Roughing

by Michaela Grey

  “Has anyone—” Saint broke off as their food arrived, and waited until the waitress was gone before speaking again. “Has anyone else in the league come out to you?”

  Adam nodded, his mouth full. “Couple of guys, yeah. Made me promise to keep it quiet, which of course I will. But they said it helped, knowing they weren’t alone.” He grinned again. “I’m thinking of starting a group chat for us.”

  “Hey, if you do, add me to it,” Carmine said, and Saint whipped his head around to stare at him. Carmine gave him a lopsided smile. “Strength in numbers, man.”

  “And you, Saint?” Adam’s voice was quiet, eyebrows raised. “Want me to add you too?”

  Saint swallowed hard. His ears were ringing. “I—no. No, I don’t—I’m not—” He clamped his mouth shut before he ended up lying outright, but Adam just nodded, no censure in his eyes, and took a bite of his food. Saint stared at his own plate, unwilling to look up and see the disappointment Carmine was surely feeling with him. He wanted to be sick.

  Under the tablecloth, a hand found his. Carmine tangled their fingers together and squeezed, eating left-handed without looking at him, and Saint’s chest eased a fraction.

  “What about from other players, different teams?” Carmine asked. “Do you get any shit from them?”

  “Not officially,” Adam said, cutting his steak. “No one’s stupid enough to say anything with the officials around. I’ve gotten a few off the cuff comments when no one’s in earshot, but like—” He shrugged. “I’ve heard it all, you know? It hurt at first, but now I just… it’s whatever. I’m better than most of them anyway and they know it. The media, though—” His face clouded. “They’re a little different story. I’m under a microscope. If I’m not playing to potential, they speculate that I’ve had a fight with Tenny and I need a ‘self-care day’.”

  Carmine snorted loudly.

  “Pretty much,” Adam said, smiling ruefully. “No one’s quite gotten to the point of suggesting it’s that time of the month when I play for shit, but it’s been hinted at.”

  “Assholes,” Saint blurted.

  “Yeah,” Adam agreed. “But I knew what I was getting into. And it’s worth it every single time a young queer fan comes up to me and tells me I’m the reason they want to play pro hockey, that I’ve shown them they have a place.”

  Saint’s heart constricted and Carmine’s hand tightened on his but neither said anything for a minute.

  “You don’t—” Saint swallowed. “You don’t regret it?”

  “No,” Adam said simply. “It’s difficult, sure, but I have to live my truth, you know? Cheesy as that sounds. Besides, I have a great support network. My parents are behind me a hundred percent, and they and my closest friends make all the difference, you know?”

  The conversation turned to hockey after that, Carmine and Adam carrying most of it as Saint thought about Adam’s words. What would it be like, coming out when all eyes were already on him? Adam’s experiences were encouraging, but it was different for Saint, with a father who already deeply disapproved of his orientation and the focus of the entire hockey world on him, expecting him to perform better, do better, be better than everyone else. If Adam felt like he was under a microscope, it would be a hundred times worse for Saint.

  Ego, his father’s voice said in his head. Saint winced. But it’s true, he wanted to argue. He was the face of the team. He was captain, role model, older brother, mentor, on and off the ice. He’d been chosen for the All Star Game, for Worlds, for the Olympics—Adam was barely starting out, in only his second year of being in the NHL. He had no real idea what it was like, living with so many expectations on his shoulders.

  “Saint,” Adam said, breaking into his thoughts and making him jump. “Carmine here tells me you wanted to go as minions for Halloween?”

  “I think they’re cute!” Saint said defensively, and Carmine gave Adam an I-told-you-so look.

  Adam groaned. “I’m gonna have to reeducate you, clearly. Favorite action movie, go.”

  “Uh.” Saint shot Carmine a look. Carmine raised an eyebrow unhelpfully. “Die Hard?” Saint hazarded.

  Adam made a rude noise. “Are you just saying that because everyone says that, or do you really like the movie?”

  Saint hesitated. “I’ve never actually seen it,” he finally admitted, and Adam and Carmine burst into laughter.

  “You’ve got your work cut out for you with this one,” Adam said when he sobered, and Carmine bumped Saint’s shoulder gently.

  “I can handle it.” His smile warmed Saint to his toes, and he smiled back reflexively.

  They stayed at the restaurant for another hour before Adam checked the time and ruefully admitted he was close to curfew. Saint paid for the table over the others’ objections, and they followed him outside still trying to argue.

  “Do you need a ride back to your hotel?” Carmine asked Adam as Saint shrugged his jacket on.

  “I’m the opposite direction, I’ll just call a car,” Adam said. “Saint, it was a real pleasure playing against you and getting to know you a little better. When you guys come to Toronto, plan on coming over for dinner with Tenny and me, yeah?”

  “I’d like that,” Saint said, smiling at him. “Carmine too?”

  “Obviously!” Adam replied. “You guys are kind of a matched set, aren’t you?”

  Carmine slung an arm around Saint’s shoulders. “Peanut butter and jelly, that’s us,” he said cheerfully, and Saint couldn’t help relaxing into the solid warmth of his frame.

  “I think that went pretty well,” Carmine said as he drove them home.

  Saint, warm and flushed with the wine he’d had at dinner, made a quiet noise of agreement. “Thanks for coming,” he murmured. Carmine’s profile was lit by the streetlights, shadows flickering across his face.

  “Did it help you decide anything?”

  Saint lifted a shoulder. “Maybe. I don’t know. Have to think about it.”

  He dozed off still watching Carmine as he drove, big hands loose and easy on the wheel, and was woken by the rumble of the gate rolling back. Saint kept still as Carmine drove slowly up to the house and eased to a stop.

  “Hey, we’re here,” he murmured. He leaned over and put a gentle hand on Saint’s shoulder. “Saint,” he said, voice low and soft. “Wake up, we’re home.”

  He was so close. Saint could lean up and kiss him, press their mouths together, finally find out what Carmine tasted like. He could feel Carmine’s breath, warm on his cheek, and he opened his eyes to find him only a few inches away.

  “Hey,” Carmine said. His eyes creased with his smile. “Nice nap?” He was already drawing away, reaching for his door handle, and Saint reluctantly followed suit.

  Inside the house, Carmine called for Steel. Toenails clicked on hardwood as he came running, and Carmine bent to greet him, murmuring to him.

  “I have to take him out,” he said as he straightened.

  Saint nodded. “See you in the morning.”

  He headed for his room without looking back. Teeth brushed, changed into sleeping clothes, he crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling. He’d almost kissed Carmine. He’d almost ruined everything. And yet he couldn’t stop the burn in his gut, the shiver that rolled over him at the drag of the sheet against his skin. He wanted.

  There was no harm in fantasy, right? Not when he would never—could never—act on it. Somehow Saint thought that even though Carmine may not reciprocate, he still wouldn’t have any problem with Saint thinking about him.

  He slipped a hand under his waistband and grasped himself, stifling a moan. He was only half-hard but rapidly getting harder. He pushed his pants down to his thighs and leaned over to grab the lube from his nightstand drawer.

  There—oh, that was good. The lube slicked the slide of his hand, making everything wet and slippery and perfect. Saint closed his eyes, biting his lip.

  Carmine leaned over him, a smile mixed with the lust in his eyes. “You want this?” he mu
rmured. “Me?”

  Saint nodded, words failing him. Please, he tried to say, but he couldn’t make his mouth cooperate, overwhelmed by the nearness of Carmine’s big body, hot and solid and smelling so enticing.

  “Alright,” Carmine said gently. “I’ve got you.”

  He pushed his pants down and Saint folded to his knees in one quick movement. Above him, Carmine made a quiet noise, but he didn’t protest when Saint leaned forward and took him into his mouth.

  He tasted incredible—salt musk and clean skin, the faintly bitter taste of his pre-come bursting on Saint’s tongue. Saint closed his eyes and sank down, swallowing him to the hilt.

  “Ah fuck,” Carmine hissed. His hips jerked and he brought his hands up to rest on Saint’s head, not demanding but simply tangling his fingers in Saint’s hair. “Your mouth,” Carmine managed. “Fuck, you feel so good. You know how often I’ve thought about this? Wanted you for so long, Saint, God—”

  His fingers scratched restlessly across Saint’s scalp, more filthy nonsense falling from his lips, and Saint sped up, fist around the base of Carmine’s cock, jacking him rhythmically as he sucked until Carmine’s hips were stuttering, hands tight in Saint’s hair.

  He spilled in Saint’s mouth on a punched out noise and Saint swallowed almost all of it, a few drops dribbling down his chin. When he looked up, Carmine was staring down at him, awe in his eyes.

  “Come here,” he said, hauled him upright, and kissed him.

  Saint’s back arched as he came, shuddering silently through the bliss with a fist jammed against his mouth to stifle any noise. After, he lay quietly, panting for air as come cooled on his stomach. He felt sticky and vaguely gross but his bones had turned to liquid and he couldn’t muster the will to move. He fell asleep thinking about Carmine’s mouth.

  17

  November passed in a blur. They were rising in the standings, winning more than they lost, but it was still early days, no matter how much the newscasters liked to pontificate.

  Thanksgiving was at Roddy’s house. As a Canadian, Saint didn’t really care much about the American holiday, but it was a day off and a chance to eat some delicious food. Plus he found himself delighted by the way Carmine threw himself into making dishes to bring.

  “I’m doing a bourbon pecan pie,” Carmine announced the night before. “And some roasted candied yams, and I started some dough for dinner rolls, if you want to help me make them. They’re ready for their second rise.”

  “I have no idea what to do,” Saint warned him, but Carmine just grinned.

  “I’ll show you.”

  They spent the evening rolling bread dough into silky balls that Carmine put in a pan and then set aside to rise again. Saint relaxed and allowed himself to enjoy it, the way Carmine hummed along with the music, occasionally stopping what he was doing to dance when a particularly catchy bit came on. He was a terrible dancer, no rhythm at all, and Saint was hopelessly charmed by the way his eyes lit up and he tossed his hair back as he shook his hips.

  “Next game we win, I’m getting you on the dance floor,” Carmine told him, but Saint just laughed and shook his head.

  “All I can do is play hockey,” he said, tossing a piece of dough across the counter to Carmine, who caught it easily. “Dancing and I don’t mix.”

  “You’ve got to have some kind of hobby outside hockey, man,” Carmine said. “What are you going to do after hockey? What if you get injured and have to retire early?”

  Saint knocked reflexively on the wooden countertop and then flinched, waiting for the teasing. But when he glanced up, Carmine wasn’t laughing.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that. But you really should pick up a hobby or something.”

  “I’m fine,” Saint said.

  “You told me about gardening with Mom,” Carmine said. “Did you like that?”

  “Yeah,” Saint admitted. It had been relaxing, working to loosen the dirt, pull up the weeds, on his knees in the grass with the sun beating down on his shoulders.

  Carmine made a noncommittal noise and covered the last pan with cling wrap. He set it in the fridge and straightened. “There, they can rise overnight and I’ll bake ‘em in the morning.”

  “You’re really into this,” Saint commented as Carmine began gathering dishes to wash.

  “Thanksgiving is great,” Carmine said over his shoulder, running water in the sink. “Good food, hanging out with friends, a day off—what’s not to like? The only thing better is Christmas.” He flashed a grin at Saint. “Expect me to go nuts with the cooking for that, since we’re hosting.”

  Saint tensed. He’d forgotten, somehow, that they were hosting. He was going to have people in his space, all over his house. Digging through his bookshelves, eating his food, his life laid bare before them.

  Carmine turned the water off and Saint blinked.

  “I have to—goodnight.”

  He escaped before Carmine could say anything.

  They had a road trip after Thanksgiving, all the way across country to face New York and then Toronto.

  Adam sent Saint a text the morning of their game. Tenny’s been called up, we’re gonna kick your asses :)

  Saint laughed and showed it to Carmine, beside him on the bus to the hotel. Carmine snorted quietly.

  “That’s what he thinks.”

  Losers buy dinner, Saint texted back.

  Deal!

  The game was fast and brutal. Adam had clearly been studying Saint’s moves, but Saint had been doing the same, watching endless game tape of the Wolverines until he could recognize Adam by his skating. There weren’t as many games with Etienne, but Saint had watched those too. Etienne was fast, his stick-handling slick and graceful. With him on Adam’s wing, the Wolverines played hard and ruthless, keeping the score tied for most of the game and pushing the Seabirds to their limits.

  Near the end of the third quarter, Kasha caught a pass from Saint and slammed it home with the toe of his stick. Two minutes later, David found a hole and slipped through to score the game-winning goal thirty seconds before the buzzer. Then it was a game of keepaway from the increasingly desperate Wolverines until the clock ran out.

  In the dressing room, Saint gave David the cape and slapped him on the shoulder. David grinned, sweaty and pink, and the others crowded around to congratulate him as Saint went to his locker to handle the media.

  His phone had a message waiting when he was finally done with interviews.

  It was from Adam, an address not far from the rink.

  Saint glanced up and caught Carmine’s eye, raising an eyebrow in silent inquiry. Carmine nodded, a faint smile playing on his mouth, and Saint found himself smiling back before heading for the showers.

  “That was a good game,” Carmine said on the ride to Adam’s apartment. His head was back against the seat, baring his throat, and Saint looked away, swallowing hard.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “Team’s really coming together.”

  Carmine made a quiet noise of agreement. His eyes were closed, big hands loose in his lap, and Saint looked back out the window before he did something stupid, like let Carmine see just how much he wanted him.

  “David’s been acting weird, though,” Carmine continued after a minute. “You know if he’s okay?”

  “Weird how?”

  Carmine lifted a shoulder. “Crabby. Crabbier than usual,” he amended. “Talking on his phone a lot. Seems distracted.”

  “Yeah,” Saint said. “He was talking to someone at the hospital, he seemed upset. Fuck, I have to talk to him, don’t I?”

  Carmine grinned. “Well, you are the captain.”

  The cab pulled up to the curb before Saint could answer, and he followed Carmine out and into the building.

  Adam and Etienne lived on the third floor, down a hall with thick carpet that swallowed the sound of their feet.

  Saint knocked, and the door was opened almost immediately by Etienne.

  “Hi,” Saint said, smiling t
entatively.

  Etienne regarded him a minute. He was a tall man, an inch or so taller than Carmine but much lankier, with piercing slate blue eyes, a beaky nose, and dark hair swept back off his forehead. Finally he stepped aside, just as Adam came into the hall.

  “Hey!” Adam said. “So you’ve met Tenny?”

  “Well, not formally,” Saint said, and held out his hand. “Saint Levesque. Hi. You’re a badass on the ice, has anyone told you that?”

  Adam slipped an arm around Etienne’s waist as Etienne accepted Saint’s hand.

  “I tell him all the time,” Adam said, sounding smug. “Tens, this is Carmine Quinn.”

  “Everyone knows Karma Quinn,” Etienne said. His voice was deep and steady, and there was faint amusement in his eyes. “Just like we all know Saint Hockey. Please come in.”

  Saint and Carmine trailed behind them into the living room, which was huge and spacious, dotted with throw rugs on the hardwood floors and overstuffed couches lining the walls.

  Adam disappeared into the kitchen as Etienne let them get comfortable, reappearing with several beers.

  “Our old place was my old place,” he said, handing out bottles. “And I had a golf course in my living room.”

  Saint blinked, unsure if he was kidding.

  “How—” Carmine said tentatively.

  Adam beamed and flopped onto the sofa beside Etienne. “Miniature golf. It wasn’t very big, but it was fun. But then I met Tenny and we started having people over and it’s kinda hard to socialize over a nine hole, you know? So we moved. Only been here a few months but it’s starting to come together.”

  “If you’ll just stop leaving your shoes in doorways,” Etienne said, poking Adam in the side and making him squawk.

  Saint watched them, his heart aching. Their affection was so easy, so intimate, the way Adam curled up against Etienne’s lanky frame, the arm Etienne draped over Adam’s shoulders and the careless kiss he pressed to his hair. Saint wanted that, the ease of familiarity and comfort with another person.