Second Chance

by Van Barrett

  The thought that one man would do that for another scared the shit out of Clay. The business wasn't supposed to work like that. He'd spent the last few years trying to teach Rusty that even though they were friends, they were competing against each other for the same damned job.

  They were supposed to be at war with each other. Even if they did friendly things, like spend way too much time together, or hell, share the same damn woman.

  And here Rusty was, trying to make sure Clay had every chance to succeed. It was sweet, no doubt, and it made Clay's somber heart throb—and he didn't know what to make of the confused and conflicted thoughts for Rusty that raced through his mind.

  No girl has ever done anything like that for me, he thought to himself. And I've never felt anything for a girl like I feel for him.

  But at the same time, Clay knew he was an anchor tied around Rusty's neck. The kid would never be a success if he was waiting for Clay to catch up.

  It was time to teach the kid his last lesson. He had to set him free.

  Rusty emerged from his bedroom with a bag slung around his shoulder. With the few minutes he'd spent to himself, Rusty managed to compose himself and put on a smile. It wasn't a convincing one, but at least he'd tried to look chipper. There was no way in hell he looked like a guy who was thrilled to finally get his first NHL call-up, though.

  “Ready?” Clay asked.

  Rusty nodded.

  “Let's go.”

  ***

  “I hope you're not pissed at me,” Rusty said softly as Clay put the truck in gear.

  Clay shook his head. He wasn't sure if Rusty meant the call-up, or the blowjob, or hell, both. But his answer was the same regardless.

  “Not at all.”

  “Oh. Okay. Good.”

  They drove on in silence. Clay searched his soul for the words he simply didn't know how to say. He knew they were at a fork in the road. Rusty's life went one way, Clay's went the other.

  Clay spotted an automatic car-wash. And it'd hopefully give him more time to say what he needed to say. He pointed the car-wash out to Rusty.

  “You mind? Truck could use a wash after today.”

  That was true: it looked like two men had busily made snow-angels on the hood of the truck. Or dirt-angels, whichever.

  Rusty peeked at his watch and gave a shrug. “Uh, sure, I guess.”

  Clay pulled the truck into the queue, set the gear in neutral. The car-wash's conveyor belt pulled the truck forward, through a fine mist of pre-wash that sprayed from the machine's nozzles. Then thick globs of creamy foam splattered the truck, covering the windows until the last bit of outside light disappeared.

  Suddenly, it was dark, quiet, and cozy in the cabin—just the two of them, no one else around. The most private spot in the world. And Clay found his words, and some amount of courage, at last.

  He put his hand on Rusty's shoulder.

  “Rusty.”

  Rusty shot him a timid glance. “Yeah?”

  “About what happened earlier …”

  Rusty squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “I know, I know. Dumb. I—I don't even know what to say, Clay. I've never done anything like that—err, besides, you know. The other time with Manon. God! Stupid. So stupid. I'm so ashamed of myself, Clay—please don't tell the boys. Fuck, please don't tell the boys.”

  The truck continued forward. Giant flaps of material, whatever they were, slapped at the truck with dull, wet thuds, and worked the soap into a heavy lather.

  “I won't,” Clay said quietly. “I swear I won't.”

  Relief filled Rusty's sad eyes.

  “Thanks.”

  Clay blew out a deep sigh. “The hell would I tell them, anyway? You blew me, and I liked it?”

  Rusty let out a bubble of surprised laughter. “What?”

  “Should I tell them you gave me better head than any girl I've ever been with? Or that I came so hard, you drained my fuckin' nuts?”

  “Clay …!”

  “Yeah. Whatever. I'm man enough, I guess, to admit it.”

  Without another word, Clay let his hand off Rusty's shoulder, and slid down his torso. He settled his hand flat on Rusty's muscled thighs. Then, slowly, he slipped his hand up the inside of Rusty's thighs, traveled higher, and, finally, palmed the bulge of his teammate's crotch.

  “Holy shit?” Rusty gasped in confusion.

  “Sorry I freaked out on you so hard,” Clay said, his eyes on Rusty's growing hardness. He fondled and kneaded at the swelling stiffness.

  “You didn't—ooh—freak out at all,” Rusty reassured him.

  “No, but I … I got all weird and quiet afterwards.”

  “Well, that's, that's normal, I think?”

  “Whatever,” Clay growled. The conversation, the car-wash, it all seemed so absurd while he stroked Rusty into a massive erection. Clay didn't want to talk, he just wanted to do what he had to do.

  Clay yanked at Rusty's waist-button so hard, he damn near broke the zipper. Clay reached in and fished out Rusty's lumbering cock. Rusty's face twisted with surprise as if he couldn't believe this was really happening. Clay couldn't blame him; he could barely believe he was doing it, either.

  Rusty got stiff in a hurry, firming harder than steel in Clay's strong fist. Clay jerked him hard and fast, knowing that time was short, as the truck entered a series of giant spinning brushes. The car-wash employees were having a smoke break at the other end of the tunnel, after all.

  “Fuck,” Rusty panted. He dug his palms into the bench-seat and thrust his ass off the seat, pumping his cock in and out of Clay's tight fist.

  Clay licked his lips at the sight of Rusty's manhood. Man, it was something else. A really pretty cock, with a lovely, swooping curve on its head. One that made him want to do filthy things—like dip and drag and swirl his tongue all around his most sensitive crevices. And taste him, really taste him, like his cock were some kind of naughty erotic dessert …

  But before Clay could act on his crazed impulses, Rusty growled.

  “Hnnghhh!”

  Clay aimed Rusty's cock forward just in time. Rusty trembled as he powered out one white thread after another. He blew his load all over the dash, the passenger glove-box, the floor mats, and one thick white streak even splattered the windshield.

  “Holy shit. Holy shit.” Rusty panted for air with a hand held over his thumping heart. He stared wide-eyed at the mess of cum that slowly dribbled down Clay's dashboard.

  Clay tried to hide his grin. He knew he'd made short work of Rusty, and somehow, that was a damned good feeling. An unexpected, and strangely rewarding, feeling.

  The truck continued forward, through a jet-spray of water that rinsed the soap off the vehicle. Clay cracked his window open and wedged his hand out, so the powerful spray could beat Rusty's cum off his fingers.

  “That was fucking wild, Clay,” Rusty said, still disbelieving, still panting for air. He searched the glove-box for napkins to wipe up his cum, but there weren't any.

  “I can't believe I made such a fucking mess, Clay. I'm sorry, man.”

  “Don't worry about it. I'll clean up later.”

  Clay hadn't exactly planned on masturbating his best friend, but the intimacy of the moment had taken over. If nothing else, he figured they were even now, and Rusty wouldn't have to feel all guilty and ashamed that he'd blown him. They could both forget about what they'd done and move on.

  But then Rusty started rambling, full of impossible hopes and dreams.

  “I'm going to put in good word for you in Washington, Clay. I'm going to talk you up to all the coaches there, and really, you know, let them know how well we play together. It's really going to happen, Clay. Me and you. We can be together, play in the NHL together, and fucking live together, and … you know … do some stuff on the side, maybe, if you're cool with it.”

  Clay winced. “Are you insane? Don't do that.”

  “Wha'?”

  “Don't rock the boat, Rusty.
Don't say a word about me or anybody else. Just put your head down and play your goddamned game. Do what they tell you to do and don't fuck this chance up.”

  “But—”

  Clay cut him off. “No, no buts.”

  With a sigh, Clay slid his hand behind Rusty's head and held him. Rusty let his head fall back into Clay's hand.

  Kiss him, something inside Clay screamed.

  But he couldn't do it. He'd taken the kid here to set him free, not to fuck his head up even more.

  Instead, he shook Rusty by the scruff of his neck, as if he were a puppy that needed to be disciplined.

  “And, supposing I somehow made it up to Washington after you? We can't—we can't be a thing, Rusty. We couldn't ever be a thing.”

  Rusty looked crushed all over again. “What? But …”

  “If we got found out? We both know that'd be the end of us.”

  “We could keep it a secret …”

  “Running around, always in fear of getting caught? Having to hide from your teammates? That's no way to live, and you know it. To be the best, your life has to be 100% hockey.”

  “But I know we've got something special, Clay. Or else you wouldn't have jerked me off just now!”

  Clay sighed.

  “I didn't want you to be embarrassed about the blowjob while you're up in Washington. That's why I jerked you off, so we'd be even. Don't look into it any more than that. Just go play your game, man. Don't hold anything back when you're up there. And don't think of me. Ever.”

  Rusty scoffed.

  “That's a bit rich, Clay. You expect me to believe that you jerked me off to even the score or someth--”

  “I'm not into guys, Rusty. I'm straight, and that's the truth.”

  Before he said those words, Clay had truly thought he meant them. But as soon as he heard them coming out of his mouth, he knew his words lacked the ring of truth. Not that he'd ever admit it.

  “Uh … Clay--”

  Clay struck his fist against the steering wheel. There wasn't room to negotiate, there was no debate to be had.

  “God damn it, Rusty, I'm in love with Manon. Okay?”

  Clay didn't want to know if those words rang true or not. He shut his brain off and considered the matter over.

  The conveyor belt spit the truck out of the car-wash, and the cabin was suddenly dead silent. As quiet as the air was, it felt thick and tense, and neither man moved a muscle.

  Rusty stared at Clay, his mouth drawn open.

  “Really?”

  Clay took a deep breath, and tried to say it with conviction:

  “Yes?”

  Rusty rubbed at his eyes.

  “Well … fuck.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So I'm not asking you, Rusty, I'm telling you. Go and play your heart out. Forget about me. Stop trying to bring me with you, 'cause it ain't going to happen. I'm hopeless, alright? I've had my shots and I've fucked 'em all up already.”

  “You're not hopeless at all, Cl--”

  “Rusty, god damn it, just promise me you'll play like you can. Because I'm telling you right now, whatever you think we are? We're not. If you come back to Hershey, it's just going to be weird between us. So go to Washington, and play the game everyone knows you can play.”

  Clay shut his eyes and added the last thing he needed to say.

  “And don't come back.”

  Rusty didn't answer.

  “Promise me, Rusty.”

  Rusty swallowed. He turned and looked out his window.

  “Okay. I uh—I promise.”

  “Good.”

  Clay put the truck in gear and drove off for Harrisburg.

  PART TWO:

  Blindsided.

  Ten Years Later,

  Winter 2017.

  9

  Grizzled NHL Vet

  – Rustin –

  Rustin pressed his palms flat against the cinder-block wall and lowered his upper body, until he was bent at the waist, forming a ninety-degree angle.

  Through these walls was the visitor's dressing room. Most of his teammates were already in there burning off their young, anxious nerves before the puck dropped in two hours. Even through the solid cinder-blocks, Rustin could hear the boys horsing around in a game of indoor soccer—the shuffling of bodies, the hollering, the friendly insults, the sudden smack of a kicked ball hitting the other side of this wall.

  That's how the young guys got loose for games. These days, Rustin had different methods.

  The 33-year-old locked his elbows, rolled his pelvis forward, arched his back, tightened his quads and—

  “Uuuurgh,” Rustin groaned in half-pain and half-pleasure as he settled into the stretch.

  This one was called the counter-stretch and it was one of Rustin's favorites. It loosened his hips and extended the muscles in his back. After being cramped up on a plane for a seven hour flight from Vancouver to Dallas, he badly needed it.

  A decade of playing pro hockey at the highest level had taken its toll on his body, and these long road trips weren't getting any easier. Body checks, fist fights, too many sleepless nights in shitty hotel beds, the hectic October-to-April schedule of games and practices …

  The accumulated wear and tear of an eighty-one game season* broke a man down—even if physically, he looked like a Spartan warrior in his prime. Appearances could be deceiving; you couldn't see the pain below the surface.

  *Eighty-one game season: that figure, of course, didn't include the number of games a player missed due to injuries. And for Rustin, there were plenty of those over the years, too. But so far this season—knock on wood—he'd managed to stay healthy.

  Over the years, Rustin had needed to add more stretches to his arsenal before games to feel 'normal.' Bones creaked now. Joints stiffened, ached. Muscles took longer to recover—they never truly healed up from the last game before it was time to take the ice for the next.

  But that was the price Rustin knew he'd have to pay to live his dream. For the luxury of playing a game for a living, the fame, the multi-million dollar contracts. But as banged up as he was, the idea of retirement scared the shit out of him more than any pain could. He didn't know what the hell else he'd do with his time after hockey was over. He wasn't some silver-tongued salesman. He was an old, past-his-prime war horse. A blue-line mercenary.

  Plus, as long as he was playing hockey, he at least had the boys. Without them? He'd be lost, he was sure of it. He wouldn't know what the hell to do for companionship or how to meet anybody.

  Not that they knew all that much about him. They could never know the whole story. Changing teams every few years sure helped to make sure no one ever got too close to the real him.

  He was with Washington for a few years—he really thought he'd retire with the team that drafted and developed him. But, as Rustin had bitterly learned over the years, things don't ever work out the way you think they will. Washington said they loved Rustin and everything he brought to the team—but that didn't stop them from trading him to Boston when negotiations for a new contract went south. Big surprise, eh.

  Boston traded him to St. Louis not even a year later. Whatever. St. Louis liked him—they offered him a good contract. He signed and stayed there for a few seasons. He was a fan favorite there, but the team wasn't going anywhere and didn't feel a need to bring him back for a second term. After his contract with St. Louis expired, he bolted to Columbus in free agency.

  Columbus was alright. The team was young. He was the experienced vet, the guy the team brought in to lead their youngsters and show them what it took to win in the NHL. After this year, Rustin's contract was up—and he had some decisions to make.

  Sign with Columbus, or see what else was out there? What about contract length—one year, two? With the way his body ached, he hated to admit it, but the thought nonetheless crossed his mind a lot more often now: is it time to retire?

  Rustin squatted down on the floor like a sumo wrestler, put his hands flat on the ground a few feet for
ward, and swung forward with great leaps. This one was called the frog hop.

  Cyrus Smith, one of the team's 19 year old second-year players, happened to arrive at the arena when Rustin was still frog-hopping back and forth through the hall. Cyrus stared, slack-jawed, before he let out an amused laugh.

  “The hell are you doing, old man?”

  The young guns always got a kick out of Rustin's 'weird' stretches. He had so many of them, they were convinced that they'd never seen him do the same stretch twice. The team's running gag was that Rustin pulled these stretches out of his ass. They looked funny enough, they might as well not be real, right?

  “Take a good, long look, Smitty,” Rustin panted between hops. “You're staring into the future. And--” huff, puff, “--trust me, it's coming faster than you think!”

  Cyrus, with all his youthful naivete, gave a disbelieving chuckle. “Whatever you say!” Cyrus pushed the door open and disappeared into the raucous dressing room.

  Rustin grinned. Bless his heart, Cyrus didn't believe he'd get old. They never did.

  It was easy for Rustin to remember his own days of blissful ignorance, though the memories were never pleasant. Rustin felt stupid thinking that he actually once believed that all someone needed was an ounce of pure belief for things to work out a certain way.

  Well, that obviously wasn't true.

  Those were ideas from a simpler time, when he had a man's body, but not a man's mind. Nothing made a man grow up faster than a broken heart—

  “God damn it,” Rustin grumbled as he popped off the floor and stood upright.

  He hated playing in Dallas. He did a pretty good job not thinking about him these days. But anything 'Texas' triggered the memory of his old teammate. And all those goddamned feelings that he'd tried so hard to bury, were dragged kicking and screaming into the light.

  And not feelings like love. No, all that love and hope and optimistic bullshit had long ago been distilled down into baser things: anger, disappointment, bitterness.

  Whatever.

  ***

  Rustin shoved the dressing room door open and stormed in. The soccer game halted for him to pass—a sign of respect for their elder. The other boys on the team didn't get that treatment.