by RJ Scott
Hayne looked right at me, biting his lower lip, an errant curl falling over one eye, and his posture still. He’d be so disappointed at the things I’d done.
“Scott?” Monica pressed.
The itch of needing to leave was beginning to steal my rational thoughts, and I moved a little to test if Alice would fall. As a result, she slumped against me. I can’t move. I felt trapped, closed in, and even though I knew I should breathe through this panicking shit, my brain instead defaulted to temper.
“I wasn’t listening,” I snapped, wanting to lash out and hurt.
Monica ignored my rudeness. “Oscar was telling us about his mom and what she meant to him.” She hesitated, obviously searching for some reaction from me.
“What? How can anyone…? Wait, you really want me to talk about what my dead brother, my only brother, meant to me?” I asked, horrified at the thought of telling anyone the details of what kind of brother Luke had been. “I can’t…”
Alice mumbled something as I shifted to get comfortable. Then she cursed, and before I could get out of the way, she sat bolt upright, vomited on the floor, narrowly missing me, and then curled up and began to cry. I didn’t know what to do. I should’ve comforted her, but it seemed everyone wanted to help, and I stepped back, frozen with what I needed to do and only just holding on to my emotions. The session ended then, but I still didn’t move, not until Hayne took my hand and led me from the room. We were halfway home, fighting our way through the bitter wind before it hit me what had just happened. Abruptly the nebulous thoughts in my mind coalesced into clarity, and I stopped walking.
“What’s wrong?” Hayne asked.
“I drank a lot,” I blurted and attempted to pull my hand free of his. But he wouldn’t let go, and I was irritable with being trapped, yanking hard and releasing his hold, shoving my hands into my coat pockets so he couldn’t touch me again. “Just like Alice, I would be permanently drunk, and my hockey suffered and my studies, and they were telling me my play was sloppy so that was why I looked to the steroids as a solution. At least I think so. Or maybe I just wanted desperately to fuck myself over, hit rock bottom. I don’t know.”
Oh God, where was this all coming from? I’d never said this to another soul, not even the high-priced counselor my dad had gotten for me when my drinking had become obvious. Funny how he’d wanted to help with that, but the steroids had been a step too far.
I thought he’d wanted a hockey player for a son. I needed those damn steroids.
“We all have our issues,” Hayne said and moved closer to the tree we’d stopped under, probably to get some shelter. “I once ate my entire body weight in chocolate and was sick for days.”
I knew he was trying to lighten the tone, but there was no comparison in overeating chocolate to what I’d done, even though I didn’t say a word. How could he think his grief was anything like mine? He needed to back off and leave me alone because I was done with him if he thought losing a friend was as bad as being responsible for your brother’s death. I wanted to punch something, make a fist, and make myself bleed. Pain banded my head, and I felt dizzy.
Then he cradled my face with his gloved hands and held me still.
“Breathe, Scott,” he instructed, and for a moment I struggled with the order, but then something in the way he looked right into my eyes and the emotion in his words shoved aside the temper and righteous indignation that had flooded me. Rational thought began to return, and through all of it, I kept breathing. Finally, I was done, the testosterone-fueled temper subsiding until all that was left was the hollow grief that was my constant companion.
“Scott? Are you okay? Should I call your friends? I don’t have anyone’s number.”
Jesus, the last thing I needed was them to see my meltdown, which was far too similar to what had happened in my last game. That time I’d hurt Ben, and this time I could have hurt Hayne.
“Shit,” I said with feeling, and he went up on tiptoes and pressed a kiss to my lips.
“Thought that might help.” Under the old tree, in the swirling snow and ice, I wanted to pull him close and kiss him like there was no tomorrow.
I didn’t. I wasn’t ready for that yet, and it wouldn’t be fair on Hayne. I was broken and not ready to kiss a man I liked. Nowhere near ready.
“You know, I don’t have numbers for your friends. I should have them.”
“Okay.”
“I could meet them someday.” He sounded so hopeful, but I wasn’t ready to share him yet.
“One day, yeah.”
Brief disappointment marked his expression, but it cleared when he smiled softly. “You don’t need to share with me, yet. Come on, let’s go home,” Hayne said after a moment’s pause, then began to walk away.
“Hayne,” I said urgently, and he turned back to face me. “I would understand if you wanted me to find my own place. Ben said he could put a mattress on his floor…”
At first, Hayne seemed sad, then confused, and then he smiled. “Please stay,” he murmured then shrugged. “It feels right.”
“So Ben is the starting goalie? Is that the right term?” Hayne asked me, leaning forward in his seat and staring down at the ice. We were here for the Eagles/Bowling Green Falcons game, and we weren’t that far from the team. I could see them talking to each other. I’d even caught a couple of them staring up at me, but I hadn’t held their gaze. Did they resent me? Did they hate the fact that I’d fucked up and now had the audacity to actually come to one of their games?
Ryker sketched a wave after Ben nudged him, Jacob nodded in acknowledgment, but others weren’t as forthcoming. Add in people sitting with us who made pointed comments about cheating and lying, and then the housemate, Craig, sitting two rows back and staring daggers at us. I didn’t know what his problem with Hayne was, and wished I’d remember more about this party he said he’d met me at. Unfortunately, it was another event blotted out by alcohol. Maybe I’d tried to prove that hockey players were harder than Falcon guys. Maybe I’d kissed him?
I glanced back to see his sour expression and instinctively knew he wasn’t the kind of guy I would have tried to kiss.
Why the hell did I think this was a good idea?
Oh yeah, because Hayne had guilted me into it, and I couldn’t resist the brown eyes that brimmed with emotion as he’d told me he’d never understood hockey, and how he’d never been to a whole game, and how it would make him really happy if I could do this for him. I didn’t say yes after all of that, but when he straightened the blanket on my mattress and side-eyed me, he knew he had me. After all, he had given me a bed for nearly three weeks. We’d slipped into domestic harmony, making each other drinks, taking breakfast in turn, and I’d given him whatever tips I’d made from each shift at the pizza parlor. It was a small amount against what I could give him when I was paid properly, but he wasn’t happy about taking the tips at all. He had a brightly colored rainbow jar in his closet and he put all the tips in there, saving them for a rainy day, or so he said.
We didn’t have to pay for tickets today. Ben had seen to that, saying he was intrigued that I was bringing my artist friend with me to a game.
“He’s too arty to like hockey,” Ben had said, then frowned at me when I punched him in the arm. I’d lectured him on not judging books by covers and explained how much of a good guy Hayne was, and added that I thought Ben was an asshole. All of which made him flustered and me as well when he commented how passionate I was. Then we’d tussled, and I’d been triumphant for all of ten-seconds when he’d rolled me and sat on my belly. For a moment we’d been old Ben/Scott, and it felt good.
“Earth to Scott,” Hayne repeated and poked me in the side. “Ben is in the net tonight, right?”
“Sorry, yeah, he’s a wall. Just watch.”
“And your other friend, Ryker, he’s the one doing that stretchy thing there?” He pointed at Ryker and then leaned against me. I eased away. I didn’t want Hayne to become a target for any shit tonight and certainly di
dn’t want the cheating-lying thing to morph into an anti-LGBT thing.
“Yep, jersey with Madsen across the back, and Benson is Jacob. He’s a defenseman, keeps people away from Ben.”
“Do you wish you were down there?” Hayne asked, then sipped his soda.
Did I wish that? Did I miss hockey? Hockey had been my entire life, even before Luke died. I’d wanted to be just like my big brother, wanting the NHL scouts to come and watch me, wanting to win games like Luke did with fancy moves. I’d hero-worshipped him, and I’d shown some talent. Not enough to make it to the NHL as Luke would have done, or as Ryker had, but surely enough to get me playing somewhere at a lower level. That was my accepted future, and for the longest time I’d thought that was what I wanted.
Until I began to mess up, until I wasn’t good enough, until I’d begun to ruin things for myself, just to show Dad I was my own man. Then the drinking started, then the steroids, and now look at me.
I’m truly lost.
“Yeah, I miss it,” I answered finally. I wasn’t really lying, because I did miss the camaraderie and the feel of my skates cutting into the ice. But I didn’t miss the pressure at all. Dad had never let me rest, assumed things for me, demanded I try harder, to be better.
He didn’t acknowledge I had a skill in chemistry and numbers, that I could do other things with my life away from hockey. He only wanted a replacement for Luke, and I’d been too stupid to argue or show him what else I could do.
“It’s starting,” Hayne shouted over the chants and clapping. He had a wide grin on his face, and it made me smile back. Maybe if I saw hockey through his eyes, I could find the love I’d lost for the game. It was worth a try.
The Eagles won the first face-off cleanly, the puck shuttling between Ryker and John as smoothly as if I was still there. We’d been good together, the three of us. Ryker on wing, me on the other wing, and John as center. We’d been a formidable line that defensemen on opposing teams found hard to counter, but down there now Cole was in my place, and I couldn’t help feeling that everything was wrong.
Eight
Hayne
Hockey. Wow.
I’d never experienced such a raw, passionate sport in my life. Of course, I’d never experienced any sport because, well, I was Hayne Ritter, that freaky, skinny art guy who always got picked last for any team. Unless you counted Pictionary as a sport…
Hockey was all speed and bone-crunching hits, blood and guts, vibrant hot colors, auras of red and orange, aggressive tones. And Scott had been a part of this stormy, wonderful, masculine game. Sitting beside him as the teams went at each other made me long for him in ways that mere roomies shouldn’t long for each other. I wanted him to love me in that blind, hot, sloppy, rough carnal way that men loved one another in all the porn I’d watched. Since I had no practical knowledge of hot, sloppy man sex because… well, just because I was what I was, I had to assume sex was gritty and loud and really slippery.
“Oh! Oh! Did you see that thing that Ben did?” I shouted at Scott when the Eagles goalie did this big, arcing kicking-his-skate-in-the-air move to block a puck. “He’s a god! A war god. You all are war gods! Battling other gods, the earth trembling and shaking as the titans skate on ice of blood red and batter each other with flaming sticks!”
Scott smiled at me.
“I have to paint,” I said breathlessly.
He blinked in surprise. “Now? I mean, we only have ten minutes left of the game and—”
“Now, right now. The colors are here.” I poked myself in the forehead. “The imagery. I have to paint.” I grabbed my scarf, tied it around my neck, and began crawling over spectators, the rush of creativity coursing through me.
“Hayne! Oh, for fuck’s sake. Sorry, sorry, oops. Sorry, ma’am. Hayne!” I heard Scott coming along behind me. He grabbed the end of my scarf and tugged me to a quick stop. I spun to face him. “Do you have to do this now?” He looked at me and then back at the ice. Oh, he wanted to stay.
“Yes, right now. I’m going to wither if I don’t. But stay. Watch the game. Please. I want you to be with your fellow warrior gods.” I tugged my scarf from his fingers, rose to my toes to kiss his whiskery cheek, and then ran out of the rink, the urge to paint growing hotter and hotter.
When I hit the foyer of my house, I was so winded I thought I might pass out. I didn’t though. I tore off my coat and kicked off my boots and left them lying by the front door. The TV was on in the living room, something with loud explosions. Not caring what my other roommate was doing, I barreled up the stairs to my attic. As soon as I stepped inside and inhaled the aromas of paint and turpentine, my muse took over. She, and yes, my muse was a she and her name was Persephone, gave the canvases along the far wall a studious glance and whispered to me that we needed a wall canvas, for the battles of the gods could not be contained on anything smaller.
“Yep, right, so right.” I pulled a massive canvas out from behind standard-sized ones. I made my own when needed, and this one had been sitting for ages, waiting for the right moment and the right work. “This is the right work,” I said, kicking aside shoes and empty soda cans to clear space. The canvas sailed to the floor, scrips and scraps of paper billowing outward when it landed. I peeled off my socks and whipped them at our beds. Wound in the rapture of a new painting, I grabbed a few tubes of paint. One aquamarine, one ochre, and one Venetian red, to reflect the various colors of battle and armor I’d been witness to. A mental image of Scott geared up and knocking other warrior gods aside formed in my mind, and I whimpered with the beauty and need it created in me. It scared me half to death to be so enamored of a man I knew so little about, but he was stunning, and my artistic eye wanted nothing more than to feast on him indefinitely.
I tapped the play button on my paint-speckled stereo, and my messy studio was filled with Puccini. Wearing just my jeans and an old sweater, I stepped onto the wall-sized canvas I’d stretched over a handmade frame. It was a big one, measuring ninety by seventy inches. The canvas sagged in the middle. I’d reframe it when I was done, but for now, the muse was whispering in my ear, and I had art to create. Making wall art was like waltzing with the colors. I loved the feel of the paint on my hands and feet. It opened me up to the process as a whole so much better than a paintbrush could. I grabbed the tubes of paint from my palette table and gave myself up to Persephone and the music.
Vissi d’Arte faded into Liebestraum by Liszt. I tossed the cap from the ochre to the corner and squeezed the tube. Then I did the same with the aquamarine and the red. Eyes closed, the music leading me in the dance between art and artist, I dropped to my knees and pressed my hands into the cool paint. Blindly, I pushed to the left, and then in a circle, hearing the colors as clearly as I could hear Liszt. The rush of creation swept over me, pumping me full of passion and chaotic need, I slid forward on my knees, fingers slippery with paint, and ran my hands to the end of the canvas. The hair on my arms rose. Chopin’s Aeolian Harp began to play. I opened my eyes, and Scott stood in the doorway of my studio, his smile uneven, his beautiful eyes glowing.
“Beethoven led me here.”
“Chopin,” I corrected instantly, then chided myself for being a snob.
“Right, Chopin. We won.”
“Awesome!” I sat back on my paint-coated heels.
“Is this the battle of the gods painting coming to life?”
I nodded. Curls fell into my face. I blew them out of the way.
“You must have been really into this one. I picked up your coat and boots and took your keys out of the front door.”
He tossed the keys onto the shelving unit that held my supplies, then walked to the canvas. His right shoulder dropped just a bit when he walked, so he tended to swagger. It was masculine and confident and everything I wasn’t. “So is this some of that Impressionable art that they taught us about in high school art class?”
“Impressionism.” He rolled his eyes. I bit down on the inside of my lower lip. Stop correcting the big people
, Hayne. It makes you sound elitist, “No, it’s not. Impressionism is known for its brush strokes and open composition. Most are outdoors, and… you’re bored.”
“Not at all. So what is this then? Finger painting for grown-ups?” He gave me that off-kilter smile that he threw around like confetti on New Year’s Eve. It never quite made it all the way to his haunted eyes though or rarely did. I wished his eyes could be happy all the time.
“Sort of,” I confessed. “It’s maybe some sort of experimental art.” I shrugged. “I like to do them when I’m feeling… hot and inspired.”
“You’re always hot, Hayne. It’s one of the things I like about you.” He sat, pulled off his socks and OU hoodie, and then stood and made a move to join me.
“The canvas won’t hold us both,” I warned him, but Scott, it seemed, didn’t listen well. He stepped onto the tightly stretched canvas, and the staples began to fly. One hit the brick wall and then ricocheted off the window pane.
“Duck and dive!” he yelled, throwing his arms over his head and falling to his stomach on the canvas. I shouted at him to stop, but he rolled to his back, his chest and face smeared with vibrant, angry colors. He smiled up at me, a sincere smile, that made his eyes glow like a warm gemstone. “Hit the deck, Picasso!”
He grabbed me by the arm and jerked me down, looming over me to pin my back to the canvas. I slapped at him, knowing moving someone as beefy as he was would be impossible. He snickered madly, sat on my stomach, and rubbed his hands over my cheeks.
“Stop! Oh come on, do you know how hard this is to wash out of hair like mine? Blech! Argh, it’s terrible!” I tried to grab his wrists, but he was too fast, too strong, and too hell-bent on pushing as much paint into my hair as he could. “Dammit, Scott!” I snarled, which only made him laugh a little harder. Chopin’s Nocturne began to play.
“You’re cute when you’re mad. I’ve never seen you so lively.”
