Roughing

by Michaela Grey

  “I can relax!” Etienne protested.

  The faces around the table didn’t look convinced. Liam returned with two pitchers of beer and flopped down beside Johnny, who absently curved his hand over the nape of Liam’s neck.

  Rudy followed Etienne’s gaze to Johnny’s hand and cleared his throat. “Ah, Tenny….”

  “They told me before they press-ganged me,” Etienne said.

  “And you’re okay with it?”

  Etienne almost laughed at the echoing of his own question. “Seeing as I am too, yeah.”

  Rudy relaxed and glanced around the table, meeting everyone’s eyes individually. Each in turn nodded as Etienne watched, confused. Finally Rudy turned back to Etienne.

  “In that case, you should know most of us here aren’t straight either.”

  Etienne’s eyebrows shot up. “Sorry, what now?”

  “Me, I’m bi,” Rudy said.

  “Knew I was gay when I was twelve,” Johnny offered.

  “I don’t know what I am,” Liam said. “I like hot people.”

  “Kinda ace,” Theo said, shrugging. “But when I do feel… whatever, it’s guys.”

  “Fuck off,” Broussard snapped.

  Theo sighed. “Robert.”

  Broussard glared. “Whatever. I’m gay, I guess. Probably.”

  Logan signed something. Rudy watched his hands and turned to Etienne.

  “He says he’s gay. Also, that reminds me, I need to get you and the rookies enrolled in the next sign language class at the university. Logan will go with you, give you some extra signs you’ll need to know to be able to talk to him.”

  Etienne nodded and Logan gave him a smile surprising in its sweetness.

  “Hey, so what’s the deal with Coach?” Etienne asked Rudy.

  Rudy’s eyes tightened and he took a sip of beer.

  “Come on,” Etienne said. “He almost never comes out of his office unless it’s to yell at us. You do all the actual play-making and strategy sessions. What’s up with that? Why is he even employed?”

  Rudy sighed and set his beer down. “It’s not something I can talk about. Don’t cross him, though.”

  A shiver of unease slid down Etienne’s spine. “Why not?”

  “Just trust me,” Rudy said.

  Someone roared with laughter from two tables away, making everyone turn and look. A group of men were clustered together around another, standing and holding his mug of beer in one unsteady hand.

  “Hey,” Johnny said, eyes narrowing. “Isn’t that….”

  “Adam Caron?” Etienne said. “Yeah, I think it is.” He couldn’t look away. Adam was even better looking in person than on the ice, his dark hair falling over a high forehead into big, dark blue eyes. He was grinning at something one of his companions had said, those full, kissable lips curving into an infectious smile that somehow lightened Etienne’s mood just by looking at it.

  “Is that—are those the fucking Freeze?” Broussard said, craning his neck to see.

  “So it would appear,” Theo said. He sounded faintly starstruck. Logan patted his shoulder, lips twitching. “I’ve only ever seen Adam skate,” Theo said. “Goddamn he’s hot. Ow!” He rubbed his thigh as Broussard glared at him. “I’m allowed to think other guys are hot, Rob. It doesn’t mean I’ve suddenly stopped thinking you’re hot.”

  “Speech, speech!” someone shouted.

  Adam laughed and shook his head.

  “Didn’t he just get called up permanently by the Wolverines?” Johnny asked.

  “That must be why they’re celebrating,” Liam said. “Let’s invite them over.” He was out of his chair and heading for the other table before anyone could stop him.

  “Gosh, I love how impetuous he is,” Johnny said into his beer. “That never backfires ever.”

  Liam was talking to the other group, which turned as one to inspect their table. Rudy and Johnny waved as Etienne tried to figure out how to make a run for it, but it was too late. All six men were on their feet and following Liam back over.

  “Rudy!” Adam said, eyes sparkling. Rudy jumped to his feet to greet him.

  “I honestly wasn’t sure you’d remember me,” he admitted.

  “Have you seen you skate?” Adam demanded. “Of course I remember you!”

  “Adam and I attended a training camp together last year,” Rudy told the table.

  “And you’re just now telling us this?” Liam said, sounding betrayed.

  “Join us?” Rudy asked Adam.

  For several minutes, it was a mad scramble of finding chairs and rearranging to make sure everyone had room enough to sit down, and when the dust settled, Adam was sitting next to Etienne, crammed in so tight their legs were pressed together under the table.

  “Hi,” Adam said, offering a hand. “Adam Caron.”

  Etienne stifled a laugh. “I know who you are. Etienne Brideau. I play for the Thunder.”

  Adam nodded sagely. “I’ve heard your name.”

  “You have?”

  Adam had clearly worked his way through more than a few beers. His eyes were glassy, cheeks flushed, and he swayed ever so slightly when he moved.

  “Mm-hmm,” he said, leaning toward Etienne. “The new left wing. Footwork like Astaire and a right hook like Ali. You’re going places.” He grinned. “Like me. I’m going places. I’m going to the Wolverines. Did you hear?”

  “Yeah,” Etienne said. His head spun, and he didn’t think it was the beer he’d barely touched. Adam Caron—the Adam Caron—had heard of him. Had heard good things about him. He dragged himself together. “Sorry, uh—congratulations, man, that’s amazing news.”

  Adam’s smile widened. “Thanks. I’m celebrating.”

  “I can tell,” Etienne said, fighting a smile.

  Adam leaned in, lips to Etienne’s ear. “I saw you watching me. Do you want to celebrate with me?”

  Etienne froze. He hadn’t heard right. There was no way Adam Caron had just hit on him. But Adam was smiling at him from an inch away, the intent clear in his eyes.

  “Isn’t there… someone else you’d rather, uh… celebrate with?” Etienne managed.

  Adam pouted, pushing out that full lower lip. Etienne wanted to suck on it. He tore his eyes away, clearing his throat.

  “You don’t want to?” Adam was asking.

  “Oh, I do,” Etienne said, and Adam’s smile returned, bright enough to light the room. “But I just—” He gestured helplessly, at the people around them and then himself. So many better options, he was trying to say, but he couldn’t figure out how to put it into words.

  Adam put a hand on Etienne’s thigh, making him jump. “My place is just a block away,” he breathed.

  Somehow, Etienne found himself following Adam from the bar as his friends laughed and shouted encouragement.

  Blindside Hit is available now!

  Two-Man Advantage

  Gunner Ryan wasn’t expecting the knock on his door at seven AM. It was a day off, he’d been fully intending to sleep in, so he wasn’t very happy as he clattered shirtless down the stairs and the dogs set up loud, excited barking. He locked them in the den, which they weren’t thrilled about, and turned to see who was disturbing him at this hour.

  He was even less happy when he opened the door to see a small child staring up at him, clutching some sort of stuffed animal to her chest. There was someone standing behind her, but Gunner didn’t have time to acknowledge them, because the little girl said, “Mama says you’re my daddy,” and burst into tears.

  It took a while to sort things out. He brought them both inside, into the living room. The little girl—Olivia, apparently—trailed off into snuffles that she tried to hide in the stuffed animal Gunner still hadn’t managed to identify. The person with her was wearing a suit and introduced himself as Dexter Cane, a lawyer. He looked not very thrilled to be dealing with the whole situation. Gunner could sympathize.

  “How—” He waved a hand at Olivia, who appeared to be talking to her stuffed c
ompanion—what was that thing?

  “First things first,” Cane said. “Are you indeed Gunner Ryan, formerly of the professional hockey team, the Indianapolis Racers?” His mouth was tight with distaste, and Gunner immediately bristled.

  “Yes, and the stories are all true,” he snapped. “I drank too much, partied too much, and fu—” He cut himself off just in time as Olivia stared up at him curiously. “What do you want?” he finally said, more moderately.

  “I’m sorry, but I need to see some identification,” Cane said. He didn’t look sorry.

  Gunner stared at him. “You came to my house at a ridiculous hour of the morning and now you want to see my ID? What’s your ID? Why are you here and for that matter, how did you find me?”

  Cane pulled his wallet from his back pocket and handed over a business card and his driver’s license. ATTORNEY AT LAW, the card said, and the license confirmed this was indeed Dexter Cane, the photograph staring as sourly at him as the man himself.

  “Fine,” Gunner snapped. He’d left his wallet in the bowl by the door, so he stalked past them to get it and returned to hold it out between two fingers. Cane inspected it without touching and then nodded.

  “Do you remember Stephanie Ratliff, in Indianapolis, seven years ago?” he asked.

  Gunner couldn’t remember seven weeks ago. He scrubbed a hand through his hair.

  Cane coughed delicately. “Could you put a shirt on, please?” He gave Olivia a look, as if Gunner being shirtless would somehow offend her sensibilities.

  Gunner could have pointed out that they came to his house, at an ungodly hour of the morning, with no warning. He did not, because whatever the media said, he could be mature and reasonable. Instead he stalked upstairs and dug out a shirt, and if it was one of his oldest and rattiest, well… at least it covered most of his tattoos.

  He stared at himself in the mirror briefly before going back downstairs. His reflection looked shell-shocked, curly white-blond hair going every which way and green eyes stunned. You’re not a father. You can’t be a father. This isn’t happening.

  Back downstairs, Cane looked only slightly appeased by the shirt but handed over an envelope. “This is for you.”

  Gunner, it said on the outside, and Gunner held it for a moment, knowing his world was about to drop out from under his feet and wanting, just briefly, to cling to normalcy.

  Finally, though, he opened the envelope, turning his back on the unwanted guests to read it.

  Gunner, it began in a smooth, looping script. I’m so sorry. I never wanted this for you. I never wanted to ask this of you. But there’s no one else.

  Gunner didn’t recognize the handwriting. Maybe it’s a mistake, he thought, wild hope buoying him up suddenly. Maybe it’s a different Gunner.

  But the next sentence crushed that hope.

  You probably don’t remember much about our night together. You’d just won the Stanley Cup and were out with your team. God, you were so happy. I wanted to bottle that feeling and keep it with me, the way your eyes sparkled and how you stuck your tongue out and kind of curled it when you laughed at your own jokes. You were… intoxicating.

  Gunner looked up, out over his backyard. The Cup. His rookie season. He barely remembered anything of the aftermath of winning—it was a blur of joyful screams and alcohol and laughter. They’d gone out, he knew that much. Of course they had. But had he picked up? He genuinely couldn’t remember. He glanced back down at the letter.

  I was a grad student, out for my birthday. Barely knew anything about hockey—my friends dragged me out to celebrate instead of studying. I wish I could say our eyes met across the crowded room or something, but you actually ran into me on your way back from the bathroom and knocked me flat on my ass.

  Gunner had to admit that sounded like something he would do.

  You took me to your place, after you made sure my friends knew where we were going, and you asked me to sign an NDA. Said the lawyers insisted on it even though you thought it was stupid. And I’ve kept to it, I have. People have asked me who Olivia’s father is—Gunner’s hands tightened convulsively on the paper—and I haven’t told them.

  Gunner glanced over his shoulder. Olivia had emerged from her deep conversation with whatever that thing was on her lap and was looking around the room. Her skin was light brown, hair wispy and wild with curls, and her eyes were darker brown. She asked Cane a question Gunner didn’t quite hear. When Cane replied in a low whisper and Olivia jutted her chin out in a stubborn manner, Gunner felt like he'd been punched in the gut.

  “Wanna see the dogs,” she said.

  “Oh, um,” Gunner said. “Sure, I mean. They love kids. But they’re big and they get excited, they might bump into you or knock you down.”

  Olivia tilted her chin and gave him a scornful look.

  “Okay,” Gunner said, almost amused. Nothing about this was funny, but he liked her grit. “Cane, the den is right through there. If you want to take her in while I finish reading this, that’d be great.”

  Cane’s mouth tightened like he was tasting something bad but he got up and ushered Olivia out of the room.

  Alone, Gunner turned back to the letter.

  We were doing fine on our own. I fell in love with Livvy when they put her in my arms in the hospital. It was her and me against the world. We were going to do so many things. Climb the Eiffel Tower. See Machu Picchu. Visit the Easter Islands. (She loves geography, it’s her best subject.)

  And then I got sick. I told myself it was the flu, that it would go away and I’d be fine again, but it didn’t. And I wasn’t. Olivia wanted to go out, to the park and the zoo and the aviary, and I… I just didn’t have the strength or the energy.

  Acute myeloid leukemia, the doctor said. 70-80% of patients under 60 go into remission after their first round of chemo. I wasn’t one of them. It was aggressive. Is aggressive, I guess, I’m not dead yet. But it’s going to happen soon, and Gunner… I’m so sorry. My family’s not an option. They’re hateful. They’d brainwash my baby and I can’t—

  There was a smudge on the paper. Gunner ran his thumb over it. He felt like he was floating just above his body. In the den, he could hear the click of the dogs’ nails on the floor and happy panting, and Olivia giggling.

  I’ve followed your career, of course. I’m sorry the Racers traded you but it seems like the Direwolves have been so good for you. You’ve grown up. Maybe you’re still a little wild, but you’re kind. And that’s what Olivia needs.

  You can do your own DNA test, of course, but I had one done as well, just to be sure. The results are included. I didn’t do anything but study and go to grad school when I met you. And after—well, I still didn’t exactly have time to go out and party. You were my first—not ever, don’t freak out—in about four years, and then, well… you ended up being my last.

  Gunner’s eyes were stinging. He dropped the paper to rub them fiercely. This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t even remember this fierce, funny, independent woman he’d spent a night with, and somehow that felt worse than anything else he’d been presented with today.

  Finally, he bent to retrieve the letter, taking a deep breath.

  I tried to call, Gunner, I really did. It wasn’t easy getting your number and because of the NDA, I couldn’t tell your agent why I needed it. My best friend is a lawyer—she convinced him when he stonewalled me, but I couldn’t get through to you.

  Half the time, Gunner didn’t answer numbers he did recognize—the chances of Stephanie actually connecting with him were almost nil.

  I left messages. I thought maybe if you listened to them, you’d call me back. But maybe you didn’t get them. I don’t know. I’m sorry—so sorry—it happened this way. I wish I could have met you once more, seen the man you’ve become. But the doctor said it’s fast acting, aggressive. I have a week, maybe two.

  Gunner doubled over and braced his hands on his knees, struggling to breathe. He’d forgotten his voicemail password over a month ago and jus
t hadn’t gotten around to changing it.

  “Fuck, fuck,” he choked. He’d fucked up again, without even realizing it. It took him a few minutes before he could straighten and focus on the letter again.

  Now, on to my favorite subject. Our daughter. Gunner had to close his eyes briefly at that. Olivia Anne Ratliff. You won’t care about how much she weighed or how long she was at birth, but she’s tall for her age—she basically had no chance there. I’m 5’10 and you’re… well, yeah. And she’s got all the moxie of a fucking mule. Don’t try to fight her when she’s got her mind made up—you won’t win.

  She’s… Gunner, she’s so good. She fights a lot, you’re going to get a lot of calls from whatever school you enroll her in. But I guarantee every single fight will be because she witnessed an injustice and was trying to right the wrong. She champions littler kids, protects them. Hell, she picked a fight with a fourth-grader once because he was bullying a gay kid. She’s like you—she knows no fear. She throws herself into anything wholeheartedly and never does anything by half-measures. Again—like you.

  Gunner half-laughed, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. He didn’t know how Stephanie knew him so well after just one night together, but she hadn’t been wrong yet. Olivia shrieked with laughter from the next room.

  “Slobber!” she complained, but she sounded delighted.

  Well, at least they were getting along.

  Right now she wears 8-10 year old clothes, in size. Look for the tags in the stores. Or order them online if you want to save the time and hassle, but be warned—if she doesn’t like it, she won’t wear it. I guess you could describe her style as punk lumberjack ballerina, but that’ll probably change as she gets older.

  Because she’s half-black, you’re going to struggle with her hair. Find someone who has experience with curls like she has, or look up YouTube tutorials. She’ll fight you on it—she hates her hair being brushed—but she knows it’s not a battle she can win. Good luck though—you’ll need it.

  She loves geography, like I said. Not so great with math. And… she loves hockey. She didn’t know who you even were until about a month ago, when the doctors told me how long I had and I knew I had to tell her something. But she’s been obsessed with the sport since she could hold a stick. Please, Gunner, if there’s one thing you do for her—get her into a hockey program.