Roughing

by Michaela Grey

  Saint sent him an unreadable look. “Everyone in Portland thinks they own a piece of me. If I was dating someone, it would be front page news.”

  “Ego much?” Carmine mumbled.

  “It’s not ego when it’s true,” Saint snapped. “And especially when I fucking hate it.”

  He unlocked the front door and pushed it open, then paused, taking a deep breath.

  Carmine frowned. “You okay?”

  “Give me a minute,” Saint said, not looking at him. His breathing was rapid and he was touching his thumbs to the tips of his fingers in turn, clearly a calming mechanism.

  “Dude,” Carmine said, alarmed. “Are you sure you—”

  “Shut up,” Saint hissed, and moved aside, letting Carmine go in first.

  Carmine hesitated, eyeing him, but when Saint didn’t budge, he stepped over the threshold, looking around him. His first impression was that whatever decorator Saint had hired had clearly not known him very well. The prints on the walls were bright, vivid slashes of color, abstract pieces that were objectively pretty but all wrong for Saint. Carmine said nothing, though, as Saint took another deep breath and pushed past him down the hall. There were no personal pictures on the walls, Carmine noted, following. Well, maybe he kept those in a more private place, like his bedroom or den.

  Saint pointed to a huge room off the hall, decorated in cream and muted green. “Main living room. Once a year I’m expected to host either a Halloween, Thanksgiving, or Christmas party. We mostly stay in here.”

  “Who hosts the others?”

  “Butterfly takes one and Roddy usually does the other,” Saint said, taking a right turn. “Kitchen.” He flipped a light on.

  “The oven range and refrigerator tipped me off,” Carmine said dryly. This was a good room, he decided. The countertops were stainless steel, gleaming and polished, and a highly complicated coffee maker stood next to the stove.

  Saint ducked his head. “Come on, I’ll show you your wing.”

  Carmine followed him down another short hall and through a door with a lock.

  “I’ll get you a key,” Saint said. “Then you can really have privacy.”

  Carmine just nodded, inexplicably sad that Saint thought he needed a locked door inside his own house.

  “Jesus,” he said involuntarily as he stepped into what looked like the living room.

  “Yeah,” Saint said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t… I never come over on this side, I told the designer to just do whatever she wanted.”

  “It looks like a hotel,” Carmine said, glancing around at the bland seascapes on the walls and the neutral-colored furniture. “There’s no personality whatsoever, what the fuck.”

  Saint shrugged. “The house is too big for me. I mostly took it because of the location—close enough to walk unless the weather’s bad—and also the house itself is far enough back from the street that people can’t see inside unless they climb the walls. Which happens occasionally, but thankfully not that often.” He looked at the art and sighed. “It’s terrible, I know. You can redecorate however you want, okay? Go nuts. Anything’s better than this.”

  “If you mean it,” Carmine said.

  “I mean it,” Saint said instantly. He glanced around again and shuddered. “Seriously, please. Do something to the place.”

  “Alright,” Carmine said. He already had some ideas on what he could do.

  “Want me to show you the rest of the house?”

  “Sure.”

  Saint gave Carmine the extended tour—although he didn’t take Carmine into his wing, Carmine noted. Carmine’s wing opened onto the backyard from his bedroom, he was pleased to see.

  “Steel will love this,” he said.

  “Steel? Is that your dog?”

  It was Carmine’s turn to blush. “Um. Yeah. It’s because he’s gray.”

  Saint watched him narrowly. “Really? Doesn’t have anything to do with you being a Steelers fan?”

  Carmine cleared his throat. “Anything else interesting to see in the house?” He paused as a thought struck him. “Hang on, how do you know I’m a Steelers fan?”

  “Uh.” Saint turned away and fiddled with the drapes. “These are a terrible color,” he said. “Should definitely get better ones.”

  “Don’t change the subject,” Carmine said, suddenly enjoying himself and the way Saint’s blush went all the way up to his ears.

  “I’m going to make dinner,” Saint announced, and escaped.

  Carmine followed, grinning. He hopped up on one of the counters as Saint pulled out ingredients for a salad, kicking his feet against the cupboard door. “Sa-aint,” he sang. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  Saint glared at him as he dumped lettuce and baby spinach into the spinner.

  “Okay, I’ll make you a deal,” Carmine said. He leaned forward, thankful for the height and reach that made it possible for him to snag a baby carrot from the island even as Saint swiped at him. “You tell me how come you know I’m a Steelers fan and then you can ask me one question about my personal life, no matter how private or embarrassing.”

  Saint narrowed his eyes as he put the spinner to work. “Any question?”

  “Sure,” Carmine said, shrugging.

  “Fine. I read up on you after our fight,” Saint said in a rush.

  Carmine lifted his brows. “That’s some pretty in-depth reading. I don’t talk about my personal life much.”

  “Fine,” Saint repeated, slamming the spinner down on the counter. “I read up on you before our fight, okay? And I maybe asked a few of your teammates about you. Okay, one of them.”

  “Did you now?” Carmine leaned back on his hands, grinning. “And why would you do a thing like that?”

  Saint turned to the refrigerator and pulled out a package of steaks, carefully not meeting Carmine’s eyes. “You’re an enforcer,” he told the countertop. “And I’m a goal-scorer. I needed to know what I was up against.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  Saint’s eyes flicked up. “There’s no other reason I’d want to know anything about you,” he snapped, and stalked out of the kitchen.

  Ouch.

  Carmine stayed where he was for a few minutes, but when it became obvious Saint wasn’t coming back, he sighed and hopped off the counter. Putting away the food and cleaning the counters took only a few minutes, and then he pulled out his phone and found a highly rated Indian restaurant not far away.

  He went down and waited by the gate for his food, carrying it back up to his wing when it arrived and settling himself in his very boring living room, where he enjoyed chicken tikka masala and thought about why Saint hated him.

  Saint stayed in his wing until he was sure Carmine had gone to bed. He’d expected more panic when Carmine had stepped over the threshold, but Carmine was quiet, listening to Saint speak, taking in his surroundings, and somehow not overwhelming Saint with his presence.

  His phone buzzed and Saint leaned over to the nightstand to see the screen.

  It was from Felix. Have you murdered him yet? Has he murdered YOU yet?

  Saint huffed to himself, typing out his reply. Fuck you. He’s in his wing. I was only rude to him once, thank you.

  What’d you do?

  Saint scowled. Maybe it’s what he did.

  Felix’s silence was telling.

  He was pestering me, I walked away.

  About what?

  Saint huddled into his pillows. Stupid stuff. Forget it. I just… I shouldn’t have let him get to me.

  His phone rang a minute later.

  “Are you okay, cher?” Felix asked gently.

  Saint rubbed his face. “I… don’t know yet.”

  “It’s big, letting him into your house. Flanny’s an idiot, but Rod and I—we know.”

  “I’m not a baby,” Saint snapped. “I can handle another human being in my living space. I host the damn party every year, don’t I?”

  “And you have panic attacks
for days before,” Felix said. “But still you do it. For the team.”

  “They’re what matters.” Saint fought the urge to roll over and hide his face in the pillow. “Why did you call me? I’m okay, see?”

  Felix sighed. “You’re not okay, cher, but if that’s what you want to tell yourself. See you at practice.”

  Saint hung up, sure he wouldn’t sleep. How could he, with a stranger in his house? A stranger would be preferable, he thought, punching his pillow viciously. He still remembered how hard Carmine’s fists were, the dazzling starburst of pain in his ribs as Saint took them both to the ice. He also remembered the dimples that flashed in Carmine’s cheeks when joking with his teammates before the game, the way his agate eyes gleamed with amusement.

  Saint had been fascinated by him, but Carmine hadn’t even looked at him. Not until the puck dropped, and then Saint hadn’t been able to shake him, like a particularly relentless burr sticking to his skin. He hadn’t said anything. Saint might have been able to handle that. Words didn’t bother him—he’d heard every slur in the book, and none of it touched him.

  Instead, Carmine had foiled every attempt Saint had made on the goal, somehow always there every time Saint had lined up for a shot or caught a pass, knocking the puck away or opting for the simpler expedient of running Saint into the boards and leaving him dazed and gasping like a landed fish, until Saint had lost his temper after the umpteenth covert slash and dropped his gloves.

  They’d lost that game, and left Boston to the jeers of the crowd, laughter and booing following them down the tunnel. Saint hadn’t been able to resist looking back as they shuffled off the ice. He’d met Carmine’s eyes across the ice. Even from that distance, Saint had been able to see the amusement in them.

  He closed his eyes and began counting backward from a thousand.

  3

  He woke up the next morning with a muffled gasp, sitting bolt upright before remembering his surroundings. He’d slept, somehow, and now he had to face Carmine, and apologize for his bad attitude.

  He found him in the kitchen, humming along to the music from his phone as he stirred eggs.

  “I have Bluetooth speakers,” Saint said without thinking. “You can hook your phone up to them.”

  Carmine turned to look at him, an eyebrow going up. “Good morning.”

  “I’ll give you the password,” Saint said. He could feel the flush crawling up his throat. “Um. Good morning.” Carmine didn’t look angry, but then, his face rarely revealed much emotion. Saint swallowed and blundered on. “I’m sorry about last night.”

  Carmine blinked and said nothing.

  “I shouldn’t have—” Saint rubbed the back of his neck. “I was rude.”

  The song on the phone ended and another began.

  Carmine abruptly shrugged. “Whatever, man. I look offended?” He turned back to the stove and flipped the eggs.

  Saint watched him for a minute but finally decided it was safer just to make coffee and let the matter drop.

  “Oh thank God,” Carmine said, watching him retrieve the coffee grounds from the cupboard. “I couldn’t figure out that rocketship thing you’ve got going there and I’m dying for caffeine.”

  “It’s preprogrammed,” Saint said. He pointed. “Put the grounds in, add water, hit the button. Usually I set it the night before but I forgot.”

  “Can’t imagine why,” Carmine said dryly. “Seriously, though, I’m cool if you are. No harm done, right?”

  Saint stared down at his coffeemaker, gleaming chrome and black. He could see Carmine’s reflection in it, distorted and blurry.

  “Cool,” he echoed.

  “Great! Hope you like eggs. I got this recipe from my mom.”

  They ate at the table Saint almost never used, tucked into the breakfast nook that looked out over his huge, sloping lawn.

  “Steel’s gonna love it here,” Carmine commented, cutting into his sausage. “It’s okay if I let him run in the yard sometimes, right?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Saint was watching Carmine’s hands, deft on his knife and fork. His knuckles were scarred but his fingers were long and graceful.

  “I usually get my cardio by running with him,” Carmine continued. “Any good trails?”

  “One right behind the house, actually,” Saint said. He dropped his eyes to his own plate and took another bite. “I go running most mornings.”

  “Tell me when you’re going and I’ll make sure we go at a different time,” Carmine said easily, and Saint put his fork down.

  “You don’t have to—look, if we’re going to live together, you don’t have to avoid me all the time.”

  Carmine frowned. “You don’t want me here. I’m not going to force my company on you. In fact, I wanted to talk to you about that. I know Coach wanted us to be roomies for whatever bullshit story he’s spinning, but it’s obvious how much this bothers you. I’ll look for an apartment or something today, okay?”

  “No,” Saint said immediately. He blinked, surprised with himself at the speed of his response. “It’s for the team, right? Team cohesion and all that. They want to see that we can get along, bond or whatever. And it’s just a few months.”

  “Saint, man, you’re miserable with me here,” Carmine said. He looked genuinely unhappy. “I can’t do that to you.”

  “Yeah but—” Saint swallowed the panic that welled every time he couldn’t find words. “It’s not… you. I just—I have routines and I like things a certain way and as long as you can respect that, you don’t have to tiptoe around me or anything. It’s not—I know you now. It’s not a stranger in my house. It’s… you. So I mean—I’ll be fine. Okay?”

  “Sure, man,” Carmine said. He smiled suddenly. “I’m easy to get along with, I promise.”

  “I’m not,” Saint admitted, looking back at his food.

  “The great ones are never easy,” Carmine said, and startled Saint into looking up.

  “I’m not—”

  “You are, or you will be,” Carmine said flatly. The look in his eyes warned Saint not to argue. “You have a sixth sense for where the puck is going to be, and you’re there, almost every time. When’s the last time you missed a pass from someone? Your hand-eye coordination is incredible, and your footwork would make Gretzky drool.” He grinned. “Not to mention those silky hands of yours. You’re allowed to be a little difficult, with all that going on.”

  “Stop,” Saint begged. His ears were burning.

  “You just want to play hockey, huh?” Carmine said. His voice was gentle, and Saint took a careful breath.

  “Tell me about your moms.”

  Carmine’s eyes lit up. “Lavender and Diana. They’re the best.”

  “Lavender?”

  “She’s a hippie,” Carmine said, grinning again. “Here, I’ve got pictures.”

  He was still talking as they walked to the rink, describing the commune his mothers had established when he was a teenager.

  “Best honey in Seattle,” he said proudly. “The bees love Lavender. And Diana spins the alpaca fiber, hand paints it, and sells it to hipster yarn stores all over Washington.”

  Saint listened, fascinated. The picture Carmine painted was enticing, of warm and caring mothers who loved fiercely and deeply, and didn’t care what Carmine was doing as long as he was happy doing it. He wished he knew what that was like.

  “They sound great,” he said, and held the rink door open.

  He was talking too much, Carmine knew. Everyone told him he talked too much, that he needed to shut up and let someone else get a word in, but Saint listened so intently, his dark eyes sharp and interested, and Carmine got the impression he wasn’t missing a thing as Carmine rambled on about alpacas and bees and the fat old barn cat that refused to hunt the mice in the grain bin.

  It was weirdly comfortable, describing the forty acres he’d grown up on.

  “Pond hockey, man. Nothing like it.” He followed Saint down the hall toward the locker room. “Have you ever playe
d?”

  “Of course,” Saint said. His shoulders weren’t up around his ears anymore, Carmine noted with a faint sense of satisfaction.

  “We should play sometime. Does it get cold enough here?”

  “Not really,” Saint said. “But that would be fun.” He shot Carmine a half-smile and held the door to the locker room open.

  It was familiar chaos inside, the faces different but the smell, the noise, the feel all the same as Carmine stepped into the room.

  Someone threw a roll of tape at Saint and Carmine moved without thinking to snatch it out of the air, rounding on the offender with a growl.

  It was the goalie, he realized, Felix, now staring at him with wide green eyes.

  Saint plucked the tape from Carmine’s hand and hurled it at Felix’s head, saying something in French.

  Felix ducked and replied, his tone lilting up questioningly as he glanced between Carmine and Saint.

  Carmine left them to their conversation and headed for his locker.

  The lanky Russian winger was next to him, strapping on his pads, and he looked up with a bright smile.

  “You are Quinn, yes? I am Arkady. Can call me Volly or Kasha.” He offered one big hand and Carmine accepted it.

  “You can call me Caz, or Karma,” Carmine told him.

  Kasha’s brows went up. “Why is this?”

  “Because Karma will get you eventually,” Carmine said, sighing. He’d accepted the inevitability of the nickname back in his rookie year, but that didn’t mean he liked it much. He shrugged out of his shirt and bent to pull his pads from his gear bag.

  “You’re good skater,” Kasha said as Carmine got dressed. “But you’re fight too much, I think.”

  “You think, huh?” Carmine said. “Tell the other guys that. I don’t go looking for fights but I’m not gonna back down either.”

  Kasha shrugged. “I’m just say. You’re good. Not need fight to show that.”

  Carmine squinted at him as he settled the chest protector in place. “I’ll keep it in mind.” His tone was dry but Kasha grinned widely and sat to put on his skates.