying so I can bring the dog over."

  Shane looked across at Dale, who smiled back at him. “I don't actually know where I am,” Shane said. “You'll have to give Lindon the address."

  Dale took back the phone and Shane could hear him giving Lindon the address as he walked back down the hall, and Shane closed his eyes, content to no longer be in pain.

  * * * *

  Dale knew Lindon. Lindon had been around at the end of their relationship, and Gordon's insistence that Shane had a personal trainer-slash-assistant had been one of the many sources of conflict between them. At the time, it had almost made sense. If each player had a baby-sitter hired by the team management, then it would put an end to the drunk-driving arrests, and increase the chances of all of the players making it to all of the training sessions. Then there'd been the crap with Madison. It had always made a creepy kind of sense for Shane to be seen with a range of wannabe starlets, but Dale suspected Lindon, Gordon, and Shane's agent, Lukowski, had engineered Madison's elevation to genuine girlfriend.

  Personal assistant. Rent-a-girlfriend. An image. What did “having an image” mean anyway?

  Lindon was a nice enough young man, earnest and apologetic when Dale had to help him drag a yowling poodle out of his car and into Dale's back yard.

  "Sorry about this,” Lindon said, and he had a waterproof dressing stuck to his left hand. “The dog is a shit. I hope there's nothing of consequence out there."

  Perry howled mournfully, and Dale shrugged. “I like dogs,” he said.

  "How is Shane?” Lindon asked, and he sounded genuinely worried.

  "He's sick,” Dale said. “Really sick. The doctor who saw him wasn't sure exactly what was wrong, but it's serious."

  "Fuck,” Lindon said, and Dale opened his front door. Lindon followed him into the hall, and a bleary Shane appeared from the bedroom.

  "Hey Lindon,” he said, and he shuffled up to Lindon and hugged the man. “Sorry ‘bout Perry."

  "No problem, Shane,” Lindon said, and his face creased with worry when he looked at Shane. “Does Gordon know you're sick?"

  "Dunno,” Shane said. “He knew my shoulder wasn't responding to physio. Are you going to tell him?"

  It was a good question, in Dale's opinion.

  Shane looked pleadingly at Dale, then said, “If you do, he'll make me see Doc Teal."

  Shane looked so vulnerable, holding onto the doorframe to keep himself upright, and Dale had just about had enough.

  "You're employed by the team, not owned by them,” Dale told Shane. “If you don't want to see Doc Teal, then no one can compel you to. It might breach your contract with them, but I suspect being so ill you can't walk already does."

  Shane flinched at Dale's words, and Dale touched his shoulder. “Sorry,” he said. “I'm kind of strident about the limitations of your contract at the moment."

  "I'll lie,” Lindon said. “Tell him you're hungover or something."

  Shane slumped against the doorframe a little. “Thanks, Lindon,” he said. “You'd better get out of here, before I make your job any worse."

  Lindon nodded and patted Shane's shoulder. “Take it easy,” he said.

  When the front door had closed behind Lindon, Shane said, “Let's do this."

  * * * *

  Shane wasn't sure which was worse, the dread of what stunts Madison might pull, or the dour look on Dale's face as they rode the elevator to the inner city apartment Shane had bought with Madison.

  He slipped his hand through Dale's elbow, and Dale leaned across and kissed him quickly, and murmured, “Remember who just fucked you."

  There was only time to nod and to hang onto Dale's elbow until he could get his knees moving adequately.

  His key still worked, so Madison hadn't changed the locks yet, and she appeared almost instantly, blank-eyed and pale.

  "Baby?” she slurred, and Shane heard Dale's snort of derision behind him. He was not a man who used pet names.

  She was enveloped in one of Shane's bathrobes, all smiles at him until she spotted Dale, who was looking around the living room, lips pursed. Shane would hear all about tasteless conspicuous consumption later. That was alright, Dale had bought part of a football team, and consumption didn't get much more conspicuous than that.

  "I've come to get some stuff,” Shane said, and her face shrivelled.

  "Who is he? Both of you, get out,” she said. “Right now."

  "Forget it,” Shane said, and he felt so tired that moving to slump down on the couch was hard work.

  Madison went off, just like Shane thought she would, but he turned his head so he could see Dale.

  Dale looked like he was carved of stone, completely implacable. Shane had never seen Dale's face so bleak.

  "My passport's on the top shelf in the closet,” Shane said. “There're bank statements and contracts and stuff. There's a box of medication there, too."

  Madison was shrieking now, and Shane turned his attention back to her. “Shut the fuck up,” he said. “Just for once."

  His feet were on fire, at least that was how they felt, his knees were spongy and rubbery, and the couch was deep and comfy, so he had no chance at all of dodging the shoe she chucked at him.

  She was a spindly thing, but the heel caught him on his cheek. It fucking hurt, more than any high tackle in a match, and he could feel blood trickling down his cheek.

  Madison froze, but Dale must have heard something, perhaps the sound of disbelief Shane had made, because he rushed back into the room, file box in his arms, laptop bag over his shoulder.

  "You fucking bitch,” he snarled at her, and Madison squeaked and ducked, but Dale just put the box down on the couch and gripped Shane's arms.

  "C'mon,” he said, and when Shane met his eyes, there was so much love there that Shane could barely breathe.

  They made it out of the apartment and into the elevator. When Shane rested his lips against Dale's face he could smell the tang of his own blood. “Oh, God,” he whispered, and Dale kissed him, kissed him hard and long, so that the elevator doors opened at the lobby and they were still kissing.

  Shane sat in Dale's car, laptop between his feet, box on his lap, and flicked through the belongings that Dale had salvaged. “No meds?” he said, when his hand found sheafs of papers and photos, but no box or bag of medication.

  "Nope,” Dale said. “The box was full of empty vials, so I think your supply had been raided."

  * * * *

  Imperfect memory told Shane that Dale didn't sleep much. He'd wait for Shane to fall asleep, then get up again, lock himself in his study, come back to bed late and stay asleep after Shane had got up to go to morning training.

  "Don't go,” Shane said sleepily, and in the bedside light, Dale looked sad.

  "Not going anywhere,” he said, and Shane rolled over and settled with his head on Dale's shoulder. He was in a good space again, nearly ready to let go and sleep, and not even the adhesive dressing on his cheek made him feel unhappy.

  He'd try and remember the next day, when he hadn't taken codone, sleeping pills and doxy, how things had been before with Dale. He was almost sure that, in the last months they were together, there hadn't been sleepy kisses and the comfort of falling asleep while being held.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Eight

  If you can't walk to get help, then it's time to call a friend.

  Waking hurt.

  Shane needed to piss
so badly that his bladder was screaming at him, but he couldn't get his body to work. It was the nightmare of his first knee injury all over again, wanting his body to move and having it fail.

  His feet burned, and the bedding over his toes was crushing. His knees seemed locked in place, his back was absolutely fucking awful, and he grunted and struggled.

  "Easy,” Dale's voice said, but Shane's eyelids were glued together and he couldn't get them open.

  "Help,” Shane said, and he clutched wildly at Dale, finding warm, bare skin.

  "Take it easy,” Dale said. “Tell me what's wrong."

  Shane groaned, his bladder hurt so much.

  "My fucking eyes are stuck,” he said, and cold air hit his chest and belly as the weight of the bedding left him. “Gotta piss."

  Shane rubbed at his eyes, freeing one set of eyelids, and Dale was crouching over him, lifting his shoulders off the bed, helping him sit.

  "Stay there,” Dale said, and it was almost funny, because Shane couldn't have moved if the house had been alight.

  There was a crash that made Shane wince, and the vision in the eye that was open was blurry, but Shane could still make out Dale dashing back into the room, something in his hands.

  Cold plastic pressed against Shane's thighs, and one of his hands found the rim of a container, and he used the other to press his piss-hard cock downwards.

  The feeling of being able to relax his muscles was blissful, and he groaned as the stream of urine hit the plastic with enough force to send splatter over his thighs. He didn't care, he'd been so close to wetting himself that splashes didn't count.

  The bucket was heavy, and Dale took it off him and put it down, then helped Shane lie back down.

  "Is that better?” Dale asked, and Shane curled up on his side and groaned.

  "Tea,” he said. “Please."

  "Sure,” Dale said, and when he kissed Shane's forehead, his stubbly lips tickled.

  Shane gave up trying to see, just kept his eyes closed, and he listened to Dale emptying the bucket and flushing the toilet. A tap ran briefly, and footsteps came back into the room.

  "Let me fix your eyes,” Dale said, and a warm, damp cloth brushed over Shane's face.

  He lay there, wracked with pain, and Dale slowly and carefully wiped his face until his eyelids came free and he could open his eyes.

  Dale didn't stop once his eyes could open. Dale wiped Shane's face, gentle dabs, and then his hands, and finally his thighs, and it made Shane remember that he had a cut on his face and that Dale loved him.

  "Tea,” Dale said, when he'd finished. “Coming right up."

  Dale carried a steaming mug of tea into the room, straw balanced in it, and Shane didn't care if it was going to make the tea taste of plastic. It meant he could sip his tea without doing more than lifting his head off the pillow, Dale's hand behind his neck for support.

  "What pills do you need?” Dale asked when Shane laid his head back down.

  Dale stayed with Shane for the twenty minutes it took for the pills to start working, lying beside him on the bed, holding his hand, and while every second of the pain dragged, it made it easier to have Dale there.

  When Shane's eyes slid shut as the relief washed through him, Dale kissed his lips, and whispered, “You and me are going to talk, when you're through this."

  * * * *

  Muted voices woke Shane, and this time his eyes opened right away. There was daylight in the room, and the door was closed. He could make out Dale's gruff voice, and doggy wuffling from outside the door. Of course, Perry was there.

  Shane crawled off the bed, knees stiff and back refusing to bend, which made pulling on his jeans something of an adventure.

  Perry barked, quick and sharp, and Shane said, “Yes, puppy, I'm here."

  The door opened and Perry lunged into the room, wagging her tail so hard that she shook the back half of her scrawny body.

  She would have leapt up, no doubt, if Dale hadn't been holding her securely by her collar, and Shane bent over carefully to let Perry lick his face.

  "Hey, beautiful,” he said, scratching Perry behind the ears. Shane looked up at Dale, whose hair was wet, so he must have showered while Shane slept. “What's the time? Have I been asleep long?"

  "Midday,” Dale said. “So, about four hours. Want some food and coffee? Frank's here, and he brought lunch with him."

  "How come my ex is a psychotic bitch, and your ex brings lunch?” Shane asked, following Dale as he dragged Perry down the hall.

  "I am a psychotic bitch, babe,” Frank called out, and when Shane shuffled into the room, Frank hugged him. “I'm just a psychotic bitch that likes to eat."

  Frank kissed Shane's cheeks, hugged him again, then helped him lower himself into a chair beside the kitchen table while Dale restrained Perry.

  As soon as Dale let go of the dog, she flung herself into Shane's lap, yammering away in dog talk, and Shane hugged her.

  "Missed you, you silly puppy,” he crooned. “You can stay with me while your mummy's drying out."

  It proved to be impossible to even attempt to keep Perry off the table when Frank took the salad he'd brought with him out of the fridge, so she was left to sit mournfully outside on the deck, slobbery nose pressed against the glass, quietly moaning to herself while they ate.

  Frank put a flask in front of Shane after they'd finished and said, “Here, this'll help you detox, hon. Worked wonders for me."

  "What is it?” Shane asked, unscrewing the top and sniffing and wrinkling his nose at the stench.

  "Kombucha,” he said. “Wonderful stuff. It'll help you clear all the toxins, get your liver working again."

  "That doesn't actually tell me what it is,” Shane said plaintively, and he lifted the flask to his mouth and sipped the green liquid.

  "It's fermented whale's vomit,” Dale said, chuckling at the face Shane pulled.

  "Shut up, Dale,” Frank said. “It's an active herbal drink. I'll keep you supplied, along with wheatgrass juice and a couple of other goodies."

  Frank was in his work clothes, classic charcoal suit, crisp shirt and conservative tie, but Shane had seen him dressed for the club scene, in leathers and heavily buckled boots, which made it easier to remember Dale's ex had been wild once.

  "What did you come off?” Shane asked. “When you detoxed?"

  "Coke,” Frank said. “I used everything, but I'm a lawyer, so it was coke I got stuck on."

  "Was it bad?” Shane asked, and he could see Dale's face in his peripheral vision.

  "Fucking sucked,” Frank said. “Absolute agony. If you get offered a choice between being weaned off and going cold, take the weaning option."

  There was a relief in talking to someone else who understood, and Shane nodded and said, “Any other advice?"

  "Really?” Frank asked, and Shane nodded. “Clean your whole life up, not just whatever it is you're jammed on. Make all the changes you've always longed to, start afresh. Dump Dale, find yourself someone sweet-tempered who works sane hours and can cook."

  Shane looked down at his hands, and his knuckles were red and spongy. “Seems I'm going to have to find a new career anyway,” he said. “I can barely walk, so I'm not going to be able to train next week, never mind play."

  Dale covered one of Shane's hands with his own. “Hey,” he said. “If you're sick, you're sick. The team management can go fuck themselves."

  Shane nodded and touched his own cheek briefly with his other hand. There didn't seem to be any doubt that things were over with Madison, too, and even though his body was a wreck, his heart felt light.

  Something crashed on the deck, and Perry reappeared, backside first, towing a branch from a tree across the decking, scraping twigs across the planks.

  "Oh, God,” Frank said, gathering up papers from the table. “With that, I'm going back to the office. Dale, don't you dare try and come into work; I'm firing you as an ex if you do."

  * * * *

  The sheets were gritty and grub
by, and Shane leaned against the dresser while Dale stripped the bed quickly then replaced the sheets.

  Despite Shane's sheer size and muscle bulk, he looked gaunt. With a bruise spreading across one cheek and the beginnings of a black eye, Shane looked so fragile that there was a lump in Dale's throat, and he wondered how much of what he felt Shane could see.

  Words were a nuisance, slippery and imprecise, but it was time they were said, so Dale pulled his T-shirt over his head and crawled onto the bed beside Shane.

  "Talk to me?” Dale said, and he lifted Shane's hand to his mouth and kissed the knuckles.

  "What about?” Shane asked, and a smile tickled the side of his mouth.

  "Painful stuff,” Dale said. “Why you left me. What happened with Madison. Whether you want to be with me, or if this is just a rest stop for you."

  The smile was gone from Shane's lips, and Dale slid a little closer on the bed and bent forward to kiss him briefly.

  "The last months we were together, you always went home after we'd fucked. I don't remember ever waking up and finding you beside me,” Shane eventually said. “Why did you never sleep next to me?"

  Dale nodded slowly. “Things weren't good,” he admitted. “I did pull back from you."

  "It felt like you hated everything I did,” Shane said. “Every choice I made."

  "I especially hated the one where you left me,” Dale said, and his throat was tight. “It seemed like you did every single thing you could do to push me away. I'm not saying I was blameless..."

  Shane was crying, and Dale's face was wet, too, and Dale blundered on, hoping that they were making some progress.

  "I loved you,” he said, and Shane's hand found his and squeezed it. “I still do, and I need to know if you've come back to me."

  "I don't know,” Shane sobbed, and he threw his arms around Dale's neck and hugged Dale tightly. “It was so bad with Madison,” he gasped.

  Shane was shaking, and Dale held him close and rocked him gently. “It's alright now,” he whispered.

  "It's not alright,” Shane sobbed. “It's never going to be right again. I'll never be able to play, and I'll have no money, and Madison will..."

  Shane trailed off, and Dale squeezed his own eyes tightly shut and held Shane as close as he could.