Roughing

by Michaela Grey

  It was dark, lit with strobing lights that made Saint wince as he peered through the gloom, looking for familiar faces. Music thumped through the speakers overhead, so loud it made his teeth ache. Saint slid through the crowd, shouting apologies over the din, and finally saw Felix in a corner booth, surrounded by the rest of the team.

  He was greeted with cries of delight and everyone squeezed over to give him room to slide onto the bench.

  “Where’s Caz?” Felix shouted.

  “I think he went back to the hotel,” Saint said. “Said he had a headache or something.”

  Felix shoved a beer at him. “His loss. Time to get wasted, cher.”

  Three beers later, the alcohol had blunted the worst of Saint’s frustration. He leaned against Felix’s shoulder, nibbling a pretzel and watching the rookies on the dance floor. Roddy tapped the table to get his attention and Saint blinked, focusing on him.

  “I’m heading back to the hotel and you should come with me,” Roddy said.

  “But… team,” Saint protested.

  “I’ve got it,” Felix interjected. “I’ll make sure everyone gets back to the hotel with no public indecency charges.”

  “That’s why you’re the best,” Saint told him earnestly.

  Felix snickered and patted Saint’s head. “Go. Hydrate, you don’t want a hangover on the plane.”

  “‘Kay,” Saint agreed, and followed Roddy out of the bar.

  “How drunk are you?” Roddy asked once they were in the car.

  “Not that much.” Saint stopped to evaluate. “Buzzed. Kinda warm and tingly, but I’m not wasted or anything.”

  “Good, then you can listen and not talk for a few minutes,” Roddy said.

  Saint blinked. That sounded serious.

  “You need to ease up on Carmine,” Roddy said.

  Saint scowled. “No.”

  “I mean it,” Roddy snapped. “You’re too goddamn hard on him.”

  “He needs to back off of my business,” Saint shot back. “I’m the captain, and no one is going to—”

  “No one’s going to respect you if you can’t take care of yourself, yeah, I’ve heard it a million times,” Roddy said. “What you’re forgetting is that Caz was literally hired to do exactly what he’s doing. Yeah, his defense is solid, he’s faster than anyone his size should be, and his hands are gorgeous, but he’s also not afraid to use that size against opponents who think running a smaller guy into the boards is a fun pastime.”

  “He can’t—”

  “How much do you weigh?” Roddy interrupted.

  Saint had to stop and think about it. “190, I think.”

  “Caz is 240 at least. He’s got height, muscle, and bone on you. When’s the last time you successfully intimidated someone into backing down when they were trying to get up in your face?”

  “That’s—irrelevant.”

  “It’s very relevant,” Roddy snapped. “You know how hockey players are. Sure, they respect your speed, your hand-eye coordination, your puck sense. But if they can knock you off your skates and get away with it, they’re gonna fucking do it. So you need to stop being so goddamn hard on Carmine for doing his goddamn job.”

  He fell silent and Saint stared at him.

  “Rod….” He swallowed hard.

  “I know,” Roddy said gently. “I know how hard you’ve fought for this position. How hard you still fight, every day. I’m not belittling any of that, Saint, I swear to you. But Caz is here for a reason. And you’re not the only hockey genius to have an enforcer. Look at Gretzky, for Christ’s sake, and don’t you dare say that’s different.”

  “It is,” Saint protested. “Gretzky is… Gretzky.”

  “And you’re Saint Levesque. You’re gonna be in the Hockey Hall of Fame one of these days. You’re already a legend. We’re going to lift the Cup because of you—”

  “Don’t,” Saint said sharply.

  “I’m not jinxing anything,” Roddy said. He squeezed Saint’s knee. “You’re that good, kid. But you can’t do it alone. And you need to back off of Carmine.”

  Saint buried his face in his hands. “He’s mad at me,” he said into his palms.

  “Because you yelled at him again?”

  Saint dropped his hands. “At least I didn’t call him a hired thug this time?”

  Roddy grinned. “Baby steps. You know what you need to do.”

  “Yeah.” Saint slumped against the door and stared sightlessly out the window. “I’m getting sick of apologizing to him.”

  “Then stop opening your big mouth,” Roddy suggested, and laughed at the glare that got him. “You’ll be fine. Carmine adores you.”

  “What?” Saint straightened. “He what? No he doesn’t.”

  Roddy made a rude noise. “Of course he does. If he didn’t, do you think he’d take it so hard when you unload on him? He gets upset because he wants you to think well of him.”

  “I do,” Saint protested. “I—he’s amazing. And not just on the ice. He’s so smart, even though I don’t think he even realizes just how smart. And he knows what I need, sometimes before I do. He’s—” He closed his mouth but it was too late. Roddy was gazing at him with a knowing expression.

  “You could do worse,” he said, keeping his voice low so the driver couldn’t hear him.

  “No.” Saint shook his head hard. “It’s a bad idea on so, so many levels. Just—no. I can’t, Rod, it would screw everything up.”

  Roddy patted his knee. “Think about it.”

  I have. Saint hadn’t thought of much else since he’d realized the extent of his crush. “It’s not… reciprocated, anyway. So it’s a moot point.”

  Roddy laughed out loud at that. “Oh buddy. You are so dumb sometimes.”

  “I am not!” Saint protested, stung. “I’ve seen the way he acts around me. He treats me exactly the same as he does everyone else. He’s just—that’s just how he is.”

  Roddy rolled his eyes. “Sure, kid. You keep right on thinking that.”

  The car pulled up at the hotel before Saint could muster a retort, and Saint glowered and followed Roddy out of the car.

  Carmine was sharing a room with Felix, but no one answered when Saint knocked on the door. Saint waited a minute, then knocked again. Still nothing. Either Carmine was asleep or he hadn’t made it back yet.

  Luckily, Saint’s room was right across the hall. He’d be able to hear when either occupant got back. He went inside, took his shoes off, and perched on the end of the bed to rehearse his apology.

  It felt like forever but was probably only about thirty minutes before he heard footsteps coming down the hall. Peering out the peephole, Saint could see the back of Carmine’s head and his broad shoulders as he fumbled with the key.

  Perfect. Saint waited until his door was open and then stepped into the hall.

  “Hey,” he said quietly.

  Carmine spun, catching the door before it could close. His hair was disheveled, and there was something odd about his appearance, but Saint didn’t bother trying to figure out what it was. He was on a mission.

  “Can we talk?” he asked, and lifted his hands before Carmine could speak. “No yelling, I promise. Just talking.”

  Carmine eyed him for a minute. Finally he shrugged and opened the door wider. “Why the fuck not.”

  Saint stepped inside his room and rolled his eyes at Felix’s usual tornado mess—clothes and shoes strewn across his half of the room, bed rumpled and unmade. By contrast, Carmine’s side was almost spotless, only his suitcase open by the bed.

  “You want something to drink?” Carmine asked, indicating the minibar.

  “You know how much they charge for those things?” Saint said automatically. He settled himself gingerly on the edge of Felix’s bed as Carmine snorted.

  “We play in the NHL. I think we can afford a seven dollar can of Coke.”

  “It’s the principle of the thing,” Saint shot back, and shook his head. “Not what I’m here about.”

&
nbsp; Carmine took his shoes off and sat down facing him, their knees almost close enough to touch. “What are you here about then, if it’s not to complain about minibar prices or yell at me some more?”

  “Please don’t move out,” Saint blurted.

  Carmine’s eyebrows went up. Saint squirmed, fighting the urge to run.

  “I’m—I like having you there. I do. I didn’t think I would but you… fit. And… you’re a good cook and I love Steel and… please just. Don’t go.”

  Carmine assessed him thoughtfully.

  “Don’t make me beg,” Saint warned.

  A smile tucked into the corner of Carmine’s mouth, there and gone again. “Is that all you wanted to say?”

  “No.” Saint squared his shoulders. “I have to apologize. Again.”

  Carmine eyed him and said nothing.

  When the silence stretched on too long, Saint shifted his weight.

  “You usually have to speak to apologize,” Carmine said unhelpfully. “Like actual words.”

  “Shut up,” Saint snapped.

  “Here, let me help,” Carmine said, undeterred. He pitched his voice high. “‘I’m very sorry for jumping down your throat, Carmine. I should have given you the benefit of the doubt and realized you’d do the same for anyone on the team and it’s not just me you’re protecting. Also you’re very handsome and anyone would be lucky to date you.”

  Saint glared. “I hate you.”

  “No you don’t.” Carmine cocked his head, grinning at him. “Go ahead. ‘I’m very sorry’....”

  Saint sighed, defeated. “I’m very sorry for jumping down your throat, Carmine,” he said softly, holding Carmine’s eyes and putting all the sincerity he felt into the words. “I should have given you the benefit of the doubt and—what was the rest?”

  “I’d do the same for anyone on the team and it’s not just you I’m protecting,” Carmine said. All trace of humor was gone and he was watching Saint’s face intensely.

  “I know you’d do the same for anyone on the team,” Saint said. The words felt weighted, a power behind them like that of a gathering storm on the horizon. “And it’s not… it’s not just me you’re protecting.” He swallowed hard. “Also you’re very handsome,” he whispered. “And… and….”

  Carmine’s eyes were hot on his, and Saint felt dizzy, like he was standing on the edge of a precipice, teetering before freefall.

  “Saint,” Carmine said quietly. “Saint, can I—”

  There was a hickey on Carmine’s collarbone, Saint realized with a rush of sick horror. Deep and livid purple, he could see tooth marks around the edges.

  “I have to go,” he said, and bolted for the door, leaving Carmine staring after him with his mouth open.

  He paced his hotel room, sickness and disgust at himself warring in his chest. Stupid, stupid, naive—of course Carmine had picked up. They were in a strange city, where they were much less likely to be recognized, and as far as Saint knew, Carmine hadn’t been with anyone since he moved in, which meant it had been over a month. Of course he wasn’t interested in Saint. Of course he’d gone out to find a willing partner the minute he was able.

  Someone knocked lightly on the door. “Saint?” Carmine called, and Saint froze, holding his breath. “Saint, can I just—please can I talk to you for a minute?”

  Saint stood utterly still, not daring to move. With luck, Carmine would think he’d stepped out for ice or something and give up.

  There was a moment of silence, and then Carmine sighed.

  “Okay,” he said. He sounded defeated, and it made Saint’s stomach hurt. “Okay Saint, I’ll see you on the plane.” He hesitated. “Sleep well.”

  Saint wrapped both arms around himself to hold in the pain. His eyes stung. He stumbled to the bed and crawled onto it, still wearing his shoes. Grabbing a pillow, he pulled it to his chest.

  You could do worse. Roddy’s words echoed in his head.

  And Carmine can do better. Saint squeezed his eyes shut.

  It was a long time before he fell asleep.

  But when he got on the plane the next day, Carmine greeted him with an easy smile. Taken off guard, Saint smiled back briefly and ducked his head, looking away. When he glanced back, Carmine was deep in discussion with Felix about something—the rules of a card game Felix wanted to play, it sounded like.

  So that was that. Saint sat down and pulled out his e-reader.

  15

  The hospital visit was the day after they got back from Atlanta. Saint had had his outfit delivered the week before their latest road trip, and he pulled it out with a sinking sense of doom. He was going to look like an idiot, but that was part of the job description. The kids loved it, and that was all that really mattered.

  Carmine took one look at him and started laughing.

  “Shut up!” Saint complained, tugging at the spandex.

  Carmine laughed harder, clutching his ribs.

  “The kids love it,” Saint grumbled. The pants were riding up and he wasn’t sure how he was even breathing, considering how tight the spandex was. “Besides, you look dumb too.”

  Carmine tossed his hair and looked down at his black cargo pants, black vest, and silver full-length glove covering his left arm. “Excuse you, I’m the best Bucky you’ve ever seen.”

  The worst part was, it was true. Saint didn’t tell him that, though—no point inflating his ego. But the pants accentuated Carmine’s muscled thighs, and the tight shirt under the tactical vest showed off his arm muscles in a frankly unfair manner.

  “You look hot, Captain America,” Carmine said, grinning at him.

  “I really, really hate you,” Saint mumbled, and yanked the door open.

  He was glad Carmine hadn’t let things get awkward between them, he told himself as Carmine drove them to the hospital to meet the others. Neither of them had mentioned the conversation in the hotel. Carmine hadn’t offered to move out again. He was cheerful and friendly, the same as ever when he spoke to Saint.

  And still Saint couldn’t get past the feeling that the other shoe was poised to drop. You’re being ridiculous, he thought, following Carmine from the car and tugging fruitlessly at the spandex again.

  His thoughts were cut short by the sight of Felix dressed as Black Panther, bodysuit hugging his lean body. Carmine wolf-whistled and Felix’s grin was blinding as he struck the classic Wakandan pose and then swept a bow.

  “You sure you’re Black enough to be T’Challa?” David remarked as he strolled up. He was dressed as Peter Quill, but Saint barely noticed, whirling and grabbing him by the arm.

  “A word,” he said through his teeth before Felix could speak. He started walking, giving David the choice of following or being dragged. When they were out of earshot, Saint let go. “What the fuck gives you the right to say something like that?” he demanded.

  David ostentatiously rubbed his arm, looking wounded. “Come on, Cap. He’s only what, half-Black? And he’s light-skinned! Isn’t that—what’s the word—cultural appropriation or some shit?”

  Saint stared at him, momentarily speechless. “You cannot possibly be this stupid,” he finally said. “It’s not cultural appropriation when half his family hails from Africa, you—” He clamped his mouth shut on the words he wanted desperately to say. “And you don’t get to decide for him what parts of his heritage he chooses to embrace, so here’s an idea—why don’t you apologize to Felix and then keep your mouth shut the rest of the day, except to talk to kids.”

  David looked sulky. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” he muttered.

  “The sad part is, you probably think that makes it okay,” Saint snapped. “Let’s go.”

  They headed back and David mumbled something vaguely apologetic to Felix, who caught Saint’s eye. Saint shrugged, a what-can-you-do gesture, and Felix nodded at David.

  “We’re not here to fight,” he said. “Let’s go make some children happy, eh?”

  Roddy had shown up while they were talking, dressed as
some inexplicable character that he explained was from something called manga.

  “I don’t know either,” he admitted, looking down at his costume and trying to keep his spiky wig from falling off. “But my kids are all into it and they begged me, so….” He shrugged.

  Jason snickered. “It suits you, man. ‘Specially the hair.”

  “Is it hair?” Saint asked, inspecting the wig from far enough away to keep from losing an eye. “I thought it was like… hedgehog spikes.”

  Roddy sighed. “Jason, it’s not like you have room to talk. My Little Pony, dude? Seriously?”

  Jason tossed his blue wig. “I’m Slugger, you heathen. From the original series?” He glowered when he got blank stares from the rest of the group. “Kasha will back me up.” He folded his arms just as the door opened and a purple Teletubby waddled through.

  Saint blinked and stared. Kasha’s face was bright pink, whether with effort or embarrassment, Saint wasn’t sure, and he maneuvered the giant foam costume down the hall with small careful steps as the group watched him approach in horrified fascination.

  Carmine found his voice first. “You’ve never looked better, Kash.”

  Kasha beamed at him. “I’m Tinky-Winky!”

  “The gay one?” David said loudly.

  Saint shot him a warning glare. “The kids will love it,” he told Kasha, who’d deflated slightly. “What do you think of Jason’s costume?”

  Kasha brightened. “You’re Slugger, yes?”

  Jason crowed in triumph and slung an arm around Kasha’s foam-and-latex covered shoulders. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

  “I only know because you make me watch cartoons,” Kasha continued, as if admitting a secret, and Saint had to turn away quickly to stifle the laughter.

  The rest of the players didn’t bother trying, and the nurse who approached had to wait for the laughter to die down for several minutes before she could get a word in.