by R J Scott
“Is ready?” Stan boomed at me from behind, and I turned from checking out the helmet and followed him out of the door, straight to a van. Not a Maserati or a Porsche, but a mom’s van, with a kid’s car seat and brightly colored toys scattered everywhere. He unlocked it, and I climbed in, but he was called back by a player, Erik Gunnerson, a smiling man with impossibly curly blond hair. They talked, heads close together, and then after laughing, in a smooth move Stan leaned Erik back for a deep kiss, and I watched.
I couldn’t have turned my gaze from them if I’d tried. Right there in player parking, Stan was kissing Erik. In front of the whole damn team and me. When they parted, Erik reached up and cradled Stan’s face, gazing at him with such love and devotion. Stan said something, leaning down to get close to Erik, and then they parted with a final kiss. I pretended I wasn’t watching, but I couldn’t help but notice his huge grin.
Does Stan ever stop smiling?
“We go,” Stan said, backing out of the space.
Erik climbed into the low Porsche next to my car, with Ten taking the driver’s seat. When a skater earned what Ten did and had to keep up appearances, a Porsche is what they drove.
Aarni’s voice filled my thoughts. “One day people will realize Ten isn’t all that and that he’s all for show.”
I tugged my jacket around me as Stan turned up his stereo and Elvis blasted from the speakers. He was singing along, loudly and ever so slightly off-key. I wish I could say his innate happiness was inspiring, but I just felt it was sensory overload. By the time we pulled up outside the artist’s place, I had a headache, and everything inside me felt twisted, awkward and wrong. When I saw it was a tattoo parlor, my heart sunk. Whoever worked behind those frosted doors would be young and fashion conscious and confident, all artistic and shit, and there would be me, the slightly awkward Canadian kid who wasn’t going to be on the Railers that long.
And there was Aarni’s voice in my head again.
Grow some fucking balls.
Two
Gatlin
“Are you positive about this?”
I had to ask because part of my job as a tattoo artist is to make sure that my customers are happy with their ink, not just now but forty years from now. Getting a lover’s name placed anywhere on your body as a permanent fixture is dicey. When you’re nineteen and want that name inked onto your cock? Yeah, someone needs to sit you down and give you the fatherly talk. I wasn’t a father, but I was an uncle, which was kind of the same, only better.
“I mean, are you really positive about this, Tim?”
The young man nodded vigorously. “I love Dixie.”
“Yeah, I can see that you do, bud, but I loved my old boyfriend, Rex, too. Until the day I came home last year to find him moving out. When I asked him why, he said his feelings for me were waning and that he’d come to care about me as one would for a dog.”
Tim blinked at me, his soft brown eyes growing dull. “That’s harsh.”
“Yep.” I folded my arms over my chest, waiting for Tim's extreme love of Dixie to spur him to say she would never leave him. As his brain struggled with the shot of reality old man Gatlin had just laid on him, ELO played around us, filling my small personal area as well as the rest of the shop. “Here's what we're going to do,” I finally said as Tim sat there looking like a dumbstruck opossum. “I’m going to give you a week to contemplate this idea. If you come back in seven days and are still committed to getting Dixie’s name permanently inked on your dick, I’ll gladly take your cash and do the work. Deal?”
He was crushed. I hated to be the one to bring him down, but chances were, in a year, he and Dixie would be done. Probably, she would feel for him as one does for a dog. Ugh. Fucking Rex. Someday I’d get over that parting shot. Or not.
“Yeah, sure, okay. Dixie was really excited about it though…”
He rose from the adjustable ink chair, which strongly resembled something from a beauty parlor, and walked out, his shoulders slumped and his steps shuffling. I ran my hands over my face and pushed up off the small stool where I sat on while doing ink work.
“Another dream crushed,” Jess said as she slipped into my area, her blue eyes glittering with trouble. I glanced at my niece, frowned and then smiled. She was so much like me it was scary. My older brother, Garrett, often said if he didn’t know I was gay, he would have sworn I’d slept with his wife and Jessamyn was the result.
“He’ll thank me when Dixie crushes more than his desire to see her name on his prick,” I replied, reaching up over my head to stretch my back. Things popped and cracked.
“Not every relationship ends like yours did,” she reminded me as she walked around my workstation straightening the pictures on the mustard yellow walls. Jess was a punk goddess from her bright pink hair to her black combat boots. Tats that I’d done dotted her bare arms. Mostly bright inkwork intermingled with skulls and bottles of poison. Garrett was not at all impressed with the artwork on her skin. Guess it rankled his investment banker way of thinking. Which I did as well, but he’d had years to get used to a gay tattoo artist as his only living sibling.
“True. Only my relationships end like that.” I glanced at the old clock on the wall, artfully arranged among pictures of gay couples from the forties. There were color photographs of tattoos I’d done on customers and a few framed tour posters from famous rock groups of the seventies. Along with a montage of artwork that had been applied to various masks I’d designed for Stan Lyamin, as well as several other professional goalies, all the work coming to me via Stan’s recommendations and referrals. “I’m taking a hiatus from romance until I hit forty.”
“That’s another thirteen months. Your prick will wither up and blow away.” She sat at my desk and began rifling through the bills.
“Hardly.” I sighed, grabbed my personal stuff away from her, and let her open the store mail. She was a whiz at bookkeeping and organization. Which was why I’d hired her as soon as she’d turned eighteen and Garrett couldn’t get over her working here instead of in the bank. “There’s nothing wrong with living the quiet life of a monk.”
“Monks don’t jerk off daily.”
“I don’t either. I should fire you for that kind of insubordination.” I leaned my ass on the folding massage table by the bookcase. Jess waved me off with the phone bill, then put her feet up on my desk, her short green skirt showing all kind of leg and the newest tat she’d had done two months ago, a large butterfly with a skull head and rainbow antenna. Garrett had been quite impressed with that one. If blowing a valve is considered being impressed.
“Hey, are we going to Skipper Joe’s tonight?”
Jess and I both looked at the doorway. Woody, my part-time artist, slid into the room. He was a funny kid, same age as Jess at twenty-two, tall and skinny with bright red hair and a sharp nose, which was why I called him Woody instead of his given name which was Paul. I thought it was funny. Shame I’d had to explain the nickname when I’d first given it to him. Some days I felt so old.
“How did you get Skipper Joe’s from ‘insubordination’?” Jess asked, then handed the phone bill to me. I began searching for my reading glasses.
“Oh, you said ‘insubordination.’ I thought you said in some sub or other station which sounded kinky as hell.” Woody was a recently out gay, streaking his way through the wonderful world of daddies, bears, and leather with a gusto that I sometimes envied. Oh, to be that vigorous after working ten hours. All I wanted was a beer, the Railers game on the radio, and a foot massage after work. God, that was sad. Maybe Jess was onto something, but clubs and random hookups were not for me. Not anymore.
“You need to do something about yourself,” I commented as I patted down my old Levi’s as well as my Aerosmith t-shirt. “Where the fuck are my glasses?”
“On top of your head.” Jess snorted, then shot to her feet when the buzzer signaling the arrival of a customer went off. “So yeah, we could do Skipper Joe’s. I’m feeling a little randy tonight.�
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“You two go ahead. I have no interest in spending time in a gay club with sweaty twinks who think Ronnie James Dio is the second baseman for the Yankees.”
Jess giggled and slid around Woody, who stood there looking all kinds of stupid. I sighed, pulled my glasses off my head, and stared right at my employee.
“Ronnie James Dio was a member of Black Sabbath, Elf, Rainbow, Dio.” Woody made a face and shook his head. “Leave my space and do not come back until you can tell me the name of one Dio album.”
I shook the phone bill at him, then slid my glasses on. Woody slunk out like a whipped dog. I peeked at the total for the shop’s phone usage, grimaced, and then glanced up in time to see my work area fill with Russian goalie.
“Hello, Mr. Gatlin gunman,” Stan boomed, throwing his arms wide, then gathering me to his chest for a bear hug that nearly flattened my glasses into my nose. “I am still making fun joke about name.”
Stan pounded my back. I coughed out a weak reply, then wiggled free. I wasn’t a small man by any means. I’m close to six foot tall, so no one ever called me Shorty, but in comparison with Stan, I felt like a resident of the Shire.
“Still a funny joke,” I told the towering man with his arm resting on my shoulder.
“I know. I make many funny jokes. This is good one I make today for Tennant. How do make tissue dance?” I started to reply, but Stan ran me over. “Puts boogie into it!”
I snickered. “That’s a good one.” My gaze caught a flash of blue material lingering in the doorway. There stood a young man in a Railers hoodie, with brown eyes and a mouth that poets would write sonnets about. Tall and wide-shouldered, his gaze touching on mine before dancing away. Christ, the kid was stunning, his long arms and legs adding to the gangly, awkward aura surrounding him. Dark hair cut short accented a strong jaw. Those eyes though…
They were full of sad secrets.
“I have more jokes! Why is so windy inside sports arena? All many fans!” Stan howled at the truly terrible kids’ joke. I smiled, then wiggled away from the exuberant Russian. “Adler buy me book full of funny jokes.”
“Did you bring a friend?” I asked, taking my glasses off, so the kid didn't think I was so old I needed them to read the phone bill. The fact that I did was really neither here nor there.
“Yes! Is new friend and good goalie backup for Railers, Bryan Delaney,” Stan informed me, taking his arm from around my shoulders so I could step to Bryan and shake his hand.
“Right, we picked you up on waivers from the Raptors. Good move for the Railers,” I said as I extended my hand to him. He glanced at me, my hand, the wall, Stan, and then finally slid his palm over mine. His skin was damp with nerves.
“You follow hockey?” Bryan enquired, his voice soft yet deeply masculine. Quite appealing, to be honest.
“Not much else to do here in Harrisburg during the winter.” I pumped his hand a few times, curious about how a hockey player could be so timid. Didn’t they need to be outgoing and assertive to play such a violent and aggressive sport? This man was all kinds of contradictions in one sexy-as-hell wrapper. Not that I was interested in wrappers, of course. I pulled free from Bryan’s grip and put a foot or two between us. “You two here for ink or just to visit?”
“We no make ink now. Maybe later when we train Bryan for Pokémon balls. Now we look for good artwork for making spifftastic mask like mine.”
“Ah, okay,” I made my way to my desk, flipped the phone bill onto my laptop, shoved my glasses into the front pocket of my jeans, then turned to face Bryan, who was still in the doorway wearing a wild expression. “I’d be happy to work with Bryan on some sketches. I’ll just need some basic information about what you want the artwork to reflect, any special logos or names, things like that.”
Bryan shot Stan a wary look, then pressed his lips into a fine line which made me think he didn’t wish to talk about this right now.
“If you’d rather, we can set something up for another time so you can have a think about it. Why don’t you go talk to Jess at the desk, and we’ll schedule an hour or so just to work out what you want?”
“Sure, yeah, okay.” With that, Bryan spun and disappeared.
I glanced from the empty doorway to Stan. “He’s a little shy, isn’t he?”
“Oh yes, is much shy but is normal for new player. I too am shy and meek when I come to Railers.”
“I find it hard to imagine you ever being shy.” I sniggered as the phone rang out at the desk, the loud bell rolling through the shop.
“Pah, I am so much shy. Hide face in locker, only take out when stink of socks and skates turn skin purple and faint from holding breath.”
Now that I could see. I chuckled at the man I’d come to think of as more than just a client. It was hard to not take Stan Lyamin into your heart once you got to know him. Pity the same probably could never be said about Bryan Delaney, he of the beautiful melancholy eyes. Not that I was interested in pretty, woeful eyes.
“So, tell me about the preseason,” I said as we waited for Bryan to return. “How’s it looking for that second cup run?”
“Oh, is looking much good.” Stan flopped into the chair, his long legs splayed in front of him. “We make good moves during summer, like Bryan, and many of us work with Trent too for making faster skate moves. We are much graceful now.”
“Yes, I bet you are.” My gaze left Stan when Bryan reappeared. “Did we find a time that will work for you?”
“I uhm…tomorrow at eight?” He clutched a black-and-mustard yellow appointment card.
“That works. I usually break around eight for dinner. We can go across the street to the bar, have a burger and a beer, and talk mask designs.” Giving him my most reassuring smile didn’t seem to ease the tightness around his mouth, but Bryan did nod in reply. I glanced from one goalie to another. “Stan, you’re more than welcome to join us.”
“Oh no, I am not going out tomorrow. I am home body for my family. Is big night! New episode of Doctor Marcus Welby M.D., show Mama loves.”
I didn’t quite have the heart to tell him that his beloved mama’s show wasn’t new at all. It was probably older than me.
“Okay, well, it'll just be Bryan and me then.” My attention swung from the Russian flipping through sketches for tattoo ideas, to the young man who still had not stepped fully into my little workspace. Was he scared of needles? Not that I had any lying around. My shop was spotless; I made sure of that. All the Pennsylvania rules and regulations were followed to the letter.
“Right. Just us.” Bryan edged out of the room when Stan stood up.
“Is all good news then.” Stan offered me his big hand, which I pumped a few times. I gave Bryan a small nod and got a long look from under thick lashes before he returned the nod, then stepped out of sight. “You make helmet shiny new like four polished carrots for my new goalie teammate?”
Polished carrot? “Do you mean make it shiny like twenty-four carats?”
“Yes! Shiny like golden carrots.”
“I’ll do my best.” I grinned, then lifted a hand in a wave. I stood there for a long moment, contemplating the newest Railer and the untold stories hidden behind those beautiful lashes.
“Hey, your next appointment is here.”
I started a bit when Jess stuck her head around the doorway. “Right. Remind me what this one is.”
“The girl who wants swallows bursting from a dandelion on her wrist.”
“Great. More swallows.”
“Did someone say something about swallowing?” Woody shouted from his little room next to mine.
“Is it time to go home yet?” I asked my niece. It had to be close.
“Nope. You have four more hours with us, lucky man!” Jess beamed, then went out to usher my next customer in. She was enjoying this far too much.
Shame I couldn’t have cut out tonight to have a beer and a burger with Bryan Delaney. Generally, young guys weren’t all that appealing to me, but there was something a
bout him that made me want to get to know him better, touch him, ease the stress lines around his young eyes and stroke a finger over his bottom lip as he—
“I’m so nervous! Oh my God!” My client’s chatter stopped me thinking. “This is my first tattoo. Will it hurt? This is going to be so cool! I love this idea! I saw it on Pinterest and said to Gail. She wants to watch and decide if she wants one that matches. I told Gail that was so my spirit, right? I mean, I always feel this feeling when I see birds fly by. Oh, wow, you have a lot of tattoos. What do they mean? They’re so cool! My brother has barbed wire on his biceps, which I told him was totally out of style now. Do you think the dandelion blows could be watercolor?”
My God, it had to be midnight.
Three
Bryan
We focused on movement drills for an hour, Stan working as hard as I was at finding his focus. He talked a lot as we practiced the movements over and over. Not to me at all, but to the ice and the pucks.
At one point, I swear he called one of the pucks Doug, but I wasn't going to ask if I heard things, right? Because goalies were odd.
I guess I was odd as well, although what classified me as different wasn't quite as apparent as Stan. I didn't talk to my pipes, or pucks, or make chicken noises every time a player shot at the goal and I stopped it. I didn't keep my eyes closed when I was in a game or anything, but I didn't only rely on vision, and that was the crazy in me. I listened, over and above the noise of chirping, and music, and the smack of pucks into the glass behind the net. I could hear the weirdest things.
No one had ever said this to me, so I guess I was unique, but ice sounded different depending on a hundred different factors. Every time I stood in net, I stooped to touch the ice, just the tip of my gloved finger, and to anyone watching it would appear like a simple stretch, but it was way more than that.