by R J Scott
We couldn’t talk anymore, because Erik and Stan had joined the waiting group.
“Ten in here?” Stan said in a very loud whisper, and someone shoved at my back. Finally, I couldn’t stop the team actually getting into their own locker room and stood aside. Stan pushed past Adler, followed by Erik and Arvy, Adler grousing that he would like to get on with getting ready and would people stop shoving at him. Everyone fist bumped Ten, pulled him into a side hug, treated him as usual, and I loved all of them for that.
The only wrinkle was when Gideon “Gids” Levesque walked in, took one look at Ten, and spun to leave. I think Ten had been waiting for him, though.
“Gids, wait!” Ten called after him, and the locker room was silent. Twenty or so guys watching. Gids had nicely integrated into the team. He was no Ten, but he’d been the skater called up from the Rush to fill the bottom line as everyone else moved around to cover Ten’s absence, and he’d done well. He was also probably returning to the Rush when Ten came back, but he was making the most of the opportunity, with three goals and two assists on his record at NHL level.
Gids stopped and turned warily. “I just um… need to get more clear tape,” he said and had ten rolls of tape thrown at him by the watching audience. The action broke the silence, and everyone was back to talking. Except me. I watched Ten carefully.
“Your goal against Boston, the way you got around their defense, you’re fast and good. Watch out for Jamie though. Idiot likes to think he’s a two-way forward.”
Ten held out his hand to shake, and Gids took it, a cautious smile on his face.
“Thank you. How are you feeling?” He’d blown it, asking the question that everyone else had been avoiding.
The entire room went silent again, held its collective breath, including me, which proved that we’d all actually been watching what was happening. Ten had told me enough that he didn’t want to be asked how he was by everyone, and I certainly didn’t focus on asking him every time I was with him.
“Better,” Ten announced loudly so the whole room could hear, his not-so-subtle way of explaining to everyone at the same time. “Headaches, dizziness…. Words are something… sometimes hard. Can’t wait to be back on the ice.” The last part of his little speech was way more confident than the rest. Knowing Ten, it was a litany he repeated every day.
I can’t wait to get back on the ice. I will get back on the ice.
We separated about an hour before the game, him leaving to make his way to the team box, me to do pregame preparations.
“He seems good,” Erik said before he headed out to the ice for warmup. “More like Ten.”
I nodded and even smiled because I’d felt a shift in Ten the last couple of days. There was a cautious confidence about him, and seeing him with a stick in his hands and the way he held it, I thought I saw a spark of the Ten who was a king on the ice.
I could imagine his eyes on me and the team from the box, worried a little about how exposed he was. Television cameras had likely caught him up there and were panning to his face as he watched the team play. It must’ve been so hard to be the focus of everyone’s attention.
I wonder what he’s thinking.
Florida sent Jamie Rowe’s line out, and I gave Arvy and Westy the tap, watching as my guys managed to hold off Ten’s determined brother. When they came back, they high-fived each other, and I looked over at Jamie who in turn was staring up at the box. He and Brady were idiots around their brother, but they loved Ten. Everyone loved Ten. What wasn’t there to love?
We took a win from the game, a solid two points in a cramped league, and the mood in the locker room was jubilant. Ten didn’t come down at that point, said he’d wait up in the box, and by the time we were done, the arena had emptied, and the cleaners were working the rows, removing the litter created by eighteen thousand fans. I received a text he’d gone down to ice side, but he didn’t give an explanation, and I didn’t ask. If he needed to be close to the ice and it helped his progress, then I wasn’t going to argue at all. I grabbed my coat, assumed I would be meeting him and we’d be going home, but I found him sitting on the Railers bench, skates on, helmet in place, staring out at the ice.
“Just quickly,” he said to me. The cleaners were finishing up in the stands, an hour or more having passed since the game. The ice was smooth and empty, but I wondered if he’d cleared it with anyone.
“Have you checked—”
“Who’s going to stop me?” he asked with a wide grin. “Surely it’s good for marketing to have Tennant Rowe back on the ice? Layton will love it. Make sure you take photos for his twitter account.” He stood up, stick in hand and a determined jut to his chin. “Okay?”
I didn’t have skates on, but I stepped onto the ice first and gestured for him to go past, reaching for a pile of pucks and throwing them down. He picked up a puck on his stick, made slow lazy figure eights in front of the bench, each circle taking him wider on the ice. He looked good, slower than usual, but he was skating well, natural, flowing, and his focus was perfect. He changed direction, skating backwards, pulling the puck with him, heading for the net, and I couldn’t help that my chest tightened. He wasn’t checking where he was going. He was heading right for the net. What if he hit it and fell to the ice? What if he hit his head? I moved toward him a few steps, even though there was no way I could reach him in time. I wanted to shout, to warn him, but I couldn’t find my voice.
In a split second, with that almost otherworldly hockey awareness he had going on, he skated to the right, slid the puck forward, iced to a stop, then hooked it into the net, even throwing a mini, slightly shaky, celly as he passed around the back of the net.
“And the crowd goes wild,” he announced and skated back to me to get another puck. “Number ninety-four scores!” The words were smooth, as if hockey talk was easy for him.
I checked his eyes for focus, wanted him to stop then, but Ten was determined, utterly in sync with his skating, and this time he shot from the center line, the puck sailing a little wide. He frowned, collected the puck, and shot it again and again. Seven times out of ten he managed to get the five-ounce rubber disk into the net, and then he slowly skated back, his cheeks flushed, his eyes bright with emotion. Lights dimmed in the seating. Clearly everyone had left, and it was just him and me.
I remembered the day he’d joined the Railers. That singular moment when I’d spotted him through the glass, standing there and owning the press, confident, cocky, and here he was now. He was so happy, and I knew one thing for sure. I was never letting him go. I actually fell to my knees a lot more gracefully than I had imagined I would, and he towered above me in skates, his expression worried. Probably wondering why the hell I was down on the ice.
“Jared?” He reached a hand out to help me, his smile dimming.
I rooted in my pocket, fumbling to pull out the box. There was no Christmas music, no tree, no perfectly arranged setting, but there was Tennant, me, and two platinum rings. “Marry me,” I blurted. Gone was the flowery speech about forever and how he held my heart and how much I wanted him. “Ten, I love you. Marry me?”
Ten
My brain was slow. I mean, sure, we all knew that. A big crack to the coconut makes your head like the Hell Hole Swamp back home in South Carolina. We’d gone there once when I was a kid, maybe eight or so. Only once, because Brady had gotten it into his thick skull that he had to cross the swamp. Mom and Dad had stopped to look at some plant, and there went Brady, wading out into the muck until he was up to his armpits. Jamie and I had stood there, watching, laughing, considering wading out as well until Brady started freaking out because he was unable to slog his way through. There may have been water moccasins and alligators in that water, or so Dad had told us to keep us from going out into it. Kids really don’t listen for shit most of the time.
So yep, that was my brain. Mucky as the Hell Hole Swamp. Words kind of waded out and then got stuck, like Brady. That was the case right now. Mads down on a creaky knee,
his blue eyes brimming with devotion, and a box with two platinum rings in it had gummed up my reasoning.
“Are you serious?” I finally pushed out because this wasn’t in the plan.
Not at all. The plan had been to live together, win the Cup, get married, travel, and grow old together. This was not the plan. The plan had been deviated from. Well, I mean the living together plan bit had been done successfully. So that kind of made the next step in the Tennant Rowe and Jared Madsen plan… fuck. Marriage. We were at the marriage stage. When had we gotten there? How? It felt as if just two days ago I’d laid eyes on Mads, on the ice, through the glass. I’d known right then that I desired him above all other men I’d ever wanted. That want grew after getting to know him again. It grew and changed, matured into affection and respect, and yes, lust. God, how we’d lusted. But amid all that wanting and growing and changing, we’d fallen in love. And now, there he was, staring at me in abject terror as I gaped down at him like a drooling fuckwit.
“Tennant? Are you having some kind of setback?” Mads asked, worry flowing off him.
I went down to one knee, mirroring him. “No, I’m good. I’m golden. I just… we did the whole thing right up to now, yeah? All of it, the good and the bad, we aced that… all that stuff, yeah?”
“Yes, we aced it all. Are you sure you’re okay?”
I smiled at him, at the concern in his voice, the fine lines around his eyes, the silver that was creeping in at his temples, which made him hot as double hell. I loved all of those things and more. His laugh, his frown, the way his reading glasses sat on his nose, the width of his shoulders, the girth of his cock. I loved him so damn much more.
“I’m golden, seriously.”
“Good, okay, so I hate to push you, but I have these rings, and my knee is about to seize up, and I really would like a reply.”
“Yes, I’ll marry you. Yes, and yes, and like a hundred thousand infinite yes to the yes times a million!” I threw myself at him, arms around his neck, and rode him backward to the ice, my mouth sealed to his. He chuckled into the kiss, a warm snuffling sound that made me wiggle closer and kiss him with even more passion.
“No one can ever say you lack enthusiasm,” Mads chortled, his head resting on the ice for a moment before I slid to the side and he sat up. I brushed the sparkling bits of shaved ice from his thick gold hair. Then I pushed my fingers into the length of it and led his mouth back to mine. This kiss had heat blanketed in devotion. The sweep of his tongue over mine made me hard and breathless, as usual.
“Can I wear it?” I asked when we had to come up for air. “I’m not really up on how dudes do this. I mean… Jamie and Brady bought diamonds but…” I kissed him again because I had to.
“There are no set rules as far as I know. We can wear them as engagement rings or put them aside for the actual wedding day. What do you want to do?”
“I want the world to know you’re mine… if that’s cool?”
“It’s incredibly cool. I like the idea of all those Tennant Rowe fangirls knowing you’re officially off the market now.”
I held out my left hand, eager to see him slip the band onto my ring finger. His hand shook a little, so did mine. The smooth, warm ring slid over my knuckle, the fit perfect.
I plucked the larger one out of the box, peeked at him, smiled in return, and pushed the ring down over his finger, wiggling a bit to get it over knuckles permanently scarred and lumpy from fights and slashes from opposing players.
“That’s beautiful,” I murmured as I admired the ring – my ring – on his finger. “Oh my gosh!” A thought raced through my head. I pushed to my skates and then tugged my fiancé to his feet. Wow. We were affianced. I felt so grown up and giddy. Mads stopped brushing ice from the seat of his pants to glance at me. “Do not tell Ryker yet. He and Big J are coming…” Damn it. Take a breath. Let the excitement wane a bit. “They’re coming for New Year’s and Stan’s party, yeah?”
He nodded, his attention now on me fumble-bumbling around mentally.
“Cool. Don’t tell him, okay? I want to lay it on him. Bust his balls a bit.”
“Oh-kay, we’ll sit on it until he gets home.” He took my hand in his and lifted the heavy band to his lips. “But it’s going to be hard not to shout about it from the rooftops.”
I patted his cheek, his new whiskers rough on my palm. “Totes.”
Two days later we were getting ready for the big blow-out at Stan’s place. Russians love their New Year’s parties, and this year was supposed to be even bigger than last year’s. I wasn’t sure what Stan had up his sleeve, only that it involved an orchestra and the fact that he “knew peoples” so, yeah, I didn’t pry. My overactive imagination had oligarchs doing backflips across our goalie’s living room. I told Mads that, and he gave me his patented “Your mind worries me” look before going back to the book about home brewing he was browsing while sipping coffee.
When the front door flew open and Ryker’s shout filled the townhouse, I barreled out of the kitchen, dress shirt unbuttoned, tie in my back pocket, and gave the boys a wide grin. Man, Ry and Jacob were a gorgeous couple. They complemented each other so well, and it was obvious they loved each other.
“Dude,” Ryker replied, fist-bumping it out with me. Jacob and I shook hands, the farm boy’s grip strong, his fingers calloused. “You look good. How are you feeling?”
“Pretty righteous,” I replied, hearing Jared step up behind me, the creaky floorboard giving him away. We stood there watching the two of them peel off their coats. Both guys had worn suits, as had been requested by Stan, and they looked fucking amazing. I had to wonder if Tan France had decked them out. Jared slid an arm around my waist. “So, um, we have something to tell you.”
Ryker glanced up from something on his phone. Jacob, always the silent behemoth, gave us his undivided attention.
“What? Did Stan cancel the party? I’ll be royally pissed. You have any idea what it took to get this man into a suit? Or what I had to go through to let me buy him a new suit?” Ryker’s gaze flew from me to his father, then back to me.
“My old suit would have been fine,” Jacob commented from behind Ryker. “Waste of money to buy a new one that I’ll only ever wear once.”
“Your old suit was too small and too old,” Ryker tossed back, sliding his cell into the interior pocket of his gray suit jacket. “Hence the reason you needed a new one.”
Jacob opened his mouth to retaliate, but I slid in, all slick and shit.
“The party is not canceled so chill with the… suit worries. Ryker.” I dropped an arm around Ry’s shoulders. He snickered. “We have news for you.”
“Okay, so give me the news,” he said, his attention flicking steadily now from Jared to me.
“From now on, you have to call me Dad.” I held up my left hand to flash the band under his nose. Ryker, the poor stunned dolt, made like a goldfish for ten or so seconds and then punched me in the arm. “Dude, that’s like stepdad abuse.”
Ryker tried to say something, but it got all mashed up with hugs and hugs and even a few more hugs. Jacob got pulled into the embrace-a-thon. When the first round of congrats had been delivered, Jacob and I took their bags to the guest room to give Mads and Ryker some time to talk.
I finished dressing, wishing I had that new ink on my neck to cover the bright pink scar that stood out above my white dress shirt. Gatlin wanted clearance from my doctor that the wound was indeed fully healed. Maybe by Valentine’s Day, he had offered to placate me. Who knew tattoo artists could be so damn strict? When we all met in the kitchen, Mads and Ryker were talking about home brewing, but both men’s eyes were shiny with unshed tears.
“We good?” I asked as I fumbled with my tie.
“We’re incredibly good,” Mads said, gently pushing my fingers aside to neaten up the knot in my tie.
We shared a small kiss, gathered up the kids—I planned to bust Ryker’s chops forever with the kid stuff—and made our way to Stan’s big house. It looked
as though we’d be making our big announcement to the team tonight. We’d had lots of practice. We’d told my family yesterday in a group call that went off the rails into emo-town for all involved. My mother had woken me that morning with an announcement that she’d made a Pinterest board for wedding ideas. Like, seriously? She had to ring me at five a.m. sharp to tell me about a board she was filling with wedding cake and flower arrangement ideas? I guess that was what parents did. I’d have to do that for Ryker just to see him lose his shit. I was going to rock this stepfather thing, just as I was going to rock the rehab. Right now though, we had to brace ourselves for this Russian suit-wearing party.
“Dude, if there are oligarchs there and we get jailed for collusion or some other espionage shit… and have to postpone the nuptials for twenty years, my mother is going to be pissed. Did you see how many pins she’s put in that… wedding board of hers?” I whispered to Mads as we walked up the snowy walk to Stan’s front door.
“Let’s hope we don’t end up in prison then. I’d hate to piss Jean Rowe off,” Mads replied and rang the doorbell. A dude I did not know opened the door. Tall, head full of blond curls, and the same chin as Erik, he smiled at us as if he knew us, and boy, was he enthusiastic.
“Hello! I’m Bjorn Johnson.” He pumped our hands strongly. “You don’t know me, but I’m Erik’s cousin. I’m a big fan of the Railers.”
That was a lot to process right away, but Bjorn had such a wide and welcoming smile that I immediately smiled back.
“Good to meet you,” I said, and repeated his name in my head so I would remember it. Bjorn. Like the guy in ABBA.
“I’m stoked to be here. I was in America for a skiing competition in Big Mountain and stopped by on the way home to celebrate New Year’s with him and Stan.” He let us in.
“They made you the official doorman?” Jared asked.
“Seems that way.”
Thankfully, we didn’t end up in a federal pen somewhere for sharing secrets with Russians. There had been this opera singer, some friend of a friend of Stan’s from the homeland, who had sung a song from Madame Butterfly that had left some of us hockey players slightly stunned and a little weepy. No one would admit that they’d teared up over some dumb opera song, so that went to the grave with us. They did hoot and holler and slap my back repeatedly when Mads and I made the big announcement.
