by RJ Scott
That made her smile just a little. “Your brothers love you, even if they have barbaric ways of showing it at times.”
“I know.”
She offered me her coffee. I took it with a soft “thanks” and sipped cautiously. The warm, sweet liquid felt wonderful sliding down my throat. We sat there for a few minutes, sharing coffee in front of the ugly upright that rested by a naked fir tree.
“I’ve been doing lots of reading of late about how music stimulates the brain in powerful ways. Research shows that it does wonders for those who suffer from Alzheimer’s or who have brain disorders.”
I threw her a look. “I’m not fighting… dementia.”
“No, but the therapy you’re getting in Tucson is similar to that they use for stroke victims or those who are battling Alzheimer’s. Would you like to try something simple?” She slowly lifted the fallboard. I stared at the black and white keys as if they were scorpions. “Chopsticks maybe?”
“No, I can’t… even talk right. The notes will confuse me.” I closed the fallboard.
“I did not raise men who were quitters.” She opened the fallboard. I closed it. She opened it and laid her fingers on the keys, in position for the song I had learned when I was three or something.
“Cheater,” I grumbled but took my position on the keyboard. We’d performed this duet a thousand times when I was learning to play. It was burned into my brain cells. The trick, we’d learned as I faltered along, so far behind her that the childish little song was totally out of sync, was getting my brain to feed my fingers quickly enough. She paused several times to let me catch up, but the relays from my brain to my fingers were listless. “Fuck, I just… can’t. I can’t!”
I cleared the sheet music from the music rack in raging frustration, then slammed the fallboard shut. Mom sat beside me, face drawn, as sheets filled with tiny black notes that I would probably never be able to read again, fluttered to the carpet.
“I can’t… Mom, I can’t do this…” I coughed, my emotions running wild, my thoughts a tangled mess.
“You will,” she softly assured me, then took me into her arms. “You will, baby boy. You will. I know my son. You will.”
I was glad she had so much faith in me. Someone had to believe it would all be okay in time. God knows I was having doubts.
Jared
I hovered outside the door, watching as Ten clung to Jean, the detritus of his breakdown scattered around them. I wanted to go in and scoop him up, tell him it was all just a matter of time, that he would be okay, and that he should believe, but he needed this time with his mom.
He’d slept like the dead, clinging to me much as he was clinging to his mom now, and when he woke, I’d heard him stumbling around the room, but he was humming. Just that soft sound of a song I couldn’t even identify was normal-Ten, and I didn’t want to break any tenuous connection to a time before the accident. I slipped away before either of them saw me, and got busy in the kitchen making more coffee, waiting for that moment in which either Ten or his mom might need me.
“Morning,” Ten murmured, wrapping his arms around me from behind, and I tensed a little before relaxing.
Twisting to face him, I then pulled him close and held him as the coffee percolated. “What do you want for breakfast?” I asked, pressing my lips to his neck and kissing him right in that warm spot that was all mine.
“Chocolate cake,” he said. His tone suggested he was waiting for me to say that he should eat oatmeal or fruit or anything that wasn’t full of sugar, but the lover side of me wanted Ten to be happy, and what did one morning of acting like a kid matter?
“Me too,” I lied.
I wriggled free of his grasp and cut two generous slices from what was left of the demolished cake, then placed that and coffee on our kitchen table. He took his usual chair. I took mine, at right angles to him, and we ate cake and drank coffee, all while holding hands. I couldn’t help glancing at him, seeing the seriousness in his expression as he forked up the cake, and then the sheer pleasure as he sucked on the chocolate and moaned in delight. I couldn’t help it; my boyfriend was struggling with a head injury, but the sounds he was making over the chocolate were pornographic, and it had been so long since we’d been together. I was lost in the sounds.
“Do you not want yours?” Ten asked.
I looked down at my plate, realized I’d hardly touched my cake.
“May I have it?” he asked and slid my plate to him, flushing scarlet, as if he could read my thoughts.
There was a stray crumb at the corner of his mouth, and I knew he’d get it, but I softly kissed it off him with a glide of my tongue over his lips, which he was happy to return. “Too long,” I murmured. “I miss kissing you every day, miss touching you.”
He smiled at me, and there was my Ten, his green eyes twinkling, his eyebrows raised.
“I need a shower,” he murmured.
“Okay.” I wasn’t disappointed. He needed a shower and actually didn’t need me taking liberties with him. But then he placed a hand on my thigh, squeezing it gently.
“I need help in there,” he said, pushing away his plate and using the table to stand. “Can you help me?”
I was up and out of my chair in less than a second, guiding him out of the kitchen and to our room. We passed his mom.
“Dad and I are popping to the hotel and taking the kids out shopping. Are you okay with a day on your own?”
I read between the lines; she was giving Ten some space and peace, and that was exactly what he needed right now. She was being the responsible one, when all I was doing was expecting things from Ten when he was ill. Guilt flooded me, and it was actually Ten who answered his mother.
“Have a good time,” he said, hugging his mom and his dad and waiting at the door until he saw them go. “We should move your car off the street,” he said, all kinds of responsible.
I picked up the keys from the dish, but he stopped me as he closed the door.
“Shower first, okay?”
I could do this. I could be the grown-up here and help him, watch him in case he fell over or got dizzy, or needed me to pass the soap. Shoulders back, I went straight into our room and through to the shower. We’d made the new area into a wet room, with big shower heads. The whole space was built for two men, a shelf in there for his products, a small space for mine. He didn’t have to know I’d been using his things while he was away, just to have the scent of him on me. Because that was sappy and stupid. Right?
“I’m taking this back with me,” he announced, picking up the bottle of Dior Homme shower gel that was my only luxury. “So I can smell you on me.”
My chest tightened, and I gathered him close. “I use your stuff when you’re not here,” I admitted.
He sniffed my neck and smiled, but then it dropped. “I hate not being together,” Ten said, his sentence strong. It was as if he’d been thinking it so long in his head that it was easy to say.
“Me too.” I felt I couldn’t contain the emotions inside me and to say anything more would’ve forced me to lose control.
“Shower,” he said after a while, taking off his pajamas, the ones he wore when we had company, with tiny hockey sticks in the fabric, courtesy of Jamie who never thought Ten would actually wear them. I leaned back against the sink, watching him, ready to help at a moment’s notice, but he managed just fine, and I got an eyeful of a naked, sexy Ten who went into the shower and stretched tall before turning on the water. “Come on, get in,” he said, his back to me. At this angle, I could see the end of the scar on his neck, which one day would be disguised with a tattoo. It was horrific to recall the blood and the deep cut, but it was a pink line now the stitches were gone, but I couldn’t think about that; otherwise I would’ve completely lost control.
“You want me in there with you…?”
He turned to face me and smiled encouragingly. “I need your help.”
I stripped in record time, flinging my clothes at the hamper and stepping un
der the water. “What can I do?” Did he need me to help him balance or just support him?
“This,” he said and took my hand, entwining our fingers and guiding me to his cock, which was hardening in our hold. “I need this.”
Was he doing this for me? Did he see the lust in me this morning? God, was I going to hurt him? Why did he want this?
“You can’t—”
“I… can. I want… this.”
I watched the small frown between his eyes as he stumbled over the words. Abruptly, I knew I was right; he’d clearly practiced what he wanted to say, but now he was losing the words as we moved off-script.
“Okay,” I said, “Let’s just kiss, right?”
His frown grew, and then he kissed me, and I had an armful of wet and incredibly sexy Ten. I was hard in an instant, and our hands remained twined as he moved them along the length of him. I used soap to help, rested back against the wall so that I held his weight, and we kissed for so long, the rainfall of water warm on his back. He moaned into the kiss, and I gripped his butt, turning him a little so we could see our hands in unison on him.
“Jared…” he whispered, groaned, kissing me, parting to look down.
I supported him completely as he got closer and closer, his moans turning to soft whimpers and the frown disappearing from his face completely. When he came, he was quiet, and I followed not long after, just from the soft touch of his fingers. Then, showered, I wrapped him in one of our sinfully soft towels and guided him to the bed. His hair was still damp, so I rubbed off the excess water. Normally he’d fuss in front of the mirror, but right now, he just wanted to lie down, and he pulled me with him. In towels, eyes closed, we hugged and held each other, and I could feel his smile against my skin.
“I love you,” I said because I needed him to know, to be sure of me, as much as I was with of him.
“I love you more,” he said back, and all was right in our world.
The text that woke me was from Ten’s mom to tell us they were staying out for dinner. I sent back a kiss and a thank you.
“Who… did… was it?” Ten asked sleepily, and I rolled to face him, kissing his nose.
“Your mom says she your dad and her are staying out with the family, and we shouldn’t wait to do the tree.”
He smiled and yawned, stretching, and I saw the wince when he turned his neck. In this position, I could see what remained of the skate blade’s cut up close. But I wasn’t seeing the scar, I was thinking about the lion that Gatlin had suggested he have tattooed.
Strength. Power. That was what a lion meant to me, and that was exactly Ten.
“We can do the…” He closed his eyes. “Tree,” he finished, but he didn’t frown with the effort, and that was a good thing.
I rolled up and out of bed; it was two in the afternoon, and we had all of today to be together because tomorrow I was back with the Railers, thankful they’d given me the two full days to be with Ten. We might not have had a game until after Christmas, but I needed to train with my defensemen so we kept up momentum. Ten knew that; he understood.
I dressed, put coffee on, made sandwiches full of roast beef and salad, and pulled out a bag of Ten’s favorite chips. We ate and smiled, and Ten was relaxed. Only when we were done did he wander into the living room while I cleared up the plates. By the time I made it in with soft drinks and popcorn, the low sounds of Christmas music filled the room, and Ten was crouched on the floor next to a box that he’d found somewhere. It was only when I got closer that I saw the logo of the facility that Ten was staying at.
Ten unclipped one side. “They make it… difficult on… purpose,” he said, although the pauses between words weren’t as jagged as they had been before his sleep.
I crouched next to him. “I guess that helps fine motor skills,” I said, just for something to say.
He nodded and unclipped the other side, then slid off the lid and rummaged in a tangle of shredded paper, finally lifting out a brightly covered thing.
I wasn’t sure what I was seeing and then realized it was a handmade ornament, wooden clothes pegs, bright red paint alongside brown, splashes of white, and what I was now holding was Rudolph, scarlet nose and all, made out of pegs and glue. Tears pricked the back of my eyes. This wasn’t a child’s work; it was neat, strong looking.
“I did that,” Ten announced proudly.
Grief and pride snapped and snarled inside me, and my breath was stolen at the enormity of what I was holding. This was Ten, the most capable forward in the NHL, a star on the rise, a man who could hold a team to a high standard without skipping a beat, and he was handing me a decoration that was the pinnacle of his achievement since the accident.
It meant so much to me. It was everything.
I cried. “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful. I love you.” I was talking a lot, all the love that was inside spilled out in a hurried mix and mess of words. “I love you.”
I hadn’t broken down in front of Ten like this, not for real, not when every worry and fear pushed at me and forced the tears from my eyes.
He smiled at me. Then it became a grin, and even though there were tears in his eyes, he was okay.
He’ll be okay.
I wanted to ask him to marry me right there and then, but even as I opened my mouth, something stopped me. He had to know what he was doing. He had to be able to think of the consequences of saying yes, had to know what his forever would be like before he committed.
“I love you,” he said and took the ornament back, standing carefully and then approaching the tree, appraising it critically. “Here,” he said and separated the ribbon so it would slip over the branch of the huge Norwegian fir.
We hugged then and faced the ornament on the empty tree.
“Perfect,” I said, then picked up the larger box of lights and ornaments I’d purchased for us. Next year we could go out together and buy more, special ones, like the one we’d put up first. “When we’re sixty and we put that ornament up, it will mean something,” I voiced my thoughts.
Ten hooked a small gold angel to another branch as I untangled lights, which I swear hadn’t been tangled when I’d first taken them off the spindle they’d come on.
He cleared his throat and looked me right in the eyes, pausing a little as he formed words, nodding. “Being with you means everything.”
I was so damn proud of him I could’ve burst, and fuck my life if the tears weren’t back.
With everything finished, we held hands, turning on the lights, which thankfully worked the first time, and I truly had never seen a more perfect tree.
Ten tugged me away and to the sofa, and we sat next to each other as Nat King Cole crooned about chestnuts roasting on an open fire.
“I want to skate,” Ten said.
“You will soon.” I was confident. I knew he would be back on skates one day soon. He was healing well, reports were encouraging. It wouldn’t be long.
Then he broke my heart into a million pieces, turning his liquid emerald gaze to me. “Now, Jared.”
“You can’t, Ten—”
“I want to.”
“Have they said—?”
“Please.”
How could I resist?
Ten
Mads and I sneaked out to our practice facility in Rutherford. With the team on holiday leave for a few days and most of the amateur leagues on break until the new year, we figured we’d have the place to ourselves. And we did. After a quick call to the manager who was more than happy to come unlock the front door, then give Mads the key, we were in.
“Ah man,” I whispered, the barn quiet as vespers in a nunnery. I closed my eyes and inhaled. Yeah, there it was. The tang of frozen water and sweat. Gross sounding, I know, but that smell was just one small component of the rush that hockey gave me. “You smell that, Mads?”
He nodded, pocketed the key, and shifted our equipment bag to his other hand. “Smells like hockey.”
He got it. I caught the flare of sport lust in his
blue eyes. Once an ice rat, always an ice rat.
“I’m stoked,” I confessed, the ice smooth as glass, beckoning me to lace up and step out on her surface. Such a siren ice was. “Scared too… big-time scared. What if—?”
“Do you want to call it off?” Mads stepped in front of me, blocking my view of the ice. “No one would think poorly of you if you backed away, Ten.”
“No. I’m not letting fear rule my life.” I’d worked on that line all the way over. Every time my gut would flip at the thought of falling, I’d repeat that mantra to myself.
“Okay, then. Let’s lace up and make a circle.” He moved to the side to let me lead the way to the locker rooms. Once inside the home dressing area, we slid on skates, grabbed sticks and pucks, and made our way to the ice. “Here. You wear this, or we go no further than the bench.”
He held out a smoky-blue helmet. “Thanks.”
“Also, news of this little outing never reaches Jean’s ears.” He flung the gate open. “If your mother knew I gave in to your request to skate, she’d skin me alive.”
“It’s our secret.” I stole a kiss, pulled in a deep lungful, and stepped out onto the ice.
“You okay?” Mads asked when I stood there, feeling the slide of sharp blade on ice for the first time in what seemed like years. I’d never gone this long without skating. Ever. Far back as I could remember, I’d been on the ice daily.
I glanced over my shoulder. The man wore his worry plainly. I smiled. “Nah, I’m good.”
“Are you sure?” God, he was tense.
“Dude, you want me to use… a bucket like the one Stan gives Noah when they’re on the ice?”
His lips flattened a bit. Then he nodded. “Right, yes, sorry. I’m being overprotective.”
“It’s cool. I love you. Come skate with me.”
I pushed off, one foot and then the other, and there it was. The power of muscle memory, the flow of tendon and muscle, the rasp of skate on ice, and the feel of a stick in my hand. It all meshed perfectly, no gaps or stutters as my brain experienced. My body knew what to do. It had been trained for this sport since I was two.
