by V. L. Locey
“Well, there’s something you don’t often see. A millennial with his nose in an actual book instead of his phone.”
Ugh. Great. One of the beefheads was trying to converse. “Mm-hmm.” Best to keep the conversation at a grade school level. “I can read a story that doesn’t have pictures.”
“So can I, although I always found Murrow’s prose to be less dry than Woodward’s.”
Okay, did this skating ape just mention Murrow, as in Edward R. Murrow, the Master of Television news and high priest of investigative journalism? I glanced up and up and up. My God he was a big son-of-a-gun. Tall, dark brown hair styled short but with enough length to give him a rakish appearance, strong jaw covered with just the right amount of scruff. Crazy handsome, older, wide in the shoulders and lean in the waist. And he had eyes that were the same color as a deep, dark Caribbean freshwater pool.
“Uhm, yeah,” I cleverly answered.
He sat down, flashing me a smile as he slid a well-read print copy of This is London written by Mr. Murrow onto the table. My neatly structured world tipped a bit.
“I’m not sure how many times I’ve read this.” He tapped the faded cover then set his overflowing plate to the table. “He had such a way with language. It was him, and the recorded radio broadcasts of his during the second world war, that made this starry-eyed young man dream of someday becoming an international correspondent.”
“Uhm…”
Speak! Speak, you fool!
He smiled a crooked sort of smile that set fire to every nerve ending in my body. “I also like your hat. Layne Coleman.” He offered me a hand the size of a hubcap to shake.
“Roman Kennedy,” I replied, sliding my palm over his and praying that the sparks of desire dancing over my skin were only seen or felt by me. “Are you telling me that you’re a journalist?”
“Sadly, no, although I did major in it but hockey paid my way. And when I graduated, I had a fat contract waiting for me in New Jersey, which lured me from my first love. Two point three million a year versus twenty-nine thousand a year for the only open post at my paper back home in Cumberland, New Hampshire made the decision to chase a puck that much easier.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” I stared at his lashes as he spoke. They were thick, dark, and moved up and down gracefully when he blinked. Well duh, Roman, eyelids usually do move up and down. Moron. Also, he was still holding my hand. I pulled it free, felt my cheeks warm, and fumbled to pick up my fork. “I’m going to apply to the Trenton Ledger before I graduate, I interned there last summer, so I think I have a good chance of getting in. Then, as soon as I can, I’m getting a job in Washington.”
“Ah, yes, the dream job.” He salted a frittata packed full of veggies. “If you could emulate anyone who would it be and why?”
I took a moment to sip my coffee and get a bite of food as I pondered. Layne watched me closely, his lips drawing up at the corners as my cheeks got hotter and hotter.
“Woodward or Bernstein.”
He sat back, dabbed at his mouth with a blue cloth napkin, and then rolled his eyes. “Nope, sorry, too easy of an answer. Try again.”
That got my hackles up a bit. “Okay, Anderson Cooper.”
His blue eyes lit up. “Why?”
I laid down my fork and warmed to the conversation, the hum of a room filled with people and clattering flatware hitting glass plates fading away. “He’s faced terrible personal trauma even though he was born into wealth, he worked hard to move from a fact checker to being hired as an international correspondent after he took a hand-held camera into Myanmar to record the strife there. He’s also gay and openly out.”
“And that impresses you why?”
“Because I am too and it’s inspiring to see a gay man in such an influential role in American televised news.” He inclined his head. A small knot of heat ignited inside me. “What about you?”
“Are you asking if I’m gay or who’d I’d like to emulate?” His eyes were dancing with mirth.
“Both.”
“Straight forward. That’s a good quality in a journalist. Dean Baquet.”
“Oh nice choice! He and his colleagues reporting on the corruption in the Chicago City Council back in the late eighties was amazing.”
“I agree. As to the first part of that question I’m bisexual with an incredibly strong affinity for adorable young men with tastes for dapper hats, hair that refuses to be tamed by said dapper hats, passionate views, soft brown eyes, and dreams of winning a Pulitzer Prize for investigative reporting.”
I cleared the lust ball out of my throat. “My hair is sentient.”
He nearly choked on the bite of wheat toast he’d just taken. Once he got that coughed up, he laughed so hard it drew looks from the other jocks filling the room.
“Sorry, that just…” He wiped his eyes with his napkin as I blushed and tried not to grin like a smitten ass, which I obviously was by this point. “You’re incredibly witty and beyond cute. Would you think I was being presumptuous if I asked what you’re doing for the rest of the day?”
By now my cheeks had to be fire-engine red. “Oh, I uhm…are you asking me out?”
“Yes, I am. I’d love to spend the day with you touring the city. I’ve been here dozens of times. but it’s always been in and out for games. Today I’m free until six tonight.” I forked up some now chilly egg. “We could check out the museums, grab something to eat in the Loop, maybe jump on a bus for a mob and crime bus tour. Ah, I see the mention of mobs and crime made your eyes light up.”
“What all does that bus tour show us?”
He pulled out his phone and swiped a few times. When he looked up at me, his gaze made me weak in the knees. “The sight of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre as well as walking the final path of John Dillinger among other stops. After that we could do the Willis Tower Skydeck.”
“Oh, no, no. I can’t do heights. Sorry.”
“Okay, no problem. So, you in? The Loop, a few museums, gangster bus tour, and back here for dinner and a short rehearsal?”
There was a short moment of unease when I thought of Dillon all alone in our room. “Can I call my friend and see if he wants to come along?”
“Oh, sure, of course.” He was being polite, I could tell. To be honest, I would have much rather spent the day alone with this gorgeous older man but that seemed shitty. So I texted Dillon to see if he was interested in joining me and a new friend for a day in the city.
No. – D
Okay, well, guess he was still in a mood. I glanced up at Layne. “Looks like it’s just going to be the two of us.”
The smile that split his face left me speechless. “Grab another cup of coffee. I need to shower and change. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”
He stood, reached out to tuck a sprig of frizz up under my hat, and then jogged off. I sat back and fanned myself with my book. Spending the day outside or on a bus when it was sixteen degrees out would have normally been a big “Hell no!” from me, but now I was suddenly uncaring that it was cold as shit outside. There was plenty of heat between the two of us to keep a skinny man like me toasty warm.
Chapter Three
I had never had a better day in my life.
Sure, I’d thought I had, and a few had come close but never had I felt more attractive or desired as a young gay man then I had today. Layne was incredibly attentive, his smile always just for me as were the soft touches that had my skin humming with warmth. We hopped on the tour bus first to take advantage of the winter sun that might, and that was with a large bit of luck, might warm the temperature up to twenty. The mobster tour was amazing, each stop along the way packed with history. Nose pressed to the cold window of the bus I could picture the town as it had been back then. Names like Al Capone, The Untouchables, ‘Terrible’ Tommy O’Connor filled my head. And among all the dames, coppers, and hoods was Roman Kennedy, intrepid reporter for the Chicago Daily Reporter, the fictitious newspaper where I worked as a crime correspondent, my d
ays spent digging into the corruption riddling the city government.
Leaving the heated bus kind of sucked, even with my winter coat pulled tightly around me and my hat tugged down to shield the tops of my ears from the ever present wind. Layne helped with that problem by slipping an arm around my shoulders and tucking me into his side. With a dreamy sigh, I sank into that big, burly hockey player as we walked in John Dillinger’s footsteps then ended our tour at The Loop. We spent a few hours shopping in the eclectic stores, walking through a military museum, and admiring Willis Tower from the safety of the street. Layne led me to a small eatery after showing me Millennium Park, and we snuggled into a booth, both on the same bench, our shopping bags on the other.
“This place is known for its amazing deep dish pizza,” he explained as we perused the menu of topping choices. “And their food is certified kosher.”
“Thanks for that.” We’d had a short talk about our faiths as we shopped for scarves for my mother. He was a paltry Presbyterian, just like my father, and didn’t really do church which was why Dad called himself paltry.
“Get whatever you want on the top. I’ll eat anything.”
“Well, the meat lover’s is out,” I replied, scouring the choices that remained. “How about the garden delight with extra cheese?”
His stomach rumbled in response. We ordered our food, sipped our sodas, and talked. He was smart, way smarter than I’d ever have thought a hockey player would be. He loved old time journalists like Cronkite, Murrow, Jennings, Lippman, Friedman, and Wells. I had a small burp of unease when he told me his age. Thirty-eight was considerably older than my twenty-two years. While I generally had no qualms about dating older men, and sometimes preferred it, as guys my age were sloppy, stupid, and unable to plan past the next kegger, that sixteen year gap was enough to give me pause. A pause that lasted exactly four point eight seconds when he leaned in close and whispered something sinfully seductive in my ear.
“I have a poster of Ida Wells in my place that reads ‘The way to right wrongs is to turn the light of truth upon them’ and I touch those words every night before I go to bed.”
“That’s the hottest thing a man has ever said to me,” I gasped, whirling around in the booth to kiss him right on the lips. He responded instantly, licking into my open mouth, his hands skimming along my sides. Mouths sealed, I wiggled over him, my rump pushing the table back a few inches as my ass dropped to his lap. Our tongues tangled. His hands moved up my side then over my arms and shoulders. With a grunt, he shoved his fingers into my hair, knocking my hat off my head.
“Sorry to interrupt but here’s your breadsticks.”
My eyes flew open at the voice of our server standing right beside us. Layne coughed, patted at my hair, and muttered something about excellent service and oh look extra marinara sauce while I tried not to die of mortification while seated on his thighs.
“She’s gone, you can breathe now,” he said with a gruff chuckle. I slithered back to my seat, face flushed, dick hard, hair probably looking like I’d just locked lips with a Van de Graff generator. I grabbed my hat, which had been lying on the table, and went to shove it down on my head when Layne stopped me with a soft touch. “Can you leave it off?”
“Seriously?” I blew a few wayward kinky strands from my face.
“Yes, seriously. I like the way it frames your face. And it’s so soft, like cotton candy or cashmere.” He ran a hand through it, his fingertips moving over my scalp. “It’s you.”
“Uhm well, okay, but as soon as it gets on my nerves, it gets a hat on it.”
He stole a kiss. I stole one as well. He took another. I did the same. Soon I was about to sling another leg over his thighs again when the pizza arrived. Face hot with shame, I planted my ass to the bench then murmured a weak thanks to our amused server. We managed to keep our hands to ourselves through the meal and only began sneaking in kisses and caresses as we rode back to The Windward Way in a tidy yellow cab.
I was humming “My Kind of Town” when we walked into the hotel lobby, elbow rubbing elbow, hands full of shopping bags. We were met by several big men in casual dress who immediately began giving Layne guff about his age, the silver in his whiskers, and the fact that he was the oldest man being auctioned off tomorrow night.
“Yeah, yeah, keep chirping about my age. We’ll see who gets the highest bid tomorrow night,” Layne tossed back, shifting his bags to his left hand to place his right on my lower back. “Roman, these are some of the chimps that play on lesser teams in my league. This is Kyle Pressgrove, Slater Knox, Noah Alzado, Garrett Walker, and Ash Delacroix. Guys, this is Roman Kennedy, future investigative reporter for The Washington Post.”
“From your mouth to Jeff Bezos’ ears,” I said, shaking hands with all the men I’d been introduced to. I was good matching faces with names, but I literally knew none of these men. “So, do all of you play for the same team?”
That got a burst of amused laughter. “No, we’re all here to support The Hockey Allies charity,” Layne explained as the others nodded. “We’ve all agreed to be auctioned off tomorrow night with all proceeds going to the charity.”
“Ah, and what does this Hockey Allies do exactly?” I found my phone in my coat pocket and opened up Word so I could take notes. This might be a good human interest piece for the school paper.
“Well, they’re working toward making hockey and those who play it more inclusive for LGBTQ plus players,” Slater replied, his smile genuine.
“Would it be okay if I did short interviews with all of you over the course of the next few days for my campus newspaper? We have a small but vocal LGBTQ group and a huge athletic fanbase. It’ll be nice to give the student body a story where gays and jocks are working together instead of against each other.”
Each one of the players rapidly agreed. I grinned widely, the tingle of gathering information to craft into a compelling news article flaring to life in my belly.
“Why don’t you prowl around while we’re rehearsing?” Layne offered when the others wandered into the Atlantis Room, which it seemed was where the auction was going to be held tomorrow night. “I know the emcee, Booker Blake, is here as is his son, Isaiah. Maybe you could grab Booker for an interview. Then, if you’re still in the mood to play Bob Woodward, we could find a small table out in the lounge, and I could give you a sound bite or two for your piece.”
“Or we could go to your room for a more in-depth and personal encounter.”
Oh, you go, Roman! Razzle dazzle him with the innate sensuality of a nerdy Jew who tosses out Star Trek bon mots and spends more on ultra-rich hair conditioner than most men do on basic cable.
He cocked an eyebrow. “Are you sure you’d want to conduct such an intimate conversation after just knowing the interviewee for a day?”
Actually, my nerves were jangling, my gut clenching, and my mouth dry as the Serengeti, but yes, I was sure. Nervous yes, but sure.
“It’s not every day that a man like me catches the eye of a man like you. I mean, I can count on one hand the number of guys on campus who have said yes when I asked them out so—”
He bent down, captured my chin between two rough fingers, then pressed his mouth to mine. My body reacted immediately by sending all my blood to my dick so quickly I nearly swooned from lightheadedness.
“The guys on your campus are idiots and need to grow up” he whispered, rubbed at my chin with his thumb, and then brushed his lips over mine once again. “I would love to have an in-depth and personal rendezvous with you after this silly rehearsal.”
“Cool,” I said because I was just that slick. “So, uhm, I’m going to take my bags to my room and check on Dillon. See you in a bit.”
Layne gave me a lazy wave. I bolted to the elevator, clutching my tiny bags of gifts, and rode up to the twelfth floor happy as a lark. I tipped the elevator operator, doffed my hat at any lady I passed, and generally acted like a lovesick boob until I entered my lavish suite. There the mood darkened considerably
. Dillon glanced up from the chaotic mound of paper he was buried behind at the sleek desk by the window.
“Glad to see you’re still alive,” he grunted, his gaze roaming over me quickly. “I was about to call the cops.”
I carried my bags into the bedroom then padded back out to the lounge. “I’m fine, obviously. If you would have checked your messages you’d have found at least ten from me saying where I was and what I was doing.” I threw my hat to the coffee table. It knocked over an empty can of energy drink, one of ten or so that were scattered around the room with takeout bags from fast food restaurants.
“Oh, yeah, I think I lost my phone.” He shrugged and returned to whatever it was he was working on.
“Maybe if you picked up, you’d find it.” Losing his phone was a daily Dillon thing. As was being a slob. I began tidying up. He huffed and cursed behind me. We both tossed wadded up papers into the small trash can by the desk at the same time. “What are you working on? Something for school? A letter to someone? Oh! I bet this trip is about a romance, isn’t it?” I spun to face him, an empty can of energy drink in each hand. “You met this girl online and fell madly in love with her, but her father is rich, like insanely rich, and owns a major sports team here in Chicago. He thinks you’re below his little princess, but you’re planning to meet her at the top of some famous landmark here at midnight and run off and elope!”
