by RJ Scott
“Hi, Mark,” I said by way of introduction. “I know we haven’t met yet, but I’m here to work with the team.”
“Oh, I know. Hi, Seb. Jason has told us a lot about you.”
“Not all good things, I hope,” I quipped, and Mark and I shared a laugh. Keep it light; keep it easy. People like me more when I am amusing Seb.
“No, it’s mostly good,” Mark said. “You want me to get Rowen to call you?”
“Could you meet us at the rink in an hour?” Jason asked and side-eyed me for my approval, to which I nodded. I expected there to be negotiation from Mark, but he said they’d be there, and suddenly it was all looking very real.
At the rink, Rowen—call me Coach—Carmichael sized me up in a few seconds. “Not too much hockey experience, then?” he asked after we’d exchanged names. Jason and Mark watched from a distance, allowing this meeting to go largely unwitnessed.
“Business is business,” I replied cryptically. “A team is the same as a company when you get down to brass tacks.”
He frowned at me, “Hockey is a different kind of world.”
“I respectfully disagree. It’s the same as going into any company for me to assess and then tell it like it is.” He opened his mouth as if he was going to disagree, and I held up a hand to stop him. “At the end of the day, the only way to change people in any kind of organization is to tell them in the clearest possible terms what they’re doing wrong. And if the members of any team, sports or business, or anything else that has a structure, if they don’t want to listen, they don’t belong on the team,” I said, and even though Rowen finally nodded, I could see he bristled a little.
“One question. Are you telling me in that perfectly structured statement delivered in your very British voice, that what I’m doing with the Raptors is wrong?” He crossed his arms over his chest, and I didn’t have to be an expert in body language to understand his defensiveness and outward show of no respect.
“No,” I reassured at speed. “What you are doing is perfectly right. I’m here to work alongside you, not touching the team or the playing but working on the way people perceive the Raptors and you, particularly in light of what happened with one of your players.”
He “hmmm’d” at me, in that way people did when they weren’t wholly buying into everything, so I added the killer line.
“You were called in to turn this team around, and you utilized rule one. You made it clear from day one that you’re in charge and imposed your leadership rather than waiting to earn it. I admire that. What I want to do is assist you in building a culture of success in the larger team, the staff, the media, the way the team’s fans interact.”
I couldn’t help but think of Alex at that point and some of the abuse he was getting from his own team’s fans. That had to be the first thing to go, and what I needed to do was set goals and hit them.
Coach Rowen held out his hand, and we shook again, firmly, the bargain struck.
And so it began.
Three
Alex
Coming back to the ice after a week away had been a shock to the system, and not all in a bad way. I’d been spoiled and pampered at home, fed like a king, and coddled by my mother, grandmother and little sister, Elizabeth, who was thrilled to have another child in the house to take some of the attention from her. Her quinceañera was in three months, and she was feeling the pressure big-time.
I’d spent hours hanging out with my high school buddies, playing basketball, going to the movies, cruising the streets of San Luis in my cousin Elonso’s 1965 Chevy Impala Super Sport. He was a member of the San Luis Lowrider Motor Club, and his purple Impala drew a ton of attention. Elonso never seemed to be lacking a sexy lady at his side on Friday nights when the club met, and he was generous in making sure I had a companion as well. I did my best to fit in, draping my arm around the young woman plastered to my side, tossing out ribald jokes to ensure I was as straight as a gay guy could be. It sucked, but I did it because… well, because I was too scared not to.
Leaving behind the strict masculine structure of a Latin neighborhood felt good. I’d spent a good amount of time among my cousins and school friends, and while many of them were accepting of the LGBT community, a lot were not even close to being allies. Add in the mixed signals from the Catholic Church where being gay or lesbian is supposedly okay, but if you act on your drives, then it’s sinful—compounding, the burden of being accepted. Quite a few Latinx came out in their English world but hid it from the Hispanic world and church. I’d not even worked up the courage to come out in my English world. But, and this was key, the more time I spent with Ryker, the more I longed to live my life open and free.
Seeing him bound back into the dressing room was as if someone had lit a beacon.
“No shit, look at the superstar. You rocked that All-Star shit, man,” Colorado said, striding over to greet Ryker at the door. They clapped each other on the back, Ryker’s grin infectious. I walked over and got a brisk hug.
“Man, that was some crazy time. Dude, I got to play with so many greats. They were so cool!” Ryker gushed as more and more of the team gathered around him.
“You looked good out there. Focused, in control.” Colorado clapped him on the shoulder and then ambled off to find an empty bathroom and sing. Yeah, the dude sang before every game. Said it helped him zone in. Whatever worked for him. We were all used to goalie eccentricities. Some tenders talked to their pipes, some caressed them, some carried water from Canada to the rink and sprinkled it on the blue ice under their skates, some whispered prayers to Nordic gods. Our netminder belted out heavy metal songs in the men’s room. And woe betide anyone who happened to need to piss or shit and interrupted the concert. Poor Henry had made that mistake only once and had been ejected from the bathroom by an irate goalie waving a fat stick over his head. Colorado was cool, obviously, being a metal musician and just in general, but he had a short temper.
“Come on, sit down and tell me all about it,” I said, latching onto my roommate and hauling him to our cubicles.
“Oh my God, it was great. I’ll fill you in when we get home, okay? How’s Henry?” Ryker asked as he shrugged out of his suit jacket.
I’d been here for a while, had played some soccer with Brennan, and Vlad. The big Russian defenseman had become our captain before the season had started, and he was fitting into his role well. He had this easygoing way about him off the ice, and his English was smooth as icy vodka, with just a subtle flavoring of Russian. Two older guys had the alternate captain letters. None of us rookies yet, but that was to be expected. You had to earn those letters. That was one of my goals, to get an A on my sweater within two seasons and maybe someday fly with Ryker to the All-Star game. Man, my parents would be so proud…
“He’s okay, you know, considering. I think maybe he’s just really down.” I slid my foot into my sock and pulled it up over my shin guards. “His folks are all worried that he’s not working hard enough, so they keep pushing him, but I’m not sure that’s the way to go about it. You think we should talk to him, maybe? See if he’s depressed?”
Ryker sighed as he hung up his jacket. “How can he not be depressed? Between the mental shit Aarni had put him through, then the accident, and now not knowing if he’ll ever play again…”
“He will. He’ll play again.” I made the sign of the cross.
“I don’t know, man. Eye injuries are some serious shit. There’s a guy who played with my dad, took a slap shot to the eye. He had all kinds of major problems, like a retinal tear. He came back, sure, after forever, but his vision was never the same, and his play suffered. He finally retired two years after the injury.”
“Fuck,” I whispered.
“Yeah, it’s not an easy road.” Ryker dropped down beside me on the bench, his shirt now hanging behind him with his jacket. “I don’t want to blow smoke up his ass, but I don’t want to not encourage him. Maybe we should talk with his family?”
“Yeah, well, I did, and t
hey had this weird mindset that enough hard work would lift his spirits right up. Totally Midwestern, you know? Like they still think mental illness is something to be ashamed of. I think we should talk to Henry, feel him out, see if we can pick up something.”
“Okay, yeah, we can do that.”
I nodded. “It’s good to have you back. Penn is cool and all. but he’s like”—I shrugged as I dressed my other leg—““… he’s got this whole vibe like he’s laid back, but we all know he’s about as laid back as a rattlesnake. Cierras los ojos y blam!” I slapped my hands together. Ryker gave me that look that said, “translation needed please.” “You close your eyes and blam!”
“Yeah, snake bit. That kind of does describe him. I bet one of those tats of his is of this huge gnarly rattlesnake, fangs all bared and dripping venom.”
“He does have one of a snake, curled up and shaking its rattle right above his ass,” I said, then chuckled. Ryker lifted an eyebrow. Then I caught what I’d said. “Not that I’ve been checking out his ass or anything.”
“No, of course not.” He smiled, patted my face, and stood. There was a lot in that reply that sat funny on my shoulders, but game time was quickly approaching, so I let it go.
We hit the ice an hour later to face off against Edmonton, which would be game one in a back-to-back, which had us rushing to Canada bright and early in the morning. After that game, we’d make a short Canadian road trip, then be back in Tucson in just under a week. Ryker was keyed up for this game as we were facing the backup goalie for the Oilers, Benoit Morin, a guy he’d played with up at Owatonna University.
The first ten minutes of the game were pretty uneventful. Ryker and I were clicking well, but we had a new guy at left wing. Coach had moved the lines around to accommodate the loss of Aarni and Henry. A big D-man had been called up from the feeder team to replace Lankinen, and we had gotten Jens Hauger from the fourth line, and a new guy from the minors had taken his place. It didn’t help that both teams were groggy and rusty from the week-long break, so the play was spotty.
Ryker had gotten a weak shot in on Morin, which the lanky tendie had deflected with ease. Jens found his stride with about five minutes left in the period. We’d been stuck in the neutral zone, trying to get out when Jens, a short Norwegian with the heart of a lion, picked up a giveaway. With Ryker and me coming to back him up, the quick little winger moved in on Morin and took a snappy shot that Jens over the goalie’s left shoulder and into the net.
Javan threw his hands into the air as the red light flashed, and the fans got to their feet. Ryker and I got to him first, the D-men piling into the group hug in the corner. Now that we were up by a goal, things felt a little less fractured. During the break, Coach talked us up, pointing out that we’d now cracked Morin’s armor a bit.
Behind him stood the associate coaches as well as a well-dressed man with short brown hair and light brown eyes. Fashionably scruffy, which was superhot, he was scribbling in a paper notebook, his gaze flickering up every now and then. He was pretty in an elite sort of way, and he held my eye. When our gazes met, I felt it, right between my pecs, where you’d feel the first pangs of heartburn. Only this sensation was nothing like the burn of too many jalapeño poppers. No, this was different. It made the fine hairs on my sodden neck bristle with awareness. I wet my lips. His mouth curled up into a soft smile that set fire to my skin. I averted my gaze quickly before someone saw me checking out the man in the sharp gray suit.
“Get the puck elevated and up. You’re never going to get anything by that kid, shooting at his chest. Every point counts now. Don’t let the trash talk online get into your head. People are always going to be tossing shit at us, some of it is well deserved, but some of it isn’t. Management is working to fix that issue, so when you see this fellow lurking around, don’t think anything of it. Sebastian is here to help us improve our social networking online media presence. Is that the proper terminology?”
“Close enough to count,” Sebastian said, then smiled fully. It lit up his face in ways I shouldn’t have noticed but couldn’t help not to. And that accent was super attractive.
“Well, tweeting isn’t my thing. I come from the old days when folks were all agog about a cordless phone,” Coach joked, the team chuckled, and I stared at the sexy older Brit, unable to look away until someone slapped the back of my head. Jens nudged me in the side, his smile as big as his hazel eyes. “Sebastian will probably be touching base with all of you to go over whatever it is he’s going to go over. Make yourself available to him, that is a request from the owners, and tighten up your corner work.”
With that, the suits left, leaving us stinky sweaty ones to rehydrate and rest for ten more minutes. I thought of checking my phone to see if the team had made any kind of official announcement about Sebastian with the sexy scruff, but phones weren’t allowed during game time under penalty of death or bag skates. So I sat there, sucking down lemon-flavored electrolyte replacer while listening to Ryker and Jens talk about a trip to Norway during the summer, while I daydreamed of older British men.
“You’ll come, right?” Ryker asked, jarring me from the haze of lust that I’d tumbled into.
“Oh, uhm, I don’t know. I’ve never traveled outside the country except to visit family in Mexico. Maybe?”
“You’d love Norway! It’s beautiful, friendly, and the women are so pretty,” Jens boasted. “Oh, well, I forget, Ryker…” He paused to parse Norwegian into English. “You’re gay with a boyfriend. Bring him! Norwegians are so very accepting. We have a big house outside Oslo, and my mother loves company. She’ll feed you so well you’ll bust a gut!”
“Well, I’m bi, but sure, I’d love to travel with Jacob over the summer. I’ll for sure bring it up.”
They both looked at me.
“Yeah, awesome, pretty Norwegian girls.” I hoped that sounded more enthusiastic to them than it had to me. “Love me some blondes with big boobs.”
That announcement got a round of agreement from just about everyone in the Raptors dressing room, even Ryker couldn’t argue. I stared at my skates for the rest of the break, wondering how Ry had ever found the nerve to be so upfront about his sexuality. I mean, saying it to the team like that had taken balls. And no one had said anything bad back. Lifting my gaze from my feet, I swept the room, wondering if maybe someday they’d all be as accepting of a gay man among them as they were of a bisexual man.
Hockey time swiped away the worries of locker room politics. Edmonton woke up in the second and tied the game, sneaking one past Colorado that he should have had. He knew it. He worked his crease with his skates with a fury, dropping down low into a butterfly stance, his gaze manic inside his mask after that goal against us.
We ended up going into overtime tied 1-1, with a flip-flop rebound goal off an Edmonton boot that rolled between Morin’s legs. The puck wobbled, then fell to its side in exhaustion just over the line. I knew how that puck felt. All I’d wanted was to go home and crash, but Ryker was determined to meet up with his buddy Benoit at a local watering hole called The Crimson Cactus. It was the Raptors’ hangout, just a block from the barn, and no way in hell was Madsen taking my whiny no for an answer.
“Fine, sweet Jesus, I’ll meet you there.” I shoved at Ryker playfully as Colorado waited by the door, wearing his usual black suit, white shirt, skinny black-and-white skull tie ensemble.
“Don’t back out, Alex,” Ryker warned, then jogged off to leave with our goalie. I’d been hanging back in hopes of… well, it didn’t matter. Stupid anyway to want to get another look at that Sebastian guy. He was probably married with kids. As I slid my arm into the jacket of my suit, my phone buzzed. I leaped on it, surprised to see a call from my little sister, Elizabeth, or Bitty, as we all called her.
“Hey, little bitty one,” I said, holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder as I yanked a comb through my wet hair. “Did you sprain your thumbs?”
“Oh. My. God. Alex, I swear I am going to cancel my quinceañera if
they don’t stop!”
“Respira profundo, hermanita,” I teased and winced when my comb snagged on a knot.
“Don’t tell me to take deep breaths! Alex, please be my chambelán de honor. Please. Mamá and Abuela are making me crazy with the lists of boys they think are suitable.”
I snickered softly, pulled a wild lock of hair down into place, and tossed my comb onto the shelf next to my aftershave and a new razor.
“Then pick someone you like,” I said, shoving my tie into my pocket and grabbing my personals bag. “Surely, the list of boys you’re crushing on must be long.”
“Okay, you stop with your shit right now! You know there’s no list. And if there was, how the hell would I walk up to someone as cute as Lorenzo Milano and ask him?”
I opened my mouth to reply, then snapped it shut. Who was I to give her advice on how to ask someone she liked to be her escort on such a special day? I wasn’t brave enough to even ask another man out to coffee. I pushed through the exit, giving the security man dawdling by the players’ entrance a nod.
“Alex, are you there?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yeah, I’m here. Listen, Bitty, I know how overwhelming the family is at times, but try not to let them run your life for you. If you want to ask Lorenzo, then ask him, but don’t let Mamá or Abuela or Tía Luisa, Sofía, Magdalena, or any of the other women bully you.”
“Ayeeeeeeee, I know that, Alejandro! Tell me how to ask Lorenzo.”
I had no answer for my baby sister, not a truthful one anyway. I paused just outside the door, my gaze landing on Sebastian jogging toward me, a smile on his lips and the hot desert wind in his hair.
“Alejandro, oh my God, why are you so stupid tonight?” She then called me several bad names in Spanish, then hung up after informing me that she was calling Luisa because older sisters were way smarter than older brothers.
With nothing to do but talk to him, I slid my phone into my pocket and met him head on.
