by Sarina Bowen
The only reason to hit like that is if you’re trying to injure. Or at least make a point.
Eros made his.
Rikker lay on the ice, unmoving.
— Rikker
Oh, fuck. Oh… fuck.
Get up, I ordered myself. Now. At least once a season this happened. That awful feeling of having the air knocked out of me — like my lungs didn’t remember how to expand, and my guts had been permanently compressed.
But even without air, I lurched to a seated position. Somehow I got one skate back onto the ice, and struggled for the second one. The hockey game narrowed down around me, and there was only a thin slice of my consciousness left — a straight tunnel between the spot where I’d been brutalized and the bench. Go, asshole, I ordered myself, even though I still hadn’t drawn a full breath. Somehow I limped toward my team, and somebody — Bella — yanked the door open for me as I approached.
“Fucking egregious!” she screamed, pushing me onto the bench. “I will kill that motherfucker.”
Bella kept up her litany of curses while I bent over at the waist, willing myself not to puke through the bars of my helmet grate. I needed to pull myself together, and right away. Even half conscious, I knew I couldn’t afford to look beaten right now.
I pulled myself into a vertical position again. Even as my stomach stopped clenching, the other parts of my body that had gotten slammed began announced their displeasure. My ribs were practically vibrating. And I was going to have a bruise the size of Massachusetts on one hip.
Bella’s worried face was parked right in front of me, and as I rose up, her eyes went wide. “You’re bleeding.”
Now that she mentioned it, I could feel something wet on my jaw.
“He slashed your chin.”
Whatever. I was so busy hurting in other places I didn’t even care.
But she unclipped my helmet grate and lifted it. Then she grabbed it with two hands and angled my face toward the ice. “Hey ref!” she shouted. “Look at this shit!”
“Bella, Jesus.” I tried to pull away, but when someone has you by the facemask, that’s pretty much impossible. She swung my mask to follow the ref as he skated by, and I had to grab her wrists and wrench her off of me. “Let go of my fucking head.” It was hard to even describe how angry I was in that moment, and how drunk I felt from the pain and the disbelief. If instant death had somehow been offered to me right then, I would have been tempted to accept.
“But slashing you in the face is a disqualifying penalty!”
“Just…” I yanked my glove off and swiped at my face. When I looked at my hand, there was a pretty good smear of blood there. But I’d live.
Somebody had passed Bella the first aid kit, which she was now yanking open. “Let me wipe that off and see how big the cut is.”
“Better glove up,” Big-D said as the buzzer rang for the end of the first period. “You don’t want to get Rikker’s blood on you.”
“Shut your fucking mouth,” Bella snapped as she pulled on a blue latex glove. Because that was the policy. I’d seen her do it many times before.
But it didn’t matter. Big-D’s comment was out there, and I hung my head like a fucking pariah. I’d spent the whole first semester trying to convince my team that I wasn’t scary. And in the span of twenty minutes, Eros had torn away any goodwill that I might have built up.
Fucking Eros.
Fucking Saint B’s.
Fucking reporter.
Fuck my life.
Coach gave a five-minute rant in the locker room before the next period. He was practically spitting fire. “What did we just fucking talk about before the game? This is your rink. Your ice. And you’re letting some prick from a second rate team throw you off your game! FUCK him! How many shots on goal are you going to let these assholes take before you fight back?”
He threw his clipboard into the wall and stormed out.
There was a moment of utter silence in the room before my teammates — red-faced from both exertion and anger — began filing back out to the bench. I followed them, trying not to wince every time my chest pad moved against my ribs.
“Are you good to play?” Hartley asked me when it was time for the second period to begin.
“Of course,” I snapped. They would have to drag my lifeless body off the ice before I’d give up. But, shit. Two more periods to go. This was already the longest night of my life.
Every second of the next period cost me.
Eros hadn’t attacked me again. Yet. But for the first time in my life, I played scared. When our shifts overlapped, I spent too much time looking out for him, and too little time watching the puck. I missed three passes in a row, and that made me want to puke almost as badly as getting slammed in the guts had done.
And every time Eros got anywhere near my teammates, he kept up the douchey commentary. “I bet you guys like holding each other’s sticks, don’t you?” I heard him say.
Stupid shit, right? But he was just distracting enough to do two things: lose us the game, and remind my teammates that I was a liability.
Meanwhile, Saint B’s offensive line continued to fire a hailstorm at Orson. And in between, Eros taunted our goalie with questions about how often the team showered together.
Orson let in two goals that period. But he saved about a thousand.
The third period had just begun when Eros finally managed to get in Big-D’s face in the corner. I was too far away to hear the first part of it, but when they came toward our bench, I could hear Eros asking: “…do you spit or swallow?”
Big-D’s face turned blood-red. And when his shift was up, he straddled the bench and gave me a rough shove out of his way.
“Enough!” Hartley spat. “Pay attention to the fucking puck, okay? What’s your job, here?”
“I didn’t sign up for this shit,” Big-D returned. “And I’m not throwing down for him if they jump him again.”
“Shocker,” I muttered.
Orson let in another lamplighter, unfortunately, and the whole bench grunted with disappointment. And then it was time to faceoff again. I heaved myself over the wall, coming face to face with Graham for a second. His face was red, and his eyes were burning with something that I couldn’t read. But it was probably disgust, the same as everyone else.
Saint B’s won the faceoff, and Graham took off after the puck. He correctly anticipated the pass to Eros, and leaned in. Hit him, my subconscious begged. As if it mattered. As if anything could make this moment more bearable.
But Graham didn’t hit him. Instead, his weapon was a simple poke-check. But he got that stick in there just a little further than necessary, and managed to trip Eros even as Graham passed the puck to Hartley. I blinked, wondering if that was intentional.
Eros went down hard, and the ref didn’t call Graham on it.
The moment that Eros picked himself up off the ice, he skated toward Graham. And in that moment I learned two things: 1) the night could still get worse. And 2) the word “faggot” is the easiest English word to read off someone’s lips. I watched it roll off Eros’s ugly mouth.
Graham flinched so big that I could see it across the rink.
And then? Well… That’s when I really lost my shit. Because my teammates could not be called that word because of me. Shutting him up was the only thing that mattered to me anymore.
Eros went after the puck, and I went after Eros, choosing a vector across the ice that would put me at the same point along the boards where he’d arrive. It wasn’t rational. That spot on the ice wasn’t even mine to cover. But I just charged, both ends of my stick in my hands. I cross-checked him in the hip, and he did a Roadrunner-style splat onto the plexi.
The hit was blatantly illegal. But it didn’t matter. Because I already knew that the refs weren’t going to be my biggest problem.
It only took a couple of seconds for another Saint B’s player to power over to us and throw a punch at me. I ducked, so it only grazed me. I don’t even remember throwing
off my gloves. But then they were gone, and I was swinging back at him. The arrival of Hartley at my side to back me up was just a blur on the edge of my consciousness.
Then the blur developed a distinct black and white color scheme, as the linesman and the ref jumped in to separate the four of us.
“You’re done!” the ref shouted, my right arm restrained in his grip. “Major penalty and disqualification. One game suspension.” He gave me a hard shove toward the bench. “Off the ice. Right now, or I’ll make it a two-game suspension.”
In the NHL, fighting was just part of the game. In college? Not legal.
I barely registered the sound of the screaming fans as I skated off, head down. And then Coach was yelling at me. At us, actually. Because Hartley was standing right beside me. “You fucking guys! Dumber than posts, both of you. We have to play fucking Union next week, and you won’t fucking be there. Thanks for that…”
He was still yelling as I limped down the chute. The roar of the arena died when the door shut on us. And then it was just Hartley and I, alone with our shock.
The captain collapsed, defeated, onto his locker bench. His voice was so low that I almost missed what he said. “I have never been ejected from a game before.”
“You’re welcome,” I spat. Not that I was making any sense. Another guy might have even thanked Hartley for throwing down like that.
But I didn’t want anyone to throw down for me. That was the fucking problem. I didn’t want to be that guy who brought down humiliation on the backs of his teammates.
I tossed my pads onto the floor one after another, and then stomped into the showers, staying under the water as long as I dared. But before the team came off the ice, I was out of there. I got dressed and snuck out of the building. Like the loser that I was.
Scoring Chance: an attempt or an opportunity for a player to score a goal.
— Rikker
An hour and a half later, I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, holding two ice packs against my bare chest. They might or might not keep the swelling on my bruised ribs to a minimum.
Whatever.
A trip to Capri’s was out of the question. Not only was I banged up; I’d never been more embarrassed in my life. I just lay there in a pair of ripped jeans, too exhausted to even get ready for bed. Someone knocked on the door. It was probably Bella, come to check on me. If I were to leave town, she’d be the only one to notice. She and Coach. Fuck. I didn’t even want her company. I just wanted to be left alone to sink into the fucking floor.
We lost the fucking game. 0-4.
The knock repeated—three sharp raps. She was probably going to just beat on the door until I answered. “It’s open,” I grumbled.
But the doorknob wiggled with the telltale muted click of a door that was not open.
With a groan, I sat up and lurched for it, turning the handle to let Bella push the door open. The minute I felt it give, I turned to throw myself onto the bed again.
Someone cleared his throat, and it was not Bella.
I rolled over to see Graham standing there, looking down at me. One hand was shoved into his jacket pocket. The other held a bottle of Jose Cuervo. “Hola, Juan. Quieres un tequila?”
It took me way too long to answer. “Uh, sí?” It wasn’t the most gracious response. But shock made me stupid.
“Got glasses?” He set the bottle down on my desk and pulled a lime and a camping knife from his pocket. He flipped up the blade and took it to the lime. Shaking off a little of my surprise, I dropped my ice packs on the floor and found the shot glasses in a desk drawer. I dusted them on my jeans.
Graham swung my desk chair around and sat down in it. He poured two shots and handed me a wedge of lime. “Knock it back, man,” Graham said. He tipped his shot into his mouth.
I drank too. The tequila stung the back of my throat. At least I hoped it was the alcohol, because it very well could have been Graham’s gesture. Here he was, in his own fucked-up way, offering me support. Of course, it was Graham’s version of support — strong drink. But at that moment, when I was literally friendless, it meant everything to me.
Just looking across at him made it hard for me to swallow. What a mess we were: one gay guy who tried to be out, and it had only led to disaster. And one… I didn’t want to classify Graham. Only Graham could classify Graham. But whatever Graham was, he didn’t make it look easy.
“You’re thinking too hard over there,” Graham said, reaching out a hand. “Let’s have that glass. We’ve got to do that again.”
I did as I was told, and together we threw back a couple more shots. The alcohol did its thing, and began to soften me at the edges. My shame and anger flattened out, which should have been a good thing. But I only became broody instead.
“Saw you trip him,” I said.
Graham fingered his shot glass. “I did it again after you left, and took two minutes for it. Didn’t help things. Felt good, though.”
We sat in silence after that, but somehow it wasn’t awkward. Putting more words to everything that had gone wrong tonight would have been painful and pointless. For both of us. So silence was definitely the way to go. And Graham was here with me, feeding me tequila. He’d been called a faggot to his face tonight, because of me. Yet here he was.
Unbelievable.
His long fingers tapped one of his own knees. Sitting in a room with him was still trippy. It was like watching a video of my old life. I could see it and hear it, but not touch.
He was staring at me, though. At my bare chest, if I wasn’t mistaken. Not that I’d call him on it. The conditions of our truce were pretty simple. Graham was solid with me on the team, and I pretended to believe that he was straight. That was only fair, especially since he’d brought tequila as a peace offering.
Except I could feel those blue eyes on me. So I raised one languid hand to rub my chest. I didn’t do it in a porn film way — it was just a casual brush across my pecs, like anyone might do. But man, did his eyes flare. Oh, hell. I could feel his gaze on me, like a physical touch. I felt it in places I shouldn’t.
And then Graham turned away, toward the desk. He picked up the lime. “One more, I think.”
“Sure,” I said, wondering how this night would play out. Graham and I, drunk together. That’s something that had never happened before, back in the day. There was no telling what it might have led to.
He stood up to hand me my glass. “Cheers,” he said, holding his own into the air. Then he downed it. Then he set the glass on my desk and turned around again. “Rik?”
It took me a second to answer, because I was swallowing tequila. “Yeah?” I stood up to put my glass onto the desk beside his.
Before I could retreat again to my corner, he moved into my space. When his big hand landed at the side of my neck, I quit breathing. Time slammed to a halt for a second, until I realized that he was examining the place under my jaw where Eros had slashed me with his stick.
“How bad does it look?” I whispered, just to say something normal.
But Graham wasn’t even listening. He dropped his hand, only to put it on my bare waist. And then his mouth dipped down to graze the juncture between my neck and my shoulder. A pair of soft, moist lips began to nibble at my skin.
Jesus fuck.
Again, I froze with surprise, too shocked to say anything, or to shove him away. His mouth made a path along my throat, dropping wet kisses on his way. I didn’t react at all. Well, that isn’t true. My dick jumped to attention, straining against the zipper of my jeans faster than you can say “bad idea.” Then Graham raised his head, his tongue landing at my ear. When he sucked my earlobe into his mouth, I let out a gasp.
“Do I still do it for you?” he whispered. Not waiting for an answer, he gave me a shove backward, onto the bed. Even as I sat down he was straddling me, pushing me down. His mouth attacked mine a second later. He kissed me, hot and wild, and I let him. No — I practically rolled out a fucking rug for him, scrambling back to get all the
way onto the bed, pulling him into my arms.
Yes, yes, yes, my body chanted. Four shots of tequila in, it was easy to shut off all the logical parts of my brain. With the hard, warm body of my first love practically scaling me like a monkey, I couldn’t summon the will to think this through. His big hands threaded into my hair, his mouth slanting down over mine again and again. His lips were wet and warm, and his tongue made long, greedy draws against mine.
Suddenly, we were fifteen again, and crazy with desire. There was no finesse to our making out. We were too hungry, too desperate. It was all grip strength, grunts, and heavy breathing. The bed barely held four hundred pounds worth of horny hockey players who were trying to achieve nuclear fusion through their mouths.
My clumsy hands found their way under his shirt, and over the hard planes of his back. He dragged his mouth off of mine only long enough to yank his shirt over his head. And then we were skin to skin. When I grabbed his beautiful chest in two hands, tweaking his nipples with my thumbs, he let out a howl of need that I was probably going to hear later in my dreams.
And it was Graham. My Graham. Those familiar blue eyes were half-mast with lust, and his golden skin was flushed with desire. For me. There was nothing like it. With his hips grinding against mine, I thought I might blow in my jeans the way we did when we were teenagers.
“Want to suck you,” he said between kisses. And before my brain could even unpack that declaration, I lost his mouth on mine. He began dropping hot, open-mouthed kisses across my pecs, lingering over my nipples. Then he traced the centerline of my chest with his tongue.
It was all happening so fast, and I was on fire, panting like a maniac. Rough hands yanked my jeans open. When he tugged, I lifted my hips. But then I was lying there, exposed for him, my knees still tangled in my jeans. So vulnerable. I experienced a twinge of worry, hoping that Graham didn’t plan it this way, spreading me bare so he could teach me some kind of lesson.
But before I could even finish that ugly thought, his breath was there, nuzzling my groin. On the sound of his sigh, my shoulders relaxed against the bed. Hungry lips began tracing my shaft, and I flexed my hips, desperate for a little friction.
