by RJ Scott
“Khui!” Frank cried out, bobbing along the perch joyfully.
I blinked at the profanity. Damn it. I hated it when Dimi was right. “It’s not so pleasant to call the man who gives you his shower a dick.”
His blue head twisted to the side and he gave me a click-click of his tongue. Then he called me a dick again.
I tossed a cuss back at him in Russian, turned off the water, and let him prance and dance on his perch for a moment or two. Giving him my hand, he then climbed on, and I carried him to the bedroom where he sat on a perch by the window to dry and preen as I dressed. I’d just gotten my underwear up over my damp ass when my phone rang.
“Alexa, answer the phone.”
“Alexa fuck phone,” Frank called and flapped. How grand was it that my parrot was a bilingual curser? The small device sitting beside the TV fed my brother’s voice through to me.
“Privet, brat,” Dimitri said, his tone light.
“Privet,” I replied, opening my closet to look at the vast wardrobe artfully arranged by color. “What are you doing calling me at this time?” I glanced at the alarm clock beside the bed. It was just a few minutes after seven at night. That would put him at two a.m. or so in Russia. “Wait, let me guess. Your girlfriend found out about your ugly feet and kicked you out?”
“Asshole, your feet are just like mine.”
I chuckled as I pushed aside some gray slacks. It was a casual affair, according to Henry. His partner Apollo was known for these team parties. They were becoming part of the Raptors experience and popped up with barely any notice. Although this one was to celebrate the end of a rather decent preseason.
“My dick is bigger,” I threw over my shoulder as I lifted a silvery type shirt up to inspect it.
“No, mine is. I’m older.”
“By seven minutes and that has no bearing on dick size.”
“Big dick! Big dick!” Frank squawked.
“I blame that on you,” I told Dimi while sliding my arms into my shirt. It would look good with jeans and some casual sandals. Not that I was trying to dress up for my teammates…
“I warned you not to teach him to say bad words. Mama thinks he’s possessed by a demon,” he said before he sniggered softly. “By the way, Mama and Papa are fine. They were bickering the other day over which of their sons was smartest.”
I rolled my eyes. “Surely they chose me.”
“Surely not. They said I was smartest, and best-looking. Also, they want you to call them.”
“Yes, I will, this Sunday morning as always. Why are you calling?”
“Oh, yes, I forgot you asked. We are planning a party for Mama and Papa’s forty-year anniversary. Will you be coming home?”
“Of course, why would you ask me that?” I padded to the dresser to sort through two drawers of folded, ironed blue jeans.
“Because your brain is addled and soft, like your dick.”
Frank whistled at the comment. Dimi roared.
I shook my head. “Your brain and my bird’s are the same size,” I muttered, lifting a new pair of Levi’s from the drawer.
“So you say. Good, I’m glad you’ll be home. Are you bringing someone?”
That brought me up short. “No, I am…no, there is no one right now.”
“I’m sorry for that. Perhaps it’s best to not flaunt.”
“Yes, perhaps.” His comment sounded cruel, and perhaps it was, but it wasn’t meant that way. Despite all the hard times we gave each other, Dimi and I were as close as two humans could be. He got hurt and I felt his pain. We had shared the same womb. He spoke only the truth. Flaunting my gayness back home was asking for trouble.
“You know I do want you to be happy,” he said, his voice low and soft.
“Yes, I know.”
“How you can make someone happy with such a small cock I do not know but…”
“I have a talented mouth,” I tossed out.
Dimi choked on a bubble of laughter. We chatted a bit more, about hockey, our teams, and how he was set to be named best goalie of the year if his play continued to be as it had been last season. He thought not, but I was rather sure of his chances.
“Go to bed,” I told him. We had always been night people. “Tell Mama I’ll call on Sunday. Sleep well. Tell your girl I feel sorry for her putting up with you.”
“She loves every moment. Sleep well, brother.”
“Spokoynoy nochi.”
The call left me smiling, as they always did. Well, not always, but usually. Frank watched me as I stepped into my jeans, zipped them up, and then slid my feet into some leather sandals.
I snapped my fingers and the bird, now partially dry, took wing. He soared through the condo, landing on top of his huge crate. I didn’t clip his wings, though many bird owners did. I preferred him to be flighted and took him outside with an aviator harness as often as possible so he could enjoy the outdoors.
“Inside,” I said in Russian, holding up my hand. He balked a bit but climbed onto my wrist and let me place him inside his crate. His water and food dishes were full, the crate cleaned of the day’s droppings, and there was a new hanging trapeze toy that he grabbed onto and hung upside down from. I closed the door, then locked it with a second small padlock. He knew how to pick the lock that had come with the cage, a lesson I’d learned within the first few days of owning Frank. Coming home to find the bird had shit all over my tidy house and eaten his body weight in bread and nacho corn chips had taught me how incredibly intelligent macaws are. “Be good.”
“Vinograd?”
“Later.” The bird was an empty pit when it came to grapes. I tossed a cover over the crate, gathered up my wallet and keys, and left my home. The desert night was just settling in as I jogged down the stairs to my garage. My condo was one of many new-build townhouses in the Swan Lake Condominium Community located about fifteen minutes outside of Tucson. There were over two hundred units in my gated community, all the same shape and colors—tan and white—and all with two-car garages, small backyards, and central air/heating. There was also a community pool, a homeowners association, and a neighborhood watch. Not that I spent much time swimming or watching the neighborhood. I was either playing hockey during the season or back home in Russia when the season ended. Still, it was a nice home, it was quiet, and no one looked at me in an odd way for being a grumpy Russian who seemed to frighten small children. I jumped into my car, put the roof down, and backed the Audi A7 up.
The ride out to the mountains where Henry and Apollo lived was a lovely one, the sky was purple and pink, the wind was dry and warm, and Taylor was belting out ‘Shake it Off’ as I pulled up to the Lockhart estate. It was now known as the Desert Lights Halfway House or would be when the renovations were completed in a few months. The sounds of music and laughter rolled around from the back of the mansion, so I followed the noise of a party until I reached the in-ground pool. The big house was cordoned off, signs of construction everywhere, but the pool house where Henry and Apollo lived was wide open.
The pool area was packed with players and their dates/wives/groupies. Colorado was playing croquet while riding on Ryker’s back. Oh, perhaps it was polo. Yes, it was polo but with croquet mallets and a rainbow beach ball. How that was working was anyone’s guess. Henry was toting Apollo around on his back, and Alex had his boyfriend Sebastian on his bare back. Chuckling at the nonsense, I made my way to the bar outside the brightly lit pool house. Apollo’s aunt Sofia was playing barkeep while flirting with one of Colorado’s groupies. Our goalie never went anywhere without young men and women in scanty clothes falling all over him. Rock musicians had to have an entourage, or so Penn constantly told us.
Others stood around in small groups, looking at phones, and chatting quietly. I didn’t want to know what had caught their attention unless it was a bird video.
“Good evening, Captain!” Sofia said as she gifted me with a smile. “Let me guess, two fingers of vodka with a twist of lemon?”
“Orange twist ple
ase,” I gave her a wink.
She was a stunning woman, full of life and love. Apollo was lucky to have her in his life. Family was so important. I missed mine terribly. She poured me a drink, then returned to flirting with the groupie. I turned around in time to see Ryker and Colorado tumble into the pool to thunderous applause. An emu wearing a bowler hat ran by with a pulled pork sandwich in its beak. Two girls with big breasts and tiny swimsuits chased the bird, who was named Kricker the Flightless Lord of Ozone. It was Colorado’s pet, or so rumor had it, and it travelled around with him like a dog.
I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, and realized Tate was standing there in the shadows. He looked like his world had ended but when he spotted me looking at him the raw pain was replaced by a smile. Shoulders back, he approached me, then stood way too close for my comfort.
“Was that an emu?”
I’d been working hard to keep a safe professional distance from the man until I could strangle the attraction I felt for him. With his bare arm brushing mine and the scent of his citrus shampoo blowing into my face, I realized that I’d not choked that desire long enough, for it was now pulling in full, hot breaths.
I glanced his way, and then took a second look. He didn’t seem like the happy smiling guy that was all we’d seen so far. There was a sadness in his gaze, a wariness, and I think a big helping of awkward temper.
Was that even a thing? Focus on the Emu question.
“Yes, his name is Kricker. He’s Colorado’s, as are the half-naked women and men. I need pulled pork, excuse me.” I made a beeline for the food tables, skirting the pool and slipping into the lengthening shadows. The tables looked as if an emu had been helping himself to the food, which he had been. I sighed, took a sip of my drink, and grabbed a handful of chips from a bowl that didn’t have feathers in it. When I turned to find who was screaming and why—the emu had stolen a bikini top somehow and its owner was shrieking while pretending to cover her bouncing breasts—I found Tate Collins right in front of me.
This time there was no awkwardness, or any of his shifty-eyed weirdness. No, he was right up in my face and he’d gone straight past wary to angry and incensed. I’d seen this on the ice, when Corey Mason from LA had high-sticked him, but still, this was off-ice when we normally had nice polite Tate and he hadn’t sounded pissed when he’d asked about the emu.
“Okay, so, what is it?” he snapped as Kricker made another pass, his big feet slapping on the wet cement, a yellow swimsuit top around his long neck. He’d lost his bowler hat.
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“You read the post didn’t you! I know everyone else has!”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I genuinely didn’t, but he stormed ahead.
“You think I want to be here tonight? You think that I want to face Ryker after that post?”
“What happened with—?”
“Yet I’m here, facing the laughter, just like I am at every freaking party, just like I am on the ice when I chip in with advice and people look at me like I’m an interloper”
“Tate—”
“But it’s you that’s worse. Sometimes you won’t even look me in the eye. What have I done? What do I need to do? Because it’s almost as if you hate me for some reason and I want to know what it is.”
“Hate is a strong word that I would not think to—”
“Did you know that I was an alternate captain in Dallas?” His anger shifted and now his voice was low but pumped full of passion. It was an arousing sound, the way he wrapped his words in that subtle Texas twang. It sent blood rushing to my groin. “Hell, another year and they would have given me the C.”
“I’m happy for your accomplishments in Dallas, but as I’m sure most of your teammates would like to tell you but are too polite to do so, you are no longer in Dallas. You are in Tucson.”
His handsome face tightened in anger. “I know where the fuck I am!” He barked, and several heads turned.
I felt the flush of shame creeping up my neck. “Keep your voice down, idiot!” I snarled low in my chest.
He did have the sense to glance around before stalking off, shoulders up, hands in fists. I should have let him go. But no, I had to be a rock-headed Russian with an overinflated value of my importance in other people’s lives. I threw back my vodka, placed the empty glass on the table beside an overturned bowl of guacamole, and stormed after Tate. Perhaps it was the moon, full and fat and bright yellow overhead that set me on his trail. Perhaps it was my ego. Lord knows, many lovers had told me I thought highly of myself, which wasn’t true, I just knew I had some skills in hockey and lovemaking. Perhaps I felt bad for calling the man an idiot, for he certainly was not a fool.
“I swear to God if you don’t back the fuck up…” Tate growled as I rounded a sculpted bush to find him staring at a small koi pond. The sounds of the party had grown distant, just the thump-thump-thump of an old Madonna dance song and the occasional womanly squeal.
I could feel his rage and pain from ten feet away. “I need to apologize,” I said, taking a small step, the lush grass wetting my toes.
“Fuck you and your apologies,” he seethed, his gaze locked on the little cherub peeing into the pond. “I’ve busted my fucking ass here trying to make the transition smooth, despite all the shit in the press, and all I get from you is flack. You know I would be valuable to this team if you’d just let me.”
Shrugging I moved closer. “Tate, I am sorry. My…it’s not you, it’s me. I’ve…there are…you’ll be a fine alternate captain in a few years. Surely you realize that you must prove yourself a loyal Raptor before we bestow a letter on you?”
I stepped up beside him, watching his emotions dance over his face. He really was incredibly beautiful in the moonlight. I jerked my sight from him, forcing my gaze back to the cement cherub.
“Yeah, I guess I get that, but you’re supposed to be above all the petty shit. It doesn’t matter what I do in my private life, as long as it doesn’t affect my playing, so what is with the attitude from you? Did I piss on your feet in a former life or something?”
“I’m not sure I even believe in reincarnation.”
“Dude, it was just a saying. Damn, you Russians are so literal. Like hanging out with Drax.”
“I don’t know anyone called Drax—”
“From Guardians of the— You know what, I’m not even going there.”
I needed to get control of this conversation again, because there was definitely something amiss with Tate. “Perhaps we Russians wouldn’t need to be so literal if you Americans didn’t speak in confusing circles full of double meanings and local flavorings.”
That made him glance my way. Which, with the moon captured in his dark eyes and his hair dancing in the dry desert wind, was the tiny spark that would ignite a wildfire. His lips parted. My gaze touched on his mouth, the full lower lip, the divot above his upper lip, and the light scruff he wore so well.
“Zorya has blessed you with the beauty of the evening star.” He blinked at me as if I’d just said he were a three-headed, groat-stealing goat. “I…you are not an idiot. I am the idiot.”
I reached up to run my fingers along his stubbly jaw. He didn’t run or punch me in the throat or kick me in the balls. He stood there with the stars and moon illuminating his face. And I knew that this moment was already terribly out of hand, yet I couldn’t stop myself from leaning down a few inches to brush my lips over his.
Chapter Five
Tate
I reared back from the almost-kiss, the tender touch of his lips to mine.
“Fuck you,” I snapped, and cast a look around me. Was I being punked?
“No I—”
I turned on my heel and left by the nearest exit, heading down the hill until I came to a seating area with a low wall completely blocked by bushes. I’d just about reached the limit of shit being thrown at me today, and yet I’d still come to this party, just to prove to the team that none of what L
acey said in public was true, or at least that I didn’t care what she said.
When she’d signed up for that stupid hockey girlfriends reality show I hadn’t even known about it, but at first it had been okay. She’s gushed over me as her fiancé, told the world I was the same behind closed doors as I was outside. Respectful, loving, a good friend. Then things began to slip. Rita Dremin, married to the dog-loving Joe from the San Diego Suns, began to tell stories about her husband, and his dogs, and the fact they were trying for a baby, and things shifted. No longer was Lacey the star of the show because she was engaged to the Tate Collins, phenom, apple pie guy, because that Tate freaking Collins was boring.
So she’d lied, and inside those lies were truths that she’d guessed along the way.
I’d told her that Devin, the C of Dallas, was being hard on us at practice for no reason. In the show she’d made up a story about Devin going nuclear and how everyone was scared of him. She’d even dabbed her eyes for the camera because she was scared for her poor, sweet Tate, pouting that some captains shouldn’t be allowed to run their teams by fear.
I’d never said that. I’d never even thought that. But it was the first in so many lies she’d told, that there was no longer any distance between me and the mistruths that people heard. She’d told everyone that I collected Star Wars figures, well fuck, is that a crime? Only she told this lie that I’d stolen from a kid at a hospital visit, but she’d told it as a joke, and worst of all she’d implied the kid was dying anyway.
She was a vile human who just wanted the limelight.
Thank god the show had ended, because with things so wrong now at Dallas, I could move on, start again, and show my team that I wasn’t what she made me out to be.
Then the worst of it happened—the interviews, the blog posts—and she was riding this fake fame into the sunset. At first it was nothing too bad; she’d implied that I was manipulative, using my money to buy people off. When pressed about the kinds of things I’d allegedly done, she would simply dab her eyes and shake her head. Sometimes she would rub at her side, implying I’d hurt her.