Page 12

TWELVE

Noah

The trip to Atlanta was a short one, a hop, skip, and whoop there you is, as Pops would say. It had been a week and six days since Brody and I had talked. We were now friends with benefits, which was meh. I mean, the sex was great. The man was as pushy in bed as he was on the race track, which was a massive turn-on. Nothing was more arousing than tossing two alphas into the same double bed and watching them try to get the upper hand in such a small space.

That was one of the hottest things about taking a guy to bed. You could be rough with them. Not slapping them around or anything, obviously, but with women you had to be more conscious of your strength so as not to hurt them. Also, and this was another plus in my book, there was no worry over if your lover had reached his orgasm. With women it could be tricky to be sure. There was no faking when a man came. The evidence was right there in your hand, on your stomach, or down the back of your throat. Brody and I hadn’t tried anal yet. He wasn’t ready. Also, it might be another power struggle to find out who bottomed. I had some vivid fantasies about Brody Vance writhing under me as I fucked him into?—

“Hey, is this your dildo?”

I snapped out of my sex fantasy with a start. Blake was staring at me, a glimmer of mischief in his eye as we neared Atlanta airport.

“What?! How did that fall out?!” My throat tightened at the notion my little toy had fallen out of my carry-on. Which was secured above my head. And zippered tight. “You’re an asshole.”

The entire plane burst into laughter. Blake shrugged. “Sorry, rookie, but Cap said it had to be done.”

Sure, okay, that was cool. Tease the rookie. I was fine with that. At least they hadn’t made me sit by the bathroom. Rumor had it that our British player, Callum Ward, always got the trots when he flew. I glanced back to find Callum, a cute-as-hell ginger, sipping at a cup of what I presumed was tea as one of the two attractive flight attendants made one last pass with trash bags. Both the young ladies were very pretty, but everyone was respectful. Word was that Cap had a sister who was an FA, so if he even peeped at you getting frisky with the flight attendants, he would chew you out in front of the whole team. How this was known, I hadn’t heard, but I could put two and two together.

I chuckled through my embarrassment. I knew I shouldn’t have brought the little plug along, but Brody was supposed to sneak into the game after signing into his hotel. The same hotel the Railers were staying at, because why would he not. I thought we could play a little with a very small plug if he was interested. Maybe ease him into butt fun.

“Hey, seriously, it’s all cool. We just like to razz the rookies,” Blake confided as he sat down beside me just as the buckle seat belts announcement was made.

“It’s cool, really. I was just daydreaming,” I fibbed.

“About the game tomorrow?”

“Yep, totally.” That was a lie. My first real pro game made me a little nervous, sure, but it was only preseason. Still, I couldn’t fluff it off. I’d been extra vigilant about being on time, working hard, and controlling my numbers. I didn’t want to give Coach any reason to scratch me from the roster. Every day, the numbers dwindled.

“It’ll be fine. None of us are really in great form yet, and the Phantoms are looking at a massive rebuild. Their biggest threat was Cole Harrington, but he’s been there four years, and he’s fucking up all the ways he can. The word is that Trick isn’t much of a treat in the locker room.”

“That’s not surprising. Trick’s an asshole,” I huffed, recalling the snub from the number-one draft pick in Vegas. “I bet he’s an insufferable jerk to play with.”

“He’s got skills, but man, his attitude is not flying with the new Phantoms coach,” Blake concurred. He leaned in. “Word is they’re looking to get rid of him.”

Trick was his own worst enemy. And not a worry of mine. He was in Atlanta, and I would only have to see him a max of two times, according to our regular season schedule. I saw enough of his father plastered all over town when he’d brought his ministry to Pittsburgh, posters about god wanting purity and all that shit. Like father, like son.

I refused to spend time thinking about Trick and, instead, pulled the conversation back to the team.

“So, is it true that Callum gets the trots whenever he flies?” I asked with a whisper as we banked to approach the airport.

“All I’m saying is to clear a path when we land,” Blake replied with a wink. I figured that wink was a bullshit wink. Blake had a tendency to spin a yarn, as Grandma used to say. I missed her so bad. She had taught me her native language, as well as how to make pirozhki, little meat pies, that I loved. Sadly, they were not diabetic-friendly, so I had to avoid them or pay the price after eating one. Still, whenever I thought of her, I thought of those delicious meat pies. Pops made them on her birthday every year. His were good, but they weren’t Grandma’s.

We all piled onto a charter bus after landing, my thoughts on my grandmother, Brody, and the game tomorrow afternoon when I was shunted like a puck down the aisle to sit by the bathroom.

“Pardon, pardon, bloody hell, move your bag, Frosty.” Callum came racing down the aisle, his hand on his lower belly. “Damn change in air pressure always riles my bowels!”

The team began to snicker as the bathroom door slammed shut. Cap strode back and handed me a bottle of Febreze.

“Rookie,” he said, passing the spring-scented air freshener over as if it were a baton in a race. “You’ve earned this. Use it well and without delay once the door opens.”

Everyone clapped. I stood, bowed, and held the air freshener lovingly.

“I shall spray with great respect for the honor this floral scented spray can bequeath,” I called out so even the coaches in the front of the charter bus could hear. The guys laughed.

I chuckled too until Callum exited the toilet ten minutes later.

I wet my lips for the millionth time as I made my way to the ice for warm-ups.

Alone.

Just me. The rest of the Railers were chilling in the chute, grinning at me as I passed them. We all knew what was coming. My guts were like Callum’s after a bouncy flight. I’d told myself that when this day came, I’d be cool as a penguin. I was so not cool. Excitement mingled with nerves, but as I neared the pyramid of pucks stacked by the arena staff, I could feel the flush of adrenaline. I knocked the pucks to the ice, then skated out to take my rookie lap to polite, yet mediocre, applause from the Atlanta Phantoms fans. A videographer kneeling on the ice got to his feet to follow me with the camera as I took a few shots into an empty net. The cold air on my face and in my curls felt amazing.

Then, the other teams joined me, many of the Phantoms players taking a second to wish me good luck. The Railers passed me my skid lid and thumped me on the noggin. Of course, Cole ‘Trick” Harrington the Goddamn third was one of the Atlanta players to blow right by me, nose in the air.

“Douche,” I muttered under my breath as he stretched off in a corner by himself.

“Totally douche canoe with tiny paddles,” Nik commented at my side. I took a moment to let my nerves settle and looked around the rink. The seats weren’t full, but it was preseason, and the team was struggling. The addition of Trick to the ranks had brought big excitement to the fans four years ago, but as whispers of him being reluctant to play in Atlanta began to surface, the joy was slowly dwindling. Or so the player rumor mill said. “We play hard. Big win.”

I nodded with enthusiasm. My plan was to play all-out.

And so, when my third line rolled over the boards for the first time, I was more than ready. I wished my fathers were here, but both had come down with colds, and they’d opted to stay away so as not to spread the crud to me. Brody though, was out there somewhere. He’d texted right after we’d arrived at the arena to let me know he was checking into the hotel under the name Rex Racer, which had cracked me up. Only Brody would run incognito under the name of the evil racecar driver in Speed Racer . He had a pretty sharp sense of humor, I was learning. While I was excited to play tonight, I was just as excited to meet up with Brody in my room later.

The national anthem was sung as I rocked back and forth in the bench area, my helmet off, my attention on the tips of my skates. I wasn’t thinking of anything other than hockey, which was front and center right now. When the crowd cheered, I sat, my wingers on each side, and felt a thousand butterflies burst to life inside my breast.

Atlanta won the faceoff at center ice, and they were off. Trick was truly a phenom. It was like watching tapes of Tennant when he had first come into the league. The grace on the ice, the soft hands, the innate sense of where to pass and when, or even if, to pass at all were things those generational players were born with. The downside to the greatness that was Trick was a selfish player. Unlike most of the great ones, he had zero humility, but a heaping fucking helping of ego. He knew he was good, and he liked to make sure the rest of the world also knew.

Trick was first line because, of course he was. I was third. We’d probably wouldn’t meet up too often on the ice tonight, but if we did, I’d be nice. Pops and Dad were watching back in Harrisburg, my sisters on streaming services, and Babushka up in Heaven.

The game sputtered on, as most first preseason games do. The lines didn’t know each other well, the goalies were rusty, and the coaches were still trying to finalize things as we fumbled around. The defense was sloppy on both sides. Offensively, I felt we had the edge, as I won all but one of fourteen faceoffs. Yeah, the stoppage was stupid high, but such was preseason.

I did get a solid shot attempt near the end of the first, but the Atlanta goalie was too fast and caught it like a line drive in his catching mitt. With five or so minutes left in the first, we took a TV time out. We all headed to the bench to rehydrate. I glanced up at the scoreboard to clock the time—as I had to piss—to find the Kiss-Kam was scanning the crowds. It moved to an old couple who waved, then smooched each other. I smiled as I rubbed at my soaking wet hair with a towel. Then, the music changed to the latest Jemima Wren song, and the camera moved, not to a couple, but to a lone figure in a Railers cap reading the program. He looked up, and I stared into Brody’s eyes. The camera announced who he was even as he fumbled to find his sunglasses inside his coat pocket. The fans in his section went berserk. They flooded down to where he was seated. I watched in mild horror as he waved sheepishly at the camera, then pushed through the crowd to allow security to escort him out of his section.

“Oh man, that sucks,” Blake said as the Kiss Kam swept away from Brody’s back to a young couple wearing matching jerseys. “Poor guy can’t even go to a hockey game in peace.”

“Yeah,” I said sadly.

I yanked my vision from the screen, shoved my helmet back on, and buckled my chin strap. It was the fucking pits that Brody felt he had to leave my debut game. I’d catch up with him later. We could talk. He’d be in the pits for sure. Damn man. I had always known fame came with a price, I’d grown up with famous hockey players, but this kind of madness was over the top. Why were people so fixated on a retired racer? Especially here in the States, where F1 didn’t hold a candle to NASCAR's popularity, but then, he had dated Jemima Wren, and everyone was always up in her news.

We managed to squeak out a win against the Phantoms. The after-game interviews were done on ice, and someone who didn’t know him, thought it would be fun to have Trick and me talking to the lovely Gloria Seeks, former Olympic women’s hockey player, who now worked for Atlanta.

Gloria asked Trick the big question, while sweat ran into my left eye. “So, what did you think about playing against someone who was in your draft class?”

Trick sneered. “I’ve been in the big show four years. He’s still figuring out which way to lace his skates. Third-round pick, too—hardly worth a comparison, don’t you think?”

Gloria and I gaped at Trick as he removed the headphones and skated off.

“Oh, okay, well, uhm… Noah, what did you think about your first pro game?” Gloria recovered.

“It was great. Getting the win was a nice cherry on top of a memorable night,” I answered as kindly as possible, my gaze on the numbers on Trick’s back. Man, what a dickhead. She asked a few more questions. I replied politely. Then, I was free to face more press in the dressing room. Once that was over, I rushed to shower, dress, and find a place to text Brody.

I had to slip into a stall in the men’s room beside the skate room.

Noah: Hi. Sorry about the crowd rush. You in your room?

Ten long minutes passed. No reply, no three bouncing dots. Nothing. I was about to head out when I got my reply.

Brody: I’m heading back to Washington. Sorry, but I can’t chance someone seeing me sneaking into your room. I hate this for myself and you.

“Dude, seriously ?” I huffed to the empty bathroom. I was tempted to throw my phone against the tiled wall, but I shoved it into my back pocket, stalked out of the bathroom, and blew into the charter bus waiting for us like a nasty thunderstorm.

The guys didn’t say much as I sat in the last seat in the rear, pulled a hat on, and sulked all the way back to the hotel. Everyone could read my mood. I’d never been good at hiding my emotions, so they all mumbled goodnights as we parted in the lobby.

My room was dark when I entered it. The lights came on after I slapped the switch so hard it hurt my hand. I was pissed, hurt, and wondering what the shit I was doing right now.

I should be celebrating my first professional game tonight. I should be in the hotel bar, talking hockey, wheeling chicks, and enjoying a rare beer.

But no, I was in my room, mad as fuck.

I toed off my sneakers, peeled off my suit jacket and tie, and landed face down on the bed to scream into the void. My phone vibrated. Thinking it might be Brody calling to say his last message was a joke and he was outside my door now, I jerked it out of my back pocket, rolled to my back, and frowned at the incoming call from my fathers. Not that I didn’t love talking to them but…

“Hello,” I said in Swedish, then Russian, when their pale faces appeared in the box in the corner of my filthy screen. “Did you see the game?”

“Da, yes, of course. We watch with our eyes tight to the screen,” Pops said, his gray eyes red and watery. “You are making good faceoff numbers. So fast! And two shots on goal. That man for Atlanta in net is drifting too far. Needs to stay in paint like tree. Plant roots.”

“Stan, that’s goalie talk,” Dad slipped in, his blond curls coming to rest on Pops’ dark head. They were such a cute couple. “You handled the puck really well. Coach Morin must be very happy with your performance. You had a plus-one tonight.”

“Yeah, it was a good night.” I’d not gotten an assist on our lone goal, but I’d been on the ice for it. I felt confident that Coach was pleased with my performance. “How are you two feeling? You look pale.”

“Ack yes, we are palest of people. My sneezes are light now, but my nose runs like Jesse Pinkman.”

I gazed at Pops in confusion.

“Stan, honey, no, not Jesse Pinkman. I think you mean Jesse Owens,” Dad corrected gently before sneezing a dozen times into a wad of tissues.

“Oh yes, Jesse Pinkman is cooking drugs in motorhome with Walter White and is not running so fast unless Tuco is after him,” Pops said with a nod. “You go sleep now, sweetness. I will come soon after I talk more with Noah.”

“Yeah, I feel pretty crummy. Good game, son. Love you. See you next Sunday for the big Mittens birthday celebration.” Dad blew me a kiss, then ambled off, sneezing and coughing as he went.

Pops turned the phone to face him as he sat back. A cat with a pink nose leapt into his lap. Dogs could be heard snuffling about in the background.

“Your da is feeling the sickness.” Pops sighed as he ran a hand over Mittens sleek white back. “I am most over it now. Just the fast nose.”

“Good. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

He gave me that look. The one parents give you when they know you’re not really yourself, but you’re trying hard to hide it.

“What is wrong?” Pops asked. I smiled a big fake smile. The urge to make something up was strong. I was a grown man now, almost twenty-two. When did running to your parents with every little problem stop? “I can feel the sadness in your face. It is long like horse, but not rubbery like horse, just long.”

It all just came flowing out in a mad rush like a levee breaking. “I met this guy, and we hit it off like really fast, and then, we did shit, and then, he freaked out because he’s never been with another dude before, and then, I was like fine, whatever, fuck you even though he kind of stuck with me long afterward, but then, he showed up at the practice rink, said all kinds of shit about wanting to talk and kiss more, and so did I, so we did–kiss and more, and then, we sort of had a moment, you know?–and I thought we had some sort of little breakthrough, and then, we were going to meet up here, but then, he was spotted–He’s kind of famous–and then, when he got mobbed he fell back into his run-and-gun flight response, which I get because he’s scared of being outed; I mean, yeah, that’s scary, but he totally bolted on me, jumped on a train, and is going to his brother’s or some shit, and I’m just like, am I doing the right thing, Pops?”

My father stared at me for several seconds as he ran that endless sentence through his mental translator.

“Well, son, that is big rough question. If this man is scared of coming out to world, then that is viable reason for being afraid of many consequence. Is he fellow athlete?”

“He was; he just retired.”

“How old is this man?!”

“Like twenty-seven or something.”

“Oh, that is very young for retiring. Is he having health problems?”

“I don’t know. Not that he said. I know he has a grandfather who is a total bastard, and before you say it, I know we’re supposed to respect our elders, but some old people don’t deserve respect, Pops.”

He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “I know this to be true so I will not chastise you for calling old person bastard. I think that maybe if you are feeling so hurt you should discuss your hurt with this man. I wish only for you to not be hurt so right now. I am thinking to find this man and shove my Stanley Cup paddle up his butthole.”

“Ouch,” I whispered weakly. Pops smiled a little. “No, I get it. You’re right. I think he’s just so damned scared about the fallout of telling the world that he’s bi. Thank you for being such cool parents.”

“Well, being cool is what I am most famous for. I am glad you are happy child who grows into well-round man. That is all your father and I ever wish for all of our children. To be happy and living in your truth.”

“Yeah, thanks for that, too. I think I need to just get some sleep. Maybe things will look better in the morning.”

“Yes, as Mama would say, the first pancake is always lumpy.”

Yep, she did say that. “Thanks, Pops, it’s nice to have someone to talk to about this.”

“Of course, Noah, Pops is always here for you. Now, go sleep. Keep healthy. And talk to the man who is running scared. A dog in the hay will not eat it, but will sleep in the manger to keep others from eating it. That is old saying. Very old. I am not sure what matters is making here, but any dog saying is a good one. Spokoynoy nochi.”

“Goodnight, Pops.”

The screen went black. I stared at the ceiling for a long, long time before sending a text to Brody. I hoped it was the right thing to send.

Feeling your fears deep in my heart. See you when I get home. - N