Linemates (First Time Gay Hockey Romance)

by Van Barrett

  “Donovan's right,” Doug nods. “On the other hand, the team can vote to waive the suspension. If two players vote to uphold the suspension, he'll have to sit the next game out.”

  “So who's in favor of suspension?” Donovan asks, not missing a beat. His hand shoots into the air. “Come on. Just need one more.”

  It seems inevitable that someone will vote against him. And, sure enough, a second hand shoots into the air.

  But it's Jones'. He's voted against himself.

  “The rules are the rules,” Jones says to the room with a shrug. “I don't want any special treatment just because I'm new.”

  Doug folds his arms. I can tell he's suppressing a smile. That he knows this was the best of all possible outcomes.

  “Alright, Jones,” Doug says. “If that's what you really want, you got it. You'll have to sit the next game.”

  There clapping is louder than before, and more murmurs of support come from all around us.

  “Hey, respect, Jonesy.” “Good guy, good guy.” “Better man than me! Haha!”

  Donovan slowly takes a seat at his stall. The smile has been wiped off his face, replaced with a sour grimace. He got exactly what he wanted, but he didn't think it'd go anything like this. In the end, he looks like a petty rules-lawyer, and Jones comes out looking responsible and mature – maybe even admirable.

  It's a smart, crafty move from the young player. But I don't believe it's just gamesmanship. I think he truly wants to make it up to the team – and this is the best way of proving it.

  For the first time since the trade, I let out a breath of relief.

  I think it's all gonna work out.

  17.

  Show Me Yours, and I'll Show You Mine

  Callan

  You reap what you sow, I guess – or at least that's what I keep telling myself when my new teammates are trying to take my head off during scrimmage.

  I can't blame 'em for hating me, but man, do I ever feel like I've been neutered! I've got no problem standing up for my past 'misdeeds.' But these guys wanna kill me, above all else, because they don't buy the travel mix-up excuse.

  They know, deep down, that I plain didn't show for the game when I was supposed to. It's a slap in the face that I'm 'lying' about it and getting away with it.

  And so I can't fight back, because I can't even defend the indefensible. Hell, I'd hit myself with a big, crushing body check if I could ...

  Obviously, shit between me and Burky on the Jets got out of hand. And in the end, that's what did me in. And I really, really don't want it to be like this on my new team. I don't want guys hating me from the get-go.

  That means earning their trust. That's why I voted against myself. I'll gladly sit a game if it means repairing the damage that I did when I ran away from the team.

  After practice, I shower up, making sure to keep my head low and stay outta everybody's way. Then I leave the arena and make my way home. My hotel is close enough that I can walk. I still need to find a real estate agent to find me an apartment or a condo or something downtown ...

  But first I wanna be sure I'm actually gonna stay with this team. I keep looking at our schedule. We play the Jets in a month. What will Burky say? How will my teammates react?

  I wish I could just tell my new teammates about that, too. The little fact that I'm into guys. In an ideal world, I could. In an ideal world, they'd react the same way as when I told them the truth about my 'travel mix-up.' They'd clap and pat me on the butt – and not because I'm gay and they know I'd like it, stupid!, but rather because that's just how guys in sports show each other they're comfortable with each other, and they accept each other – and say 'hey kid, that took some big balls, alright?' Or 'whatever floats your boat, man, I don't care, let's just play the game we love!'

  And all would be fine.

  But real life isn't anything like that. It's not even close.

  So what do I do? I dunno. You tell me. 'Cause right now, the only things I know to do are, one, keep my head low, literally and figuratively.

  Two, don't look at any of the naked dudes in the shower with me, duh. (This time I'm actually really good at not looking. The stakes are too high.)

  Three, don't ever – ever – act like I did when I still played for Winnipeg. And by that, I mean, I was way too sloppy and careless. It's almost like I was begging to get caught.

  So no more gay bars ... no more random hook-ups ... no more gay hook-up apps installed on my phone ... nothing.

  For all I care, I'm just a regular milquetoast straight guy now. Is there a part of me that will always be into dudes? Yeah, a little bit, but I'm hoping I can bottle up that part of myself and send him way deep down. There's no other choice – I have to put that whole aspect of myself on fucking hold. For about the next 10-15 years of my life. Or however long I have left in this league.

  Because it's just too risky.

  There's already at least one guy out there who can destroy me. And actually, there's a lot more than that. But only one guy, Burky, who has shown that he's willing to do it – and the press would actually listen to him. And that scares the shit out of me.

  So no more. No more guys. I'm swearing cocks off for the next decade, minimum. That means I'll have to fit in with the single boys better. I'll have to start 'macking' on 'chicks' at the club when we go out. I'll have to go with them to the strip clubs after a big win, and even pay for a few lap-dances so no one thinks I stand out in a weird way. Maybe I'll even have to take a girl home with me every now and then ...

  ... only to tell her I'm too tired to do anything, of course.

  That way, when, or rather, if the news hits? I'll just deny it. And the Hawks, they'll have to believe me, because I've been so honest about everything else. Right? Haha! I got it all figured out, bro.

  I'M WALKING HOME FROM practice when I hear footsteps running up behind me. At first I think it might be a runner, but no way, the sound of those shoes – it's the sound of leather loafers, not springy runner's shoes.

  I half-expect it to be Donovan. Maybe he's chasing me down after practice, angry that I made him look bad and possibly looking for a fight. And oh – boy, did I ever make him look bad. That was glorious, man.

  I turn and peek over my shoulder as the footsteps near. It's not Donovan, it's Vance. I get a little excited.

  “Jones!” Vance pulls his ear-buds out as he catches up with me. He bumps me with his shoulder when he's by my side.

  “Hey Vance.”

  “I thought we could walk back to the hotel together, but you sure left in a hurry.”

  “Yeah, well, I wanted to get out of there before anyone decided to hit me for real.”

  “Listen ... I'm sorry you got started off on the wrong foot here,” he says.

  “It's not your fault. It was my fuck up, running away, that started all this.”

  “That's true,” he chuckles. “But as long as you swear that you'll keep a low profile, and stay out of any more media controversies ...” He trails off, looking over at me and expecting me to give my word.

  “Um, yeah, I swear.” I almost gag on the words. How the hell can I swear that?

  “... Then you'll be fine. Donovan and Emerson are tough customers, but they'll come around in time.”

  “I hope you're right.”

  “And I gotta say, that was pretty ballsy back there, kid,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. “You really turned that vote around on ol' Don-o. Bet he feels pretty small right about now.”

  “What choice did I have?” I shrug. “Emerson was gonna vote against me anyhow. I could see it in his eyes. His hand was about to go up, so I thought I'd steal his thunder. Plus, I thought voting against myself might win me some points with the rest of the team.”

  Vance chuckles. “Well, I think it helped. Of course it's gonna suck not having you next game ...”

  “It's gonna suck worse not being able to play. I'm itching to move on already, Vance.”

  “I bet. I am too. I want us to
get going already. We don't have much time left to sneak into the playoffs. Time's running out.”

  “Yeah,” I say, pretending to share his concerns. The playoffs are still months away. Who knows if I'll even still be playing then? But to Vance, they're just around the corner.

  After our short walk, we make it back to the hotel.

  “So I guess you're on my floor, huh? Eighth floor?” Vance asks as he presses 8 on the elevator button.

  “Yup.”

  “Alright.”

  We're quiet on the ride up. So quiet, I hear faint music coming from the ear-buds that dangle from his shoulder. I grab the ear-bud closest to me and plunk it in my ear.

  “Hey! What're you doing!” Vance looks shocked as hell – and in a fit, he snatches the headphones' cord and yanks. The bud comes flying out of my ear, but not before I'd heard enough to recognize the piece.

  “Huh, that's Mozart's Gran Partita. What is that, the third movement?”

  Vance stares at me, speechless at first. “How, in the hell, do you know that?”

  “You didn't know? I'm a prodigy, dude.” I throw my head back and laugh. “Just kidding. My Grandma's a piano teacher. She taught lessons at home, so I grew up surrounded by music. If she had her way, I'd be a piano player than a hockey player ... anyway, that's a really pretty piece.”

  “Yeah, it's my favorite, actually.” Vance blinks, dumb-founded. “But – you said your Grandma raised you?”

  I run a hand over my short hair. “Oh. Ha. Yeah.” Why's this elevator feel so damn slow?

  “Huh.” I can tell Vance wants to know more. The elevator's stopped at our floor but the doors aren't opening. I jam at the open doors button until they open at last.

  We head out the elevator and take off, walking down the same wing together. Vance is telling me something about how, among the team, it's some big mystery what kind of music he listens to, and it'd be great if I could keep it a secret, yeah?

  And I'm listening to him and thinking, if that's the biggest secret you have to keep from your team ... buddy ... trust me, you've got it pretty good!

  “Uh, sure Vance, I won't tell anyone. I don't think it's a big deal though. Hell. Don't tell 'em I know about classical music either if it's gonna get their panties in a twist.”

  Vance laughs. We keep walking. I keep expecting him to branch off from me and take a different corner, but it doesn't happen. Finally, we reach my door first.

  “Welp, here I am.”

  Vance chuckles. “No way.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “I'm literally right next door to you, dude.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” He points at the next door down the hall. “That's me.”

  “Guess we're neighbors.” My door unlocks and I open it. I turn to say bye to Vance.

  But he asks, “Can I see your room?”

  “Sure.” I step in and hold the door open for him.

  Vance walks in and looks around, comparing my room to his own. Something about this is so – cute is the word that comes to mind, but I banish the word immediately, remembering my earlier vow to myself. But anyway, something about the way he's acting is, ahem, 'neat' – the way he gets all worked up about the trivial differences between our rooms.

  I'm barely listening, but I am watching him with an amused smirk as he paces around.

  “... I don't get it! Your bed totally looks bigger, maybe ... and by the feel of it, softer, too! These rooms are supposed to be the same ...”

  And what I really wanna say to him is, Vance, why the hell do you still live in a hotel room? Why don't you have a place of your own? You're a freakin' millionaire, after all.

  But that's a personal question, I guess. I can't be asking him why he lives like he's on vacation. He could be asking me what's up with my life, after all, and he's not. Thank God for that.

  Seeing Vance in my private lair isn't the help I need to get my thoughts under control, either. Normally when I bring a guy back to my hotel room, it's not to inspect the amenities or to compare the size of our mini-fridges.

  “Alright, Vance, I showed you mine,” I say. “Now you show me yours.”

  “Ha. Alright. Come with.”

  We leave my room and head down the hall to his. He pops the door open and lets me in first.

  “Here she is.”

  I take a look around. “Uh. Looks the same to me, dude.” The room service has made his bed. I step up to it and cock my head sideways. “The bed doesn't look any smaller. Honestly, I think you're crazy.”

  But then I spot something else – something neatly folded and placed perfectly, almost shamefully, in the corner at the foot of the bed. It's a delicate looking lace item.

  I take a closer look, leaning over it, and gasp. It's a pair of panties. A woman's, obviously – a tiny, skimpy red thong.

  “Oh, shit!” I laugh. “Most eligible bachelor is right, huh captain?”

  Vance sees what's gotten my attention and groans. “Aw, man! The cleaning lady must've found them ... don't worry, they're not mine, I can promise you that ...”

  I laugh. “I never would've thought that.”

  His cheeks redden. I can tell he's embarrassed as hell.

  “Well, captain, I'll leave you be. I'm sure you've got some ladies to entertain ...” I give him a wink.

  “Not really,” he chuckles nervously. “Need my rest before the game tomorrow.”

  “Sure, sure,” I kid, clapping my hand against his sturdy back. “See ya Tyler.”

  “Later bud.”

  I MAKE THE SHORT TREK back to my room, change into something more comfortable, and hop into bed for a post-practice cat-nap.

  One thing I noticed in Vance's room is that his bed is against the same wall as mine. It's kind of weird to think about – that he is right through this wall. That our heads will be like ... 2 feet apart when we sleep. Separated only by this small wall.

  Maybe I'll even hear it when he brings some girl home. The kind of girl who would lose a thong in his bedroom the morning after. Or maybe she left it behind as a keep-sake. Who knows what she was thinking when she did that?

  Classless, I think.

  I gotta say, a part of me might have died when I saw those panties. More than just a pair of panties – they were the evidence of Vance's sex life. Straight sex life.

  Okay, okay. Deep down in my heart, I know he's not gay, or even curious – but hell. There was enough mystery surrounding Vance to entertain my fantasies. Like ... he's a total stud, handsome as hell ... professional athlete ... but he's still single, and lives in a hotel.

  He says he 'almost' got married once, but didn't? That he thinks women are a hassle? I mean ... what's that about?

  Yeah, yeah, I know what it's really about. He's just saying he prefers a mindless fuck over being in a committed relationship. I know that, don't get me wrong. But it is a little disappointing.

  It could've been nice to fantasize from time to time, that's all I'm saying. I guess sometimes ignorance really is bliss.

  But living this close to him? There won't be any ignorance about our sex lives.

  I'll know just how often he takes a girl home from the club. I'll hear him giving it to her. Hear the smack of his flesh belting into hers. The repeated bang-bang-bang of the headboard crashing against the wall.

  Maybe I'll pound my fist into the wall and say “Shut it up, Vance! I'm trying to fucking sleep over here!”

  And so I start think, maybe I should check the fuck out of this hotel and go stay somewhere else.

  Because the sound issue cuts both ways. If Vance brings a girl home I'd hear it, sure. And if I brought a guy home ... then Vance would know. Instead of hearing a guy and a girl, he'd most definitely hear two guys. And then I'd be out.

  My second thought is, that's exactly why I should stay in this hotel. So I'm not tempted. After all, I'm officially restricting myself from being with guys now, remember?

  Yeah, I nod to myself. Exactly.

  Maybe
hearing Vance fuck girls won't be the worst thing in the world, after all. Sometimes I watch straight porn – if the guy's hot enough. All I'd have to do is blot out the sound of her screams and moans, and only listen to Vance's huffs and groans.

  Vance's huffs and groans, the thought echoes in my mind. And I can hear him, and I know exactly what he'd sound like. My cock tingles, stirs with a neglected longing, and extends down my thigh.

  “Uh oh,” I whisper to myself. “I'm so fucking bad at this not being gay thing.”

  Just a half-hour ago, I felt so confident I could go 10 years or more without thinking about guys. It's crazy how you can feel so determined one moment, and so desperately weak the next moment ...

  “Damn,” I softly moan, threading my cock through the hole in my boxers. Shamefully, I wrap my hand around my flesh and slide it up and down my sensitive head.

  Those panties, I gasp to myself. I can't think about those panties without immediately thinking of Vance's arousal. His late-night conquests. The sight of Vance getting hard. His muffled sounds of delight as he sticks his cock into a hot, sopping wet hole. The smell of his musky sweat, swirling about the room – and, after a long, howling climax, the smell of his fluid mingling with his salty scent.

  Oops. Too much mind-candy. I over-did it. Before I can squeeze it back, it's already too late – I'm flying over the edge.

  “Unh!”

  I feel the pressure blast spurt high and hard. The first few blasts go over my shoulder. The next are lower, hit my lower lip, my chin, my neck, my chest and belly.

  “Fuck!” I grunt – louder than I should've – and I wonder if Vance heard. I wonder if he heard the pit-pat splatter of my cream shooting against the wall, too?

  With my chest drizzled in cum, I let out a satisfied moan and bask in my blissful state. My cock is still hard, but my eyelids aren't getting any lighter. I know I should get out of bed and clean up my mess, but ... well, with every second that passes, that seems less and less likely.

  Before I know it? I'm drifting off to sleep with a warm trickle running down the sides of my hard torso.