“Fuck you then!” I stalked away before I decided to coldcock his old ass. It was right then that I decided I would get Dad settled in his hotel room, locate Brad, and go look at the mansion on the other side of the Monongahela. I shoved the confrontation with Cam to the back of my mind, texting Brad as I left the aging goalie alone in the dressing area. Within an hour Dad was happily watching the eleven o’clock news in his cozy hotel room.
I, on the other hand, was sharing a good laugh with Brad Cooper, who was looking more fuckable by the minute. Looking back on it, using Brad to squash the sting of Cam’s shitty behavior was a less than stellar thing to do. I have apologized to him, and he and I are awkwardly square now.
We arrived in Mount Washington and I got the grand tour of the house Brad was sharing with Pete Dunlop, a second-line winger for the Pumas. We chatted for a few then a handshake sealed the deal. I was to move in tomorrow, stay until I found an apartment or was shipped back down to the Dragons, and never touch the Coors in the fridge. Brad showed me around the huge colonial. The second floor held four bedrooms. One was Pete’s, one Brad’s. I had the pick of the remaining two.
I chose the one that looked out on a pretty spacious backyard. The lawn was covered with snow. I cleared a hole on the frosty window with my hand. Brad was saying something. I found a dark spot in the snow, a shadow caused by a snowdrift no doubt, but that darkness amid the white held me. I wondered what the hell was eating Cam. What darkness had a grip upon him? My bottle of Bud dangled from my fingers. Brad’s hand on my shoulder brought me back from the shifting moonglow below. I turned to look at him. He leaned in to kiss me. We both tasted like hops and barley. He was a nice kisser, firm but gentle, not one of those who slobber all over your face. I set my beer on the windowsill. He did the same. We stumbled to the twin bed. The bare mattress was a firm one. Things got kind of hot for a while. Mostly frottage, with him gyrating against my erection as we groped each other. He wanted more. I did as well but something held me back.
“I think we better take a breather,” I whispered so as not to draw Pete upstairs. Brad nibbled on my neck for a moment longer then rolled off me. We lay there on that naked bed for a few minutes, working to bring our breathing down.
“I was kind of hoping that would happen,” he confessed, his body solid and warm next to mine on the small bed. We both had legs dangling off the sides. I felt him looking at me. Being a pussy, I stared at the ceiling. “Look, I know this has been a crazy-ass day for you . . .”
“That’s putting it mildly,” I said, once more going back to Cam’s shortness with me. I would be damned if I would continue to let that hurt me. I rolled to my side, stared into those needy green eyes of Brad’s, and said shit that the following morning would baffle me. Brad was in a vulnerable place. The man lapped up every word like a dehydrated poodle. Brad was desperate to feel loved again. I was intent on cramming Cam Evans to the deepest recesses of my mind.
Pity it didn’t work.
Three
Video.
Honest to Christ, if I never watch another hockey video, I’ll die a happy man. I looked up, glassy-eyed I’m sure, from the Dell laptop when someone cleared his throat. Cam stood in the doorway, working the casual star look for all it was worth. White silk shirt, tailored blue jacket, jeans, Italian loafers, hair windblown, jaw covered perfectly with a two-day growth. Cameron was tall, lean, powerful, and motherfucking sexy. I reached up to pause the video on the laptop. I could feel my pulse in my groin. Not a good sign.
“Ivan said I’d find you in here,” he said, filling the doorway. I glanced around the goalie coach’s sparse office. “Listen, about last night…”
I lifted a hand. He clamped his lips tight. “It’s okay,” I said. “I just want you to know I’m not here to take your job."
Cam stepped into the room, nodded at a knot of players heading to the weight room, then closed the door after they passed. I kicked a rolling chair out for him. He smiled uncomfortably before sitting down.
“Yes, you are, and that’s okay.” I started to argue. It was he who silenced me this time with a raised palm. “You say you’re not, and maybe in your heart you think you’re not, but on some deep, competitive level, you are. When you hit that ice last night, and the crowd was on its feet, tell me you didn’t fantasize about skating over to the net.”
I averted my eyes. Cam chuckled sadly.
“Been there and done that." I found myself drawn to look at him. There was something about him. The way his eyes turned up at the corners, or the laugh lines, or maybe even the strands of silver that were threaded through the cocoa brown. Hell, maybe it was his full bottom lip or the sandalwood cologne he wore. Who knows? “I didn’t mean to get on you like that, though. I watched your tapes last night. You’re good, Jacobi, damned good. Maybe Cooper good.”
I sat in that cheap office chair with my mouth open. Cam reached out to playfully close it. His fingers were warm. I so wanted them to stray over my cheek but they didn’t. He simply shut my mouth then smiled while placing his hands to his thighs.
“Thanks."
“Ivan was right. You’re ready for the pros.”
“Thanks,” I repeated.
“You’re welcome,” the legend said while slowly rising. “You up for an hour in the weight room?”
“Ivan said I need to do the video,” I replied as he ambled to the door. “I didn’t really mean the ‘fuck you’ last night."
“It’s okay, kid, sometimes I need a brash young gun to tell me to go fuck off.” He turned to level those piercing brown eyes at me. “Don’t think I’m going to just lay down for you, Jacobi.”
The videos were largely unseen after that because I could not get the lurid picture of Cam Evans lying down for me - naked, with his ass in the air, his balls hanging hot and heavy. My cock was engorged. Thirty minutes passed until I could leave Coach Mars’s office. I kept a wide berth from Cam for the rest of the morning. I couldn’t avoid him on ice, but I had gotten a pretty good grip on the lust by then. My time in the net started out sloppy. My mind was working too hard on burying the gay porn reel starring Cam and me. When I allowed three consecutive shots through my five-hole, Ivan skated over to ask if I was sick. When I said no, he then asked if I had any intention of staying in Pittsburgh longer than a day. Message received.
I blocked out everything, including the man at the other end of the ice working his crease tight as a widow’s pantry. After the scrimmage, I took an extra thirty with Ivan working on my tendency to glide. According to the coach, I slide slowly backward as the play enters the defensive zone. That moves my weight to my heels. When the shot comes, I sometimes have trouble with extension to the corners of the net. I could see what he was saying, so we spent some time practicing blocking shots while keeping my weight off my heels. Cam worked on glove shots. When we came off the ice, Cam was behind me, asking me about something he had heard from the other guys. Ivan was already in his office, anxious to get off his feet for a few hours.
I stopped dead right in front of the home team bench, my plain gold helmet under my arm.
“What did you just ask me?” I inquired. Cam never looked away. His eyes bored into mine.
“I asked if the talk about you being gay is true.” My gaze darted down to the amber eyes of a puma painted on the top of Cam’s helmet. I found him still riveted to me when I looked up.
“Yeah, I’m gay.” You could hear the ice creaking underneath our skates.
With that knowledge under his belt, he lumbered off the ice, carrying his stick on his right shoulder like an angler does his fishing pole. I was too stunned to move. Generally I don’t give two shits what people think. They accept my homosexuality or they don’t. But this man… this man was something fucking else!
My skates chewed up the distance. I located Mr. Evans in the locker room, talking with DeLoux about some charity event on the weekend. I couldn’t confront him here. As I angrily peeled my padding and undergarments off, I began to wonder if
I wanted to get into it with him. By the time I was getting my balls Zestfully clean, I had decided to say fuck Cam and his freaking odd behavior. He was a different generation. Maybe his cold reply was how he planned to handle the queer in the net. What. Ever. He could be Frosty the Snowman all he wanted. I had better things to do then worry about one man’s weird-ass rejoinder.
* * * *
My dad was home, safe and sound, after a lovely flight where he ate too many nuts. He feared constipation. Why he tells me this shit I don’t know, but he does. Mom was taking down the Christmas decorations. Sis was off on a date before she had to return to work in two days. Me, I was sitting in my new house with Brad and Pete, watching a basketball game while we feasted on Chinese. Man, do we professional athletes live the high life or what? Dad and I chatted for about ten more minutes before we said our goodbyes. I leaned forward to grab an egg roll from the coffee table covered with takeout containers.
“So what’s the story with Cam Evans?” I asked nonchalantly while dipping my egg roll in some hot mustard. Pete muted the game.
“What do you mean?” he asked, rubbing his stomach as he eyed my moo goo with lust. I shoved it toward him. A grin split his face. He gave me some of his beef and broccoli in return.
“He’s just… I don’t know, weird. I mean, I grew up idolizing the dude, but he’s just out there.”
“Man has just got some shit going down is all,” Pete said between spoonfuls of moo goo. The game had lapsed into commercials so Pete, the commercial hater, turned the set off. Just as well, the Pittsburgh Wings were losing anyway. I shook my head then swallowed.
“No, it’s more than his sketchy performance on the ice,” I said, using my jeans as a napkin. Brad was spread out over a green recliner, listening intently to the talk. “He jumped all over me yesterday, accused me of coming up to take his spot . . .”
“Well, you are,” Pete pointed out unnecessarily. “Look at the facts. He knows he’s got one year left on his contract. After that it’s time to hoist the sweater to the rafters. I figure he’s got nothing but the game since he and his wife split years ago.”
“Whatever, fine, I might someday take his position, but I did not come here to oust the fucker right today,” I argued, my second egg roll hovering over the spicy mustard as I spoke. “So after he gets all conspiracy theory on me, he apologizes this morning. No, wait.” I shook my egg roll at Brad who had opened his mouth. “So it’s all gummy bears after we say we’re sorry. After practice he gets me alone, asks me if I’m a faggot, then skates off without saying a fucking word when I confirm that I am.”
“He asked you straight up if you were a fag?” Brad inquired, his eyebrows having climbed into his hairline.
“Well, no, I mean the 'F' word was never used.” I shoved the egg roll into the mustard with gusto. “It was clearly intended though. Did he ever display any homophobic tendencies before?”
“No, no way. I would have known. I’ve been out for three years. Every guy on the team knows I’m gay. Never been any problem with anyone, especially Cam,” Brad said, his eyes roaming over to Pete who was nodding in agreement. “Shit, Cam used to have me and Troy over to his place for dinner all the time.”
“Great. Must be me he hates on a personal level.” I sighed then stuffed the remainder of my egg roll into my mouth. We hashed over the Cam situation for another half hour. There was no conclusion to be arrived at, it seemed. Obviously the animosity Cam was displaying was because I was a threat to his manhood or something. I found that to be pretty stupid, as I would undoubtedly spend this whole season on the bench unless Cam was injured. That was, if I even made the team. After the Cam thing was talked out, we finished the food, drank the one beer each we allowed ourselves, then moseyed to our bedrooms.
I had new sheets to put on the rented bed. It crossed my mind to go ask Pete just how many players had lived here, and thusly had fucked a wide contingency of people, on the mattress I was to slumber upon. I opted to have faith that the new sheets purchased on the way from the stadium would repel any sex cooties. As I stretched the end of the fitted sheet over the bottom right corner of the mattress, it occurred to me that I had to start searching for a place. Tomorrow, I vowed. Right after practice I would sit down with the newspaper.
It took me close to an hour to get the bed made, my clothes out of the suitcases and duffels then into the dresser, and to grab a shower in the small bathroom. At least that was one blessing. No sharing a bath. I turned off the light, slid into bed naked, rolled to my back then spied the moon glowing brightly outside. I would also have to purchase some drapes or blinds or a burlap bag. You know how hard it is to fall asleep in a strange place? I had the new surroundings insomnia pretty badly, so I was awake an hour later when Brad scratched on my door.
If I were to say that I was shocked or surprised, that would be a bald-faced lie. In a way I was hoping he would come searching for some. I was eager to erase the previous sixty minutes spent thinking about Cameron Evans. My body was ready for action, but the hard-on I was fondling under the covers was not a result of fantasizing about making love to Brad. Nope. The monster in my palm was stiff because of the restless cravings about Cam that were clogging up my thoughts. I lay there, knowing a certain blow job, if not more, was just on the other side of the door, yet I remained quiet until Brad stopped angling for admittance. Then I yanked off to a vision of Cam and me intertwined on some mystery bed. A session with the team shrink was just another hand job away I began to fear.
* * * *
A week later we had slid to third place in our division. The Pumas had lost two crucial games, thus giving up much needed points. Cam was under tremendous heat from the press and fans. And to top it all off, we were starting a road trip tomorrow. Traveling was always hard, but add in the fact that our team was struggling to score, and it added up to a hive that had just been stirred with a nasty stick.
The Milwaukee Marauders were, at the moment, swarming around Cam like a mob of Africanized bees. And man, was our star twine-tender getting stung big time. Three goals had flown into the net in the first eleven minutes of the first period. The fans were furious.
"Neal, you’re going in!" Coach Webern shouted over the din of the fans. There was no joy in Pittsburgh. People were pounding on the glass behind us, taunting the players, holding up signs while flipping us off. I coughed to clear the sudden tightening in my throat.
"Right, Coach," I said as I stood then looked down the ice. Cam was skating to the bench under a deafening roar of ridicule. He never looked at me as we passed. I didn’t expect him to. The net looked wider then it had before. I heard my name being called over the loudspeakers. The nineteen thousand Puma fans began chanting my name. I’ll admit it felt pretty good. My mask sat atop my head. I worked the crease a bit, moving some of the ice Cam had plowed up. I took a drink, rolled my head twice, pulled down my mask, and crouched in position.
"Two times two is four," I murmured as the face-off took place at center ice. The recitation helped me focus. The fans drifted away into white noise static. I locked onto the puck, my mind shifting from multiplication tables to reading the plays as they happened. It’s really hard to describe how my mind moves from the shit going on all around me to the game. I do know it’s something that is automatic now. The focus, the concentration, it all revolves around a frozen chunk of vulcanized rubber.
Odd as this may sound to those who don’t participate in hockey, my team began to tighten up. The odd man rushes diminished. Our D-men began using their bodies to help block shots. In short, they were doing for me, the backup, what they hadn’t done for the starting goalie. If asked to explain it, and I would be later in the postgame interviews, I would say that they knew I was scared scatless. That was no lie. The first shot I had to block sent my heart into triple-time, but I tucked the puck into my chest then held it there until the linesman tapped my shoulder with a knowing smile. It was a long-ass forty-four minutes after I left my seat, but I managed to hold the Mara
uders to only those first three goals. Our guys netted two, so the final score wasn’t terrible. It was still a loss though.
Maybe, most importantly, Cam had been pulled for the first time in his illustrious career. He had been forced to sit on the bench, towel around his neck, on home ice, and see me save the team’s ass. Some cruelly wicked Puma tradition put the goalies side-by-side in the dressing room. Maybe someone thought all tendies were bonded blood brothers or some righteous bullshit. Whatever the reason, I had to sit beside the man as accolades were dropped onto my head right along with the pats, rubs, smooches, and noogies. He was eerily silent as we prepared to face the press.
Brad found me staring at my feet, clad in my compression shirt and leggings. I had shed the three cups this goalie wears. Yeah, three. I wear two goalie cups over a regular cup. You may think I’m being overprotective of the Neal family jewels, but you catch a slap shot moving at over a hundred miles per in the nuts just once. I guarantee you’ll be triple protecting the old gonads as well. My elbows were on my knees. Brad clapped my shoulder before sitting down beside me. Cam glanced at us, his gaze hard to read.
"You okay?" Brad asked, his gear shed in favor of his DRI shirt and leggings as well.
"Yeah, I’m cool. Just kind of shell-shocked or something." It didn’t feel right to be pumped up while Cam was sitting a foot away from me. "When do we have to do the press thing?"
"Don’t sweat it," Brad said with that charming smile. "They’ll gobble you up." He ruffled my hair then went off to find some pants. I felt Cam looking at me. When our eyes met, his were guarded.
"Are you and Cooper an item?" he asked, his hands dangling down between his knees.
"No, not really," I responded softly, turning on the bench to face him. I had to elbow my leg pads back into my cubicle. "We just, you know, hang out."
Seduced by the Game Page 33