by R J Scott
Max kissed me so hard and for so long, the fainting thing became a worry again.
DK and I were smashed between two of the biggest Railers fans God ever put breath into. Both men looked like linebackers, and they were rabid. Faces painted that smoky blue the Railers jerseys were, bare chests with a steam engine that looked drawn on with a Sharpie, were proudly displayed for all to see. Oh, and they were drunk. Not just pleasantly tipsy, either. I mean drunk off their respective asses. DK thought it was all kinds of funny how the only person in East River Arena who was cheering the team from Washington was sandwiched between two huge men.
Every time Washington did something good—and that was a lot of times—I cheered and was immediately glowered at. Nothing derogatory had been said yet, but it was just a matter of time, I was sure. Still, I wasn’t about to be cowed in front of DK, so I rooted as boldly as a man could root.
“Man, they look like a different team,” DK yelled after our big Russian forward took out Tennant Rowe. And I mean he took him out. Clean shoulder check that caught Rowe in the chest as he was moving the puck down the boards. The wunderkind went down hard, his shoulder taking the brunt of the impact with the boards. As Rowe lay on the ice, stunned and in some intense pain judging by his face, my team stole the puck and raced at the Railers goalie, the shot from point from our star sailing over Stan’s left shoulder and shaking the twine. I leaped to my feet as the red light flared to life.
Mr. Mountain on my right bent down to stare at me, his nose nearly pressed flat to mine.
“You need to…go back home little man.” His breath was horrendous. A sickening mixture of stale beer and nacho cheese.
DK leaped to his sneakers. “It’s cool. He’s dating Max van Hellren.”
Okay, then. I guessed Max and I were out. As soon as he’d said it, DK’s face fell as the reality of what he’d spouted sank in.
This was interesting. I had a flash of the upcoming beating I’d get for being black, gay, and a Washington fan.
The face-painted man breathing in my face stared at me dully for a minute. I fisted my fingers in preparation. They might beat me like a rug, but I planned to get at least one punch in before I went down.
Never in a million years did I expect him to scoop me up into a crushing bear hug and kiss me right on the lips.
When my feet were back on the cold cement, I stumbled back into DK, my eyes wide.
“My husband and I love the Heller!” He patted the head of the small man on his left, who smiled and waved around the burly blue-faced fan.
“Oh. Well, cool, then!” I grinned and gave him a thumbs-up, then sat down and tried my best not to get kissed by another man during the rest of the game. I came close again later when Tennant Rowe executed this amazing play right by our blue line. He managed to lift the stick of one of our defenseman and then, in this wild slick move, skipped around him, gathered the puck, and sped at our goalie. He took this blistering shot that somehow went through the four inches of space between our goalie’s blocker and the pipe. Mr. Mountain only pounded on my back when Rowe scored, thank the Good Lord.
That goal energized the Railers, but they never could get the next goal needed to tie the game. Washington had won this game and were heading back home.
“Tell the Heller I love him,” Mr. Mountain yelled as DK and I moved into the crowd, exiting the arena.
“Will do,” I shouted over my shoulder.
It was a beautiful night. Warm and clear, low humidity. DK and I lingered around the players’ exit, talking with fans while we waited for the players to emerge.
Max walked out wearing a gray suit that hugged his broad shoulders and meaty thighs perfectly. He was talking with Stan when he saw us. His lips curled into a smile. A rush of affection moved through me seeing him move among the fans, signing caps and programs. He really was a good man. And I really was tumbling for him faster than I should, I knew it. Yet I craved it despite being scared by the knowledge.
“Hello, Benton Dog Man!” Stan clapped me on the shoulder. I winced into a smile. “I am yet looking for good dog. Big one. Long teeths with burning red eyes. You have such dog yet?”
“Ah, no, sorry. No dogs with red eyes, but I’ll call as soon as I get one in.”
“Da. Good. And when call, talk to me only. Not talk with Erik. He wishes friendly dog with curly tail. Pah. I say bad men not scare of happy dog. Bad men scare of wolfhound. You have wolfhound at shelter?”
“No, none of those either. I do have some nice lab mixes. I can have one of the volunteers bring one in for the next Adopt a Pet game break.”
Stan mulled that over as Max stepped up beside me, his fingers brushing mine.
“Okay, yes, lab mix is okay good until wolfhound with long teeths come.” He nodded, ruffled DK’s hair, and went off to find his Erik waiting for him by the players’ cars.
“Would it look weird if I kissed the only person in Harrisburg wearing a Washington T-shirt?” Max softly asked as we made our way to our car, which was parked around the front with the rest of the commoners.
“Not sure about that. I think we’re already out thanks to someone who shall remain nameless,” I teasingly said, giving DK an exaggerated dark look.
“I’m sorry Uncle Ben, I honestly thought that guy was going to pound you into pudding.”
I threw an arm around his neck and pulled Liam’s nephew in to my side.
“Ah well, not like two guys kissing on this team is anything new,” Max stated, then tugged open the door of my car. “I’ll meet you at your place in about thirty minutes. I need to run home and pack some stuff.”
“Sounds good.” I stole a fast kiss, then slid behind the wheel. Max slapped the roof and backed away as we pulled out.
DK and I exchanged glances and he smiled at me.
“Oh, uh, I forgot to tell you I was going to spend the night with Skipper,” he said, with no trace that he was lying so he could give me and Max space.
“Oh yeah?” I suspected this was something he was making up, but I ran with it. “You want me to drop you off at his house, then?”
“Yep, yeah, cool.” He never looked up from the texts he was sending. Probably to Skipper to inform him he was crashing at his place.
We made the ride to DK’s neighborhood, a nice middle-class one, and I followed his direction to Skipper’s place.
“You need me to pick you up tomorrow?” I asked as the porch light on the house we’d parked in front of came on. A gangly kid ambled out onto the porch and waved.
“Nah, I’ll get Skipper to drop me off. Have a nice night, Uncle Ben.”
He ran up to his buddy, exchanged a fist bump, then went inside. The light went off. I raced home, eager to get there before Max and maybe set up something romantic. Or at least change the sheets.
I never did get to change the sheets. Max was waiting for me when I pulled up. I was parking, when my Aunt Glenna toddled out of her row house, slid behind the wheel of her old Lincoln, and pulled away in a cloud of burning oil.
“You come right on in and park quickly, Benton!” Aunt Carol bellowed. “We see you got an overnight man come to call.”
“Lord Almighty, give me strength,” I prayed as her shout bounced down the street and into every open window.
“Sorry. I thought I was being discreet,” Max said when I ambled up to him, his bag draped over his shoulder. “I even asked the cabbie to douse the headlights so as not to alarm anyone.”
“They have ears like a dog,” I mumbled before Aunt Carol arrived to give Max a once-over. “Why aren’t you old women in bed?”
“We’re planning the resistance movement for the weekend. Hmm, hmm, he’s a beefy one, Benton.” She pinched Max’s thick biceps and nodded approvingly. “Always did like my men big and brawny.”
“Carol! Stop pinching that man,” Aunt Glenna shouted as she waddled down the sidewalk in her robe and slippers. “He’s come to pinch Benton!”
“Okay, we’re going in now.” I pulled Max inside
and shut the door on the two old women smiling dirty smiles.
“Your aunts are funny.” Max tossed his bag onto the couch, then I moved into his arms.
“Oh yeah, they’re hilarious.”
I slid my fingers up over his cheeks, enjoying the soft bristles of his beard on my palms. He didn’t need to say anything. I was feeling it too. The snap of want mixed with the subtle glow of right. This thing here…this was feeling all kinds of right.
“You look like you need kisses.” He cupped my ass, yanking me flush to him. “Or do you need something else?”
“You’re reading it right. I need kisses and I need something else.”
The kiss was hot, wet perfection. The something else was even better. Max and I had this top-notch sexual compatibility. We seemed to sense what the other needed or wanted. We found our way upstairs, his bag in tow, and fell into my bed. Bucky circled the bed, whining, anxious about something.
“I’m not hurting him,” Max told the dog.
“Let me put him out and then crate him.”
I rushed to do both, eager to get back to Max. Bucky ran into his crate in the living room, the same one he’d had since he was a pup. He loved his crate. He felt safe in there. I handed him a dog treat and locked the door, smiling at him as he settled right down after a big pet.
Jogging back up to Max, I was already peeling my shirt off when I hit the bedroom doorway and heard the soft snores.
There he was, spread across my bed, hand on his dick, sound asleep.
I couldn’t really be mad at him. Smiling, I threw the lightweight summer blanket over his legs and hips, stripped down to my briefs, and turned off the light. He was a big man. Heavy, too. Gaining any room to sleep took some nudging and shoving, but I eventually got him over to his side and curled up behind him. The night air rustled the curtains, moving over us, cooling the room, and me. I wriggled closer, fully spooning him , and sighed at the radiant warmth seeping into me. Sleep rolled gently over me.
When I woke, it was to the soft song of a robin and warm rays of sunshine. Also, I had a man who weighed the same as a silo lying on me. It was nice, and fluffy, but highly uncomfortable. Still, I lay there for as long as I could, then wriggled out from under him. Max never moved. Didn’t sniffle or snuffle or even grunt. The man was a sound sleeper. Probably from all those years spent sleeping in hotel rooms with other guys sawing wood.
I snuck into the bathroom, showered, shaved, and pulled on lounge pants and a tank top. Down to the kitchen I went, eager to get the coffee on and some breakfast ready. Since it was Sunday, I had the day off. Hopefully. Unless we had new intakes arrive. City this big, it was rare not to have a new animal come in every day of the week. I let Bucky out of his crate, then opened the back door for him. He bounded out into the yard. I closed the screen door and let him do his thing in my fenced-in little patch of green.
The windows glowed with sunny warmth as I moved around my small but homey kitchen. Coffee was soon perking, and I was digging out the makings for some French toast. Music from my phone filled the room, the Miracles’ “Love Machine” taking over my body. Pan in one hand, spatula in the other, I broke into a set of fine funky moves. I was a damn fine dancer. Liam always said so.
I spun around, and there stood Max in the doorway, rumpled and freshly out of bed, his arms folded over his chest.
“I cook better with music,” I said in reply to his one bushy eyebrow slipping up his brow. “Enjoy the show.”
I danced around a bit more, eager to hear him compliment my moves.
“Are you in some sort of pain?” he asked, which kind of stalled my slick steps.
“No, why?”
He shook his head. “You ever watch Seinfeld?”
“Sure.” I lowered the spatula and frying pan from over my head. I also stopped shaking my ass.
“You kind of look like Elaine when she dances.”
My jaw hit my chest. “You think I can’t dance?” I was stunned. Liam had always been glowing in his praise of my dancing ability. He’d been so bad in comparison that he’d never fast danced with me because he’d look so bad. Or so he had said.
“Not really, no.”
I tossed the frying pan onto the stove. “I can dance.”
“No, sorry, you really can’t. I mean, that’s fine, because I can’t either.”
I guessed he could sense I was getting mad. “I can dance. You’re just not used to seeing such soulful smooth moves.”
“If you say so.” He pattered to the door and let Bucky in. I was too stunned and hurt to move.
“I can dance.”
He walked over to me, took the spatula from my hand, and wrapped me in a huge, warm hug.
“No, you can’t.” He nuzzled up my neck, nipping and nibbling along my jugular. “Want to go back to bed for a bit?”
“I may never go to bed with you again,” I teased. Sort of.
“Now that would be a real pity.” He captured my mouth, his breath minty-fresh, then slowly backed me against the still-cold stove. “If I tell you that you dance wonderfully, will you come to bed?”
“Too late for that, Heller. I know what you really think.” I pushed a hand into his briefs, the backs of my fingers skimming the hard length of him.
“I’ll fill your ears with your other talents.” Oh, he was smooth. Not as smooth as me on the dance floor, but smooth. “I’ll fill your ass with my cock too, if you want.”
Oh, yes, I did want. I wanted that really badly.
“Benton! You have thirty minutes until morning service. Drop what you’re doing and get dressed for church.” I cringed at the sound of Aunt Glenna right outside the screen door. Max startled violently. I jerked my hand out of his underwear and cussed.
“You want to watch that talk, Benton. Morning, Max. You’re coming to church too.” Not a question. A statement.
“Uh, yes ma’am.”
“Good boy.”
Off she went in her Sunday best.
“I need to move.” I sighed and snuggled in close for one more kiss, then we had to get moving, before one of them came back and caught me with my hand around his dick again. I’d ask God to forgive me for groping my man on Sunday morning. I was pretty sure he would. God was cool that way.
Chapter Eight
Max
We only needed one more game to get through to the next round, but Washington weren’t taking it easy on us. They’d won game five in our arena, and we were back in Washington for game six. Halfway through this game, we were tied and they were all over Ten like flies on shit. I was currently toe to toe with the big D-man, Vladimir Vleck, six-four, built like a brick outhouse, and his hands in fists in front of him.
I’d already dropped gloves because the asshole had taken Ten into the boards, again, for the second game in a row. Coach wanted me to let it go, work on protecting Ten, but the way they’d had to help Ten off the ice a minute ago had me riled up. Not only that, but the rest of the Railers were suddenly playing with caution, and we couldn’t have that.
This game was stale, and it was my role to stir things up.
I waited for Vleck to make the first move. He was chirping some shit about my dick, or my mother, but I wasn’t listening. You don’t chirp and fight; it makes you sloppy. I saw him drop his shoulder, telegraphing the punch, dodged it, and came out swinging. I got two clean punches in, and he staggered back and gripped my jersey. I buried my skates, leaned into the hold, and he began to lose his balance. I could taste the victory, punching three times more, feeling others pulling at my jersey, hauling me away from the flailing Russian on the ice.
“Fuck you,” I said loud enough to hear but hidden enough that I wouldn’t get called on it. Toly was between us now, his face split in a wide grin. He patted my shoulder, then went with me and the ref to the penalty box, and that was it. They helped Vleck off the ice, blood on his face, and I was given a five-minute major for fighting, Vleck got an instigator call. Amazing how I could make things look to the refs
when I wanted to. The team captain shouted something at me in Russian, and Toly shrugged when I looked at him.
“Your mom,” Toly explained.
I turned to face the massive Russian, who stared at me with fire in his eyes, and then I shrugged. I’d done my bit, and the team could rally off it.
Ten was back on the ice. He skated by and nodded; I’d taken out their biggest, baddest D, and he was making me a promise that he would make it count.
Twenty-three seconds later, with a move that would make playoff highlight reels, a crisp pass from the captain, and Ten buried the puck past a startled, off-center goalie.
The fire of competition burned hot in the team, and suddenly we were winning. Two more, and we’d broken the opposition. Toly even snagged an empty-net goal when they took off their goalie.
We won the game, won this round and the newest expansion team had made it to the next stage of the Stanley Cup. It wasn’t at home though, and the Washington crowd booed, but we’d had that all night; winning in the opposing team’s arena is something we can all hope for in our careers. Ten skated in circles around me, and we head-bumped Stan, who couldn’t stop grinning like an idiot.
Yeah. This was good.
And I needed to share that with someone. I needed to share all of this with Ben, who I knew had been watching.
We were staying at the hotel tonight, flying out in the morning, and the mood was high.
I didn’t look at my phone. I didn’t want anyone else to see what he’d said, or what I was going to say back to him. I wanted complete privacy, just me and his words, and I would savor them and the fact we were on a win. I was stopped by team members, including Dieter who told me Lola sent her congratulations. I thanked him, standing patiently as he told me all about how he and Lola had placed bets on how many fights I would get into. He’d won, apparently, because Lola had assumed I would need to drop gloves at least three times to have any effect on the game.
Toly wanted to tell me how much of a dick Vleck was, and how pleased he was that I’d taken him out.