by V. L. Locey
“Nice.” I smiled sincerely at the man. “I dig kids. I had some time advising the Stallions youth team over the summer. It was a blast. I hope I can find a youth hockey organization in Manhattan who’d like a pro volunteer.”
Ken’s face lost all expression. The glow of a proud grandad? Gone. That was the first fingerling of unease that danced over the nape of my neck.
“You’re a fine asset to the Stallion team, Nate,” Ken said, and that finger of disquiet turned into an icy cold hand slowly wrapping its digits around my neck.
“That’s nice to hear.” I set my glass of water down on the dark red tablecloth, uncaring if it left a wet ring. “I’ll be more of an asset to the Mustangs. Did you see what I did out on the ice the past three days?”
“I did, and you’ve got skill. No one has ever said you didn’t.” He glanced at the windows that faced Grand River Avenue and those fingers closed around my throat a bit tighter. When his brown gaze returned to me I saw all I needed to see in his sad gaze. Fuck. Shit. Fucking shit. “The Mustangs just aren’t convinced that you’ve progressed far enough in your rehabilitation to warrant an invitation to training camp this year.”
“Mr. O’Keefe, I’ve done everything the court mandated and more. My time on the ice with those kids? Totally me,” I argued quietly. I did not want other players to hear my disgrace. He nodded strongly and even went so far as to pat my arm in a kind, paternal manner.
“Nate, we know and we’re all proud of the strides that you’ve made, but you’ve only been sober for what? Two months?”
“Three, going on four. I have the chips to prove it.” He looked at me with pity, and I saw the finality in his gaze. I gathered myself up, disregarded the urge to show him my motherfucking chips, and held my hand out to him. “I understand their reluctance to take a chance yet. I’ll play my heart out for the Stallions and next year we’ll hopefully have a different discussion.”
“That’s the attitude. Keep your nose clean.” He smiled in relief, shook my hand, and then excused himself.
I sat there at the table, alone, and watched as he made his way to Boomer and passed along some very good news. The freckle-faced kid whooped and punched the air. I stood, tugged down my jacket, and left without my meal. Someone at the bar called my name as I passed, but I kept my eyes on those double doors leading to the lobby. Once there, I pulled a right and waited for an elevator, my hands in my front pockets, my fingers moving the different colored chips around like they were true coins.
When the doors opened, two other players stepped out, both wingers who I had come know along the circuit. Drew and Bob, good guys, my age. We’d tore shit up last year at this same event. Spent all night out, got plowed, and woke up on the floor in Drew’s room with no solid recollection of what or who I had done in the past eight hours. I’d done someone though. My skin reeked of cologne that was not mine. Social media had enjoyed our night out nearly as much as we had. The league and our respective teams had not been happy with the shots of us with strippers on our laps, and yes, mine was full of a male stripper who I think might have been the who I had done but wasn’t sure.
“Zinkan, you’re not leaving already are you? What kind of party would it be without you?” Drew asked, slapping my back as I stepped into the elevator.
“Going to have to be a dull one,” I replied, removing a hand so that I could tap the button to my floor. They gaped at me then the doors shut in their faces, and I exhaled loudly, then cussed, loudly. Fingers raking through my hair, I called the world and myself miserable names at the top of my lungs. By the time I reached my floor, I was pretty well cleansed of anger. My room greeted me with a quiet hum of forced air that smelled like failure. I tugged my tie loose then pulled it over my head. It hit the bed, as did my jacket, and finally my nicely pressed shirt. I held the shirt up, glowering at it and the time I’d spent ironing it just an hour ago.
“There’s five minutes I’ll never get back.” I sighed, balled the cotton shirt up and slung it across the room. It hit the wall and slithered to the floor, the impact not at all satisfying. “Fuckers,” I mumbled at the world in general then collapsed onto the hard bed, burying my face into my hands. My phone chirruped. Maybe it was Bran although that was doubtful since he was at his uncle’s.But still it could be. Fuck knows the sound of his voice would work wonders…
Raising my ass up a bit, I slid my phone free before I scowled at the text from one of the guys on the Stallions asking about renting my place.
“Fuckers,” I said again, falling back onto the bed. I sent my agent a text. Short and sweet.
Call me.
Within three minutes, my phone rang and I slapped it to the side of my head. “Hey, so that place in Manhattan? I won’t be needing it,” I said, the weight of that announcement sitting on my chest like a Zamboni.
“Well shit, I was afraid that was how things would play out. I am sorry, Nate. Hold on, let me take this back in my office. Peggy, just get those contracts to legal then go on home.”
“Dude, it’s eight o’clock at night. Why are you still at the office?” I stared at the ceiling wishing I was down at the bar with Drew getting shitfaced. Booze would wipe away the regrets.
And leave you with tenfold more.
Now my sponsor was inside my head. Great.
“Because I have athletes who need me.” A sickly smile tugged at my lips. “You most of all. So, now that I’m alone with just me and my space, tell me what happened.”
“They’re not sure I’m fixed yet is the long and short of it,” I said, toeing off one then the other shoe, both hitting the floor with soft thuds. I heard Arn huff as he sat down behind that huge fancy glass desk of his. “That’s not what they said, of course, but that was the core of it.”
“Sorry, kid, truly I am.” Cubes hit a glass. I winced at the sound but said nothing. People were allowed to drink even if I never could again. The problem was mine, not Arn’s, and certainly not Arn’s when he was a few states away. “We kind of suspected that might be the case. You know that the league or the team is not going to call up a player with dependency issues.”
“Ouch.”
“Hurts, I know, but facts are facts. You okay?”
“Yeah, just bummed. I might take an early flight home. Being here sucks. Boomer will come bouncing in here all racked up about going to Mustangs camp, and I’m just too fucking petty to be cheery about his success right now.”
“Call your sponsor. Fuck me. I’m not drinking booze here, it’s prune juice. For my colon.”
That made me snort in amusement. “Prune juice. Right. It’s okay, man. Drink your scotch. My sobriety is not on you, it’s on me.”
“I am sorry, Nate, but this might be a good thing. Get you through a year of being sober, get your community service hours completed, get one more year of refinement under your belt, and then hit the youth classic next fall with a new clean, more mature Nate Zinkan.”
“Yeah maybe…”
“That pink hair might be a good place to start with that maturity bit. Just saying.”
“Fuck you. I love my pink hair, and so does Bran.”
“The boyfriend is not the person to ask. He’s too wound up in all that pretty Nate to speak his mind. Give him a few months.” Arn took a swallow of his drink, the cubes rattling prettily. I got up and went to the fridge for a ten-dollar bottle of pink lemonade. Totally worth it. I twisted the top off, chucked it into the trash by the small desk, and walked to the window.
“Can you find me a flight out of here tonight?”
“Give me ten. And Nate, life is full of setbacks. It’s how we handle those obstacles that prove what kind of man we truly are. You’ll come out of this smelling like roses, or at least a daisy.”
I looked out at the lights of the Motor City. “Or maybe I’ll just be a virtuous weed.”
“What now?”
“Nothing. Let me know if you can find me a flight home, okay?” I took a slug of lemonade, puckering at the tart on my
tongue. “Oh, and thanks for being a workaholic and having no social life so I can call at any time and cry on your shoulder.”
“Why do you think I wear shoulder pads in my suits? To soak up all those athletic tears. Be strong, Nate. You’re on the path,” he said before ending the call.
Yeah, a path. But a path to where, that was the question.
Turns out my path led me back to Bran.
To say he was shocked to see me at his door at six in the morning on a day I was supposed to be in Michigan might be an understatement. I didn’t turn to wave the Uber driver off, but I heard the low hum of his car as he pulled away.
“I thought you were coming in this evening,” he said just as I dropped my bags to the floor and threw my arms around him. “Oh, Nate, did something go wrong?”
I shoved my nose into his throat, drawing in all the scent and strength I could. Eyes closed, I could pick up the subtle smell of sun and earth that was uniquely Bran as well as the lingering hint of his aftershave. He smelled warm, sexy, manly, safe.
“I’m not ready yet,” I murmured against his skin. He pulled me closer, his hands resting on my lower back. “They say I’m not ready yet…not clean long enough. Fuckers.”
“Well shit.” He sighed, slipping his hands up under my Stallions hoodie. His fingers were strong and rough against my skin.
“Manure. You’re a garden geek. You should say ‘well manure’, right?”
“I guess so.” He dropped a kiss to my hair, yes the pink part that my agent said was immature. “Glad to see you haven’t lost your attitude.”
“Never,” I joked but it was feeble and fell flat. He pulled away just a bit, looked me over, and then led me to the sofa.
“Sit, I think we both need some coffee.”
I dropped down like a bag of pucks. Bran went off to brew some coffee. Hands under my head, I stared out the sliding glass door to his backyard. He’d put up a bird feeder, a plastic one that looked like a red barn, and tiny birds flew in and out steadily. The tips of the leaves surrounding his place were starting to change color, soon they’d be stunning shades of red or yellow or orange, depending on what kind of tree they were.
“When do you plant trees?” I shouted to be heard.
“Generally in the fall,” he said, exiting the kitchen with two mugs of coffee. He sat down carefully after I moved my feet, handed me a cup, and then tugged my sneakers off one by one using his left hand. “No shoes on the furniture,” he chided but it lacked any real disapproval.
I pushed up to rest on my elbow, my arm angled behind me, and stared at him. He was sleep-rumpled, in need of a shower and a razor. He was fucking gorgeous. He was a well of strength and acceptance that I could drink from when I was dehydrated from the battles of life.
“I started packing stuff,” I relayed as I stared at a swirl of dark hair poking our behind his right ear. He pouted a bit. “Yeah, that’s going to suck.”
“I’ll come over and help you unpack.” He placed his mug on the end table then held out his hand for mine. I passed it over and braced my upper body up with two arms behind me, elbows deeply driven into the couch cushion. “Put your feet here.” He patted his thighs. I threw my feet to his lap and he removed my socks then pushed his knuckles into the sole of my left foot. I jerked at the pressure, but he held tight with his free hand on my ankle.
“That hurts.”
“There are pressure points on the feet that aid in freeing toxins from the body, or something along those lines. One of my first garden gurus was a big yoga fan and was always talking about chakras and reflexology.”
“Ouch, but that’s not making me feel like anything is being freed from my body,” I pointed out but he kept rubbing and knuckling my feet and slowly the sadness and the stress that I’d been carrying with me began to dwindle. Neil sang on lowly, the birds flittered back and forth outside the sliding door, and Bran’s fingers were massaging away the darkness inside me.
“This is nice.” I sighed, letting my head drop back. He made a sound of agreement then used his thumb to work a spot right under my big toe. A groan of pleasure burbled out of me, and I let my arms slide out to the sides, my spine meeting the couch inch by inch as if someone were laying a pearl necklace out pearl by pearl. “I’ll give you a week to stop.”
“I could get used to this,” he said, the song on the stereo ending as my breathing quieted. Another started, an old classic of Neil’s where he extols the joys of red wine. He lifted my foot to his lips and kissed the high arch. I melted a little further into the cushion. “This is going to sound a little appalling, but in a greedy horrid way, I’m glad you’re staying.”
I took a moment to consider his words. “Yeah, I get that. On one level I’m happy to be here for another year.” Using core muscles I sat up, his blue-gray gaze meeting mine. “Leaving you was going to suck.”
A flutter of emotion pulled at his lips, tugging the corners slightly. “So, does that mean that this summer romance is more than a summer romance?”
“You mean like a fall romance too?”
He smiled softly. “Or perhaps even a winter one?”
“I hope so. I’d like to see spring arrive with you as my man. Mort’ll hate me being here until spring.”
“Mort will have to adjust.” He leaned in to taste my lips. “Should I call Dixie and have her open up?”
I shook my head. “No, let’s go in. I’m free for another four days. I want to look at trees.”
“We planting it here?”
“I can’t think of anywhere else to plant it, can you? Long as you’re good with me being around to watch it grow.”
The fine lines around his eyes crinkled when he smiled. “I’m incredibly good with that.”
Epilogue
Sixteen months later
“Zink! Zink! Zink! Zink!”
The Mustangs fans were on their feet, cheering my name as the goal horn blared. Hats of every size and shape fluttered down to the ice as I stood by the home bench, grinning widely at the deluge of headgear raining down on us. Ballcaps big and large, a baby bonnet, even a sombrero, littered the ice. While the ice crew skated around sweeping up hats and dumping them into wheeled trash cans, I knocked back electrolytes and watched my third goal of the night being replayed yet again on the Jumbotron.
It was a smooth little wraparound. The Pittsburgh goalie had been detained and delayed and distressed all night, and that final goal with a minute forty left on the clock had pissed him off. Smirking at the replay of his meltdown in the crease, I tossed a trainer my bottle, wiped at my head with a towel, and wished for the millionth time that Bran was here. Sure, he was watching on TV, and that was something, but going back to that damn empty apartment in the Lower West Side even for a night sucked. The apartment was great, two big bedrooms, massive baths, and an outdoor terrace that I hardly ever used but Bran had decked out for me nonetheless. Sitting out there on my yellow chaise without him at my back felt wrong. Also, pigeons just didn’t have the same appeal as Gilbert and Gottfried. It cost four times what I paid for my old place in Syracuse, which was why I had a roommate to help offset the costs a bit.
However, it was where I slept when I was in town, and it was where Bran crashed when he came into New York. Those were rare occasions, what with work and my travel schedule.He hated driving in the bad weather, so we were now down to me coming out when I had a long enough break.
“Zink, you heading home during the bye week?”
I turned from the replay of the Pittsburgh goalie shattering his stick over the post and nodded at my roommate, Dave Potter, a big, affable d-man who didn’t drink. That had been prerequisite one when Arn had been scoping out players to share my place. I’d been doing my best to represent myself as the new man I’d worked so hard to become. I’d done PSAs about the joys of being clean and sober. I’d volunteered to make speeches at high schools to hopefully help reduce underage drinking. There was also the online petition I’d help set up to try to remove beer and win
e advertising from the dasher boards. That wasn’t going well at all but we were at least talking about it, bringing it to the attention of the league and the fans. Conversation was important.
“I’m on that train as soon as I can wash the sweat off my balls,” I shouted back to Dave.
“Mind if I have Marnie over while you’re gone?”
“Nope, not at all.” His girlfriend Marnie was adorable. Tall, sleek, blonde, and given to watching chick flicks then crying all over whoever may be at hand. She looked perfect tucked into Dave’s side, him all big and dark and scary, and her this leggy thing with an iron will. You did not change the channel when Marnie had a movie rolling. “Tell her to clean my bathroom in lieu of a rental charge.”
Dave’s brown eyes bugged out of his head. I snorted in amusement.
When all the hats had been cleaned up, the game resumed, a quick little bit of hockey that resulted in us merely running downtime. The 5-0 victory over our division rivals felt twice as good as a regular win and kept us in a three-way tie with Philly and Washington for first place. Every point counted now, with half the season behind us a losing streak now could see us slip and never be able to claw our way back to the top.
The post-game gamut was run. Interviews, showers, and then the short subway ride home with Dave. I’d planned to roll out tomorrow, so I reached out to Bran on my phone, calling him as I lay in bed with the lights of Eldridge Street shining on me. That was one thing I missed about Syracuse, the darkness out at Bran’s cabin. No lights, no sirens, just quiet and dark. Something was always moving here in the city. People, cars, jets flying overhead. Our street had chic delis and a synagogue, Chinese restaurants, and gritty bars. It was a great place to live, vibrant with that city beat, but it lacked the charm of Bran’s place, which was now my place when I was back north.
I drifted off to the memory of his body pressed to mine and snapped awake at six sharp, my phone assaulting me with some Neil Diamond, who, I was ashamed to admit, I’d grown to admire. Not in a rabid way like Bran, but man, his music was perfect for lovemaking. And thinking of sex with Bran made my already stiff dick pulse. I kicked off the covers, took a cool shower, and was on the road by eight, leaving Dave a note to remind Marnie to make sure the whiskers in the sink were scrubbed out.
