by V. L. Locey
“I’m well aware of how long it’s been. It was my wife and me who had to help him pick up the pieces of his shattered life and heart,” Mort stated firmly. “I’m honestly relieved to hear that this is just a physical thing. Bran is a good man.”
“I agree.”
“He does not need to have his heart broken again. Make sure you get your paperwork in on time.” He placed his mug on the counter, cold blue eyes locked on me. “If you need to find a new charity to finish your probationary sentence when you get to Manhattan, please don’t hesitate to call my office. We’ll gladly set you up with someone in New York City.”
“Thanks, I’m sure you’ll be hearing from me come October, until then, me and Bran will probably be doing this,” I waved at myself, “a lot so maybe you should call before coming over.”
“Mm, I’ll keep that in mind. Tell him I’ll come back for those lopping shears later.”
“I can find them for you. They’re probably in the garage.”
And so I led the judge out into Bran’s ridiculously tidy garage. Hanging on the wall were all types of gardening instruments. I took down the loppers, handed them to Mort, and then stood there, soles of my feet soaking up the coolness from the cement floor, as he crawled into a silver Mercedes and took off without even a “fuck you, Zinkan” tossed in my direction. Seems a man so highly educated would be polite enough to say “later” or “drop dead punk”. Guess manners didn’t come with pricey law degrees.
Chapter Eleven
July rolled into August on some sort of magical cloud of love tour. Like a rock band of fluffy feelings but with no big ass bur or rowdy roadies.
Life was hectic—but incredible—and so much of that incredibleness was because of Bran. I did things with him that I’d never done with another man. I had let him in and in return, he showed me what a difference a loving man in your life makes. It scared me on a cellular level but there was no stopping things from blossoming and growing between us. We both knew that our time was limited as my usual intense training for the new season had already begun, so when we had time we made the most of it.
Stupid dorky couple things mostly, like canal rides and movie dates, setting up a revival for Dixie’s summer stock production in the community gardens which would take place in a week. Renting bikes and pedaling them around the city which counted as training so go me and eating out at small bistros, the last one a small birthday feast for two where we ate so much calamari Bran swore he’d grown some suction cups, and I begged to see where they’d sprouted. We sipped sparkling grape juice that night and then went to my place and I did a thorough sucker search. Nary a suction cup did I find but I did discover the man loved a good rimming.
Weeks of bliss had me humming with positive energy. My life had turned around. I’d taken a fucking dismal existence and spun it into gold. When I hit the ice for the annual Marauders training camp, I’d be in full-blown beast mode. Clean, focused, and fast. I had exactly two weeks until that happened. Training camp would mean a huge shift in the life I was leading now. And when I went to Manhattan for the usual call-up of minor league talent, I’d be two hundred fifty miles from Bran, the gardens, and the Ponies. Four or so hours away. Not too bad but still far enough that I’d not see him on the nearly daily basis we saw each other now. We’d touched on him driving down or me taking a train up, but so far neither one of us had committed to that because this summer fling might just be that once the rigors of ice hockey began to sharpen its blades on this tender new love.
However, leaving was fourteen days away. Currently, I was on a Centro bus at six thirty in the morning. My gear in a bag beside me, and my sight locked on some punk kid in front of me as I talked to Arn, who still texted or called weekly as he had when I’d been a scrub kid bunking with him. He was like a cool uncle who took ten percent of your paycheck.
“No, seriously, it’s going good. This guy is great,” I said, eyeballing the six-year-old in the seat in front of me. Me and him had been staring at each other since I’d gotten on the bus. His mother was too busy talking to someone named Doristo pay attention to her shitty kid. So far he’d flicked a booger at me and stuck his tongue out at me. Now he was leaning over the back of the seat, his gaze locked with mine, as he let a string of spit dribble from his lip. I refused to move my feet. If this kid spit on my new Nikes, I would stand up and show him how a professional hockey player spit. Bet him and his mom would be impressed with my distance and volume. “Nope, he’s running me through the same kind of program that Pierre did last season. Yep, I like him. Cool guy, and his taking me in last minute was cool.”
“Okay, as long as he’s adapted his football training for a hockey player,” Arn replied then launched into some longwinded gab about ensuring I was getting the regime I needed even though this guy was the athletic coach for the local college football team. I raised an eyebrow at little Johnny and his drool thread. It was getting pretty long. I kind of dared the brat with a whispered “Do it” that only he and I heard. He sucked the spit back into his mouth then crammed his fingers into his nose and tugged upward. Ah, a pig. Cute. Classic comeback. “So, things with this new man are going good?”
I smirked at the boy. “Yeah, really good,” I said as I battled not to laugh at the kid snorting softly at me. “You think you could maybe look into a rail pass or something?”
“Sure, for metro New York?”
“Well, sure, for the subway but for coming back to Syracuse when I can.” I heard the huff on the other end and knew what would follow. Not that I’d ever had a dude in my life that I wanted to see—or fuck—more than once, but I knew Arn Toras. He was the consummate bachelor who disdained commitment of any kind. He loved women, or I guess I should say he loved pussy, but he never dated anyone longer than a month, and business always came before sex. Power was the ultimate orgasm he liked to say. He was one of the most powerful athletic representatives on the east coast, so his philosophy must work for him. I’d thought it had for me too until I met Bran.
“Nate, buddy, I’m glad you found someone to spend the summer with. I know it’s been rough up there for you dealing with the fallout, but you’ve handled things well. Just don’t lose your heart to him. Your life right now has to be hockey. You know this. It’s what we’ve been working so fucking hard for all these years.”
“Yeah, I know, I do. I just…coming back to visit isn’t me marrying the guy, it’s just a booty run.”
“Uh-huh. Shit, I have Marcus LeCroix on another line. Look, just do me a solid, okay? Fuck him all you want, and hey, even take the train to scratch that itch, but don’t fall in love. Trust me on this one, that woman will rip your heart out, eat it, and then wash it down with a nice Merlot.”
“That’s incredibly gross.” I sighed, turning from the stupid kid in front of me to see my stop coming up. “And he’s not a woman.”
“What?”
“You said ‘that woman’.”
“Oh, slip of the tongue. I’ll call you in a few days. Work hard, Nate. I have a feeling this is the year they ask you to stay up in the Big Apple.”
“I hope so,” I said but this tiny little voice somewhere in the region of the emotion center of my brain made a whispering sort of squeaky sound like a startled mouse. The bus rolled to a slow stop, and I ended the call to my agent, pocketed my phone, and gave the kid in front of me my Stallions cap. He gasped and sat down, clutching the hat to his chest. His mother never even acknowledged my gift or her kid. It irked me so I stopped beside her on the way out, gear bag heavy and bulky dangling off my shoulder, and I tapped her on the shoulder. She glanced up, phone to her ear, with a scowl.
“That kid there, he really would like some attention. Might want to look his way on occasion.” I dropped that in her lap like a mic and exited the bus, lifting a hand to the kid who now wore my hat as he waved at me down on the sidewalk. Feeling as if I’d done well by not getting into a spitting match with a kindergartener—a sure sign of my new maturity levels—I took four
steps toward the fitness center before my phone vibrated in my back pocket. Hoping it was a text from Bran, I dropped my bag by my feet, yanked the phone free, and then read the newest text.
It was not from Bran.
It was from Chris and was a total of two words.
Dad’s dying.
I never made it inside.
Five hours later, Bran and I were inside Ithaca-Tompkins Airport saying goodbye.
“I should go with you,” he kept repeating as we held each other. “I can book a seat yet.”
“No.” I kissed his throat, my lips pressing into the flesh right over his pulse. “I don’t want you anywhere near Chris or this whole miserable thing.” I pulled back a bit, my hands on his hips, and looked right into his eyes. “It’s a bad thing.”
“What is? Your brother? I can handle your brother.” I shook my head. His mouth, the kissable one, was now a flat line. He looked a lot like Mort when he did that. I thought to tell him but didn’t want to get into this now. Or ever. “I wish you’d tell me everything, Nate.”
“You read up about me before letting me join the gardening program. You know everything.”
“Yes, I know the basics but there is something fetid growing between you and your brother. Something I can’t pin down. He’s your only living sibling, Nate. Surely—”
“No, stop. There’s no surely. Just…” I sucked in a breath, let it out, and ran my hands up and down his sides. “I promise when this is over, we’ll have a long talk about the Zinkan family dynamic. Right now though, I need to get through security and get on my plane before Chris pulls the plug and strips me of saying goodbye while Dad is still alive.”
“Okay, okay.” He released the hold he’d had on my waist then took a step back. “I’m going to hold you to that talk when you return. I’ve been painfully honest with you.”
“I know, and I’ll let it out later. Not now, not here.” I bent over to pick up my carry-on bag. I wasn’t checking anything. Inside I had a suit, and enough clothes for two days, maybe three or four if I turned my underwear inside out.
“Do you have your sponsor’s phone number?”
I frowned. I hated that term. Sponsor. It made me sound like a drunk. Which, I kind of guess I was but not really…okay I was an abuser. Of alcohol. Ugh. Obviously, more work was needed with me and my acceptance of my addiction.
“Yes. I have Barron’s number. And yours. I’d rather talk to you.” My fingers traveled up his arm to the sensitive fold of his elbow.
“But you need someone who knows what you’re going through if you slip. As much as I wish I could be that person for you, I’m not. That person is another addict.”
I nodded in weary agreement. My flight was announced. “I have to go. I’ll call as soon as I land. Make sure you feed the gulls.”
“Go.”
He stole one last kiss then pushed me toward a harried-looking TSA agent. I waved and tried to smile but the effort was weak. Bran lifted a hand and then I was moving along having my bag x-rayed, slipping my sneakers back on, and making a mad dash for my plane.
Once we were in the air, I did my best to ignore the knowledge that for five bucks I could get a beer. Beer and peanuts. Fucking right. I sorely needed a beer, or two—maybe ten. Touching down in Vegas then having to drive for like two hundred miles might not be enough to keep my fingers out of my wallet. Facing Chris, who was going to be miserable because he had to come pick me up, required one to be buzzed at the very least and ripping soused at the worse.
When the flight attendant brought the dude next to me a rum and coke, I dug into my pocket, pulled out my two-month chip and began rubbing it between my thumb and forefinger.
“Sorry to offend,” the middle-aged guy said.
“Huh?”
“You’re playing with some sort of religious thing, right? Like maybe you’re Muslim or something?”
“Oh, no. It’s uh…” I held up the chip. It was shiny and glinted in the sun streaming through the small window. “Two month sobriety chip.”
“Oh hell,” he murmured and tried to slink downward in his seat. “Buddy, I am so sorry. Let me call her back and she can take this away.” He even began to raise his hand.
“No, it’s cool. Temptation is all around, yeah? Enjoy your drink.”
I faked my way through the rest of the flight by smiling, rubbing my chip, and jamming earbuds into my head. Music, loud and metallic so nothing at all like Bran’s playlist, was what was needed. It helped to ease my nerves a bit, but in the long run, nothing really worked like partying. Guess that was why I turned to it all the time. I’d learned early on that dulling yourself was the easiest way to get from Monday to Tuesday. Dad had slipped into the bottle big time after Mom had left, so I grew up watching someone use booze make life easier. Then Dad tried to end his pain permanently, and I started stealing sips from the whiskey bottles even though I’d watched what booze and sadness did to a person. Why I’d chosen to drink when I knew the outcome was a mystery I was still trying to uncover. Must be like those people who are visiting a loved one suffering from lung cancer in the hospital but still have to sneak outside to have a smoke. You never think that bad shit will fall on your head. You always assume you’re the one who can handle that drink, that puff, that needle in the arm. And you do until you don’t.
Landing in Vegas seven hours later—fucking joys of having dinky ass airports that had to jet your ass to LaGuardia—I waded through the vast terminals, my bag on my shoulder, looking for Chris. I found him buying a bottle of water in one of those overly-priced airport shops. There was no mistaking him, in uniform or out, he was a louder version of me only older and with buzzed hair.
“Hey, thanks for meeting me at my terminal,” I opened with. Chris tossed some money at the girl behind the counter and spun to look at me. He was a few inches taller but not much wider or heavier.
“If you wouldn’t have lost your license I wouldn’t have had to meet you anywhere.”
He walked off, water in hand, and I had this insane urge to simply haul my ass to the nearest airline desk and buy a ticket home. Fuck this. Dad wouldn’t even know that I was there to send him off.
Chris stalled about ten feet away, giving me a dark look. “Are you coming?”
“Yeah.” I sighed, rucked my bag higher on my shoulder and fell in behind him out into the dry, dark, desert night. He led me to a small truck, a Ford, and we climbed in. Nothing was said for at least forty miles. “How bad is he?”
He turned the radio down but never looked at me. “He’s been brain dead for years, Nate, how bad do you think he is?” My teeth ground as I bit back a nasty reply. “If he’d have given someone other than Mom the legal power to pull the plug this would have been over years ago. But what do you care? You come out to visit once a year when your precious star ass is done playing games for a living.”
“Dude, I was stuck this summer. Did I not tell you that?! And secondly, I come out whenever I can, asshole.”
“Stuck in a mire of your own making.” He threw me a fast look and the disgust on his face was evident even in the low light of the dash lights. “Drunken party boy. Pink hair and a damned earring in your nose. Piling on tats that have no meaning to you because you’ve never done a fucking thing of worth your entire life. This…” he slapped the Army insignia tattooed on his right forearm, “this means something.”
“My ink means something to me,” I replied but the fire had gone out of my argument. He continued berating me as I sat there like an empty boiler, my insides growing colder and colder even though we were in the heart of the Mojave. I stared out the window, picking up words here and there as he droned on. Things like “drunk” and “queer” and “unfit to serve”.
“I’d be more than fit to serve if I wanted to enlist, I just don’t.”
He fell silent. I did as well. The rest of the drive to Barstow was us glaring out our chosen windows, dislike and misunderstanding heavy on the air. He pulled up in front of a cheap motel a
nd leaned over me, tossing the door open as I blinked in confusion.
“This is where you sleep.”
“But I thought I’d be on the base with you.”
“I’m not letting you sleep in my house. I don’t want the men on base to see you.”
I slid out of the truck, grabbed my bag, and then slammed the door closed. “Scared some of them will hit on me? Maybe one of your friends?”
“No real man on that base would give your stupid ass a second look.”
“Wow,” I muttered as I took a step back from the truck, my heel bumping against a street lamp. “You’re truly drowning in toxicity.”
“Just go ditch your bag. He’s probably already died by now.”
I pounded inside, got the key to my room, and threw my bag inside. I took a minute to send Bran a text. He was asleep back east I was sure, but I wanted to touch base. Chris peeled away from the curb the moment I was in the cab.
Ten minutes later, we were being led to my father’s room by an older woman in a pink top. She was talking to me about Dad, I assumed, but I wasn’t really hearing much. My sight kept darting into the rooms of the other patients as we passed them. Old people sitting in wheelchairs, staring out into space or holding baby dolls. It was beyond depressing here.
“Here we are. We’ll miss him. Buzz me if you need anything,” the aide said and patted my arm comfortingly.
She left me in the doorway. Chris waved me in. I slipped inside, careful to pull the door closed, and crept to the bed. Dad lay there his breathing so faint I had to listen closely to catch the raspy inhalations that barely lifted his thin chest. I’d grown accustomed to his disfigured face by now, the unseeing open eyes, the clawed hands, the little sounds he made on occasion. The first year had been hard. I’d had nightmares about him chasing me around our house, my feet slipping in the blood on the bathroom floor. A bullet under the chin did incredible damage to a person’s face. The jaw, nose, and left eye had been beyond repair, but they’d hobnobbed his jaw together somehow. It was pretty grotesque, but it was better than how I’d found him that day…
