Changing on the Fly

by Cherylanne Corneille

  "He could have a solar flare standing next to us and he isn't going to see any blush on my cheeks," Otto commented right before security arrived, looking winded but still seeking an autograph. I gave 5th Avenue one last look then tossed my empty into a trash receptacle. Whoever that guy was, he knew how to move a puck as well as I did. So why wasn't he playing with me or against me? Curiouser and curiouser as Alice once said.

  Two

  THE NEXT TWO days were too busy to contemplate Skating Fabio. The 'Hawks were tied with Boston for first place in our division. Everyone from the mayor of New York to the kid who sells papers outside the stadium was relying on Otto, Björn, and me. I was always reminding the press that hockey was a team sport. Our success or failure rested on everyone's shoulders, not just the men on the first line. The media liked to listen only when it suited them it seemed. If we did grab first place, we still had a grueling couple of months to go. Holding onto a lead would be hard because Boston was not a team to lie down when the going got tough. I suspected our two teams would be jockeying back and forth, scrapping for those all-important points, right up until regular season ended.

  When I did get some down time, I found myself at loose ends. Looking down on the city from my loft apartment made me feel twitchy and uneasy, as if the city were beckoning me to leave my retreat. They say New York has a pulse, a voice, a pull. They're right. It can also grab you and drown you if you listen to that sultry urban siren. As a closeted gay man that could lead me into situations that could put me, and my career, into a delicate place. So generally, I didn't go out too much. When I did, it was to friend's houses or team events, charity meet-and-greets, or the occasional dinner out with a teammate, usually Otto.

  Tonight, the city was singing. Loudly. I paced around my loft, anxious and restless. I paid little mind to the hardwood floors, brick walls, or open archways the builders had cut in to join two separate apartments into one. I couldn't find an inch of peace in the fourteen hundred square feet. My warm and inviting high-end loft felt constricting and false. I pulled on a coat and walked down to the street. As soon as my feet hit the sidewalk, the edgy feeling lessened a little. I should have driven, but since I didn't know where I was going, I left my Navigator in the parking garage under my building. I crammed my hands into the front pockets of my jeans, rolled my shoulders up, and set off down 19th Avenue.

  People I passed were too concerned with staying warm to take notice of the Nighthawk passing them. I slipped among the pedestrians in peace, walking in silence, allowing the underground current that is New York to lead me. If my agent knew that I was out at night, on foot, he would crap a cow. Bert Seidel was a great agent and a father figure. He tended to coddle me. So did the team to be honest. I would keep this little trip into the masses to myself and pray I wasn't mugged.

  As I neared the stadium that housed the Nightwings, I decided to hail a cab. My toes, nose, and tips of my ears were numb after the fifteen-minute walk. Of course, the cabby, a reed-thin man with a heavy Bronx accent, knew who I was as soon as I dove into the back of the yellow cab.

  "Where you headed tonight, Riley?" he asked, turning to bestow a wide smile upon me after I signed a napkin for his son.

  "I'm not sure," I answered earnestly as I inwardly sighed in pleasure at the heat blowing over my feet. "Just drive and when we get there, I'll shout."

  "Will do," he said then began regaling me with stories about his twenty-four years as a 'Hawks season ticket holder. I smiled to myself as he went on, telling me how he "thawht" that when I arrived I had "cawhst" the team too much. Now, he would take on the "lawh" if needed to defend my name to "dose bums" over in Brooklyn.

  "So you've lived in the Bronx all your life?" I enquired, eyes on the traffic lights or the passing cars. The interior of the cab had a subtle scent of onion.

  "Born and raised. I got to say you got one funny accent, Riley," the cabby chuckled.

  "Yeah, I guess so," I replied with a smile. I mentally drifted away from the man after that point, making noises when needed at a lull in his talking. We passed Radio City Music Hall. I sat up and watched the famous theater drop behind us. "Let me out here."

  The driver threw a concerned look at me in the rearview mirror. "You sure, Riley? It's colder than my mother-in-law’s heart out there."

  "I'm sure," I replied as I began to open the door. The driver pulled over as closely as he could get to the curb. I jumped out after giving him his fare and a hefty tip. "Thanks, Joe." I slammed the door then jogged to Rockefeller Center, anticipation building inside my chest.

  Since it was only eight at night, adults and kids covered the ice. I slid into the spot where I had stood with Otto a couple mornings go, my gaze touching on every person down there. "Shit," I whispered when I failed to find Skating Fabio among the throngs. I lifted my sight to the spot where the massive fir tree had stood. It was gone now. That made my mood a little darker. I was confused about my actions tonight. I was also worried about how deeply I had hoped to catch a glimpse of my mystery man. I spun from the well-lit rink, the sounds of laughter and music bouncing off the buildings that looked down on us. What the fuck was I doing here on my one night off? Why wasn't I at home enjoying the loft that had set me back a cool two million bucks last year? Better yet, why wasn't I spending the night at a discreet club or bar looking for someone to share that big, empty, well-decorated loft with?

  Someone tapped my shoulder. My gaze flew to the left. Joe the cabbie stood beside me, his mottled cheeks glowing red from the cold.

  "You okay, Riley?"

  The concern in his eyes touched me. "Yeah, yeah, I'm good. I just wanted to peek at the rink. Reminds me of my days back in Minnesota, you know?"

  "Oh yeah, sure, I can see that." Joe gave me a weak smile. "So you done looking now? You want a lift back to your place, maybe?"

  "Thanks, yeah, I need to go home."

  Joe and I walked off side by side, my hands crammed under my armpits and my thoughts on just how pathetic I truly was. Here was Riley Zeally, the golden child of the league, famous, rich, skilled, not terrible looking, and healthy spending the night with a strange cabbie while searching for some mysterious golden-haired puck pusher. With so many people in New York, you would think no one here would ever be lonely.

  "9th Avenue, Gramercy," I told Joe when we were both back in his onion-scented ride.

  "Got it," he replied then began telling me about a road trip to Minnesota he took twenty years ago. Ice fishing with some buddies, he tacked on. I nodded. My attention drifted after a minute or two. Instead of watching the traffic lights or cars, I tried to gaze at the people crossing in front of us at stoplights. They all hustled along without looking left or right. That indifferent and outwardly cold demeanor many Manhattanites moved through life with still set me back on my heels at times. Folks in Sugar Lake never ignored anyone. If you saw someone on the street, you waved or stopped to chat. You didn't just walk past with a cell phone to your ear. I closed my eyes. My mood was growing more and more dismal with every city block. I missed Minnesota. I missed the family farm, my parents, and my sister. I missed knowing that the people around me loved me for just being Riley. They weren't after me because of the big contract or the fame.

  "Fucking shithead," Joe snarled and mashed the brakes. The seatbelt snapped painfully across my chest. My eyes flew open just in time to see Skating Fabio standing in the middle of Park Avenue, his left hand on the hood of Joe's cab. "What kind of moron are you? Don't you got no idea of what the fucking crosswalks are for?"

  "No shit," I whispered and began frantically fighting with the seatbelt.

  "Fuck off," the young man with the most amazing mouth I had ever seen sneered then hustled to the sidewalk. The seatbelt latch popped. I threw the door open, tossed some cash at the friendly cabbie, and left Joe sitting on Park Avenue shouting at my back. My sight locked onto that yellow head as I sped up, calling apologies over my shoulder when I bumped into someone. He ducked into a coffee shop.

&
nbsp; I followed a moment later, the thick aroma of coffee beans and chocolate enveloping me. The place was packed. I searched the long bar where people were elbow-to-elbow drinking coffee and snacking on petite chocolate balls. He wasn't at any of the tables that flanked a wall filled with over a hundred different varieties of freshly ground coffee for sale. My gaze flew to the cramped hallway that led to the restrooms. Not one gold head did I see among the urbanites and metrosexuals.

  I felt his presence at my back a second before he spoke softly into the nape of my neck.

  "Is there a reason that you're tracking me down like a bloodhound?" Skating Fabio asked as I slowly turned to face him. His eyes were as green as a Minnesota forest, and I suddenly felt at home.

  Three

  “CAN WE SIT down and talk?" I offered.

  His eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you a cop?"

  "No man, I'm an athlete," I said, ignoring the sight nudge from a dude wiggling past. "I play for the Nightwings."

  For the briefest of moments, I felt a flutter of hope, that perhaps one person in this city didn't know me. When his eyes rounded in recognition, I knew he had me pegged.

  "Riley Zeally," he murmured. "Why is Mr. New York Hockey following me around?"

  I could feel the eyes of the patrons beginning to settle on me. "Can we sit down and talk? I'll buy you some coffee."

  "Why do you want to talk to me?" He waved a hand at himself. My gaze moved over him quickly. His clothes were old, dingy, and threadbare. I was in nothing but high quality right down to my Salvatore Ferragamo leather high-tops. Silver duct tape held his sneakers together. "I'm not a stray dog or some kid with cancer, so what's in it for you?"

  The acidity of his words hit me like a slap in the face. "I saw you on the ice the other morning. Over at Rockefeller Center?" His narrowed eyes told me that his suspicions were growing deeper. He threw off a vibe like that of a trapped animal. If he bolted, and I lost him, I might never find him again. Fate had made him step in front of my cab. I needed to find a way to keep him here with me. "You have wicked skills, my friend. I can help you."

  "Help me what? What could you possibly help me with?"

  "Maybe I could buy you some coffee and a couple chocolate balls. We could sit down and talk about hockey. I have connections. I could get you a try-out with the 'Hawks."

  As soon as it fell out of my mouth, I knew I had stepped over a line. How could I make that kind of promise to someone who, it appeared, lived on the streets? This wasn't some hokey movie where some unknown befriends a star and gets a shot at the big time. There were no ghosts whispering, "If you build it…"

  "Bullshit," he snapped, but his eyes latched onto the platters of cookies and almond-covered chocolate balls in domed glass dishes not two feet from us.

  "Look," I sighed, "I think I can help you. If nothing else, I can get my agent to look you over."

  "Why would you do that for me?" I couldn't look him in the face anymore. My gaze wanted to touch upon his plump lips too badly. "You want to fuck me, don't you?"

  That brought my eyes flying back to his. I stammered over something that resembled speech. Words knotted up on my tongue then tumbled from me like drunken sailors falling out of a pub.

  "Oh man, you do," he chuckled as I tried to explain myself. If only I actually knew what it was I was trying to say because yeah, I did want to get all over him. "Okay, now I get it. You buy me some coffee and cookies, and I'll go with you to talk about hockey." A smirk settled on his enticing mouth.

  "I just want to talk," I whispered. He had to lean close to hear me. His wild blond hair tickled my cheek. I could smell him now, even amid the crush of humanity and coffee I could pick up his scent. He obviously bathed somewhere because he wasn't rank with body odor, and his hair looked clean and soft, but his clothes smelled like a damp basement.

  "Yep, right, talk. I understand. My name is Rocket, by the way." A warm rush of breath tickled my ear. I inhaled deeply through my nose then stepped back an inch.

  He held out a hand covered in a thin blue cotton glove. The glove on his left hand was green. I didn't believe that his name was Rocket, but I slid my hand into his. A tingle of warmth moved from my bare palm up my arm.

  "Nice to meet you, Rocket," I said as we held each other's hand. No shaking occurred, I noticed after a moment. I jerked free of his strong grip. The right side of his mouth tweaked upward.

  "Closeted. Good to know," he said offhandedly then told the harried server behind the counter what he wanted. I eagerly paid for his food. Rocket led us back outside, chewing on the first of a dozen cookies in a small white bag held protectively to his chest.

  "If you're hungry, we can get you something more—"

  His gaze moved over me as if he were sizing me up for a coffin. "You were looking for more than a blow job? If you want to fuck me, that's going to cost more, Mr. Broadway. I don't do this often anymore. You just happened to find me when I'm changing career paths."

  "You're a prostitute?" I winced at how judgmental that sounded. Rocket gave me an evil look.

  "I just said I don't to this much anymore, so no, not now." He shoved another cookie into his mouth and chewed with attitude. I didn't know what to say or do. My face was hot with embarrassment in spite of the achingly cold air. "So you still up for a fuck? I'll need at least a couple hundred to come out of retirement." Cookie crumbs fell from his mouth as he spoke.

  "Let's grab some dinner first then we'll worry about what comes after, okay?"

  "Whatever. It's your cash, Riley."

  I hailed another cab. Rocket clambered into the backseat chewing madly. I told the driver to take us to the nearest buffet-style restaurant. The driver, a lean fellow with a bushy black mustache, grinned at me then threw a suspicious look at my traveling companion. Rocket flipped him off. The cabbie began to bluster. I calmed the driver down with a fifty-dollar bill as a tip before we even got moving.

  "You need to learn some manners," I snapped at Rocket. He gave me the finger as well. I started wondering if I had made a mistake. The cab lurched out into traffic then stopped at a red light. "So, Rocket, is that the name your mother gave you?"

  His green eyes grew volatile for a split-second. "It's the name I picked when I got to New York."

  "And when was that?" I leaned back into the seat, trying to appear as casual as possible about picking up a male prostitute with a cookie habit. Forgive me - a retired male prostitute who was graciously willing to come out of retirement to give me his ass for the night. I suppose I should have been honored, but I was horrified, and yet strangely turned on by the thought. My mind was a sloppy stew of confliction.

  "When I was thirteen," he said then reached for my coffee. I gave it to him. He washed down the cookies with loud gulps. When had this guy eaten last?

  "And you're how old now?"

  "I'm legal," he informed me between long pulls on my coffee. Looking at him, I thought he was telling the truth, about his age anyway. Blond scruff covered his jaw, and his hands were large. He didn't move with that gangly grace of a kid who was sixteen or seventeen. He seemed incredibly mature, or perhaps streetwise was a better word. "Pull over at the Purple Dragon. Best Korean buffet on the island."

  The driver looked at me. "Sounds good," I said, my eyes never leaving the rearview mirror, "as soon as he tells me his age."

  "Shit, but you're uptight. I'm twenty-one."

  I gave the driver the go-ahead. A four-block cab ride just cost me fifty bucks. Rocket followed me out of the cab then sauntered into the Purple Dragon as if he owned the place. A small Korean woman, older than dirt, met Rocket at the door with a large wooden spoon. She began beating on him while screaming in Korean. I slid between the two of them. Rocket was laughing softly. The Korean woman was irate. She yelled at me then hit me on the head with her spoon. Rocket stumbled into the wall, holding his sides, hysterical laughter rolling out of him as I massaged the welt on my skull.

  "I take it you've eaten here before," I grumbled. A young
er man hustled over to us. He apologized profusely for his grandmother's spoon attack on Mr. Riley Zeally.

  "This punk," the Korean man said, pointing at Rocket, "skipped out with a full belly last week. He owes us forty-two dollars."

  I threw Rocket a glower. He shrugged a shoulder as he battled with giggles.

  "Just put what he owes on our tab tonight." I gave the owner my homespun smile, the one all the woman seemed to adore. Korean buffet-restaurant owners must like it too, or maybe it was the American Express Centurion card I flashed under his nose that he liked so well. It was hard to tell.

  "You're an okay kind of guy," Rocket said as we moved down the buffet line a few minutes later.

  "And you're an expensive kind of guy," I said. Rocket snorted then piled his plate high with chicken yakisoba. I filled up on shrimp tempura. We returned to our tiny table beside a fish tank. The other diners were fascinated with us. Probably because we had been spoon-whipped by an eighty year old woman. If the guys on the team ever heard about that, I'd never fucking live it down.

  "You won't be complaining about how much I cost when you're balls deep in my ass," Rocket tossed out then dove into his food. A stirring of lust uncurled inside me at the mental image his suggestion stirred up.

  "Let's not talk about sex. Let's talk about how you came by your hockey skills." I forked up a large shrimp. Rocket's gaze found mine. He swallowed. I continued to stare at him.

  "You're pretty hot, you know?"

  "Not really, but thanks. So, where did you pick up your stick-handling skills?" I put the shrimp into my mouth. The creamy, spicy Yuzu sauce that covered the fried shrimp was incredible. I groaned in pleasure. The fish tank full of koi burbled nearby.

  "Told you this place was the best." Rocket grinned over the table at me. He had a nice smile with white teeth. "I played back home. Started when I was four, shooting a ball into a dryer in the basement."

  "That's kind of how I started," I pointed out. Rocket nodded and hair fell over his eyes. It gave him a sexy, wild look that made me bite back another groan. I took a drink of water to cool myself down. He was spot on about me wanting him. "My father made this cut-out of a goalie from plywood, complete with the holes at the right spots. Then he went out and bought this old net at a yard sale. I swear I spent hours down in my basement just shooting rubber balls though old Wooden Wickets' five hole."