No Protocol for Love

by Jen FitzGerald

  By the beginning of the third, the Gamblers were up by two. Despite it only being the end of November with plenty of hockey left to play, the other team was playing desperate, like this game would determine if they’d make the playoffs or not.

  Semka didn’t like it. The clock ticked down and then there was a half a period left to play. The Lumberjacks had scored on the power play and were even more fierce in their determination to tie it up. Their big d-man kept making a run at Axelsson, the Gamblers’ young forward. Someone was going to get hurt. But that’s what Semka was for. He said something to Coach to match him as often as possible with that defenseman. Determined, Semka understood. Reckless was not okay.

  He hunkered down for yet another faceoff and then skated hard after the other team won the draw and shot the puck down ice. Semka took up residence near his goalie and watched as the puck ping-ponged back and forth between the opposing forwards until Irish poke-checked it off a guy’s stick. Semka hauled ass back up ice, checking over his shoulder a time or two to keep track of the puck. Yartzy made eye contact and batted it toward Semka. He caught it easily against his tape and skated for all he was worth through center ice and—

  Semka came to face down on the ice, gloved hands cradling his throbbing head.

  “Novi, it’s Todd,” came a voice from far away.

  The trainer. Shit. That was never good. And then the pain exploded in his head. Cold filtered through Semka’s padding and uniform. He writhed against the ice. God, his head.

  “Can you move?” the voice was closer, but still wound in cotton batting or something.

  Just thinking caused agony and Semka groaned. “Nyet. U menya bolit golova.”

  “English, Novi. English.”

  He groaned again. Trying to translate when his skull was being crushed was hard. “Pomogi mne.”

  “Get Sokolov over here,” a different voice said. Semka had no idea who. The sound of skates along the ice barely penetrated the haze of pain.

  “Hey,” said another voice. Presumably Sokolov, the Lumberjacks’ third line center.

  “Novi’s having a hard time with his English which tells me right there that we have a problem, but I need to communicate with him,” said Todd. “Ask him if he can get up.”

  “Ty mozhesh' vstat'?”

  Semka tried to pull his knees up under him, but spikes of pain shot through his head. “Nyet. Eto tak bol'no. Bol'no govorit', dumat'.”

  “He says it hurts to talk and think. He can’t get up on his own.”

  “Shit. Okay.” Todd placed a hand on Semka’s back. “Novi, I’m gonna have a couple of teammates come over here and help you up and to the tunnel, okay?”

  He breathed in and out several times before he felt like he could talk without puking. “Da. Okay.”

  “It’s still probably going to hurt like hell. Keep your eyes closed, okay?”

  Breathe in, breathe out. “Already do, but okay.”

  An eternity passed while miniature gnomes stomped through his head before turning their little jackhammers on.

  “Okay, Novi, here we go. Swanny on one side and Trip on the other. Slow and steady, everyone.”

  Semka’s stomach churned like someone was using a hand mixer in there while his teammates helped him to his feet and across the ice. The cheers from the crowd were appreciated but he wished they wouldn’t. The noise hurt. There wasn’t much in his stomach, but it was threatening to re-appear. Finally the cool quiet of the tunnel surrounded him and the support of his teammates was exchanged for support from other trainers. They led him past the dressing room, into the medical rooms, and into the darkness of an exam room where he was helped onto an exam table.

  Now that he was still and warmer and didn’t have fluorescent lights shining down on him, the roiling eased. The pounding in his head did not.

  Chapter Three

  Semka wandered around his darkened condo. His team was now on the road. Playing without him. It fucking sucked. That asshole d-man who’d hit him had been fined and suspended three games while Semka was out for weeks, at least, with a concussion. The nausea had finally passed, thank God, as had the dizziness. If only the headaches would go away.

  He hissed on an inhale when the doorbell rang. Maybe he needed to put up a sign for the foreseeable future.

  The glare of the hallway lighting made him wince but the mild spike of pain was worth it. There stood gorgeous, glorious Tyson. Semka swallowed the flare of want.

  Tyson held up a couple of brown paper bags. “Hey, there. I brought you dinner.”

  The scent of whatever was in those bags finally permeated Semka’s brain fog. Whether it was concussion related or Tyson-related, he wasn’t sure. Inhaling, he recognized the smell of Russian food.

  “You bring…” He sniffed again. “Solyanka?” He couldn’t believe it. “Pirozhki?”

  Tyson shrugged.

  “You…” Semka was at a loss for words. This stranger—this wonderful, beautiful man who’d winked at him more times than he could count—thought to bring him food from home. “…do this for me?”

  “Well, I thought maybe some Russian food might be comforting. Luckily that Russian place over on Flamingo Road offers take out.”

  Something more than lust fluttered to life within Semka. “Don’t know how to thank. This gesture very thoughtful. Smells so good. You eat some with me?”

  The familiar smile returned. The low-level of want Semka always felt around Tyson cranked up a notch.

  “Sure, yeah. I’d like that. We can get to know one another a little bit. I’m going to be your errand boy, for lack of a better word, and chauffeur for a couple of weeks.”

  Semka’s stomach barrel rolled. He didn’t know whether to be thrilled or afraid. But he did know this…he was in big big trouble.

  He led Tyson to the kitchen, who proceeded to unload the food onto the table.

  “These dishes smell really good. I’ve never had Russian food before.”

  Semka hummed, rubbed his head. The low buzz of a headache that had plagued him most of the day still there. He’d almost canceled, but he needed to eat and he’d apparently wanted to torture himself. “You want drink?”

  “Water please. I have a presentation tomorrow.”

  “For work?” Semka placed two bottles of water on the table and grabbed dishes and flatware. “You mind I turn off big lights and put on little lights?”

  “No problem. You all right?”

  “Just headache for few hours.”

  “Oh, shit. I’m sorry.” Tyson picked up his wallet and shoved it in his pocket. “You should have waved me off. I’d have understood.”

  “Nyet. Sit. Please.”

  Tyson looked skeptical.

  “Please. Have to eat and they getting better. Not so bad, not last so long, you know?” He wanted this time with Tyson badly enough to suffer.

  “Okay, but still. Do you have candles? We can get rid of all the lights, if you want.”

  Semka shrugged. “I think maybe one candle, in front bathroom. Decorator put there for looking nice.”

  By some unspoken agreement, they’d both lowered their voices.

  A few moments later, the pint-sized candle sat on the counter and all the kitchen lights were off. A lamp in the living room cast its faint glow, adding some additional illumination The pain eased more than he expected and he let out a breath of relief.

  “Thank you, is better. Please sit.”

  Of course now they were sharing what looked like a romantic dinner with just a candle for mood lighting and the thoughtful gesture of Russian food. Semka sat across from Tyson at the round table. But that’s all this was, a nice gesture from a nice guy. It couldn’t be anything else. “You say before have presentation. What’s your work, other than ice crew?”

  Tyson shook his head a little. “It’s a Humanities presentation. I’m in school.”

  Semka had no idea what Humanities was. “Good luck?”

  Tyson smiled. “Thanks. I’m not sweatin’
it, you know?” Tyson served the Pirozhkis. “God, this smells delicious.” His stomach rumbled to punctuate the sentiment and they both chuckled.

  Semka ladled up the soup. The rich broth reminded him of cold winter days of his childhood. “Yep. Does. Can’t wait to taste. See if it’s like my mama’s.”

  “Do you see your family much?”

  “Not see since last New Year. Most all Russia has long holiday for Christmas—we celebrate on January 7—so they come last year. This year, Mama and Papa can’t take time off they jobs. We talk on phone though. Mama usually call on her day off. Very early here because twelve hours between Vegas and Yekaterinburg.”

  Tyson grinned and want buzzed deep in Semka’s being. He pushed it away. They’d get through this friendly dinner and Semka would send him on his way. That would be that. “What so funny?”

  “The way you say Yekaterinburg. Yeh-kat-er-een-bourg.”

  Semka grinned and said it again. “Is way you say in Russian.” He took a spoonful of soup and “mmm’d” loudly and winced. Too loud. Took another sip of soup. “Good choice. Not like Mama’s, but very good. Maybe little better, but you don’t tell, okay?”

  Tyson chuckled and eyed his bowl. “It smells really good. What’s in it?”

  Semka rattled off what he’d seen earlier, what he tasted. “But just because you see these things doesn’t mean they taste like expect. They been…how you say prepared with spice?”

  “Seasoned?” Tyson suggested.

  “Da. Seasoned different, so be open mind, yes?”

  “Of course.”

  The expression on Tyson’s face when the unique flavors hit his taste buds made Semka laugh outright. He gritted his teeth against the flare of pain, but Tyson’s expression was worth it.

  “God, it’s salty, but it’s…” Tyson took another bite. “…interesting and, yeah, it’s good. I like it.”

  “Lots of cured meats. Very good for hangovers. You make good choice.”

  Companionable silence reigned for a few minutes while they ate. The ache in Semka’s head abated a little.

  Then Tyson popped a pirozhki in his mouth. His eyes closed and a low moan traveled straight from Tyson’s mouth to Semka’s dick. “These are fabulous.”

  Охуеть! Holy shit. Tyson’s presence was more dangerous than Semka’d imagined. Tyson in his space now had context. Hearing the cadence of his speech, the tone of his voice, that sound he’d made, would haunt Semka’s dreams. He didn’t need any more fuel for that particular fire.

  “You have, um, special someone?” Semka ventured. Surely someone like Tyson had a boyfriend. Anyone to dampen Semka’s crush. If Tyson was already taken, then fantasizing further would be creepy and wrong, and Semka could get over it.

  “God, no,” he said and grimaced. “My childhood was filled with the heterosexual ideology that one must grow up, get married, and have kids. As a general principal, I’m not opposed to getting married and having kids. I want that someday. But that’s a long way off for me. After hiding my sexuality for too many years so as not to either get the shit beat out of me or be lectured on the perverse nature of homosexuality, I’m enjoying the freedom to live and fuck around as I please.”

  While Semka cursed the fact that Tyson was single, he envied him that freedom. Semka visited clubs and bathhouses in opposing teams’ cities to assuage his need for sexual release and physical human contact. Boy, did he want human contact with Tyson. He’d never been affected by another man this way before. Nothing could happen though. Hockey players weren’t gay and neither were Russians. If his sexuality ever got out, life as he knew it would explode. Losing his family, losing hockey at this point wasn’t worth it.

  “What about you? You’re a good-looking man. You’re nice. I bet you’d make someone a hell of a boyfriend or husband.”

  Semka froze and glanced at Tyson enjoying his pirozhki and focused on the soup. He willed his heart to stop trying to escape his chest. Tyson hadn’t meant anything by the comment other than what he’d said. He wasn’t trying to insinuate anything. Semka let out a sigh of relief disguised as blowing on his soup and shrugged. “I focus on hockey so long, I forget how to find person to date. Also, you know people see pro hockey player, they also see dollar sign. And since I be in America, is harder for me to…usmotret'…how you say, um, figure out if they want me or my money.”

  “God, that sucks.”

  “Yes.” Semka took a spoonful of soup. He pushed the thought of any kind of sucking out of his mind.

  They continued eating, and despite the low lighting, the pain in his head started getting worse until finally he dropped his spoon and pressed fingers to his forehead.

  “Shit. Semka, you okay?” Tyson whispered.

  Semka barely heard it over the rush of pain. He shook his head slowly once. “Head hurt bad. Feel like vice. Feel like forks in eyeballs all of sudden.”

  “Oh, shit. I’m sorry. What do you need?”

  Semka’s stomach churned now too. He hadn’t felt this bad since the few days after the hit. “Help me to toilet. Feel nautical.”

  Tyson made a noise, and said, “Oh, man. Okay. C’mon.”

  Then there were arms around his shoulders and a comforting presence by his side. Clenching his eyes closed, he allowed Tyson to lead him. The dark cool air enveloped him when they reached the bathroom, and the queasiness subsided to a slightly more manageable level. Puking no longer seemed imminent. With Tyson’s help, he lowered himself to the floor across from the commode.

  “How about a cool cloth? Would that help?” Tyson asked softly.

  “Mmm, sounds good, yes. Facecloth in lower cabinet, there.” He flapped an arm, but Tyson was already opening doors.

  Water ran and Tyson’s soothing voice came closer. “Where do you want it?”

  Semka laid it across the back of his neck and the nausea calmed a little more.

  Until it flared and Semka lurched forward and vomited up everything he’d eaten and then some.

  Chapter Four

  Semka awoke feeling like he’d been hit by a KAMAZ truck. Everything hurt, except, thank goodness, his head. It hurt a little. Not like it had. His mouth tasted like a garbage truck.

  The room was dark except for the bit of ambient light that reached this high from the city below. It was enough to make out the shapes of his furniture and pictures.

  Ugh—he had to brush his teeth or swish with mouthwash. Something. Otherwise the taste of his own mouth was going to make him throw up again.

  Semka pushed upright and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  A hand on his back and a soft, “Hey, you okay?” startled him and he twisted around in surprise.

  “Sorry.” Tyson lay stretched out on top of the covers.

  “No, is fine. Just not expecting.” Semka’s heart stuttered like a puck across chippy ice. Tyson in his bed… Thank goodness darkness shrouded the room, although he knew what Tyson looked like and he knew what his bed looked like. He easily meshed the two and stifled a groan. “Why you not go home?”

  “Shit, Semka, you passed out. I couldn’t leave you.”

  “Oh.” Again, warmth filled him for this too-good-to-be-true stranger. “Well, I thank you. Is very kind you stay. Feel much better now, but got to clean mouth. Be right back.” He stopped dead in the doorway to his bathroom, then turned around. “Why bathroom smell like bleach?”

  Tyson sat up.

  “Oh, God. I make big puke mess, yes?”

  “Honestly, not a big mess, no, but there was a lot of splatter and it didn’t seem right to just leave it for you.”

  Heat licked up his shoulders and neck. “So embarrassed for that. But thank you very much for care. You very good man, Tyson. I very much appreciate.”

  * * * * *

  Semka picked at the seam of his pant leg as Tyson drove them to his friends’ house. Christmas music played softly in the background. Decorated trees stood sentinel and the familiar Christmas banners festooned the street signs as they p
assed through downtown and into the suburbs.

  Late one night, Tyson had shared some of the things he’d gone through as a teen. In return, Semka had confessed his sexuality. They hadn’t talked about it; they hadn’t acted on it. Yet. Semka wanted to and badly. The tension between them had risen several degrees.

  Once he was cleared to play, nothing would be possible. Right now, he lived in this little fantasy world where anything was possible. He just didn’t know how to take the next step. But he couldn’t articulate any of that. He didn’t know what to say.

  “You okay?” Tyson asked, glancing over.

  “Just worried.”

  “About?”

  “Meet people who already think I’m gay.” It was the first thing that came to mind.

  “God, no. Semka, I’d nev—”

  Shit. “Nyet, no.” Semka reached out to Tyson. “Sorry, not mean to sound like accuse. Just scared they assume because you take me as guest.”

  “They won’t. I’ve brought all kinds of strays home. And even if they knew, which they don’t, they wouldn’t care and they wouldn’t tell anyone. They already asked if they needed an NDA.”

  That they offered made Semka feel better about a thing he wasn’t worried about.

  “Look, they know I’m helping you out with rides and stuff. And when I asked them if you could come to orphan’s Christmas, they were happy to have you. Because you’re my friend and only my friend. We’re not more than that. I know that. They know that.”

  “Yes. Okay.” Because what else could Semka say?

  Tyson drew him into a conversation about hockey that carried them until Tyson turned down a street in a modest neighborhood. Kids littered the sidewalks, trying out bicycles and scooters. Yards sported a variety of blowup Christmas characters. Strings and strings of Christmas lights festooned every house. Tyson pulled into the driveway of a house similarly decorated.

  Semka swallowed back the anxiety that had returned when Tyson killed the engine. A new fear assailed Semka. He rarely found himself in social situations that didn’t feature hockey players or that were hockey related. “What if they not like me?”