“Not too badly.” Ivan shouted from his spot between Coach Webern and Cameron Evans. “You’re gliding a bit. Paddle-down stops too soon.”
I nodded at the famed Russian goalie coach. Cam Evans said nothing but his brown eyes never left me in his crease. I had to look away then because ten men were lined up to deliver slap shots to the newbie in the net. The first one hit me so hard in the center of the chest I felt the bruise pop up. I remember reading that the great Bobby Hull had a slap shot clocked at over one hundred and eighteen miles per hour. Most are around a hundred MPH, give or take. That one felt all of a hundred as it rebounded off my sternum. Possibly two hundred. There was no time to whine even if I had wanted to. Which I didn’t. An hour flew by. I was soaked with sweat, banged up, dehydrated, and elated.
“Guess the reports about you were true. Good stuff out there, kid. Just watch your tendency to paddle-down too soon,” Cam said after I had skated off the ice.
“I’ll do that, Mister Evans."
“Drop the Mister, okay? You don’t have to remind me that I’m old enough to be your father,” the living legend said while we made our way off the ice.
I swallowed quickly to try to salvage the gaffe. Cam clapped my shoulder, his brown eyes growing warm. He was carrying some serious stress lines around his eyes. Pity, since those had to be the prettiest eyes I had ever seen on a man. The way his dark lashes framed those pools of chocolate…
“Sure, I can call you something else, sir.” Shit.
“That was not an improvement." I felt the edges of my ears grow hot. Cam sauntered into the locker room. I searched for a closet to hide in even though I had vowed to never go back into one again. But a nice tidy area to hide my face at the moment wouldn’t be looked down upon. Sir!? Shit. Shit. Shit. I chugged into the locker room hot on Cam Evans’s heels, making bumbling words that sort of sounded like apologies. The man stopped short. I nearly rear-ended him. I skittered backward. He turned to look down on me. I know, physically he was looking up, but trust me, he was looking down at me.
“Okay, kid,” he said raising a hand to stall my blathering. I clamped my mouth shut. The sounds and smells of a room packed with men ebbed and flowed around us. “Jack, right?”
“No, sir, Jacobi. Jacobi Neal,” I muttered, stepping to the side to allow one of our D-men to jog past naked as that proverbial jaybird. My gaze stayed on Cameron Evans. He really seemed to be the most impressive male here.
“Jacobi,” he chuckled. I didn’t see what was so amusing about my name. “Yeah, that sounds like your age group. Jacobi, do us both a favor, will you?” I nodded like the oaf I am. “Just relax. I hold my dick to piss the same way you do, right?”
“Sure, right.” I laughed nervously. My face was aflame now. “I knew that. I’m just…”
“It’s okay. I remember my call-up as well. You’ll make a fine backup for the Pumas.” He held out his hand. I shook it with a little too much enthusiasm. I stood there smiling like a moron. A wet towel slapped me in the side of the face. I sputtered as I spun to find the culprit. Soon I was inundated with soaking wet towels. Some smelled like sweaty balls. I had a flash of Alec Baldwin appearing on NPR on SNL. I won’t go into detail about the shower of jock straps that followed, but I did scrub my head four times in the shower after the initiation was over.
Two
An hour after my first scrimmage I was seated on a stool as some reasonably nice lady chewing peppermint gum tried get my hair to lay down flat. Her efforts were in vain. I smiled sheepishly at Clark Hunkers, the host of Puma News, the team’s weekly show that aired every Sunday at ten. Clark was a retired defenseman who had played with the Pumas about twenty years ago. He wore outlandish suits, had no hair, and his nose sat on his face as if it owned it.
The hair lady finally gave up. Hunkers kept telling me not to be nervous, that at one time Paul Cooper, Legendary goalie for the Pumas back in the sixties, had sat in that same exact seat. As the nice lady with the wad of gum dabbed some sort of TV makeup onto my face, I wondered if Paul had felt like he wanted to toss his cookies. More than likely not.
Bright lights flickered on. The gum lady tugged the paper from my collar then sashayed off. Hunkers watched the sway of her hips then winked at me.
“Nice tits, huh?” Hunkers asked as he shrugged into a blue jacket that was covered with bright yellow catamounts. My gay status was a non-fact in my opinion. I didn’t hide it or promote it. I refused to make it something to discuss. All that should matter is if I can play. And I can.
Looking at Hunkers’ jacket made my stomach feel even less stable. The sound guy hurried out to mike me up. There were three cameras all trained on the two of us. Behind us was a green screen. I wanted to glance back to see the famous introductory segment playing. I had seen that segue a thousand times as a kid.
“Good Sunday morning, Pittsburgh! Welcome to Puma Talk,” Hunkers said into the camera. I stared at the prompter as his lines rolled past. “Today we’ll be getting a behind the scenes peek at the fourteenth annual Puma Parade through the Pittsburgh Municipal Children’s Hospital. Then we’ll hear from Dave Dawson, who will go in depth with Coach Webern in the ‘Coaches Corner’ segment. First, though, we’re going to have a chat with Cam Evans’s new relief man, Jacobi Neal. Welcome to Pittsburgh, and to Puma Talk, Jacobi.”
I mumbled a nervous thanks.
“Word has it you’re the reason the Puma minor league club over in Jersey, the Dawson Dragons, won the Calder Cup last year.”
I blinked at the man and his nose stupidly.
“No, it wasn’t me who won it. I just stood there and blocked a few shots. It was the team that rallied in that final game. Christenson’s goal with four seconds left to tie, and then the OT goal from Brooks Timor, as well as the defense keeping the snipers contained, that’s what won us the Calder.”
“Ha!” Hunkers laughed loudly. “Blocked a few goals, he says!” The old D-man jerked a thick thumb at me. “For those of you who don’t know, Jacobi here blocked an amazing forty-three shots in the rubber game of the championship. The only goal scored by the other team was a deflection off two players! Forty-three shots blocked! That stat beat Cam Evans’s long held forty-two SOG from eight years ago. I bet Cam has to be watching you. Do you think he’s wondering if he’s seeing himself twenty years ago. I’m sure you’ve heard the comparisons?”
“Yeah, I’ve heard them. I don’t agree with them. Cam Evans is a legend. I’m just a kid from Trenton who still plays street hockey with the guys when I go back home, you know? It’s the guys playing with me who make me look so good.”
“Humble and talented, that’s our new backup tender, Jacobi Neal! Next on Puma Talk, we’re off to the races for charity! Good luck and welcome to the Pumas!” Clark said. I shook the extended hand strongly once again.
“Thanks, Hunker.” I sighed in relief when the cameraman waved us out.
“Good going, kid, you nailed that in one take!” Hunkers beamed then patted my shoulder before I was led out of the press room by gum lady. I meandered around, just drinking it all in. Finally I found the weight room, then the locker room. I hurried inside to gather up my stuff. I had two hours before I had to be back. Time enough to find a hotel room to rent, grab a meal, then get back to suit up. I ran into Brad Cooper, the King of Deke, as I was exiting the stadium. Cold wind blustered across the empty parking lot. I located my dad sitting in my green Range Rover, reading the paper to pass the time. He was famous for car-waiting.
"Nice saves,” Brad said as a gust whipped around the stadium. I jogged over to him. Cooper was a nice-looking guy with dirty blond hair, green eyes, a great cleft in his chin, and a winning smile. He was probably a couple years my senior, if that. We sized each other up. It was hard to tell what a man’s body was like in uniform. Heavy winter coats didn’t help either, but I could see his legs were long, strong, and his thighs muscular inside his jeans. Yeah, this could work. The vibe was there. I smiled at him, glad to see he stood close to my heigh
t. The wind kept flipping his hair into his face. “I don’t know if anyone told you, but Pete Dunlop has a huge-ass place across the Monongahela. Seriously, the place is massive. He always has spare bedrooms. If you want, you can follow me over. I’m crashing there for a few weeks." He began bouncing up and down to stay warm. “I just split with my partner, and yeah, you know . . .”
“He got the apartment?” I asked. Brad nodded. Oh yeah, this could work well. My father chose that moment to blow the horn. Both Brad and I startled. “Listen, my dad’s here, so I’m going to go with him to find a hotel. Can we maybe hook up after the game? I mean, to go check out Dunlop’s place?”
“Sure, no problem.” Brad smiled then ducked his head into the next punishing cold blast. He ran to a frosty blue Durango. I hustled over to the toasty warm Rover.
“Seems a smart man like you would flirt inside where it’s warmer.” Dad peeked over at me.
“You’d think, huh?” I laughed then placed my hands over the hot air vents.
“Jacobi, be careful,” he said as I dropped the Rover into drive. “I’m not sure exactly how this dating thing works between players. Back in my day, athletes hid being gay. I don’t want to see you break rules or something. Is that considered fraternizing?”
“Dad, it’s cool,” I said as my fingertips slowly warmed. “I’m not planning on falling madly in love with anyone. I need to put all my effort and concentration on securing this chance to make the team.”
“Oh, well, all right, as long as you have your priorities straight.”
We sat at a red light waiting to leave the stadium. I looked over at my father. “I’m all about priorities, Dad." I would not let them down by letting my romantic heart lead me off the path. “So, what chain is your favorite?”
“I’m kind of partial to the people who leave a light on for you."
“Then let’s see if we can find a room and grub close by.”
“Your first professional game starts at seven,” he said wistfully.
“Yep, game starts at seven.” I reached over to pat his knee. I wasn’t sure who was more awed, me or him.
* * * *
On reflection, my awe probably overpowered my father’s. As the team lingered just outside the cattle chute that led from the locker room to the ice, I couldn’t seem to remember my multiplication tables. Ever since I was a kid heading into my first midget game as netminder I went over the times tables mentally. It helped me focus as well as combat the nerves. I was stuck on three times seven. I mean, Hello? Who the fuck can’t remember what three times seven is!
“Dude, inhale before you pass out,” Brad said. I glanced over at him in panic. His green eyes were full of mirth. He reminded me a leprechaun that threw body checks that separated fillings from teeth.
“Man, I cannot remember what three times seven is."
He rubbed my head. “Twenty-one."
“Thanks,” I murmured, kneading the muscle over my thumping heart anxiously. I didn’t object to the head pat. For some reason everyone on the team seems to think goalies are like gnomes, in that if you rub their head, you get good luck. It’s real common to see each player line up to pat – or even kiss – the goalie’s helmet after a win. Some teams, like the Puma’s, like to get a pregame rub or smooch in as well.
“You excited?” he asked, bouncing his well-taped stick off the rug. You could taste the anticipation in the air. We were facing our division rivals, the New York Empires. Cam was famous for the hard-on he got when he went up against the Empires’ goalie, Dustin Abernathy. Nodding in reply to Brad, I glanced over at Cameron. He was standing by himself, mentally gnawing at something. His eyes were heavy-lidded. His lips parted slightly. His stubble-covered jaw relaxed. It was damned sexual to be honest. I imagined he would look that way when I was sucking him off.
“Whoa!” I coughed, ripping my sight from Evans. Cooper clapped my shoulder, squeezed, then got in line. I fumbled along after him, my mind stuck on that erotic image. I refused to look up. The stadium announcer shouted out, “Make some noise for your Pittsburgh Pumas!” and the concrete holding the stadium together vibrated. My feet moved by themselves. Once I hit the ice, my mind let go of the sinful picture of Cam and me. I stood among the revolving Puma emblems rotating on the ice. The stands were dark. “Click Click Boom” by Saliva was playing. Shit, but I love Saliva. I love hockey. I seriously love hockey. This right here is almost as good as sex.
My eyes roamed the ebony velvet that blanketed the stands. If only I could be in Cam’s spot right now. Plowing up ice with my skates, slapping the pipes with my stick, adjusting my water bottles on the back of the net . . .
Someday.
I made a complete circle of our end of the ice, inhaling the frozen air mingled with the aroma of athletics and excitement. I was such a junkie for this sport, it was pitiful. Smiling like a fucking loon, I ambled off the ice to the bench. I eyed the little spot in the corner. The bench area in Pittsburgh is old and doesn’t have enough room for us goalies with all our pads, so we’re given a special seat in the corner. I stood as the national anthem was sung. After the crowd settled down, I wiggled around on my seat until I was comfortable. Shoulder to the glass, eyes locked on the face-off occurring, I felt the butterflies inside lessening. I lost myself in the game, amazed to be sitting here, dressed, watching the team and the man I had grown up idolizing while being a part of it.
The first period didn’t go well for us. Right off I sensed that Cam was having troubles. The Empires were struggling to maintain .500. The Pumas were second in the Atlantic Division, with only a point separating us from the much hated Boston Badgers. We should be hanging these guys out to dry like wash. Ten minutes in and the Empires had socked two soft goals past Cam. I studied each move the goaltending legend made. His stick work was sloppy. He was slow to respond. He didn’t seem to be reading the plays as they happened. And, the curse of all professional athletes, he seemed to be lacking self-confidence.
Of course, not all the blame could be put on Cam. The defense had fallen apart a few times. Still, the fans expected to see Cam Evans make routine, as well as stellar saves. When he didn’t, the natives got restless, as did the press, the GM, the coaching staff, the team, and the whole organization right down to the dude who washes the dirty towels.
During intermission, Coach Webern preached about tightening up, not letting ourselves get pinched, and working to maintain steady pressure in front of the Empire net. I heard all of this, yet I was visually intrigued by the quiet conversation Ivan and Cam were engaged in. Since it didn’t concern me, I tried not to appear as if I were trying to eavesdrop. The two men were deeply engrossed with Cam silently nodding at whatever it was the goalie coach was telling him. Cam’s short brown hair was plastered to his skull, accentuating the perfection of his cranium. His hair was thick still, and plentiful. Worry lines were chiseled around his downcast eyes. It was after we were on the bench for the second period that I heard the first murmur of discontent from one of the Pumas.
“Man, I don’t know why they don’t let him sit. We got you now.”
I gaped at Stew Dickson, a tall, dark, trolling goon who had come over in a mid-season trade in hopes of beefing up the fourth line.
“He’s Cam Evans,” I said, tugging at the cups digging into my groin. “He’ll bounce back; you watch. He always dips a bit in performance during December and January.”
“Jesus, why don’t you just drop down and suck his dick,” Stew said, turning from me to bitch to Grant Preston. I had the strongest urge to punch them both witless. Then I realized they were already witless. Brad took the end of the bench beside me.
“Hey,” I said, leaning forward to ensure our conversation was as private as possible on a bench packed full of hockey players. Brad lowered the towel from his face. “Is Dickson always such an assgoblin?”
“Oh yeah,” Cooper said, returning to scrubbing his face as well as the inside of his visor. I sat back, pushed the brim of my Puma ball cap back a lit
tle, then watched Cam struggling to make simple saves. The bobble of a shot to the chest made me grimace, as did the rebound off a Tinkerbell shot from the blue line. Evans should have had that puck trapped on the ice with ease. Instead the Empires fell on the rebound like hungry hyenas, jabbing at the puck and our frazzled goalie until someone slugged the first Empire he could find. The scrum was nothing exceptional, but it did get the heat off Cam. The buzzer signaling the end of the second period was a blessed relief.
Miraculously we managed to pull a win out of our asses. We were all assigned video to watch. I grabbed a fast shower. As I dressed, my sight kept dodging to Cam as he sat in his cubicle, still in his gear, his shoulders collapsing inward. The press had been in to poke at the team before we showered. I tried to stay in the corner, melding into the shadows kind of thing to try to avoid being asked about Cam. As I was sliding my arm into my coat, I padded over to Evans. There was this huge, uncomfortable moment when he raised his head to look at me, his brown eyes shuttering quickly to mask the melancholy.
“That was one incredible glove save on Zerbloskovich,” I said. It really had been. The quick snap of the puck out of the air was classic Evans. Cam stared at me for a full minute. I felt like crawling into my duffel bag.
“You don’t need to stroke my ego. I know why you’re here.”
My mouth dropped open. An equipment manager hustled past, skates draped over his shoulders. I waited until we were alone again.
“I’m your backup, that’s all." This was all so bizarre I had to double-check my reality by biting the inside of my bottom lip. Yeah, that hurt. So this was really happening. I was standing here trying to bolster Cam Evans’s flagging self-confidence. “Look, I know it’s been tough for you lately, but you’ll--”
Cam shot to his feet. The man gave me a blow to the chest that staggered me. “You don’t have the fucking right to tell me what’s been tough. You’re still a fucking sucking pup, Jacobi!”
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