by Quinn Ward
Ryan opened the door before I had the car in park and rushed inside with his bag. I laughed, because the poor kid was so nervous he’d forgotten his stick in the back seat. Any other night, I’d make him run back to the car to get it, but I could cut him some slack this time.
My phone pinged as I eased my way past the parents of the current group of skaters, but I ignored it. Whoever it was would still be there when the evaluations were over, and if they knew me, they’d understand why I hadn’t responded immediately.
Ryan nearly plowed me down as he sprinted back to the lobby. “Woah, easy there killer.”
“My stick, Dad. I forgot my stick! How’s that going to look to the coaches if I can’t even remember my gear?” Ryan rambled. I didn’t want to laugh, but I did.
I held the hockey stick in front of his face, waving it back and forth. “It’s a good thing I’ve got you covered.” After he took the stick from my hands, I gripped both of his shoulders and forced Ryan to look at me. “You need to relax. You’ve busted your ass to make sure you’re ready for tonight. Now, the only thing you can do is keep your head straight and get the puck into the back of the net.”
“You make it sound easy,” Ryan scoffed.
“It is,” I assured him. “Go out there and pretend like this is any other practice. Forget about the coaches. Forget about everything but your skate. You’ve got this, Ryan.”
Despite his protests, I pulled my son in for a hug. He wriggled away as a few of his buddies hollered for him to hurry his ass up. I resisted the urge to scold them for their language. The stuffy parent in me wanted them to be polite and respectful but I’d been in enough locker rooms in my life to know this was mild compared to some of the shit they said.
As I settled into the stands, the phone in my pocket buzzed again. I justified checking the messages because Ryan wasn’t even dressed yet, much less on the ice. The parents around me all had their noses buried in their devices with the exception of those with their faces pressed to the glass as their kids tried out for fall team placement.
6:14: I did what you asked.
6:21: I have questions. Lots of questions. You’re probably going to think I’m stupid because I have so many questions.
6:23: Why aren’t you responding?
I chuckled when the little bubble appeared at the bottom of the screen, indicating he was typing again. My impatient little brat. No. Not your brat. I needed to remember that Frankie wasn’t my anything, other than a roommate to split the bills so I could afford to put new skates on the kid’s feet and pay to travel up and down the coast for the foreseeable future. I waited a few minutes and checked to see if I’d missed another message coming through, but there wasn’t one. The current group of skaters cleared the rink, so while they cut the ice, I took mercy on Frankie and sent him a simple response.
Focus on work. We’ll talk Saturday morning.
It felt imperative that we at least start to work through Frankie’s curiosity before he had a chance to repeat last week’s activities. I’d only seen him at Club 83 once, but I was interested enough in him that I didn’t know how I’d react if he showed up again this week with the same goal in mind. As expected, Frankie’s response was almost immediate.
Frankie: Work is mind-numbing and I can’t concentrate.
Me: I have faith in you.
Frankie: Why can’t we talk now? Text is fine, but I can’t wait until the end of the week.
Frankie: This is all your fault, you know.
Me: Trying to make me feel guilty won’t work, brat. Saturday.
Frankie: Fine.
I could practically see Frankie rolling his eyes. I was confident I hadn’t heard the last of him, but Ryan’s group was lining up at the door, so I pocketed my phone. Ryan wobbled a bit as he took the ice and I closed my eyes, willing him to remember what I’d told him. All his coaches agreed he was a wickedly talented player and that his greatest weakness was his mindset. He tended to take on the pressure of every game’s outcome, forgetting that it wasn’t up to him to win or lose on his own.
That, like so many other random thoughts over the past few days, made me think about Frankie. He was a loyal man, so dedicated to his family that I wondered if they realized how miserable he was in the position they’d shoved him into. When we’d first met, I’d seen the exhaustion and weight he carried as he talked about running his family’s restaurant. He’d confirmed my suspicion that it wasn’t the career he’d envisioned for himself with a long, suffering sigh as he recounted the day his father informed him it was time for him to step into a leadership role with the business.
That type of pressure would be a lot for anyone his age to take on, but when it wasn’t what he wanted to do, the stress would eventually take its toll. It made sense, in a twisted way, that he put himself into compromising positions during his down time. From what he’d told me, his family was old-fashioned, meaning chances were high he worried about whether they’d accept his sexuality. Being forced to run the family business made him grasp for something he could do to please no one but himself. And the exchange of money allowed Frankie to put someone else in charge of making the decisions.
Crystal. Clarity.
As Ryan’s group warmed up on the ice, I began to formulate a plan for how to handle the situation with Frankie. He might be resistant to admitting any form of BDSM appealed to him, but my certainty grew. I could offer him exactly what he needed. And I intended to prove it to him before we even sat down to talk Saturday morning. There was time for one final text before Ryan’s tryout began.
Me: Make sure you get out at a decent time tonight. You haven’t been sleeping enough.
My phone buzzed while Ryan’s group ran through some skating drills but I ignored it. If there was any chance Frankie would go along with my plan, he needed to understand from the very beginning there were times he couldn’t be my number one priority. In an ideal world, anyone I entered into a relationship with would become my priority, but that life had vanished the moment Ryan was born. I would never stop putting him in that number one place, even above my own needs and desires.
After the tryouts wrapped up, I escorted a rank, supposedly starving, teenager to the car. I was always proud of Ryan’s accomplishments, but I couldn’t remember a time I’d been prouder of him than tonight. Although it was entirely possible I was biased, my son was the best skater out of his group, and as I drove to his favorite restaurant for dinner before taking him home, my hopes were high that he’d be assigned to the Majors team.
I was also impressed by Frankie’s restraint. Other than a snarky response to my final text that I’d purposely ignored, my phone had remained silent the rest of the evening. Now, it was a waiting game to see if he’d stroll into the apartment before one in the morning.
Wednesday morning, I laid in bed while Frankie went through his morning routine. As much as I wanted to meet him in the kitchen and tell him I was proud of him for being home and in his room before midnight, I feared that might confuse him. Praise was something he’d need to get used to, but until we’d hashed out what each of us wanted and whether our needs aligned, he could easily misconstrue my gesture as trying to fill in for his dead father. That wasn’t my intention at all.
I waited a few minutes after I heard the snick of the dead bolt before rolling out of bed. If he forgot something and came back into the house, it was a sure bet that he’d try to pressure me into talking right then rather than waiting until Saturday. I wasn’t stupid, I was trying to give Frankie a taste of what life would be like if we did pursue any sort of relationship. I would never purposely ignore him, but he wasn’t going to bully me into doing things on his timeline. There was a fresh pot of coffee finishing the brew cycle in the kitchen and a cherry turnover from the bakery down the street sitting on the counter. It was such a small gesture, but gave me hope that both of us were dancing around what we wanted in the interim.
Me: Thank you for thinking of me.
Frankie: They’re day old
s I picked up yesterday. Nothing special.
It seemed the brat had a hard time accepting gratitude. That needed to change.
Me: Don’t sell yourself short. It was nice to come out to coffee and breakfast waiting for me. If you’re not careful, you’re going to spoil me.
The coffee finished brewing and I filled the mug Frankie had set aside for me. It was these little gestures that would’ve worn me down if I’d been reluctant to be with him. This morning’s newspaper was laid out in my favorite chair. I stared at it and smiled, shocked that Frankie knew my morning routine so well. I was also certain the still tender pastry wasn’t a day old special like he claimed, but I’d allow the lie to slide for now. Frankie was wading into foreign territory that could be daunting even for someone who’d already admitted his desires. But it was interesting that this was the path his desires led down. Promising. My phone buzzed as I separated the sections of the paper and I grinned as I pulled up the message.
Frankie: You say that like it’s a bad thing.
Not a bad thing at all, Frankie, but who spoils you? Who makes sure you’re taken care of?
4
Frankie
I mentally tallied the lost money when I heard dishes shattering in the kitchen. After months of relentless begging for me to give him a job, my youngest brother, Matteo, had gone over my head and convinced Mama he was responsible enough to work for the family business. And being the baby of the family, she’d caved. In the three weeks since he’d started, I swore I could see the stacks of white stoneware shrinking. The whole reason I hadn’t been willing to put him on the serving floor was that he’s a klutz. Seriously, the boy could trip over air. But, as per usual, whatever Mama said was the final decision, despite the fact Papa had handed control of Marino’s over to me as a graduation gift. Telling him I hadn’t busted my ass for four years so I could go home smelling like garlic and oregano for the rest of my life didn’t piss him off. No, I could’ve dealt with that reaction from him, but I couldn’t stand the slump of his shoulders or the way he clenched his chest.
“I understand, Francesco,” he’d responded. Although he wouldn’t meet my eyes, I could imagine his were brimming with unshed tears. “You always were our most driven child. Strong. Responsible. I guess…”
Papa sighed heavily, sniffling a few times. I didn’t want to hear what he was going to say before he’d stopped himself, but I couldn’t silence the words before they were out of my mouth. “You guessed what, Papa?”
Papa led me to the edge of the room, away from the rest of the family. I resented the fact that my graduation party was being held in the banquet hall above Marino’s so Mama and Papa would be on-hand in case of any mishaps during the Saturday dinner rush. That was why I didn’t want any part of the family business; few of my childhood memories were free of Marino’s interference. I resented the Italian restaurant that’d been my family’s life for two—soon to be three, apparently—generations.
“Out of my five sons, you are the only one who’s man enough to keep our legacy alive.” I bristled at his logic. While I had no doubt he loved us, his approval was based on little more than superficial traits. In his mind, I was the strongest leader because I’d been one of the assistant captains of my lacrosse team. I was the smartest because I earned my college degree in less than four years because I’d taken transfer credits during high school. I was driven because I didn’t back down once I set my mind to something. Never mind that Freddie loved cooking and actually dreamed of running the restaurant after college. No one knew that my entire life was a steaming heap of shit-filled lies. If Papa knew, he’d hand over his baby to anyone but me.
I reached around to massage the knots out of my neck, pushing memories of how I’d wound up chained to this desk out of my mind. It was futile; nothing would ease my stress as long as I was stuck here. What I needed was for business to die down so I could change into the clothes I’d shoved into a duffel bag this morning and forget the demands and expectations everyone had for me.
Crash! I’d lost count of how many trays Matteo had dropped tonight, but that was the last one. I shoved back from the desk and stormed down the hall to the kitchen. “God dammit, Teo! If you keep that shit up, you’re going to drive all our customers away!”
“Language, Francesco,” Mama scolded. She was crouched in front of my brother’s mess while he called out the dishes he’d ruined for this party. I cuffed the back of his head before lifting Mama off the ground. Of course, she went right back to cleaning up the broken plates and splattered food as soon as I released her. “Stop, Francesco. I’ve got this.”
“It’s not your mess to clean, Mama,” I argued, shooting a glare in Teo’s direction. “If he can’t handle a simple four-top, maybe this isn’t the job for him.”
“You were no better when you first started,” she reminded me. “All of you boys seem to forget you didn’t walk into this kitchen and instantly know how to do your job.”
“I didn’t drop entire trays of food,” I countered, kneeling to help Mama wipe sauce from the grout between the tiles. In a lot of kitchens, they’d run the mop over the floor and call it good, but not Marino’s. Mama busied herself throughout the rush making sure the kitchen was pristine at all times. Drove Freddie batshit crazy. At least once per shift, he stormed up to me, demanding I find somewhere else for Mama to be, as if I held that type of power. If I did have any control over her, she’d be sitting at home in her recliner or out with her cult of friends in their red hats. But no, she was determined to hang around the restaurant until she was as certain as Papa had been that I wouldn’t drive the family business into the ground.
“No, your problem was you couldn’t remember a table number to save your life,” she reminded me. “Do you know how hard it was for your father to stand before angry guests, biting his tongue while they criticized his first-born? No. You don’t. Because just as I’m doing with Matteo, I kept you in the kitchen, teaching you how to be a better server. And eventually, you not only stopped making mistakes, you were one of our best servers until you left for college. You impressed your father so much that he gifted the restaurant to you.”
More like chained me close to home for the rest of my life, but I was smarter than to allow that thought to escape. “You’re right, Mama.”
She smiled tightly, nodding towards my baby brother. I groaned, knowing that no matter how old we were, she’d never stop mothering us. I stood and placed a hand on Matteo’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Teo. I shouldn’t have blown up at you like that. You’re doing a good job for being the rookie.”
“I’m not.” His posture sagged and he rested his forehead on the pass-through, yelping when his flesh touched the hot stainless steel. Good brother that I am, I bit back my laughter, not wanting to make him feel even worse. “Maybe you were right, Frankie. Maybe I’m not cut out to work around people.”
“People aren’t your issue, Capretto,” I teased, purposely using the nickname Matteo had been stuck with since he was a toddler so he’d know I wasn’t still pissed at him. “You just need to slow down. No one will be upset about waiting an extra thirty seconds for their food, but they will get irritated if they see you apologizing to every table including theirs because it has to be remade because you dropped it. And taking your time will save Freddie the hassle of kicking your ass later.”
“Okay.” Matteo took a deep breath as he started loading plates onto his tray. “Thanks, Frankie, for not staying mad at me. I really am trying.”
I wrapped my hand around the side of my brother’s head and kissed his temple. At nineteen, he was constantly trying to live up to the image he’d built of the rest of us in his mind. I hated knowing that outbursts like I’d just had made him feel he’d never be on-par with the rest of us. “You’ve got this,” I whispered before wiping a bit of marinara off my pants. I needed to look like the leader Papa believed me to be so our guests weren’t angry with Teo.
I visited the table whose food was delayed and apologized
profusely. One of the men in the party looked ready to blow a gasket, but was quickly appeased by the offer of a free bottle of wine. Add another twenty bucks to what my youngest brother’s mistakes had cost. Fucking lovely.
Once I felt confident Freddie and his crew were remaking the orders Teo had dropped and weren’t razzing him for the dropped tray, I slinked back to the office. God, how can it only be eight o’clock? Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my phone light up with a new notification.
Calvin: Don’t work too hard. I left dinner in the fridge for you because I know you get sick of eating at the restaurant.
How in the hell did he know that? It was true, but I couldn’t remember ever complaining to him about it. That thought was quickly shoved out of my mind by guilt. Between work and Calvin practically forcing me to fantasize about him, I was so keyed up I’d been planning on hitting the club tonight. But I couldn’t, not with everything up in the air between us. The truth was, part of me wanted to see if there was some point to Calvin’s demands.
Me: Thanks. Hoping I’ll be able to get out of here in about an hour.
Calvin: Good. You work too much.
Me: Yeah, well someone has to do it.
I’d never been a fan of texting. Yes, I realized that made me an anomaly among my generation, but it seemed like an impersonal means of communication and left too much open for misinterpretation. If it’d been one of my brothers or a friend texting all day every day, I’d have gotten annoyed and ignored them, but I couldn’t help but smile every time my phone buzzed this week with a new message from Calvin. Part of me hoped my phone wouldn’t go back to silent after we talked tomorrow morning.
I’d done as he asked and researched various forms of BDSM earlier in the week, but I still didn’t think it was something I wanted for myself. I couldn’t get past the physical pain so many people subjected themselves to, claiming they got off on it. If it worked for them, cool, but I’d never understand it. And as insistent as Calvin was that I educate myself, it was obviously something important to him.