Roughing

by Michaela Grey

Carmine ushered her to a seat, and she slid onto the bench beside Saint as Carmine followed her on and settled back against the vinyl.

  Saint hid his disappointment and smiled at her as Henry got comfortable. She’d traded the camo for a sequined top that bared her perfect shoulders and back, coupled with skintight pants riding low on her hips.

  “Hi!” she said. “Seriously, that was a great game. You guys looked so good.”

  “Oh… thanks,” Saint said. “We’re still figuring each other out, but I appreciate that.”

  Carmine leaned around Henry’s other side to include Saint in the conversation. “Half his team got traded this season,” he told her.

  Henry nodded sympathetically. “You told me that when you first got here, remember?”

  “Did not,” Carmine said, looking startled.

  Henry slanted a grin at Saint. “Oh yeah, you did. Couldn’t shut up about poor Saint and how he’d worked so hard for this team and it all got yanked out from under him and—”

  “Drinks!” Carmine interrupted loudly, sounding faintly desperate, and warmth curled in Saint’s chest.

  Henry giggled and leaned forward, catching Kasha’s eye across the table. He straightened, squaring his shoulders as if unaware he was doing it. “That goal was sick,” she told him. “Your hands are something else.”

  Kasha’s smile was huge, eyes dancing even as a blush rose on his fair skin. “You are Henry? I thought… is boy’s name?”

  “Usually,” Henry said cheerfully. “But it’s also mine.”

  David set his beer mug down. “Are you and Carmine dating?”

  Henry’s radiant smile didn’t dim when she answered. “We’re just friends. You’re… number forty-seven?”

  “David Stahl.” He grinned at her, and Saint was reminded that he was a handsome man. It wasn’t a pleasant realization, not as Henry smiled back at him across the table. He should be happy Henry was flirting with someone other than Carmine, but he couldn’t stop the worry in his gut. He caught Carmine’s eye, and Carmine shook his head very slightly. David was still leaning forward, saying something to Henry in a lowered voice, and Carmine cleared his throat and stood.

  “Getting another round,” he announced. He set off toward the bar and David looked up.

  “Be right back,” he told Henry, and went after Carmine.

  “He’s hot,” Henry said to no one in particular, and Saint made a noncommittal noise. He wasn’t about to slander a teammate, especially not to someone he didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure how to casually drop a hint for her to be careful, so he kept his mouth shut and watched the team.

  Felix and Embry were on the dance floor, a small knot of admirers around them as they danced, and a few of the rookies had joined them in hopes of picking up. Jesper, Elias, and Oskar were tucked off in the corner, heads together. Jesper’s wife was pregnant and Oskar had small children, so Saint didn’t expect them to stay long.

  Carmine reappeared with a tray of glasses, his face like thunder, and Saint straightened, alarmed. Carmine set the tray down and doled out drinks as David slung himself carelessly back in his seat and flashed a grin at Henry.

  “So, Henry,” he drawled, “what do you do for fun?”

  “Bike, paintball, eat men’s hearts.” Henry shrugged. “The usual.”

  David pretended to shiver. “Fierce.” There was no mistaking the intent in his eyes, and Saint clenched his fists, hating the feeling of helplessness.

  His phone went off in his pocket and he pulled it out. It was Carmine.

  Henry’s a big girl.

  Saint glanced up, but Carmine wasn’t looking at him, seemingly involved in a conversation with Roddy about backchecking, from the fragments Saint caught. Still, Saint typed out a reply. He’s also hot and charming and I don’t trust him.

  Carmine glanced at his phone as Saint took a drink of beer. Henry and David were still talking, their elbows on the table and voices pitched under the thudding music.

  I already told her that, Carmine sent. She can make up her own mind. But he didn’t look any happier than Saint felt.

  Sighing, Saint settled in to drink and watch his team. The rookies had struck out and were heading dejectedly back to the table. Embry had a girl in his arms, and Felix was—Saint squinted. Felix appeared to be dancing with a couple, a delighted grin on his face as the girl leaned up to whisper in his ear and the man with her pressed close along Felix’s other side, the packed dance floor making the proximity plausible.

  Get it, Felix, Saint thought, faintly amused, and raised his glass when Felix glanced over and caught his eye.

  “So, Saint,” Henry said abruptly, making him jump. David was nowhere to be seen, and Henry was watching him with disconcertingly sharp eyes. “How do you like playing with my boy?”

  “Carmine’s very good,” Saint said. “His footwork is impeccable and his hands are silky as anything. It’s a pleasure to play with him.” That was his media voice, he knew, but he also meant every word. Henry considered him.

  “You don’t think he’s… what’s the word I’m looking for… a hired thug?”

  Saint stiffened. Henry’s gaze had him pinned to the vinyl seat, stripping him open and probing his core for secrets. Of course Carmine had told her about that. She didn’t look angry, but she also didn’t look happy, eyebrow raised as she waited for him to respond.

  “I—” He groped for words. “Look, I didn’t—”

  Henry waited.

  Saint swallowed frustration and tried again. “He was—” No, don’t blame Carmine. “I said some things in the heat of anger that I—regret. I never intended to—” He hesitated again. Henry’s eyes were boring a hole in him.

  “Time to dance!” Carmine said, turning from his conversation with Roddy. He grabbed Henry’s wrist and dragged her from the booth before turning back to look at Saint, a question in the quirk of his eyebrow. Saint nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak, and Felix flopped onto the bench beside him as Carmine and Henry hit the floor.

  “Is that Caz’s girlfriend?” Felix asked.

  Saint twitched. “They’re just friends,” he said, hating the edge in his voice. He forced a smile. “What about you? You were getting pretty cozy out there.”

  Felix grinned. “Got their numbers. Night’s young.”

  “Are you? Just friends?”

  Carmine straightened from turning on the stove to look curiously at Saint, slumped at the kitchen table. His elbows were on his knees and he was fondling Steel’s ears, determinedly not looking at Carmine, but the tips of his own ears were red.

  “Henry, I mean,” Saint said, eyes on the dog. “Are you—”

  The question mattered, Carmine thought, and he took a careful breath and turned the stove off again to go sit opposite at the table.

  Saint still didn’t look at him, murmuring nonsense under his breath to Steel, who was in raptures, and Carmine just watched him for a minute, appreciating the curve of his cheek, the line of his jaw.

  “Yeah,” he finally said. “We’re just friends. Henry doesn’t discriminate based on genitalia, but—” He waited until Saint looked up. “She’s not my type.”

  Saint got his meaning immediately. “Oh. Oh. You’re—”

  “Yeah,” Carmine said, holding his eyes.

  Saint sat back in the chair, staring at him. “You’re… gay.”

  “Last I checked,” Carmine said, aiming for lighthearted. He wasn’t sure how to interpret the expression on Saint’s face. Was he angry at Carmine for not confiding in him sooner? Did he think Carmine was lying?

  But Saint just nodded. “How long have you known?”

  “Since juniors,” Carmine said. “You?”

  “I was twelve.” Saint bent to pet Steel again. “There was a kid in my league. He—that’s when I knew.”

  “Do your parents know?”

  “I think Mom knows.” Saint kept his head down. “I don’t think Dad suspects. I haven’t said anything. It… he wouldn’t be happy.”<
br />
  Carmine fought the wash of rage. “Why not?”

  Saint lifted a shoulder, eyes on Steel’s head. “Hockey players aren’t gay.”

  Carmine’s snort was loud and rude, but Saint didn’t look up.

  “I just mean—I’ve come so far and done so much, and it would just… tear it all down. Everything I’ve worked for.”

  “Everything?” Carmine breathed through his nose but it wasn’t working—he still wanted to punch something. “All those trophies, all those records, all those goals you set for yourself and then exceed, everything you’ve done and it would just be… nothing? All because you like boys?”

  “Hockey players aren’t gay,” Saint repeated, and this time he looked up. His jaw was set, eyes suspiciously bright.

  “Tell that to Adam Caron,” Carmine snapped.

  “That’s different.”

  “My ass it’s different,” Carmine growled. “He’s a hockey player. So are you. He’s gay. So are you. So am I. And you’re still one of the best goddamn players in the league. Caron’s pretty damn good too, from what I’ve heard. Doesn’t matter if you suck a dozen dicks a day, no one’s taking that from you.”

  Saint ducked his head, blush darkening his cheekbones. “I… have a reputation to maintain,” he said, looking at his hands.

  Carmine sighed. “Nothing about you has changed, Saint. You’re still you. You’re weird and loyal and awkward and shy and funny and good, and your orientation doesn’t change any of that.”

  “I know,” Saint said. “Anyway, no. My dad doesn’t know. What about your moms?”

  “Of course they know,” Carmine said, snorting again. “They knew before I did, but they let me get there in my own time.”

  “That’s good,” Saint said. “So you and Henry really are just friends?”

  “Yeah, and she hooked up with David last night.”

  Dismay flashed across Saint’s face. “Shit.”

  “She’ll be fine. Henry can take care of herself better than anyone I know.”

  “Yeah, but… David.”

  “I know.” Carmine blew out a breath and stood. “Hash and ham steaks okay for breakfast?”

  13

  Henry went home the next day, hugging Carmine and putting out a hand for Saint to shake. “About what I said at the bar,” she said. “Hurt him again and they’ll never find the body.”

  “For fuck’s sake!” Carmine complained, but Saint held Henry’s eyes, both of them ignoring his spluttering.

  “I can’t guarantee it,” he said quietly. “But I’ll do my best.”

  Henry nodded. “Good enough. Caz, my love, walk me to my car.”

  They went on their first road trip the same day, a short four day hop with three cities on the itinerary. Saint found his seat on the plane up near the front, next to Roderick, Felix across the aisle from them. He got settled as the veterans boarded and then the rookies came bounding in, pushing and shoving in puppyish excitement.

  Carmine flopped into the seat beside Felix and stretched his long legs out with a satisfied sigh. “Private jets are the way to go.”

  Saint was already queuing up game tape on his iPad. He and Roderick spent the flight discussing strategy and logistics, as Felix and Carmine played video games and bickered amiably. He liked listening to it, Saint realized, knowing he’d be welcome if he joined in but with no expectations of his participation.

  The game was rough and brutal, but they eked out a win off a trickle-in goal by Roderick late in the third. They left the building exhausted but elated and rode the high to the next city. The Atlanta Spirit were a young team, fast and agile but with only a few veterans on the team. The main problem would be defending the puck and getting past their defense, especially Saul Garrison.

  Saint had played Garrison multiple times over the years as he was traded from team to team, never really seeming to find the right fit. Probably because he was most likely the goon Saint had accused Carmine of being, Saint thought as he laced his skates. Still, Garrison seemed to be meshing well with the Spirit’s defensive core. He’d have to be watched.

  The hit knocked him off his skates, sending him into the boards at an angle. Saint managed to get a hand up to absorb some of the impact, but the collision rattled his bones, teeth jarring together painfully as he hit the ice.

  He was vaguely aware of a teal and white jersey grappling with Garrison a few feet away, but he was too dazed to see who it was. He got to hands and knees, head ringing, just as Garrison landed on the ice, Carmine on top of him and still throwing punches.

  Shit, Saint thought, and dragged himself up, but the linesmen were there already, grabbing Carmine’s arms and hauling him up and off.

  Carmine shook their hands away with a snarl and skated away without looking at Garrison, still on his back.

  Seething with fury at both Garrison and Carmine, Saint headed for the ref. The captain of the Spirit, Sanders, was already there, arguing passionately for Carmine to get a five minute major for excessive force.

  “Like the excessive force Garrison used on me?” Saint interjected, and the ref, Bullock, raised an eyebrow at Sanders.

  “He’s got a point,” he said. “Matching five minute majors sound fair, plus the two minutes for that very illegal crosscheck?”

  Sanders scowled thunderously. “We’ll take the four minutes,” he muttered.

  “Yeah you will,” Bullock said cheerfully, and skated for center ice.

  Saint headed for the bench, still angry. Carmine was sitting in the box, a trickle of blood sliding down his forehead as he studiously ignored Garrison in the box beside him. Saint yanked a glove off and took a drink of water as Roddy slid onto the bench.

  “I’m gonna kick his ass myself,” Saint growled, clutching his stick.

  Roddy slanted a look at him but said nothing.

  Carmine stepped out of the box, caught the puck as it whizzed by him, and raced down the ice with it to sink it neatly over the Spirit goalie’s knee. He was grinning as he circled the net, arms wide in celebration, and Saint almost forgave him for the fighting when Carmine caught his eye, his smile wide and dazzling.

  Still. He couldn’t let this behavior continue. He was going to have to talk to him.

  But when the game was over and they’d won, to the loud booing of the Atlanta crowd, Roddy caught Saint’s arm after his shower.

  “A word?”

  “Can it wait?” Saint asked, eyeing Carmine where he was pulling his shoes on and shaking damp hair out of his eyes as Kasha bounced around him, talking excitedly about the bars he wanted to hit.

  Roddy hesitated. “I guess so. Back at the hotel?”

  “Sure,” Saint said. He smiled at him and crossed the room to Carmine, who’d apparently had enough of Kasha’s incessant energy and put him in a headlock. “Got a minute?” Saint asked, raising his voice over Kasha’s squawking.

  Carmine leaned away from the flailing limbs. “Wanna share a ride to the bar?”

  “Can I come too?” Kasha demanded, voice muffled from being squashed in Carmine’s armpit.

  Carmine let him go and put a hand on his face, pushing him backward. “Grown ups only this time.”

  Kasha glared at him and spun to find Jason.

  Even frustrated with Carmine, Saint couldn’t help the smile. He followed Carmine down the hall and out into the parking lot, where a white sedan was waiting for them. It took Carmine a few minutes to squeeze himself into the back, and Saint waited patiently for him to get situated.

  “Okay,” Carmine said once the car was rolling. “Shoot.”

  Saint shot a look at the driver.

  “Hey, can you turn the music up?” Carmine asked.

  “Sure thing,” the driver said easily, and cranked it.

  Carmine cocked a brow at Saint, who took a deep breath.

  “This has to stop,” he said.

  “What does?” Carmine asked. “Sharing a car to a dive bar?”

  “Protecting me,” Saint spat, and Carmine�
��s face shuttered. Saint forged on despite the warning signs. “You have to stop. I can take care of myself. If word gets around that I’m relying on you to fight my battles for me, no one will ever respect me again. Why can’t you see that?”

  “So I’m supposed to let you get run into the boards and not lift a pinky to help?” Carmine’s voice was low and dangerous.

  “Yes,” Saint said. “If it’s an illegal hit, the refs will take care of it. If it’s legal, then I can handle it. What I don’t need is you white knighting me, okay?”

  “Saint,” Carmine said, and stopped. His mouth was tight, lines carved deep in his brow. “I’m not—you’ve got it all wrong.”

  “Do I?” Saint shot back. “Because every time I turn around, it seems like I’m having to tell you to stop getting between me and whatever obstacle I’m facing, and let me tell you something, it is getting old.”

  Carmine scrubbed his hands through his still-damp hair, fury and frustration in the set line of his jaw. “I can’t do anything right with you, can I?”

  Saint blinked. “I don’t—what? Of course you can. You do a lot right.”

  “Sure,” Carmine scoffed. “Which is why every five minutes you yank me aside to yell at me again about however I’ve fucked up this time.”

  Saint hesitated, groping for words, but Carmine just shook his head.

  “Forget it. I won’t defend you anymore, will that make you happy? In fact, I’ll make you even happier and move out, as soon as we get back to Portland.” He leaned forward without waiting for an answer and addressed the driver. “Can you just drop me here please? You can take my friend to the bar.”

  The driver pulled the car over and Carmine was out before Saint could figure out what to say.

  “See you back at the hotel, Captain,” Carmine said, and shut the door.

  14

  Saint sat in silence all the way to the bar. The last thing he wanted was to pretend to be enjoying himself, but the team would expect an appearance from him. So he dredged up a smile from somewhere, tipped the driver generously, and headed inside.