by V. L. Locey
“I’m not going to discuss him with the press.”
There. That shut them up. The media finally filed out, and I was left to fret over someone outing Sal. It would be as simple as an internet search, or some curious newshound trailing him to his Poz Men support group every Wednesday night. I felt terrible about bringing this kind of possible shit into Sal’s life. He hadn’t asked for media coverage about his health. If he broke up with me to save himself the heartache that might come, I wouldn’t blame him.
I couldn’t leave the arena fast enough. Getting home to Sal was a primal need clawing at my innards. He met me at his door, his dark eyes hooded. Gazing at him, I found myself at a loss for what to say. So I just went with honesty. My folks had drummed that into me for a reason, right?
“I love you. I’m worried the press may dig around and discover you’re positive. I’m sorry your life is being made into a tabloid story because of me. If I could change things, I would, but I don’t think I’m man enough to walk away from you even if I wanted to.” I reached out to trace his lower lip with my thumb. Then I touched his whole mouth and face. His beard was soft under my fingertips. “If you told me to leave, though, I would, because it would be you asking to make yourself happy. I’d do anything to make you happy.”
“I don’t want you to go. Ever. Come inside.”
He gently tugged me in, my hand sliding down his neck as we danced around the door. I was pulling his mouth to mine as the door closed with a soft click. Then I had him against the door, his back flat to it, my hand tight to the nape of his neck.
“Let me love you,” I breathed into his open mouth.
He lapped at my tongue while pulling at his zipper. A jolt raced through me. I kissed him deep and fast, then yanked his pants and underwear down to his ankles.
“Turn around,” I growled when his cock sprang free of his clothing.
Sal wet his lips, kicked off the material hobbling him, then plastered his chest to the back of the front door. I fell to my knees, hands biting deeply into his ass cheeks. I bit and sucked, licked and rubbed my face against his tight buttocks. Then I nibbled my way back up until I had the nape of his neck between my teeth.
“God, August,” Sal groaned.
Hungry sounds rumbled up out of me. He bucked and shuddered, moaned and pleaded, and pounded on the door when I ground my cock against his ass.
“Fuck that is hot,” he panted, rotating his hips in big circles.
I put love bites all over his neck and shoulders. Watching him crank himself up with hot, quick movements was the most erotic thing I had ever witnessed. Sal wiggled downward to find his wallet. A lubricated condom was pressed into my hand. A minute later I was unzipped, sheathed in latex, and ready to breach him. Seeing the head of my cock pressing into his body? That was the hottest thing ever in the history of ever. A little more spit was needed. The condom wrapper had barely fluttered to the floor, and I was buried in him. Sal shouted my name. I leaned in to him, pushing my chest against his back, and took his dick in my hand. He slapped his hands against the door and braced himself.
“Do me hard. Right now.”
“Hard, yeah,” I said through clenched teeth, then pulled out and slammed home.
He took it all with a low groan that made my balls pull up tight to my body. I tried to gentle the strokes, but Sal demanded that I go harder, faster, deeper. His brow bounced off the door a time or two. He pushed my hand off his cock as the pace grew manic. When I rose up to my toes for the final stroke, he came loudly, just as I did. Holding his hips in place, I ground against him, striving to get just a fraction of an inch further into the heat and tightness.
“Oh fuck, I almost shot a load right on the mail slot.” Sal coughed, then shuddered.
I kept him in place, fingers deep in the flesh of his waist, and pressed my mouth to his neck, taking time to suck on his shoulder. “Mailman wouldn’t have liked that,” I said, then returned to tonguing his shoulder and neck.
“Probably not.” He turned his head. I fell ravenously on his open mouth. “I love your cock resting inside me.”
“God, me too,” I said, pressing one last kiss to his mouth before we separated. “Shit, that sucks,” I complained, fingers tight to the purple condom. “I’d love to stay inside you.”
Sal turned to face me, his hands coming up to cup my face. “Want to tell me what that was all about? It’s kind of out of character for you to be so aggressive.”
“I have to take care of this. I need to straighten my head.”
I hustled to the bathroom, flushed the condom, washed myself up, zipped, then made my way back to Sal. He’d wiggled back into his pants and taken a seat on the sofa, his bare feet on the edge of the coffee table. His knees peeked through the holes in his jeans. He looked as sexy as hell flushed and marked from having sex.
“So, you got your head straight?” he asked, lounging back on the couch.
I sat down next to him, my left hand drawn to the flash of kneecap bared to my eyes. I slipped a couple of fingers into the hole, my attention solely on the feel of his skin on the backs of my fingers.
“Your skin is amazing,” I murmured as I rotated my fingers around and around. “Things are just upside down inside my head.” I looked right at him. “The damage I’ve brought to your life saddens me.”
“Aug, I’m here living this life, with you, because I want to be.” He put his hand on my wrist. “You didn’t force me into flirting with you at Heather’s party. Or inviting you to dinner, or dreaming about making love to you, or taking you to my bed. All of that was me. I choose the way my life goes, or most of it. I didn’t choose to get HIV, but sometimes shit just happens, you know?” He paused for a moment, his expression reflective. “I guess I chose to get drunk and be irresponsible that night. Maybe I need to address that, huh?”
“I’ll be right here as you do.” His fingers tightened on my wrist. I got lost in his eyes for a moment or two. “I’m planning on being with you forever.”
Sal smiled, then stole a kiss. It was soft, sweet, and super sentimental.
“Forever is a long time,” he reminded me before releasing my wrist to slide his fingers into my hair. Cupping my head, he laid my cheek on his shoulder.
“I know, and I’m planning on spending it with you.”
Sal nuzzled my hair lovingly. “So what was the caveman act about?” He massaged my skull, his touch tender and calming.
“Don’t you like to be fucked?” My eyes drifted shut. Sal shifted a bit, just enough to allow me to fall more closely against his side.
“I love being fucked. Anytime you want to toss me onto my back, feel free.”
“Good. I really liked that.” He smelled good, like the soap he’d used. I ran my tongue over his neck. Then I breathed out the taste of him lingering on my tastebuds. “It was just a shit day. The game, the media after. I guess maybe I just needed to feel in charge of something, or blow off some unresolved steam?”
He studied me for a moment. “Okay, you need something to do that in no way has anything to do with hockey.”
He slithered away from me and hit the floor. I sat up and watched him in confusion as he crawled to the TV and gaming systems, then pulled out a couple of Wii dance mats from behind the stand. He met my dubious look with a killer smile.
“Trust me. This always cheers my sisters up.”
“I do trust you,” I said.
He leaned down to give me a light kiss. Then the first song came up.
“Um, really?”
Sal laughed and nudged me in the ribs.
“This is going to be terrible.”
“Oh yeah, without a doubt. Now stop making excuses and dance.”
So we started dancing, in just our pants, to Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Call Me Maybe”. Sal danced as badly as I did, but man, did the lyrics feel right. We rolled right into some One Direction, then some Bieber, never once getting a perfect rating on any of our moves. We did laugh, though, and stumble around, and th
en laugh some more. By the time “Gangnam Style” by PSY came on, the volume was loud enough to rouse Sal’s neighbor. It took us a minute or two to realize the thumping on the wall was coming from next door. Sal sprinted to the stereo his game system fed through and turned the sound down, snickering like a kid caught skipping class.
I pulled on his arm and we tumbled onto the couch, giggling and breathless. His skin was slick with sweat, just as mine was. I gave him a loud kiss between snorts of amusement. He kissed me back. Lying on my side, wedged between Sal and the back of the couch, I let my right hand roam over his damp chest.
“This is just about perfect,” Sal sleepily mumbled.
I had to agree, and quickly drifted off.
Sitting in the back of the charter bus, I could still feel Sal’s kiss on my lips, could still hear his words of encouragement, and could still see him waving at me as I pulled away from his apartment complex.
“Stay strong,” he’d said as we kissed for one final time right beside my car.
Any concerns I’d had about people knowing I was gay were dying off like summer flowers under the frosty fingers of fall. Coming out had been a good thing. Trying to find a silver lining in the hurricane of crap that was now my life, I pulled out my phone and connected to the Wi-Fi on the bus. Then I recalled that I had no earbuds, thanks to McGarrity. I’d meant to buy new ones, but shit had happened that had knocked shopping for earbuds down to the last rung on the importance ladder. So I opened up Virtual Light by William Gibson and started reading.
I won’t lie. When someone sat down beside me, a rush of excitement coursed through me. I glanced up, hoping to see Mario, but instead I saw Elliott Sawyer seated on my right. The big blond forward was sort of cute. He had pretty brown eyes. Not as deep or compelling as Sal’s eyes, but pretty.
“Hey, Miles, you think I could talk to you?” Elliott asked conspiratorially, his words whispered and soft.
I had to lean toward him to hear well. Elliott was a fourth line winger. He didn’t possess a tenth of the skill Dan Arou did, but he was decent. He looked troubled.
“Sure, what’s up?” I placed my reader on my thigh.
He gave the bus filled with men a nervous look. I glanced around and tried to ignore the sight of Mario’s fat head four rows up.
“I know you just came out and all,” he mumbled uneasily, his gaze flying all over the place. “See, I have this thing buried deep inside me. I want to come out too. Tell the world that I have this strange desire not to sleep with women.”
“Dude, if you want to sleep with men, that’s totally okay.” The fact that he was entrusting me with this made me feel great. “It’s not strange or weird.”
“No, Miles, it’s not men I want to sleep with. It’s sheep. I want to fuck sheep really baaa-aaa-aaad!” Elliott bleated loudly.
The four men surrounding me, Chris included, roared at the joke.
“Stupid ass,” I growled, and they laughed harder the redder my face got.
“Hey, asscracks, you think making fun of gay people is funny?”
My gaze met Mario’s. He was planted in the walkway. The laughter died like a doused fire. The younger players started falling over themselves to apologize. McGarrity glowered at the newest Cougars.
“So you were just kidding, right, Elliott? Or do you really like to stick your puny dick into farm animals?”
Elliott blustered and fumbled for words.
“Go sit next to Kalinski. He gets a boner for guys who like to ridicule gays.” Mario jerked his head toward the front of the bus.
Elliott slunk off like a whipped dog. Victor was already spouting off about how Elliott’s last lay was a real hog. Poor Elliott. He’d be flayed right down to the bones by the time we got to Toronto. He’d never want to hear a farm joke for the rest of his life. Served him right.
“Anyone else in the rookie section got something they want to say? Maybe someone has a cute comment they’d like to make about fucking a tranny? No? Maybe one of you has a shim joke to share?”
Heads shook meekly.
“You boneheads sure?”
The other newbies all shook their heads while studying their shoes. Mario tossed me a look, then spun around and returned to his seat. The rest of the long ride to Toronto passed in silence, aside from the loud and cutting cracks Victor rained down on Elliot. Not knowing where Mario and I stood, I slipped into our hotel room on the sly, or what I thought was sly. Guess a big Canuck can’t really be stealthy. Mario was on the phone. He ended the call as I lingered in the doorway, my bags in my hands, trying to feel the situation out.
“Don’t stand there like a teenager caught sneaking in after curfew—get in here and shut the door,” Mario said, then ended his call. He was propped up on the bed, his kilt spread over his lap, his thick arms folded over a purple T-shirt, and his sock-covered feet crossed at the ankle. I did as he asked. The room was thick with unease and that weird smell of old air being pumped through dusty air conditioning vents.
“Thanks for jumping into that shit with Sawyer,” I said while putting my bags on my bed. “I mean, I could have handled it, but thanks.”
“Punk kids like that knot my curly hairs,” Mario replied. I could feel his eyes on my back as I unzipped my travel bags. “You and me, we got some unfinished shit to work out, son.”
Hearing him call me that made me smile just a little. I laid my shaving kit on the bed before turning to face him. “Yeah, we do.” I pushed my hands into the front pockets of my trousers and lifted my shoulders, giving Mario a “Go ahead and talk” look.
McGarrity stared at me as if I’d sprouted another set of ears.
“You go first. Once you apologize and I accept, then we can get our minds on hockey and forget what a dick you were.”
“Apologize? For what?” Mario looked truly confused.
His question surprised me. “For storming out of your kitchen like a jerk when Sal told you guys he was positive.” Was he really that dense? Had he taken too many head-knocks off the ice, like Kalinski?
He sat up to see me better. “Look, Augie, I know you like this Sal guy, and I can see why. He’s a handsome man, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re a damn ass for choosing to date someone that much older who has HIV. One busted condom, kid, just one.” He held up a slightly bent finger. “That’s all it takes. You want to die in some hospice, a skeleton of your former self, just because you let your dick do your thinking for you? Is it worth that kind of death just to get your cherry popped?”
“Look, first off his viral count is super low and he’s religious about his meds. The chances of him passing HIV to me is incredibly low, but he’s still cautious because he loves me that much. Doesn’t that hike him up a bit in your eyes?”
“Sure it does, but the facts are the facts. One drunk night and you’re positive as well,” Mario argued.
“So you think I should just dump him because he’s positive?”
“Yeah, I think you should break it off with him.” He threw his feet to the floor and stood up to look me in the eye. “I care about you. I know you like this man, I get that, but you need to think of yourself. Take care of you, August. Let Sal find a positive guy to date, and you find a negative one.” He grabbed my shoulder. I swatted his hand away.
“Fuck. You.” I spun away, grabbed my shaving kit and whipped it back into my duffel bag. “Fuck you, and anyone who thinks like you.”
“Augie, for the love of God, stop being such a fucking brat and just listen to reason,” Mario barked at my back.
I zipped my bag with a vengeance, then tossed the strap over my shoulder. I stalked to the door.
“So you’re just going to storm out?”
“Why not?” I looked back at him. “It’s what you do when you hate something.”
Out into the hall I went. Slamming the door felt good, but not good enough. Anger pulsed through me in hot, violent waves.
Mike was kind enough to dig up a room for me without asking too many que
stions. My head was not at all in a favorable place for three hours before a game. The next hour was spent stewing. And then game five arrived far too quickly. I knew when my skates touched ice that my head was not in the game. And I was so right. Everything in the best-of-five series would be decided in less than five minutes.
Overtime.
This would be my first playoff OT in the AHL. Oddly enough, I was strangely calm. Why is anyone’s guess. Where all the upset and angst had gone was a mystery. I should have been a basket of nerves. Yet when the horn signaling the end of three periods of scoreless hockey rocked the Toronto arena, I felt completely composed. I got a brief minute or two to switch ends, grab a fresh bottle of water, and get any last-minute directions from the coaches.
“Whatever you have in your head, Miles, keep it there. Lock that tranquility down tight.” Coach Dewey stared into my soul.
“Got it, Coach.” I tapped my brow with my blocker, took a fresh water bottle from a trainer, and skated casually to the away team’s net.
I studied the light behind my net, touched the pipes, and inhaled through my nose. When I faced the players gathering for the faceoff at center ice, I knew that whatever happened was going to be okay. We would win. We had to. We were the comeback team that everyone was talking about. Basement dwellers last season, Calder Cup contenders this year. I played ten minutes of hockey with the knowledge that a win would be ours lodged in my brain.
And then, with the flick of a wrist, a deflection off our captain’s skate, and a wonky bounce off my right shoulder, the Comets had stolen the glory. As Toronto celebrated five feet away from me, I slowly turned and stared at that frozen circlet of rubber resting against the netting behind me. How had I let that happen?
Even after the handshake line and the speech from Coach Dewey about being proud of what we’d accomplished, I was still numb. Everyone in that dressing room was blue. I knew I’d fucked us out of moving onward. Why had I thrown my shoulder up? Why hadn’t I used my stick? Why hadn’t I nudged Buttonwood out of my crease? So many miserable whys, and not one solid answer to any of them.
