Changing on the Fly

by Cherylanne Corneille

  Changing on the Fly

  Charity Anthology 2016

  Changing on the Fly © April 2016

  On Broadway © April 2016 by V.L. Locey

  Take a Shot © April 2016 by Samantha Wayland

  The Brother and the Retired Player © April 2016 by Mary Smith

  Even Strength © April 2016 by Cherylanne Corneille

  Next Season © April 2016 by Avon Gale

  Going Home © April 2016 by Heather Lire

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic of mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years or older.

  This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language, which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  Cover design- Jen Needle © 2016

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $25,000.

  This anthology would not have been possible without the support and donations from the following people:

  Rebecca J. Cartee of Editing By Rebecca for donating her amazing editorial services in honor of VRW, 1965-1997.

  Jen Needle for donating her beautiful cover design.

  Mary Smith for donating her time to do the formatting and uploading the book.

  Jackie Howerth Forquer for proofing all the stories.

  We'd also like to thank all the bloggers who are supporting us to help make this anthology the success we hope it will be. We deeply appreciate you sharing our work with your loyal readers.

  We want to thank you for your purchase of Changing on the Fly. All authors involved have agreed to donate 100% of proceeds to charity, in the hope that one day discrimination in sports based on sexual identity will be a thing of the past.

  Heat Ratings-

  1 Flaming Puck-Sweet. Sex takes place off page or behind closed doors.

  2 Flaming Pucks-Sensual. Sexual acts are shown and some mature language is to be expected.

  3 Flaming Pucks-Erotic content. Sexual acts are explicit as is language.

  Thank You

  The authors would like to thank you one last time for your support. Please consider leaving a review for Changing on the Fly at Amazon, Goodreads, or your favorite place to talk about books. Reviews help us to raise more for our charity by making the book more visible.

  EVEN STRENGTH

  By Cherylanne Corneille

  (1 Flaming Puck)

  For my mother

  Thank you for showing me that Miracles happen on ice

  and for continuing to foster my obsession for the game.

  Blurb:

  When defenseman Nate Ward made the decision to come out during his senior year in college, he never imagined exactly how much it would affect his life. Now a rookie defenseman for the Carolina Krewe, he has the support of the organization and his teammates as he fights for a spot on the roster and deflects the prejudice that he encounters both on and off the ice. But what he didn’t count on is that chasing his dream of playing professional hockey may well cost him the love of his college sweetheart Tristan.

  Chapter 1

  NATE WARD SLIPPED quietly into the apartment, or as silently as his tired body would allow. He dropped his black oversized duffel bag, the Carolina Krewe Jolly Roger logo emblazoned on the side, in the foyer and crossed the living room toward the master bedroom. Stopping in the doorway, he gazed at the empty bed and sighed. So much for a warm welcome after a hard night of hockey and long flight from New York to Raleigh.

  He toed off his dress shoes then removed his suit jacket and his tie. When Tristan had earned the fellowship for doctorate study at North Carolina State University, Nate thought it was the answer to their problems. The perfect situation. After they graduated from the University of Boston. Tristan wouldn’t be forced to return to Liverpool, and the couple would be able to stay together.

  Reality meant something entirely different.

  While Nate attempted to make his dream of becoming a professional hockey player a reality, Tristan spent long hours at the psychology lab. Their schedules never seemed to match, and they only ever saw one another in passing.

  Hell, Nate couldn’t remember the last time they had fooled around in any sense of the word much less when they last had sex. Most days, it was a quick peck on the lips as one of them scooted out the door with coffee in hand.

  He was pulling off his light blue dress shirt when he heard the sound of the front door opening – though, very quietly.

  About damn time.

  The clock said 2:30 am.

  When Tristan entered the room, Nate stood at the foot of the bed in only his black boxer briefs and a pair of black socks. Not the most impressive way to greet his boyfriend after two nights away.

  “Hey,” Tristan greeted.

  “Late night?” Nate asked. He hated the obvious tinge of accusation that colored his tone.

  Tristan didn’t approach, instead he eyed his boyfriend carefully. Rather than engage, he answered calmly, his British accent soft. “Yeah, we’re getting the experimental data set up in the system, doing some research to jumpstart the project. I forgot how much start-up work we have at the beginning of the semester.”

  “Uh-huh.” Like Nate knew what the hell that meant? Tristan could have been speaking a foreign language at this point. To most people, psychometrics didn’t exist unless they needed to take a certification exam, and even then they didn’t really know how to call it by name. Tristan wandered to the open closet and kicked his shoes into the corner before closing the door. “I thought…”

  “I know what you thought, Nate. That I’d be waiting when you came home from your road trip. I’m sorry that I can’t just hang out here and play the dutiful little housewife while you chase your dream.”

  “No, it’s not that – ” His protest seemed weak.

  “It’s not?” Tristan drew to his full height and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Then tell me exactly what it is? I know that the situation isn’t ideal.”

  “Not ideal? I can count on two hands the number of times I’ve seen you in the last month and half of those times we’ve been running in opposite directions. I feel like I have a roommate, not a boyfriend.”

  Tristan sighed. “I’d say I’m sorry, but I think that blame for this goes both ways.”

  Nate only nodded then hung his head. He wished he knew how to fix it. Tristan stripped down to his boxers and strode to the bedside table to switch on the reading lamp. Didn’t look like the problem would be resolved tonight either.

  “Shite, mate.”

  “What?”

  “The hell, Nate. You get into a fight or something?”

  “No.”

  “Bruises. Your lower back.” Nate turned his head. Tristan reached toward him and brushed his fingers along the blemished skin. He shivered at the intimacy then flinched when the touch grazed a particularly sore spot.

  Nate shrugged. If he ever thought four years of college hockey was tough, professional hockey was another level. C
oaches crammed a three-hour college practice into only an hour’s time. If that wasn’t enough, the players were bigger, faster; the hits harder, more punishing. Preseason meant everyone from rookies to veterans battled for a spot on the team’s roster. Even the practices were a grueling affair of sprints and drills. Games were a lesson in combat that the Romans might consider appropriate forms of torture. Not one player on the team wanted to give the impression he wasn’t providing his best effort no matter how banged up or battered.

  Nate had known his rookie season in Carolina would be rough, but his personal situation brought even more pressure. There were the days he regretted ever agreeing to that damn interview with Chloe Simmons last spring, but it was his senior year. He was doing a favor for her. As the captain, he was also aiding his team, which was under scrutiny for academic issues. He had discussed with Tristan what coming out might mean to their future, and they both decided it was the right thing to do.

  Of course, Chloe, being as talented as she was, had written such a compassionate feature for the campus newspaper that she’d been asked to revise the now award-winning profile for publication in the Boston Tribune’s Sunday Magazine. That story threw a spotlight on his life – as he became the first soon-to-be professional hockey player to come out of the closet publicly.

  Since then, he felt like he lived with a flashing neon sign above his head. He was no longer just Nate Ward, former All-American defenseman and captain of the championship-winning University of Boston Nor’easter. Instead, he was Nate Ward, poster boy for the gay pride movement in professional sports, more specifically hockey.

  Really though, it was time. He couldn’t pretend any longer. Not for his own sanity. Not when it meant possibly losing the man he loved.

  Now he needed that man’s support even if he felt as though he was living with a ghost of his best friend.

  “Nate…” Tristan’s voice was a whisper.

  “It’s nothing. I can handle it.”

  Nate felt the mattress shift as Tristan sat behind him. “I know you can.” His slightly almond-shaped brown eyes briefly met Tristan’s blue ones in the vanity mirror across from the foot of the bed before Tristan’s returned to the blemishes. “My God, your back looks like a bloody map.”

  His boyfriend’s lips were hot as they touched the bruised skin on his shoulder. Nate winced then closed his eyes. “It’s a lot harder than I thought, Tris.”

  “But you are doing well? The coaches seem impressed.” Nate turned his head, wondering how Tristan even knew that, but Tristan answered his unspoken question. “I do read the papers…and follow all the right columnists on social media.” Tristan winked.

  “So you’re saying you do give a damn about me?” His voice tinged with a hint of regret.

  “Something like that.” Tristan’s smile reflected in the mirror.

  Tristan continued his thorough examination, charting each bruise with his lips before tracing to the next with the softest of caresses like a butterfly’s wings. It might have been longer than he cared to remember, but his body shivered in recognition at the still familiar touch on his skin.

  “Please, Tris.”

  “I know, baby. Let me take care of you. It’s my job, and apparently, I’ve been negligent.”

  Nate sighed. This was more the welcome he’d wished for. He pushed himself farther onto the bed and reached for Tristan, giving his boyfriend a kiss that left both men breathless. He pulled Tristan’s body over his own, the two instinctually fitting together like pieces of a puzzle.

  * * *

  ALTHOUGH NATE HAD only known them for the short duration of training camp, his teammates recognized his improved mood the next day at practice. He heard more chirping between drills that morning than he had his first day when he’d been so nervous that he forgot to remove his skate guards before stepping over the boards. Not the right first impression to fall on your ass the minute your blades touch the ice.

  Of course, this time his ass was the subject yet again, although not quite in the same way.

  “How did you have time for a booty call last night when we got back so late?” Boone Fowler nudged him into the boards playfully then winked as he held him there with his stick.

  “It’s called stamina. Remember, I’m younger than you, old man,” he returned. Boone staggered backward holding a gloved hand to his chest in mock pain as he laughed.

  Nate’s current defensive partner, J.J. Buchanan finished his portion of the drill and glided into a spot at the end of the line in time to hear Nate’s comeback. “Rookie giving you a hard time there, Fowls?”

  “Nah. He should probably watch who he is calling an old man, though. Right, old man?” Fowler good-naturedly tapped Buchanan, the eldest veteran on Krewe, on the top of the head with his gloved hand.

  “Who you calling old, Rook?” Buchanan shoved Nate with his stick repeatedly, causing Nate’s body to hit the glass or boards with each bump.

  Nate smiled. He preferred days like this.

  Ever since being drafted by the Carolina Krewe in the second round after his stellar sophomore season at UB, he wondered about his first year in the pros might look like – if he made the big leagues.

  As a teenager playing hockey in Kamloops, British Columbia, he knew that just being part Japanese was different in hockey. He could count on one hand the number of players with Asian backgrounds who enjoyed professional careers at the highest level. Throw being gay into the mix, too? He boasted more novelties than an ice cream truck.

  Much of the fervor over the Simmons’ article abated over the summer while attention turned to other sports, but the story regained some of its momentum as the first day of training camp neared. By the time he showed up in Raleigh for physicals, there was a crowd of reporters waiting for him.

  The Carolina Krewe, its players and staff, welcomed him from the moment he stepped through the black locker room door.

  He sympathized with Alexa, the director of media relations. She’d contacted him in the week prior to camp to alert him regarding the numerous requests for interviews that her office had received. The two had met earlier that first day along with the team’s general manager Phil Denton and head coach Harrison Colby in the Krewe’s offices to discuss the throngs of reporters who appeared. The media continued to act as if he held a press conference announcing his sexuality just by stepping onto the ice.

  “I don’t want to address the issue,” Nate had told her as he sank deeper into his chair. “But I know that isn’t a realistic answer.”

  Alexa shook her head, but her brown eyes reflected sympathy and understanding. “In a perfect world, none of this would matter.”

  “Son,” the general manager started, “we want to make this as easy as possible. If nothing else, precedent indicates the frenzy will last until some other event becomes the talking point of the hockey world and you become old news. Shelf life might be shorter if we can address it quickly in a one-shot press conference, but if you aren’t comfortable with that, Alexa can make it more informal.”

  “I want to do whatever I can that will get me back to just playing hockey. I don’t want how I choose to live my life off the ice to be a distraction for me or anyone else in that locker room. I want to play, and I want to win.”

  Harrison smiled and nodded. “I knew we did right drafting you, Ward.”

  “You certainly have an ally in coach and in me. With an attitude like that, you’ll fit in here,” Phil agreed.

  “So no official press conference.” Alexa scribbled on a steno notebook. “We’ll just make you available for the first few days of camp, see how it plays out, and judge any further needs.”

  “Can you make sure one of your guys sticks by him in the room for the first few days in case there is a problem?” Coach Colby requested.

  “Sure, I’ll put Elliott on it.” Alexa’s gaze turned to Nate. “He’ll just hang back, and if you need anything, just give him a nod, okay?”

  “Got it,” Nate agreed.

  E
ven with a well-thought out plan, so many reporters crowded his stall after that first practice that neither Boone Fowler nor J.J. Buchanan could reach their own cubicles, forcing the public relations team to move his interview to a vacant room down the hall.

  So much for no press conference. The media forced him to have one anyway.

  Although the world insisted he was more than just a man pursuing his childhood dream, he treated his life no differently. Every day was nothing more than another day at the rink. He followed his usual routine as he prepared for practice. He laced his skates the same way – always left before right. He tapped the silver and red Jolly Roger skull and crossbones logo on the locker room door as he headed down the tunnel toward the ice. He still wanted to make his mark, impressing the coaches and hockey operation staff every time he hopped over the boards.

  He gave his all, to the point that most days, after two hours of skating, shooting and defensive drills, he wanted to crawl back to his stall. He felt like he was 40 years old, not 23.

  He’d worked out on and off the ice all summer in Boston with the few Nor’easter alums and other pros from the area that returned to campus in June thanks to the reputation of the University of Boston’s strength and conditioning coach. Nate intended to make a quick transition to his professional career, but he obviously underestimated what the experience of three Krewe development camps had previously taught him.

  Within the first couple of weeks of training camp, he realized Tristan’s academic schedule meant forfeiting any quality together time, so he spent his days at the rink and any off-hours with the other players. He added extra workouts with the rookies then went to lunch with whatever group he could latch onto that particular day. The younger players typically traded war stories from college, junior, and the minor leagues then listened as the journeymen regaled them with tales of their time as pros. Nate absorbed as much as he could from the others.