Seduced by the Game
Page 31
“Do you think I don’t kiss people, Justin?”
I choke on a laugh, and then I squeeze George’s hand, trying to tell her that she should be nice to my defense partner.
“No... I mean, I don’t know. Yes?” He’s confused and floundering. “It’s just, well, we’ve never seen you...or at least I’ve never seen you...kiss someone...like that.”
Klingensmith speaks up. “And never one of the guys.” He turns to me. “Stock, you just got your hand caught in the cookie jar.”
I smile at him. “Jealous you never had a shot?”
Klingensmith scrunches up his face in disgust, like he just puked in his mouth. “No. Ugh, God no. Are you crazy? That’s George. That’s gross.”
George furrows her eyebrows and hollers, “Mark! Seriously?”
“I didn’t mean that you were gross, I just mean that that’s gross. You’re, like, my sister or something. I don’t want to think about that. And I certainly don’t want to even think about being a part of it. Stock, man, best of luck to you.” Then he turns to Harris like a light bulb just went off over his head. “I told you! Pay up, man! I told you there was something weird going on between them.”
“Fuck,” Harris groans, but he doesn’t reach for his wallet. “I thought she just didn't like him.” That makes George cover her mouth to hide her giggle. Harris throws in his two cents. “Okay, yeah, but like...why him? I mean, if you were going to go after anyone on the team...” He looks down at himself and cocks an eyebrow, like he’s thinking that he’s a total stud and should have been the one to command George’s attention—for no other reason than he thinks he should always be the one to be fawned over by people of the female persuasion.
“And that is why, Adam, it never would have been you.” She turns to me, a gleam in her eye that is much more preferable than the scared look that was there just a few moments earlier. “Do you wanna get out of here now?”
I feel like a stud. Nothing would make me happier. “Yup.” I never let go of her hand as we stand up from our stools and breeze past them as we head for the door. I feel light and free in a way I haven’t for a very long time. We walk to the team car that I’ve been using since I got here, and I open the door for her. When I get into the driver’s side, I ask, “That wasn’t so bad. And now everyone knows.”
“No, everyone will know by tomorrow,” she tells me. “The whole team, the coaches. My boss,” she sighs. I worry that she’s worried, but she turns her head and smiles at me. “Let’s wait ’til tomorrow before we count our victories, and let’s just enjoy tonight, okay?”
“Okay. So, uh, where to?” It’s a broad enough question that I get to let her decide where to take our night.
“Would you mind taking me home? I’m tired and don’t feel like getting my car right now. I probably shouldn’t be driving anyway,” she rationalizes. At least I think she’s rationalizing spending the time with me. Maybe she’ll then have me pick her up sometime tomorrow so I can take her to the rink to get her car.
“No problem.”
George gives me directions to her place from the bar because I don’t remember the taxi ride, but other than that, we don’t talk. That’s okay with me, because I’m not much of a talker anyway. I reach across the center console and entangle my fingers with hers until I pull up toward her building.
“You can park there,” she says, pointing with her free hand toward a spot near the door. I infer that it’s her spot, and it’s empty because her car’s not here. I do as she instructs, but I hesitate as the car idles. George lets go of my hand and opens her door as she asks, “Would you like to come up?”
It’s my turn to freeze. Do I want to come up? Yes. Yes, I do. But should I? No, I probably shouldn’t. But I don’t want to actually say the word “no.”
She smiles at me as she stands beside the open car door, leaning down so I can see her face. “In case you didn’t know, Bryan, the answer’s ‘yes.’”
I turn off the ignition and follow her inside her building.
* * * *
I’m feeling pretty good as I open my apartment door and hold it open for Bryan to come in behind me. He’s smart, sliding the deadbolt into place and locking the door securely. It’s a safe neighborhood and a very safe building, and I feel even better knowing that I’m not alone in my apartment, but I’m not worried about whether or not the door’s locked. I like that he closed up behind him like he doesn’t plan on leaving tonight.
But I feel kind of self-conscious once I have him in my living room. I’m not quite sure what to do next. “Do you want anything to drink?”
“Water’s good,” he replies, so I grab a bottle of Dasani out of the fridge and hand it to him. He cracks the lid and downs seemingly half the bottle in one big gulp.
And again I’m not sure what to do. I try small talk. “You guys don’t have a practice tomorrow, do you?”
Bryan shakes his head. “No, we got the day off since we won, and we don’t play next ’til Tuesday.”
“Cool.” I feel a yawn coming on, and I press the back of my hand against my mouth as I try to stifle it.
“Tired?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you, uh... Do you want me to go?” he asks. He’s kind of shy about it, and I think that’s cute.
“No,” I tell him. “I want you to stay.” I feel another yawn threatening to escape.
“Maybe you should go to bed.”
“Only if you come with me,” I flirt.
“Yeah, definitely.” His smile is big and broad.
He knows where he’s going, and he takes my hand and leads me to my bedroom. I watch as he removes his suit piece by piece: his jacket, his tie, his dress shirt, and his pants. In just his blue plaid boxers, he pulls back the covers and slides underneath the sheet. To even up the score, I step out of my jeans and take off my bra so I’m clad in only my black panties and my Comets shirt. I feel his eyes on me the entire time as I lean over and turn off the lamp.
“Good night, Bryan,” I whisper, placing my hand on his chest as I kiss his jaw. For good measure, I press my lips to his.
Without responding verbally, he kisses back. This is no little peck. When I lean away from him, he leans forward and follows my body in order to keep kissing me. I let him, loving the attention he’s lavishing me with.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says as he drags his lips to my neck. It’s the same spot that had been bruised and needed covering.
“No, don’t stop,” I tell him, enjoying this way too much to want it to ever end. I’d be lying if I said that Tuesday’s events don’t replay in my mind. Even now, I keep thinking about what we did and that fuels all the emotions and hormones that are raging within me.
But he does stop—the exact opposite of what I said. I look up at him as he asks me, “Do you think we should take this slow?”
I want to laugh at him because we can’t possibly slow down since we slept together the same day we met, but there’s an innocent, naïve look in his eyes that makes me think he’s not totally ridiculous. But even though it endears him to me, that doesn’t change the way my body’s reacting to him. I place one hand on his cheek, which is warm and flushed. “I want you.”
Thank God that’s all I have to say to set him back in motion. I’m enjoying this experience more this time around since we’re sober and fully aware of what we’re doing. And of course it’s even better because we know why we’re doing this, because we like each other. It’s different this time—slower and more intimate.
I’m flat on my back, waiting impatiently for Bryan to finish putting on the condom, my fingers moving just enough between my legs to keep me warmed up for the action to come. He watches me for a moment before he bats my hand away and replaces my fingers with his thumb and then pushes himself into me. He’s a fast learner, and he knows exactly how to push my button. I really like the attention. Being with Bryan is better than I remember and better than all the daydreams that have been playing in my head.
# # #
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jaymee Jacobs is a hockey fan with a writing habit. When not cheering on her Pittsburgh Penguins, Jay writes stories about her favorite sport. She started publishing in 2013 and has released three full-length novels: Play the Man, Shots on Net, and Game On. More information can be found on her website, jaymeejacobs.com
Jaymee Jacobs
Author, Play the Man; Shots on Net; and Game On
Twitter: @JaymeeJacobs
~ * ~
Heir Apparent
© V.L. Locey
Acknowledgements
A hearty “Thank You!” to Mike, aka Glovesave235, for his invaluable insights into the mind of a goalie. Heir Apparent could not have happened without you! Let’s go Rangers!
As always, a hug of appreciation must go to my hockey guru, Lola. May your Pens score often.
Of course a hearty thanks must go to my family, hockey loving nuts that we are all! Your support means so very much to me.
One
The first time I saw Cam Evans play I was five years old. My father had taken me to my first ever professional game as part of my fifth birthday party. It was just me and Dad. Mom and Jane, my sister who is four years older than me, stayed home since both disliked how cold the stadium was. See, Mom had been to “The Game” many times before in our home state of New Jersey. My father lived, breathed, and defecated Pittsburgh Puma hockey. His den was a shrine to the Pumas; the walls had even been painted green and gold, the Puma team colors.
So yeah, back to my first time seeing Cam Evans in net. I was five; my toes were cold despite the two pairs of socks my mother insisted I wear. My cheeks were warm with excitement. Three rows back from center ice we sat in the Jersey Jaguars stadium, two green and gold backers among a sea of black and silver. Well, sat is a misnomer. Our seats were empty more than they were filled. I stood throughout every period, my eyes dried out like parchment from absorbing every movement Cam Evans made in the crease. Of course at five, I didn’t know a butterfly goalie from a soccer goalie, I just knew that whatever that man in the mask was doing, I wanted to do it too. That day the obsession began.
My father was elated when I said I wanted to play hockey. On our way home from the game we stopped at the nearest sporting goods store. Dad purchased me skates, a stick, and a puck. I still have the skates and puck. That first stick was broken years ago. Countless hundreds have been purchased in its place. Mom became a hockey mom that evening. She must have logged in a million miles shuttling me to rinks all over the eastern seaboard. Years of practice, games, scrimmages, stitches, tears, tantrums, and thousands of dollars for bigger, better, newer equipment followed. Man, that first stick was something special, though. So was Cameron Evans.
Imagine the knot in my throat now to be sitting ten rows behind the legend at Dawson Wells Arena, watching the man I idolized working the crease as only Cam Evans can work the crease. I was leaning forward, my elbows to my denim-covered knees, my sights intent on the man as he stayed tucked tightly into his net. I was a little bolder than Cam. I tended to range out, dancing dangerously at times on or beyond the arc of blue ice under my skates.
“So, Jacobi, what do you think?” I tore my eyes from that famous number fifty in green and gold. My dad smiled at me. A larger ball of anxiety formed directly behind my Adam’s apple. Finally I was here. In “The Wells” as the Pittsburgh arena was called. The call to come up from the Dawson Hills AHL franchise had come yesterday. Gregor Rosovich, the backup tender for Cam Evans, had been placed on waivers after a dismal performance filling in for Evans, who had started to develop performance issues of some kind. Gregor had been a so-so netminder throughout his career, so when the waiver word appeared, Gregor decided to retire. With his retirement, the call was made to Dawson Hills. I was told to have my backside in Pittsburgh before the next game. I did a Sammy Hagar driving from Jersey.
My dad had wept when I called him with the news. Then he had met me at the stadium, where he hugged me so hard for so long I feared cracked ribs. Now here we sat. There was no denying that I was Roger Neal’s boy. We had the same reddish-blond hair, same angular face that housed deep green eyes, a normal nose and functional mouth. My height and weight, two hundred and forty pounds on a six foot six body, was exactly what dad was when he played defense in the minors back in his glory days.
“Do you see how he’s working the glove side?” I asked as we slowly rose from the gold and green seats. “He’s off his game." Another shot from Cam’s teammate soared cleanly over his mitt to shake the twine. “What do you think is inside his head?”
“He’s Cam Evans,” Dad said, tossing me the hastily packed Dawson Falls Dragons duffel I had brought with me. “Whatever his issue is of late, I know it has to be eating him up. That’s why he’s doing double practice, I bet. That last healthy scratch knotted his knickers.”
“That son of a bitch is intense,” I said with admiration. We left the practice behind. Within an hour, I had been assigned a cubicle, had spoken briefly with the head coach, Arthur Webern, and was told by the goalie coach, Ivan Mars, to get dressed for scrimmage. I sincerely thought my father would faint when I emerged from the locker room with the Pittsburgh golden puma on my chest. The large two and four on my back felt heavy as hell.
“Just do what you always do, son. No matter what happens, you know we’re proud of you,” Dad said, squeezed the back of my neck, then disappeared down one of a hundred hallways under the ice. I had to inhale then exhale a few dozen times before I could make my legs work. Down the gold and green runway I went, my skates sounding dull as they hit the thick carpet runner leading from dressing room to ice. I took just a minute to let the import of this all embed in my mind. My first practice as a Puma was about to happen. All the blood, sweat, tears, and pulled groin muscles would be paying off as soon as I touched blade to frozen water. My hands trembled a bit inside my blocker and catcher. My leg pads felt too big. My mask a touch too small . . .
“You coming out or what, kid?” Pierre DeLoux, our first line center and team captain asked, spewing ice as he hit a side stop in front of the team exit. “Nerves a little bit bad?” the Quebecer asked.
“My knees just locked up." That amused the team captain tremendously. With his arm around my well-padded shoulder, I was escorted out. Introductions were done quickly, a smile accompanied by a glove rap or pat to the helmet. I stood at center ice, the multi-million dollar Jumbotron over my head, enrapt with the approach of Cam Evans. He seemed larger than life, but in reality I had about six inches and sixty pounds on him.
I had studied his form, his technique, his life. This was the first time that I had stared directly into his brown eyes. Some sort of sucker punch to the gut occurred when we locked sight.
Fuck. I was rattled badly. Not because I was attracted to a man. I’ve known that I was gay since that time I was playing basketball when I was thirteen and inadvertently rubbed bellies with John Reynolds on a layup attempt. I came down with a whole new understanding of who I was that day. No, it wasn’t that. It was the rush of lust that sprang up for such an older man. My sexual partners had generally been dudes around my own age of twenty-two. All one of them. Who has time to cruise when you have hockey, final exams, hockey, and even more hockey? Maybe I need a life. Or a therapist.
I shook off the attraction, chalked it up to simple adoration like any fan, then removed my blocker to extend my bare hand out to the legend. Cam gave my hand a quick look before placing his sweaty palm into mine. His touch made the wheels in my mind spin aimlessly. I stumbled over the greeting I had planned. Cam was as cool as a refrigerated radish. He smiled at my stupidity, ran his fingers through his neatly trimmed brown hair, then waved his hand at the goal.
“They say you’re the next me. Show us if the talk is real or bullshit.”
I gaped for a moment. The ent
ire team stood around the two of us, some leaning on their sticks, some simply chewing on their mouth protectors, while some shifted from one skate to the other with evident impatience.
“There can never be another you, Mr. Evans, but I’ll show you what Coach Truhill taught me,” I said. A low murmur of approval moved through the Pumas. Alex Truhill was a legend among collegiate coaches and had coached some of the best in the league. It had been an honor to play under him during my four years at Boston College. Exhaling sharply, I pulled my mask over my face then skated to goal. Cam had already scuffed the ice nicely. I gave it a fresh go-over to suit me. Once I had a little snow wall in place to hopefully slow down the puck, I whispered my special silent prayer, dropped down into my hybrid stance, and waited for the team to line up. My tongue tasted tinny. My eyes locked onto Brad Cooper, the first-line right winger.
Cooper was the top scorer on the Pumas and could deke better than any other player I had ever seen. My glove hand was up. My stick was down. Brad Cooper locked eyes with me, winked, flipped a puck skyward with the edge of his stick, then proceeded to race down the ice toward me. His moves were so slick, so smooth, so sure, that I almost pulled myself too far to the left. Cooper switched up at the last minute. The puck flew at the gaping hope that should have been open over my left shoulder. I caught the puck in my glove. The “Thwak!” of rubber in the basket filled me with pride.
I had about zero point one second to revel in outmaneuvering the Puma`s deke master. Shots then came fast and furious, each player attempting to sucker me in. After the last shot went wide of the net, I looked behind me. Two pucks rested against the twine. Two missed shots out of twenty-three shots on goal. Not bad, but not good enough. I straightened up, flipped up my lid then grabbed a squirt from the bottle of water attached with Velcro to the top of the goal. I grimaced at the grape sports drink when it ran down my parched throat. I hate the grape flavor.