by R J Scott
“What about the show? Don’t they need you?”
“The Railers have gone home now, and I lost the cameras just outside Lancaster, so maybe I’ll be fired. Fingers crossed,” I whispered, then giggled impishly.
Dieter snickered, then offered me more candy.
I shook my head. “A moment on the lips…”
“Your ass is fine. I bet those jeans really make it look nice.” His green-gold eyes were smoldering as he spoke. I stood up and gave him a slow spin. “Oh, hell yeah, they look damn good. When you come see me in rehab, wear them and another T-shirt.”
“When can I come? Next week I have Wednesday free.”
“I’ll have to let you know. The first couple of weeks is no visitors. We’re supposed to be bonding with the staff and our fellow dopers.” He swallowed and sighed dismally. “I can’t believe I have to do this again.”
“I’ll text you every day. Maybe send you random pictures of my ass in whatever pants I’m wearing, or a dick pic if you’re exceptionally good.”
That made him smile widely. My god, what that smile did to me. It made me silly and sad and scared and simpering.
“Dieter, I’m worried about me. What makes me seek out men with dependency issues? I think it’s because I grew up with Clay. They say that what you grow up with you tend to become. Like children who grow up witnessing domestic violence seem to repeat that behavior as adults. Not all, of course, but many. Maybe I pick men with addictions because I grew up with a gambler...”
I paused when I realized what had just fallen out of my mouth. I hadn’t vocalized it before. It felt good to have it out free. Was Dieter upset? Shit, how could he not be? Ugh. I’m such a loose-lipped Nellie.
“Yeah, maybe.” He looked like his mind had gone on a stroll. “You ever think about talking to someone? I want to touch you. May I?”
“Please.” I scooted closer and placed my hand into his. His fingers closed over mine. We both sighed softly. Yes, his skin next to mine did make the dawn a lot brighter. “Dieter, what I said about addicts – well, you know that’s not the only reason I’m attracted to you. I’m just talking because I don’t know what else to do with myself.”
“If you figure out why you like fucked-in-the-head guys…will you break up with me?”
“Are we a couple?” My heart sped up at the mere thought of us together.
“In my heart, I think we are.”
His fear choked me. Combined with mine, it was enough to bury a man. “I feel the same in my heart. And no, I will not break up with you. You’re stuck with me, Lehmann – lip gloss, eyeliner, sequins and all.”
He lifted my knuckles to his dry-looking lips. The kiss he pressed to them made me weepy and wanton. I was falling in love with him. Could two messes like him and me really make a relationship work? No, we couldn’t. Not as we were now. But maybe with some help and some counseling…well, maybe we could. We’d have to love and know ourselves better first. I was willing to do that, to struggle to get centered and happy with Trent so that I could be whole and ecstatic with Dieter.
“I’m looking forward to being stuck with you, Hanson.”
I stood up and stole a kiss. Not a chocolate one, either.
Twelve
Dieter
Alyssa Albright was crying. She did a lot of that, but I didn’t blame her. In these sessions where we sat in a circle in the bright room and talked about the shit in our heads, at times all I wanted to do was sit and cry.
“And I still didn’t lose that extra ten pounds,” she was saying between sobs, “even though I hadn’t eaten for a week, and my partner refused to work on the lifts because he said I was a heifer, and shit…” She buried her face in her hands.
She was a figure skater, oddly enough. She wasn’t at Trent’s level, more Disney on Ice, but she and I had the ice in common, and over the last two weeks we’d gravitated toward each other. She couldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds, and that was being generous. She suffered from an eating disorder, an addiction to meds; she was a broken kid who at twenty-five looked about sixteen.
“You’re tiny,” I blurted out, then sat back in my chair. We were encouraged to discuss and comment, but not when someone was still telling a story. Had she finished? I wasn’t sure.
“Not tiny enough,” she said, so sadly it made my heart hurt.
“My friend is a figure skater,” I said, and she looked at me.
I was beginning to reveal bits and pieces in this session. Family stuff, medical information. The guys in this room all knew I was a hockey player. I wasn’t anything special in here, not that I wanted to be, but whatever, I was sitting with a figure skater, two footballers, one freaky-tall basketball dude, a surgeon, and a librarian.
Although I was sure that the librarian was a cover, because Ethel looked like she was on constant state of alert and kept making this motion like she was reaching for a gun. I was thinking CIA or special ops or some kind of freaky Jason Bourne shit. And who the hell used Ethel as a cover name? Not that I was expecting her name to be Pussy Galore, but still…
“He is?” Alyssa asked, and side-eyed me.
“Yeah, and he would be able to pick you up, because he’s strong and focused and works with his partners.” I didn’t know that last part, but Trent was the kind of man who would do his best by anyone he worked with, I was sure of it. “Anyway, you come to my rink, and I have an entire team who could pick you up and carry you around like you were made of air. The guy who told you that, he’d clearly missed his workouts.”
She smiled at me; that broken, crooked, tear-filled smile. She probably didn’t believe me, so I did something really stupid. I blame the lack of exercise other than in the small gym on-site, I blame not being out on the ice, but in my head I just wanted to do something for someone else.
I stood up and offered a hand, and she took it and stood with me.
“What?” she asked, peering up at me from her five foot five.
In a smooth move, I scooped her up in my arms. I was right; there was nothing to her. She squealed and laughed, but at least she wasn’t crying. “Alyssa, any professional skater whose job it is to lift you should find it easier than lifting a pillow. It’s not your fault he dropped you – that was all on him.”
She got a stupid look on her face, then grinned. “Lift me higher.”
So I did.
And then I took the challenge of lifting basketball dude, Dave, who was all arms and legs.
I drew the line at lifting the football guys – I mean, they were seriously built and both there for help with steroid abuse. And I still had a bum knee, or at least a healing, somewhat sore knee.
Ethel raised a single eyebrow, and I knew she was telegraphing that if I picked her up she would kill me with a single blow.
When I sat down again, though, the mood of the room had lightened, and the tears that came after, from Dave and some from myself, were cathartic.
Back in my room, I had two phone calls to make. The first one I was dreading, the second I wanted much more. No one would actually know if I didn’t make that first call. No one but me.
Mom answered on the fourth ring like she always did, always checking the caller ID and then stumbling over which button to press to answer the call. I’d seen her do it so many times, and the thought of her staring at the phone and fumbling with it made me smile.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Sorry, who are you? Do we know anyone called Dieter?”
“Ha ha,” I said. “I know it’s been a while.”
“A week is a while. A month is grounds for us putting you up for adoption. Although no one would want you now you’ve gone past the cute puppy stage.”
She was teasing me, and I could hear the smile in her voice. I loved my parents, twenty-seven years married and still in love even now. They’d worked hard for me, got up for every practice, watched all my games; they were the kind of self-sacrificing hockey parents that every kid who wanted to strap on skates should have.
That was what made my heart hurt so bad.
I’d let her down, my dad as well, and I’d kept it all a secret. Only this was a Bad Thing, according to my therapy group. I needed to be honest and open and look for the best in my life, which was my parents, hockey, and now Trent. I didn’t have siblings, I knew my parents had tried after me, but it just hadn’t happened. I was their hope for everything.
“Do you have ten minutes?” I asked, to pull myself back to the here and now. Part of me hoped she would say she had to be somewhere.
“Always,” she said. “I’ll just grab a coffee and sit in the kitchen.”
I heard her moving around, imagined the kitchen with its worn counters and the big range. It sounds idyllic, and believe me, it was. My mom was a real mom, just like in all the advertisements you see on the TV, or in an old episode of The Waltons. She ran the family, she and my dad never argued, and she did it with love.
“Okay,” she said. “Shoot. Is this about the knee? Are they sending you back to the Rush? I’m sorry, hun, but you can work your way back, and you know they want you.”
“No, Mom, the knee is good, rehab is good, and I’m hoping to get back on the ice with the Railers after the start of the season.”
“We want tickets, sweetie.”
“Always,” I said, repeating her earlier word. Every game I ever played there were tickets for Pauline and Gustav Lehmann, and most of the time they managed at least ten or so games. “That wasn’t why I was phoning. I’m not at home at the moment. I’m at the hospital; well kind of.”
“But you said your knee… Dieter?” She sounded suddenly fearful, and I couldn’t leave things at that point too long.
“When I first hurt my knee, I had strong meds, and I became addicted to them. I kicked it, but it grabbed me back. I’m in rehab, Mom.”
Silence for a second longer than I’d hoped, and I imagined her heart breaking.
“I’m glad you got some help,” she said finally.
“Mom, I’m sorry—”
“But most of all, I’m so proud of you for getting help, and for telling me.”
I teared up. Right there and then, I could have bawled like a fricking baby. Imagine that on reality TV – hockey player loses his shit on phone to his mom.
“Mom…”
“I know, Dieter. I know, sweetheart. I’m here, talk to me.”
And the dam wall broke.
When I’d cried all the tears and heard everything my mom had to say, she promised to talk to dad. She told me he would be fine, and I knew she was right. He was the other half of her, and they thought so much the same.
I just worried that being a man, my dad would be more difficult to talk to. When my cell rang within two minutes of my mom getting off the phone, I knew I wouldn’t have long to wait. We didn’t cry, but we did the phone version of manly back-slapping, and he reassured me that he was in my corner, then called me an idiot for not telling them sooner.
We talked about how it upset Mom; that was our way of admitting how we felt about it affecting us as father and son.
“I love you, Dieter, always remember that.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
I texted Trent, told him about Alyssa, and didn’t think about how I wasn’t ready to tell Mom and Dad about Trent as well as my addiction.
I would call them tomorrow about him. Make them see the two things weren’t related in any way.
I left a voicemail because he didn’t answer, but he was out there living a life, he wasn’t there by the phone waiting to text me back at the drop of a hat. He was visiting today; the first one. Not supervised or any of that shit, but he’d have to sign in, and be checked, and he wasn’t allowed to bring in food or drink. I think he was disappointed; he’d said he wanted to bring in his grandma’s food as a picnic.
So I’d set up something myself. I’d organized with the kitchen, had a small container of food prepared – nothing special, but lots of protein, which I still had access to. No sense in going into rehab and coming out unable to get back to skating. I took my exercise and my eating very seriously. Anyway, I didn’t eat half as much as the football guys, who could clear a table in ten seconds flat.
I counted down the time; he was due to be there at four p.m., and I had a shower, wore my best jeans and a clean T-shirt, and waited just outside reception.
He was there at three fifty-seven, signing in, filling in forms, and he couldn’t see me from where I was, but I could certainly see him.
And he looked good.
His hair was a vibrant blue again, but he’d had it cut; it was shorter at the back. I couldn’t see clearly what kind of makeup he wore, but I hoped to hell he’d gone the whole way. He certainly hadn’t skimped on what he was wearing; electric blue pants, a silver-and-sapphire shirt, and plenty of splashy bangles on his wrists. There was no such thing as incognito for Trent Hanson.
I saw the receptionist hand him his security pass, and waited by the door as she gestured toward it with instructions of where he should go. And then he was there.
And I didn’t touch him. The door closed behind him, the locks clicking, and he was there.
“Trent,” I said, and pushed my hands into my jeans pockets, because I didn’t know what to do with them.
“Hey,” he said, and put a hand on his hip. He looked a little unsure, as if he wasn’t entirely convinced I wanted him to be there. What was I doing? Why wasn’t I putting myself out there, exposing myself to the man I wanted?
I’m brave. I can do this.
I stepped forward until there wasn’t much space between us and he had to look up at me. I cradled his beautiful face in my hands and just closed my eyes.
The kiss was soft and right and it was everything I needed right there.
But what about Trent? He didn’t kiss me back with his usual enthusiasm, or hold me, or make a single sound. I stopped the kiss and backed away, and he looked at me with his head tilted a little.
“Is it okay to kiss?” he asked uncertainly. I didn’t think he meant it in an I’m-gay-what-will-people-say kind of way, I think he meant something about how it would upset my recovery.
I held out a hand, which he took, and led him down the main corridor and through the door to the extensive grounds.
“How’s the knee?” he said.
I was limping, the leg was braced, but I’d stopped using the crutches. “I’m doing good,” I said as we walked on the grass and climbed the hill up to the stand of trees that was my thinking spot.
He didn’t say anything else.
“When I first got here, they said I needed to find a place here where I could sit and think,” I explained, and stopped under the biggest of the red maples. I momentarily released my hold on his hand, slipped off my backpack of hoarded goodies, and awkwardly clambered down to sit cross-legged. He copied me, and we were sitting close to each other. “Kissing is good,” I said, answering his question.
At first the kisses were soft, and he was enthusiastic and obviously into it as much as me, and then abruptly it turned from affection to lust, and he climbed me like a freaking monkey, sprawling over me and levering me flat on the ground, always staying away from my knee. I straightened my legs a little to get comfy, and he sat back – sitting right over my hard cock, which was definitely into his visit – and stared down at me.
“Tell me everything,” he ordered.
Wait. What? Had he missed the part where he was sitting on my cock and wiggling? So I summarized, in the hope I might get some friction going.
“Two-week report, all good, managing expectations, group chats, lifted a figure skater today, usual stuff, hope to get out to the gym next week to work on fitness, knee is healing fine, and I have PT.”
“I’m really proud of you,” he said softl
y, then took each of my hands in his and leaned down, pressing my hands into the grass. I’d never felt so vulnerable as with the naked pride in Trent’s eyes. All I’d done was what I should have done two years ago when I first got hurt. It wasn’t heroic to face my own decisions. It wasn’t something that meant people should be proud of me.
It was up to me to be proud of myself. To know myself. Wasn’t that the message they were selling me?
I was certainly buying into it and beginning to feel like I had other options.
“In the first meeting I told myself I hadn’t actually meant to take the meds this time,” I said, his lips only just a little away from mine. I could lean up, he could move a little, we could be kissing, but this was one thing I wanted him to know. “I was lying. I took them because they made things right in my head. I was in pain, and I couldn’t relax. They helped with the pain, then more made it easier to relax.”
“Okay.” He kissed me then, just a simple kiss to the end of my nose.
“And also, there’s this whole mentality of playing through the pain, and I wanted so badly to get to the NHL that I was willing to take a shortcut around the pain I was feeling.”
“Okay,” he murmured, and kissed an eyelid. It felt like I was getting a kiss for everything I revealed about myself. A game. I liked games.
“I feel like a fraud, like one day the Railers will wake up and tell me they never meant to offer me a contract.”
That earned me a kiss to the other eyelid and a soft buzz of his skin on my cheek. I could smell him, the clean scent of the air around us, and I focused on every small part of him, his weight pinning me to the ground, his determined gaze.
“I want to play hockey with the Railers. I want to do that so bad; I worry that if I can’t reach that final dream then I won’t be me anymore.”
This time he kissed my lips gently.
“But most of all, I have to stop the pills for me.”
The kisses deepened, and we just lay there, under the tree, and kissed for the longest time.
