Linemates (First Time Gay Hockey Romance)

by Van Barrett

  I'm so fucked, I think to myself. My inner-slut. It's gonna get me in trouble. It always does. I can't even help myself.

  But I don't take that last look at Vance. Not because my willpower is finally strong enough – because I can't. I see him staring at me out of my peripheral vision and I never have the chance to steal a peek.

  What the hell is he looking at? I wonder, a hot flash sweeping over me. And it actually makes me mad. I don't know what he wants, but thanks to him staring, I don't get what I want.

  Oh well.

  “G'night, Jones,” he says when the room goes dark.

  “Night captain.”

  My new captain, I think. The guy I grew up watching. Well, at least the next few weeks of my life will be interesting, to say the least ...

  I WAKE UP IN THE MORNING to the low drone of news on the television and another noise – huffs, puffs and groans.

  “Thiry-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine ...”

  With a sleepy moan, I turn over on my side and open my eyes. Vance is between our beds, on the floor, belting out one push-up after another without slowing down.

  He doesn't hear me stir. I watch him for a little. His body is like a piston, just methodically pumping up and down and never tiring. He hasn't dressed yet, and he's still only wearing his boxers. A light dew glistens on his back and shoulders.

  Vance is looking up, though, and his eyes are trained on the television. I glance up to see what he's watching.

  Oh. A dull ache sets in my heart. He's watching SportsNet, the volume barely above a whisper. And I'm the topic of conversation. I listen in.

  “... after mysteriously missing his debut in last night's game, team officials confirm that winger Callan Jones has joined the Hawks on the road, and will be traveling with the team back to Chicago. Team officials responded to calls late last night, saying that a travel mix-up led to the young and sometimes controversial star's absence ...”

  A travel mix-up? I repeat the words in my head, my eyes narrowing. Who the hell told them that?

  Vance doesn't show any sign of slowing down. “Fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one ...” I can feel his body heat radiating off him in waves. Feels nice. Hot and humid.

  The TV report continues.

  “... Speculation about why Jones was traded – and if it might have had something to do with his 'travel mix-up' – continues to run rampant around the league. We caught up with Jones' former teammate and captain, Dimitri Burkhardt, after they won their first game without the second-year winger in convincing fashion – a 5-1 victory over the Kings.”

  What?! I feel like screaming. They're interviewing Burky about the trade? My heart drops like I just jumped off a building. I'm fucked.

  The video cuts to Burky's face in the dressing room. He's sweaty, but glowing in the aftermath of the Jets first victory without me. I've never seen him look like that. A joyous smile just bubbling underneath that grizzled, tough exterior.

  The reporter mumbles out a question that we can't quite hear on the TV. But we do hear Burky's response just fine.

  “No, I'm not surprised by that at all.” Wearing a huge grin, he chuckles. “If I were him, I wouldn't show up either.”

  Another mumbled question from the reporter.

  “Travel mix-up?” Burky laughs with a snort. “There was a mix-up alright ... but no, I don't buy that one at all.”

  Another mumbled question.

  “Why he got traded?” Burky shoots a snide smirk over his side at a teammate off-camera. “Look. I can't answer that. You'll have to ask him yourself.” He wipes the sweat off his face with a towel. “I think you'll find out soon enough, though. OK, that's all. No more questions.”

  “Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred.” Vance pops off the floor and walks over to the TV. He shuts it off and stares at the blank screen for a few moments. Then he turns around and looks at me.

  “Oh, you're awake,” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry,” he says softly. “I normally don't pay it any mind. It's toxic as hell.”

  “Yeah,” I agree, but I feel like the world's worst liar. For once, it's not the media – it's me. I'm the toxic one.

  “But, in this case,” he sighs, “it's probably better to know what's being said than to appear clueless. This is the hottest story in hockey right now and we're right at the center of it, whether we like it or not.”

  Oh god, I think. What a great feeling – being a huge pain in the ass and distraction for your new team. I feel like smashing my skull into the headboard until it all goes away.

  “There's no use ignoring it. We're gonna get bombarded with questions,” he continues.

  And I know he can't possibly be intentionally trying to make me feel like shit all over again, but that's exactly what's happening anyway. Everything he says feels like a shovel-full of dirt thrown over my body, and I'm being buried alive. Until it's all too heavy and I can't move or breathe anymore.

  “We just have to keep a low profile until it all blows over. Until some other story grabs the media's attention. It's just a matter of time 'til that happens.”

  “Sorry I made it so much worse,” I say after a silence. “Missing the game, I mean.”

  “What's done is done,” he says as he puts on his trousers. “Just don't do it again.”

  “But what's this about a travel mix-up?” I ask. “I didn't have any mix-up.”

  Vance pauses. “Doug thought it might help squash the rumors. He thought it'd be better than telling the media you ran off because you didn't wanna join your new team.”

  “Maybe so, but ...”

  “And don't worry. Only me and Doug know the truth. Not even Coach knows. The rest of the boys, too. Everyone's been told that it was a travel mix-up. For all they know, that's the truth.”

  I laugh bitterly and shake my head. “Great.”

  “What?”

  “So the first thing I do is lie to my new teammates, Vance? I can't do that. I don't care what the media thinks, I care about what my teammates think. And if I'm gonna earn their trust, I gotta tell them the whole truth.”

  Well. Almost the whole truth.

  Vance huffs at me, and I can tell he's losing patience with me. “So what – after all you've done, now you wanna tell the boys that Dougie lied to them? You wanna make your GM look bad in front of everybody? You wanna cause a rift between him and Coach?”

  “No, I just ...” I croak, but the words escape me. Truth is, I dunno what to do now. I'm caught in a bad situation, one that seems to be getting getting worse, and I don't know how to make it stop.

  Part of me wishes that Burky had just come out and said it when he was being interviewed. That way I wouldn't have to run or lie anymore. And I could finally be put out of all this hell.

  “C'mon, Jones, get yourself dressed. We got a flight to catch.”

  “Alright,” I mumble and pull myself out of bed.

  16.

  A Welcoming

  Tyler

  The team flies back home to Chicago, with Callan Jones thankfully traveling with us. Even though our next game isn't in a few days, it's good to have him with the team – so guys can start to get to know him.

  Jones “meets” everybody on the bus. And by meets, I mean ... he walks down the aisle, trying to greet whoever is kind enough to actually look him in the eye and say hi. It's a pretty miserable job by the team, and I'm really disappointed in the boys for being so stand-offish.

  I sit next to him on the plane. I wanna keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn't go causing any more trouble for himself. I can tell he's uneasy about this 'travel mix-up' story, but I'm not sure why. It's just a cover-up, after all, and it's not exactly all that far from the truth.

  The boys don't need to know that he had some kind of bizarre break-down and skipped out on them. I know he wants their trust, but in this case, a little white lie is probably better for that.

  Then again, not everyone buys the excuse.

  Emerson, sitti
ng in the row ahead of us on the plane, turns around and looks over the head-rest at Jones. “So, a travel mix-up, huh?”

  Jones catches my eye before he answers. “... Yeah.”

  Emerson chuckles. “How the hell does that happen, Jonesy? Third year in the league, right? Don't you know how travel works by now?”

  Jones sighs. “I guess not.”

  “Yeah. Right.” Emerson chuckles and returns to his seat. We hear him chatting with Donovan next to him.

  “Travel mix up. Har har.”

  Jones gives me a look. There's a wounded sensitivity behind those eyes.

  See? his eyes seem to plead with me.

  Damn it, I think to myself.

  I wish Doug would've spoken with me before he gave the 'travel mix-up' line to the media. I would've told him that Jones wasn't on board with the idea. Should've just let the kid tell the truth and take his lumps – both with the team and the media. But it's too late for that now. Now we just have to go forward.

  We land back in Chicago in the early afternoon, tired after our Florida road trip and a really draining week. Thankfully, we've got the rest of the day off.

  I give Jones a list of hotels he could stay at until he finds a place. For the rest of the day, he's out of my hair – and that's just fine with me. I need the break, and I'm sure he could use the alone time to adjust to a new city.

  I spend the rest of the day by myself, desperately needing to forget about all the drama surrounding the team as of late.

  Tomorrow morning, we're right back at it with a morning practice.

  AFTER A MORNING SHOWER, I leave my hotel room and wait for the elevator in the lobby. Despite the drama, I'm a little excited for practice. I know the coach wants to try Jones on my line – he'll be the big, pesky presence on my line. Or that's the idea, at least – that Jones will draw defenders towards him with his reckless physical style, which will help open up space for me and Nelson.

  If the team wants to claw our way back into the playoff race, we need our line to click.

  I hop on the elevator and the doors close behind me.

  “Wait!” a voice yells. I mash the “open doors” button, and the elevator opens. I hear a shuffle as a man sprints towards the elevator.

  It's Callan Jones. I chuckle, shaking my head in disbelief. I guess, out of the list of hotels I gave him, he happened to pick the one I live in.

  He looks at me, confused, his face scrunching up. “Wait a minute ... what are you doing here? Are you checking up on me?”

  “I live here.” I shrug.

  “You live here? Why?” he laughs. “I mean, it's a nice enough hotel, don't get me wrong. But with the paycheck you bring home? Oh man ... the places I'd live.”

  I chuckle as the elevator races to the ground floor. As soon as they sign their first big contracts, the young guys always wanna blow their money on a sports car and some big, swanky apartment downtown.

  “What's the point?” I ask. “I wouldn't know what to do with all the space. I'm not much of a decorator.”

  “No wife to make the place look nice, huh?” he asks with his boyish grin. And I'm so used to seeing that grin a split second before he drops an insult, I almost don't realize his question is sincere.

  “Oh, no,” I stammer. “No wife. I'm single.”

  “No girlfriend either? Really?”

  “I almost got married once.” I shrug. “But after that I've just stayed single. Too much hassle.”

  “Ahh. Gotcha.”

  The doors open and we take off.

  “You feelin' better today, Jones?” I ask.

  “A little, yeah. Feeling a little more optimistic I guess.”

  “Good.”

  We walk the few city blocks to the arena. Outside, a group of young fans wait to greet us. They're extra excited to see Jones, too – the kids are too young to understand the rumors, the gossip surrounding Jones' departure. For them, he's just another star, not a young guy with a troubled career.

  Jones signs a few autographs before we head in. He's really nice to all the kids. That's a good sign, too.

  PRACTICES ARE NORMALLY something of a gentleman's affair. Sure, we push ourselves, but we won't overdo it – there's no use in killing ourselves out there. Nobody wants to hurt a teammate in practice, so besides some pushing and jostling, physical play is kept at a minimum.

  But this practice is different, I guess. It is, after all, Jones' first practice with the team. And it'd be silly to forget about the bitter history between him and several of our players. Things like that don't just evaporate into thin air.

  Those issues have to be worked out. Sometimes with fists.

  So I'm not surprised that some of the guys are gunning for Jones out there. They're head-hunting him in open ice – Donovan and Emerson especially – trying to catch him with a shoulder to the head. It's a dangerous play, and one that usually provokes a fight.

  But what does surprise me is that this time? Jones isn't fighting back.

  The cocky, confident Jones that we're used to playing against has all but disappeared. In his place is a nervous guy, a guy who cowers as he skates around the ice and seems like he's afraid to get hit. He doesn't look nearly as fast or strong and he lets up when he sees a body coming at him.

  Which is always.

  On one hand I can't blame him, since his new team is trying to murder him during his first practice with the team. But on the other hand, the Jones I remember playing against only gets tougher when you hit him.

  What the hell? I wonder. I'm hoping like hell that Jones is being extra careful. That he wants to take his licks, and earn the trust of his teammates the hard way. Maybe he thinks that fighting back would only make them more pissed.

  Because the alternative theory – that Jones has gone weak and lost his edge – means that the team traded Fresno for a dud. And we can kiss our playoff hopes goodbye.

  As scrimmage continues, the chippy play gets worse. Jones is getting tagged all over the ice, and our line can't find any rhythm because of it. It's getting ridiculous. Practice doesn't feel like anything but an exercise in trying to kill the new guy.

  Jones finally takes a hard hit in open ice – Donovan gets his elbow up high, and rocks Jones in the jaw with it. It's a nasty hit, one that would've earned Donovan a penalty, maybe even a suspension, if this were a real game. Jones falls, his body hitting the ice with a lifeless thud, and is slow to get up. Donovan stands over him, gloating.

  “Need a sec to catch your breath, eh kid?” he laughs. “Well, just in case you get lost or have some kind of travel mix-up ... the bench is that way.” He kneels down on the ice and makes a big show about pointing across the ice at the player's bench. Donovan cackles as he skates off.

  Jones lumbers up to his skates and coasts, hunched over and sucking air.

  The coach blows his whistle. “Alright, boys, that's enough.” Coach gives a disgusted head shake. He knows this team is a mess and has a long way to go before things come together. If we come together. “Hit the showers.”

  I skate up alongside Jones before we leave the ice. “The hell was that about?” I ask.

  “They gotta get it out of their system somehow,” he groans.

  “Yeah, but you let them walk all over you, Jonesy! Why aren't you pushing back? That's no way to earn their respect ...”

  He grabs the side of my jersey and growls at me. “Listen. I'm not gonna sit here and take all these damned travel mix-up jokes any longer, Vance. I never asked anyone to lie for me.”

  I blink as he skates off the ice and heads to the dressing room.

  Fuck, I think. Please don't make it worse, Jones.

  I hurry after him. There's a tension in the air, the kind before a big fist-fight breaks out. The popular guys are grouping up, singling out the loner, and he knows it. Jones looks fierce, ready to fight. I hope this isn't going down the way it looks like it might. A fight on the ice is one thing, but a fight in the room is another thing entirely.

  Coac
h Stevens and Doug enter at the same time. Coach lectures us for a bit, about our shitty work ethic today, about guys looking lazy and unprepared, about us looking like a team that doesn't wanna play together. It's obvious what he's getting at. But it's also obvious that these things have to work themselves out. That the coach can't fix issues like this for us. “So you better fuckin' figure it out, boys. You better get on the same fuckin' page real fuckin' fast.”

  A few heads nod. A few gleeful smirks.

  Coach and GM turn to leave the room, but Jones pipes up.

  “Wait,” he says. They both turn around. “Listen. I gotta come clean about something.” He stands up and goes to the middle of the room.

  Oh, shit, I think.

  “The truth is, I didn't have a travel mix-up. I'll tell you what I told Vance when I made it to the hotel the other night. I don't have any excuses for what I did. I've never been traded before and I dunno what came over me. I did something stupid, alright. I panicked in the airport and ran off. But one thing I didn't do was try to make up an excuse about a travel mix-up, alright? That came from the media, and then I felt like I couldn't tell you guys the truth. But now I am. Maybe you guys think I'm a fuckin' coward, or a pussy, or whatever. But I'm not a liar, alright. So whatever.”

  Without another word, Jones sits his ass down at his stall and angrily loosens his skate laces. After a few beats, a couple guys clap. The clapping doesn't exactly turn into a round of applause, but a few voices murmur their support nonetheless.

  “Hey that's okay bud.” “All's good, Jones.” “Don't sweat it kid.”

  I look over at Coach Stevens and Doug. They look at each other and shrug.

  Ballsy move, I think. And he managed to do it without throwing me or Doug under the bus.

  Donovan stands up and ends the good will, though. “According to team rules, though, any player who misses a game or practice, due to his own fault, will be suspended for the next game.”

  It's like he's just let all the air out of the room. Shoulders all around the room drop. He's right, but it's gonna hurt the team not to have Jones in our next game.