by V. L. Locey
Every one of them was there that night for the first game. Waves of scarlet and black filled the seats. The air crackled with energy when the Scorpions hit the ice, and the hometown fans were loud and on their feet. Ten minutes in, we’d scored three times and the fans were quiet and seated. They stayed that way throughout the game. The Scorpions had not been able to figure Mitch out. The kid had stood on his head in net and now was proudly wearing the Cougars Cap as he, his boyfriend, and several other youngsters raced up and down the halls of the hotel in rolling office chairs. That came to a quick and unpleasant halt when Kalinski stepped out of his room to get ice for our Cokes/tea and was involved in hit-and-look-guilty-as-hell accident.
“Kids, huh?” I chuckled as I lounged in the doorway, Dan beside me, after several new assholes had been chewed.
Victor flung a glower at me and stalked to the ice machine. Not a peep was heard from the Cougars for the rest of that night. Sadly, come game two, we remained silent. The Scorpions had figured out Mitch in a big way. We lost big, giving them five goals and only netting one ourselves. In truth, it wasn’t so much that they’d figured Mitch out, because he’d been strong in the crease, only giving up one soft goal. The Scorpions had tinkered with their lines and had overwhelmed our defense. Which meant that the trip home was spent not reading a cozy mystery, but working on tactics and subtle line changes for the Tuesday night game in Cayuga.
We avoided the usual fan crush at the arena by flying back. I was eager to get home to see my child and my man. Both were gone when I arrived, which was disappointing, but to be expected. People did work after all. I took a short nap, after touching base with them with a few texts telling them to eat lightly at lunch. Dinner was on me and I wanted something with some real heft to it. Airline and hotel food got old real quick. After a short nap, I ran to the local grocery store, filled my cart, because my child had not bothered to buy food, and went home to create some comfort food. I wasn’t a gourmet chef, but I had picked up a few tricks during my years married to a working woman, and raising kids.
When Town and Charity walked in, I was just placing the food on the table. Town hustled over to give me a long hug, which Charity joined in on. I gave them both kisses on the cheek and then ordered them to sit.
“This looks great,” Town said and smiled up at me as I filled our glasses with sweet tea. “What is it?”
“It’s chicken-fried steaks, coleslaw, and mashed potatoes. Mm, Daddy, this is Mama’s cream gravy recipe!” Charity exclaimed, after taking a taste. I nodded. She sighed in pleasure.
I passed the bowl of slaw to Town and watched as he cut up and then plunked a big chunk of his fried steak into his mouth. His eyebrows twisted up.
“This isn’t chicken,” he said around the food in his mouth. Charity and I sniggered. “Ah ha, funny. Trick the Yankee. It’s good but I thought it would be chicken.”
“It’s chicken-fried steak,” I gently corrected as I poured more gravy over my potatoes.
“Why is it called chicken-fried when it’s steak?” he asked, after taking another bite.
“Mama said because the same kind of batter is used on the steak that we use for fried chicken,” Charity replied with a shrug. “Maybe that’s not the reason, though.”
“Well, chicken or beef, this is delicious!”
I grinned at Town shoveling in the food. I liked cooking for people who enjoyed eating. The kids had been terrible when they were young. Betty and I had feared they’d both turn into canned spaghetti rings, since that was all they would eat from the age of four to around six. Thankfully, they’d grown out of that stage.
The meal was pleasant, my daughter’s excitement barely containable. She gushed about her job, and the mayor and town, and her own little desk in the corner of the reception area. Dessert was ice cream and coffee, or tea for those of us who preferred it. I was about to ask if anyone wanted to go sit on the glider and watch the sunset color the lake, when my daughter bounced off and returned a few minutes later with a small overnight bag in her hand.
“You going somewhere?” I enquired over my tea mug.
She shook her head. “Nope. You are. Townsend, take him to your place for the night. You two can reconcile after your separation without worrying over me hearing it.”
My mouth nearly fell to the table. Heat rushed into my cheeks. Town seemed to be only slightly less embarrassed than I was.
“You’re throwing me out of my own house?” I finally asked. Charity nodded, her smile a wicked one, and shook the overnight bag at me. I glanced at Town. He waggled an eyebrow. “Fine, but you have to clean up the kitchen.”
She readily agreed, and so an hour later I was lying flat on my back in Town’s bed, my hand over his, his cock pressed closely to mine, fingers and palms thick with lube, fucking the living shit out of our fists. My left hand was tight to his thigh, his left hand was flat to my chest.
“Pump harder,” I growled, my orgasm right at the base of my balls. His hips worked powerfully, the underside of his cock riding the bottom of mine like a greased piston. The bed bounced off the wall. I arched up as much as I could with him straddling me. Hooded eyes stared down at me, his grip firm around our cocks, and he rocked into our fists with a long, slow thrust that sent me spiraling out of control. Warm spunk coated our fingers, oozing between them, adding to the slip and slide. “Ah fuck!”
“Mm, you—shit, shit, yeah, squeeze tighter…ah hell yes,” Town barked, his cock kicking madly, strings of semen landing on my belly. He fell over me, his one hand catching him, and licked into my open mouth, his body trembling just as mine was, his chest smearing our spunk into my skin. We rode out the tremors, fingers intertwined, hot cum dribbling over our knuckles, until our breathing was calm.
Town nibbled on my lower lip for a moment. Our sticky fingers slipped apart, and he slid off the bed, his knees a little weak by the looks. I chuckled at his wibbly-wobbly gait over to the hamper.
“That was all kinds of nice,” I purred as my body hummed with that sweet after-sex glow.
“Yeah, it was.” He returned to me, a T-shirt in hand, and swiped at the cum sticking to the hairs on my chest and belly. Then he wiped my dick clean, pressed a kiss to my mouth, and wiped off his cock, before whipping the shirt back into the hamper.
I reached up and grabbed the back of his neck, tugging him back down to the bed. He landed beside me, his left leg coming to rest on my right. We both were staring at the ceiling. I was studying the soft white circle of light the lamp on the nightstand was throwing.
“You want some wine or something?” I heard Town ask.
“Nah, I’m just about as fine as fine can be.”
Sleep was creeping up on me.
“Just how fine it that?” I heard him ask but his voice sounded sort of far away and spacy.
“Finer than frog fur,” I replied and let my eyes rest for just a minute.
I recalled nothing after that, but the next morning Town was in this giddy ass mood where everything was finer than frog fur.
“That is my expression for the day,” he said with a wink, as we moved around his kitchen making scrambled eggs and toast.
“You truly are a silly ass,” I muttered, as I whipped eggs in a bowl. He danced up behind me, his arms snaked around my middle, and he pressed a kiss to the nape of my neck.
“True, but I’m your silly ass.”
Yes, yes he was. And I loved my silly ass to bits.
10
My dear Lord, San Diego was a tough team. Obviously so, because they’d made it to the final championship round just as we had, by sheer grit, determination, crates of ibuprofen, and tons of ice applied to hundreds of contusions. Both teams had clawed their way to this moment, and while we had managed to win games three and four, they’d been hard-won wins. Both had gone into overtime, game four into a double overtime. A lucky shot here, a tiny miscalculation of a tired goaltender there, and we were poised to take it all tonight. Or we might muck everything up and head back to t
he west coast. If possible, we wanted to end this here, tonight, on home ice. In all honestly, I wasn’t sure some of the men could go on much longer. They would, of course. Hell, I’d seen hockey players play with broken bones and punctured lungs. But a few of the men—on both teams—were well and truly done.
I kind of felt a little overdone as well, but even with our guys looking like walking ads for medical tape and acetaminophen, they were wired. Our job for tonight was to try to keep them focused on the game and not the outcome. If we grew cocky we were toast, because San Diego was now backed into a corner and we all knew how they’d react to being in that position. They’d come out with their teeth bared. This was what we’d kept telling the men all through the warmups and the pregame talks. Stay on task. Don’t get overly confident. We do not have this ‘in the bag’ as some of the local sports reporters had been saying. Puck luck was a fickle thing. So far it had been in our favor, but that could change with a wonky bounce of the puck off the dasher.
During the first period, we saw first-hand how hard that dog in the corner could bite. San Diego clamped down on our offense and refused to let go. Every forward was ridden hard to the boards. Nothing dirty, but the hits were bone-jarring. Sander had been shaken up several times. Dan seemed to be wiry enough to avoid most of the slams into the boards, but the Scorpions had cashed in twice after knocking our men off the puck.
During the first intermission, we tended to our battered players and tried to drum into their heads that odd man rushes were killing us.
“Play hard but clean. We need to stop the turnovers. Take them off the puck this period!” Dewey shouted, while the rest of the coaching staff stood off to the side nodding. There was nothing more any of us could add. The men knew what needed to be done. They now had to dig deeply and find the courage to push past the pain. That was what determined who walked away a champion and who just walked away.
We got our first whiff of destiny a minute into the second period, and it was nothing that we did, but a costly error on the other team. Dan was taken down in the corner with a blatant trip. It took Arou-Kalinski a few seconds to dislodge a San Diego stick from his skate, while shouting at the ref the whole time. Stupid error on the Scorpions’ side. We could hear their head coach bellowing at the man headed to the penalty box. Both sides had played a clean series so far. Few penalties had been called, but a young player sometimes made rookie mistakes and one of their young bucks had made a whopper.
Our first power play of the night netted us a goal with a beauty of a move by Mario, who lifted the stick of a Scorpion to get the puck back, and then took it behind and around the net, sneaking the puck into the net a fraction of a second before the opposing goalie could seal his skate to the pipe. The wraparound goal woke up the Cougars fans and pumped some jazz into the team. After that, momentum began to shift. Our forechecking tightened up, the buzz was back on the bench, and that certain something was on the air. The rest of the second period raced by, with us working hard and doing everything right but unable to get a puck past the strong Finn in the Scorpions net. Intermission talk was given to the team captain. Those of us in suits and ties lingered in the hallway, heads together, while Mike Buttonwood fired up the men. We could hear them cheering whatever it was the captain was saying. When they emerged for the third period, each man had a glimmer in his eye.
I clapped Buttonwood on the back as he passed.
Whatever the man with the big C had said must have revved them up in ways a pep talk from one of the coaches couldn’t. We were on the ice a few seconds after the opening faceoff when Mike corralled the puck and took a shot on goal. His stick snapped, bits of black composite flying, and the puck did this weird bounce at half speed. It deflected off the calf of a Scorpion and trickled though the goalie’s legs. It was fitting for Mike to get that loopy goal. He’d been a solid captain who led by example. And while Victor liked to ride the guy for his quiet sort of country boy ways, Mike had become a fierce ally for all the LGBT players, as well as the gay community. To see him get the tying goal felt right.
With five minutes left in the game, destiny tapped Dan Arou-Kalinski on the shoulder and handed him a small boost. After picking up the puck behind the Scorpion net, Dan passed it to Sander, who then took a shot. The shot was blocked. Sander went for the rebound, but the Scorpion goalie poke checked it away. And who was there to get it? Dan Arou-Kalinski. The wrist shot flew over the goalie’s left shoulder, shaking the twine, and giving Dan the go-ahead goal. The bench all shot to their feet, reaching out to make sure they all got a glove bump from Dan when he and his line completed the celly.
I glanced at Victor and was confused as to what emotions I saw on his face. Pride, sure, and perhaps a bit of envy that he was in a tie and not in pads. There was something else in his hazel eyes, but I didn’t have the time to ponder it for long. We still had four minutes of hockey to play, and the Scorpions were going to be frantic to score. It was impossible to shout directions to the players unless they were seated in right in front of you. The walls of the Rader vibrated with fan noise, air horns, and the hum of something incredible about to occur. I wasn’t generally one to ask for favors from the Almighty. Him and I had been walking a bumpy road for quite a few years, but when the Scorpions pulled their goalie with three minutes left, I whispered a quick plea for a little luck. Just a smidgeon. Nothing huge like a lightning bolt. Just a little more luck for one hundred and eighty more seconds.
I guess someone somewhere must have heard my prayer. Maybe it was the men seated in front of me, or maybe it was a heavenly power. Whoever or whatever, the men with the roaring cougar on their chests played all-out. Sander threw himself in front of shots, Mario checked men hard enough to make their future children feel it, and Dan dug into the corners like the persistent little itch he is, taking the puck time and again, and sending it down the ice. Mitch pulled one incredible save out of his hat. Lying on his back, he kicked a leg up to block a wicked shot from point. All in all, everyone on the ice did what needed to be done and when the final five seconds sped past and the buzzer sounded, the Cougars roared as one and flowed out onto the ice to pile on top of our ecstatic goalie.
“Congrats, Coach!” I shouted to my fellow coaches, hugging each one before slipping out over the ice to shake hands with the Scorpion staff.
Things kind of took on a dreamy cast after that. The handshake line, the presentation of the Calder Cup, Mike taking that victory lap with the trophy above his head, and then the team portraits with all the men and on-and-off-ice staff gathered around that big silver cup. There was champagne and some seriously loud music in the dressing room. I may have partaken in a glass—or ten—of the bubbly. I was giddy enough to go find my man waiting with the media, and pulled him into my arms for a loud smooch that ended up on the front page of every sports section in the Finger Lakes district. I didn’t care. I loved Town. My daughter then wiggled in past the crowds waiting to go in and talk to the players. Town and I pulled her into a hug and right there I knew that my life was complete. I held in my arms two of the most important people in the world—if only Chaz were here it would’ve been three—and behind me in the Cougars dressing room was the championship trophy. Life was sweeter than my mama’s pecan pie.
"Are you sure the burgers are done?”
I looked up from the picnic table at my daughter, who was thrilled to join the team at this little 4th of July party taking place on my lakeside estate.
“You’re really questioning my grilling skills?” I asked.
Town walked past with the paper plates and cups. “Do not question the man’s grilling skills,” my lover tossed out then bumped my hip with his. “I have learned that the hard way.”
“Yeah but…” Charity poked at several burgers on the platter with a plastic fork. “Dad always makes them rare.”
“Juicy is not rare. Y’all need to get that into your head. Burgers are supposed to have juices left in them, otherwise they taste like hockey pucks. Lord sakes,” I pl
ayfully huffed then went back to take the hot dogs off the grill.
My backyard was packed full of hockey players, wives and girlfriends, husbands and boyfriends, and kids of all ages—college-aged to infant. And in the middle of it all, the championship trophy sitting on a table all of its own. Boats cruised the lake, some of the folks on board shouting to us as they passed. We’d all wave and holler in reply. Our little town had come out in full for our victory parade. Hell, half the state of New York seemed to be there. It had been a wonderful time, filled with love and good cheer. Not one nasty slur did I hear, and given the number of LGBTQ players on the team, that was saying something. Maybe a big old trophy eases homophobic tendencies for a bit. Time would tell. Now, we just had to get the town rallied behind the youth center. That would come, but it was going to take time, which was something I had plenty of now. All summer, as a matter of fact.
We settled in to eat and enjoy the late afternoon breeze coming off Cayuga Lake. After sundown, there would be fireworks over the water, but for now, we were all entertained by each other’s company. I tried not to bring up the televised expansion draft tonight, but someone had already mentioned it, several times, and the talk was all about who would be leaving which teams. Try as I might, I could not get the chatterboxes to switch the topic. I knew Vic and Dan were on tenterhooks about it. Sander seemed to be settled into his possible fate, telling us that his men would simply go with him to Boston or Baltimore if he were chosen after training camp, but that would be after they returned from Japan. Something about a holiday gift they had given to each other or something.
