Linemates (First Time Gay Hockey Romance)

by Van Barrett

  Mmm. Tyler Vance.

  18.

  Macho Man

  Tyler

  A lot of guys might think that having a pair of panties lying around on their bed confirms their 'macho' status. But not me. I'm totally mortified by what Jonesy found.

  First of all, I can't believe that girl left her thong here the other day. How do you forget to take your panties with you?! Maybe she just couldn't find them and got embarrassed or something ... we did leave in a hurry that morning ...

  Anyway, that's bad enough. But what I really can't believe is that the cleaning lady would find those, and then neatly fold them up and put them on the bed! I mean what the hell! I know it's not her fault, and she probably had no idea what to do about 'em, but she could've been a little more discreet ...

  Instead, there those panties laid, sitting perfectly atop the comforter, just waiting to be discovered. By Jones. Now there's gonna be a weird thing between me and Jones.

  When he looks at me, he'll probably think, “Heh heh. Panties.”

  And when I look at him, I'll think “Oh God. Those panties.”

  “Ugh,” I grumble to myself, rubbing my eyes. “So embarrassing.”

  Oh well, I think to myself. If Jones tells all the boys what he found, then hey, fine. It's not a big deal. I'll endure the jokes.

  Har har, captain had a pair of panties in his hotel bed. Har har.

  Panties would then have a habit of miraculously showing up in my stall, in my equipment bag, maybe tossed through the air while I'm doing a TV interview – these guys are inventive with their pranks, trust me.

  I can just see it happen. Donovan sticks his foot into his skate, but it doesn't quite fit. He makes a big show out of it. Looks all confused, takes his foot out of the skate, sticks his hand into his skate and fishes out a ginormous bra.

  “Hey captain,” he'd say, commanding the room's attention, “I think one of your ladies lost somethin'.”

  And everyone would break into an uproar.

  The guys wouldn't let the joke die. It's the best thing and the worst thing about being around a bunch of hockey players.

  And Jones, he's probably badly in need of making those guys laugh – at shifting their focus to someone else for once. If he supplied them with a salacious detail like that, I can't say I'd be mad about it.

  I take off my suit, strip down to my boxers, and jump under the covers. A quick 20-minute nap after practice always makes me feel refreshed. As I start to go to sleep, I could almost swear I hear things through the wall.

  Like mattress springs creaking. A muffled grunt. And a soft noise tapping against the wall.

  Huh? I wonder, and I try to zero in on the source of the sound, but it's already stopped.

  Probably nothing.

  THE NEXT DAY.

  We've got a game against the Canucks tonight. I had a little chat with Jones last night. He told me he wanted to walk with me to the game. I told him I usually leave early – hours before the game, and typically long before anyone else shows up. I thought he'd change his mind when he heard that.

  “That's fine,” he said, to my surprise. “Just stop by my door beforehand. I'll be ready.”

  Even though Jones won't be playing in this game – he has to serve his one-game suspension tonight – his attendance tonight is still required. And, truthfully, even if it wasn't mandatory, he'd still have to go. It's just what a team player is expected to do.

  But instead of sitting in the press box and munching on nachos while he watches us play, Jones will man the exercise bike in the training room, working with one of the trainers. He'll watch the game on TV while we play, working up a serious sweat that will rival ours.

  I knock on Jones' door at 3 PM.

  “You ready?” I ask, but one look at him tells the story. He looks nice and clean in a sleek suit and his hair neatly styled. He's clean-shaven, wearing a tie, and grinning that boyish smile from ear to ear.

  I chuckle at him – and he asks, 'what, what?' But I shake my head and mumble, 'nothing.' The real reason I laughed is because I had a funny, fleeting thought when I saw him: he could be on the cover of a GQ magazine.

  He looks so excited ... for a game he's not even going to play in. Which is kind of heart-breaking.

  But I'm glad to see it. I'm happy that he looks so sharp, so eager to join the team. It means a lot. It really does.

  “You bet I'm ready,” he says and grabs his bag. “I'll be even more ready tomorrow night when I get to play.”

  We take the elevator and make our way through the hotel lobby. On the way out the door, two grown men in Hawks' gear spot us as we move through the lobby.

  “Hey!” one of them says. “Tyler and Callan! We came from out of town just for the game! Can we get a picture?”

  We pause in our tracks. For two professional athletes, you're always on-call for photo-ops. “Sure.”

  The four of us pose together for a photo.

  “Excited to see you play soon, Callan,” one of them says to Jones after the photo is taken. “If you make the other team's fans half as angry as you made me ... it'll be a good deal for us.”

  “Hope I can.” He chuckles. “Can't wait to get out there.”

  “Good to hear,” the fan says. “Good luck tonight Tyler.”

  “Thanks.”

  We leave the hotel and start our trek to the arena.

  “So are you good with the fans?” I ask Jones to strike up some conversation.

  “Sure?” he says, sounding like a question. “I'm not sure what you mean.”

  “C'mon, sure you do. Some guys are terrible at it. Hate to be recognized, curse fans out when they talk to them. All that.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Jones nods. “I don't mind being seen out in public, I guess. Well. Sometimes I don't wanna be noticed, obviously ...”

  “Sure, sure.”

  “But Winnipeg was really ... small. Ha ha. For lack of a better word. They don't have much over there besides hockey, you know? I couldn't go anywhere without being recognized ... anywhere!”

  “I bet that was hard.”

  “Yeah. So I didn't get out all that much except when I was with the team.”

  “Chicago's not like that at all. Sure, guys will recognize us – obviously – but in a city this size, it's easier to blend in.”

  “Heh. Yeah.” Jones tugs at the neck of his shirt. “I hope so.”

  He sounds a little nervous, and I wonder why? We're just making small talk. I just want him to feel comfortable in his new city.

  After the short walk, we make our way through the arena and into the dressing room. I tell Jones I usually sit quietly by myself before a game. He understands and wanders off to go explore the arena and shake hands with all the new faces.

  Before long, the other guys start to show up. Jones comes back just in time and chimes in with the playful pre-game banter.

  Whereas the team followed Donovan's lead in practice – and adopted his attitude with Jones – today already feels a little different. I get the sense from the others that they can only be mad for so long. That by serving his sentence today, Jones has atoned for his sins, and they're ready to move on. I can tell they want Jones to come back and play as soon as he can.

  Donovan, for his part, seems quiet and reserved. I'm not sure how to feel about it. The team will need him to be on board going forward. If he's not emotionally part of this team, we're done. Everyone needs to be on board. I hope he can come around soon.

  While we change into our hockey gear, Jones changes into a t-shirt and athletic shorts.

  As we line up and get ready to take the ice, Jones wishes us good luck.

  OUR GAME AGAINST THE Canucks tonight is the first game of a back-to-back. We'll play them again tomorrow – and tomorrow we'll have Jones suiting up with us.

  Tonight, though, we can't think about that. With Jones' absence, we have to focus on playing a tight team game, and everyone else has to step up and play a bigger role to make up for his loss.

/>   We're focused. Determined. We wanna win. We wanna turn our season around and make the playoffs, already.

  From the opening faceoff, we control the play. The Canucks seem like they didn't come prepared and are going through the motions. It happens – in an 82 game season, it's impossible for a team to be mentally prepared and motivated to play every single game.

  We score a couple of goals in the first few minutes of the game and set the tone early. Nelson pots one, and I add another on the power play.

  We never look back. The Canucks go down and we win the game 3-0. We race off the ice, head back to the dressing room and celebrate our victory, whooping and hollering the whole down the hallway.

  “Fuckin' right, boys!” “Yeeee-ah!”

  Our victory song, an awful techno piece, blasts from the speakers. We toss our sweat-soaked gear at the equipment guys, who catch it and take it away to be dried before our game tomorrow. We dance and head-bob to the cheesy music, laughing and bickering.

  Jones joins us. His clothes are soaked with sweat, too, the tips of his bangs dripping with moisture. He pumps his fist and congratulates everyone on the game.

  “Good fuckin' game out there, boys!” he says as he pulls his sopping shirt over his head. His chest is totally slicked, his muscles looking extra deep-carved after his strenuous workout.

  “Christ,” Nelson mutters. “Lookit this kid's six-pack.”

  Jones gets shy, tries to cover his torso up with a towel, but Nelson's already descending on him.

  “No no no no, no you don't, new guy. Come here.” Nelson pulls the towel away and makes Jones show everyone. “Go ahead kid, flex.”

  “No!” Jones laughs, grappling for his towel in vain. “C'mon!”

  “I know you're real eager to show us all your rock-hard abs, so let's just get it over with, yeah?” Nelson grins. Jones buries his face in his hands and reluctantly flexes. The muscled ridges deepen, carving stronger crevices into his stomach.

  “Gawd damn!” someone mutters.

  “Great. Looks like we traded for another fuckin' workout nut. Someone who can keep the captain busy in the gym, eh?”

  They're right – Jones does have a nice six-pack. Nicer than mine for sure.

  But Nelson continues to haze Jones and make a big show out of his abs. He kneels on the floor in front of him, runs his finger through the valley of Jones' abs, and gives us a makeshift anatomy lesson. “These muscles here are known as the Rectus Abdominis ... you can develop these by never eating anything that Donovan puts in his mouth ...”

  “Hey!” Don-o roars amidst the laughter.

  Not even aware of what I'm doing, I slip my hand under my shirt and run my finger through my own chiseled abs. I wonder if Jones' feel harder than mine?

  “Six pack! Who needs one of those, when you could have a keg!” Emerson jokes, pushing his belly out, and everyone cracks up.

  Yeah, long story short – all is right with the world when the team wins. We'll soak this feeling up for as long as we can, trying to surf the good vibes for as long as we can. In a difficult season, moments like these can seem hard to come by.

  And as the captain, tonight is a huge relief. Because it's times like these when I can finally sit back and relax, content in knowing that the ship will steer itself. I don't want to get too ahead of myself ... but, it sure seems like the others are starting to mesh with Jones. And if he can do what I hope he can do for this team, we just might be able to turn things around in time.

  Soon, we break off and head into the showers. The media guys come in. They tend to crowd around the players who were most noticeable on the ice – whether they were noticeable in a good way or a bad way.

  But today, the media crowd like vultures around someone who didn't even suit up. It's Jones they're interested in talking to, and the rest of us are all but forgotten.

  I sit nearby and listen in as dozens of phones and recording devices are thrust in his face. Mostly, they still want to badger him with questions about the trade and demand answers to the supposed travel mix-up.

  Jones handles himself well.

  Reporter: “Callan, are you upset that you had to serve a suspension, when the travel mix-up wasn't your fault?”

  They want him to give a dramatic reply. A gossipy quote sells papers and drives 'clicks' on websites. But Jones answers wisely.

  “Look, the truth is, it is my fault I missed the game. It's my job to make sure I can get myself to the game on time. I didn't do that the other night, and that's why I had to serve my suspension tonight. I'm not upset at all about being punished – I want to be out there, of course. But I've taken responsibility for it with the team, and that's why I had to sit out tonight.”

  Reporter: “Was it hard to watch your team play without you?”

  “Yeah, of course it's hard to watch them play without me. I want to be out there and help my new team. But, we had a talk, and everyone agreed. A team rule is a team rule, and they have to be followed.”

  With a grin, I nod and turn for the showers. I don't have to worry about Jones at all. He knows how to handle the media.

  19.

  Gather Ye Rosebuds

  Callan

  Oh my God please let this be over soon!

  ... is all I can think when Nelson has his finger running between my abs, tracing each and every neatly-packaged muscle with a curiosity that feels way too genuine.

  Straight guys are the worst. And I say that with love, okay, because I love straight guys in a bad way. Borderline unhealthy kind of way. But they get curious and they act like this, like what he's doing at this very moment ...

  And it doesn't matter that I'm not attracted to him, would never be attracted to him. It doesn't matter that he's straight, and he's married, and his sense of humor is totally corny and he really has no interest in me whatsoever. Except like, maybe at a super-deep and repressed level – but whatever, I'm really not about to go there! I'm not qualified to psychoanalyze the guy, okay?

  The point is, all that doesn't matter.

  What does matter is that his touch feels so goddamn seductive. Makes my eyes want to roll back in my head. Makes my inner-slut wanna come right out, grab his hand and push it lower.

  Those thick finger-tips sliding reverently between my abs. The excited electricity that jumps from his fingers, right through my abdominal wall and deeper. The rhythmic exhale of his sweltering breath, so soft and warm against my belly. The salty smell of his sopping-wet clothes, clinging to him ...

  Gulp.

  The guys are all watching, too. All I've got on is a thin pair of athletic shorts and the entire dressing room is staring right at me, giggling and howling like maniacs as Nelson fucking fingers my six-pack. I'm short on breath, softly begging him to stop, because I'll be in trouble if he doesn't soon.

  You see what I'm getting at yet?

  Nelson's touching me all over, and I'm getting hard in front of my new team.

  Thankfully my shorts are baggy enough it's not totally obvious. And thankfully I wore boxer-briefs, and my cock was already angled downward, so it can fatten and swell up between my thighs and hopefully no one will notice.

  This is one bitter-sweet moment, man. The story of my life.

  The sweet part is, these guys are starting to accept me. That's fucking fantastic. I honestly didn't think it'd happen this fast, before I even played a game for them. At the same time, I know that not every last wound has been healed – Donovan, I'm pretty sure, still hates me. But I'm getting there. In time, I know these guys will trust me.

  The bitter part is, now more than ever, I know that I can't control myself. No matter how much I tell myself I can. I'll always be attracted to dudes. I'll always get hard if they touch me in the right (or maybe wrong) places. That I'll never be “just one of the guys” – I'll either be holding back a big piece of myself from them, or I'll be the outcast. The one guy whose belly you shouldn't touch when you feel like gently caressing some six-pack abs.

  What would Nelson t
hink if he knew he was making me hard right now? He'd fucking freak out, I bet. Then again, if he knew, he wouldn't being touching me like that in the first place.

  And that alone makes me think I should just tell them. What's the worst that could happen? But of course, I can't. Maybe someday, eventually. But not now. No way.

  Meanwhile, the time bomb shackled around my neck continues to quietly tic-toc, tic-toc, tic-toc right in my ear. If it weren't for that, I probably wouldn't even consider telling these guys the truth. But that's the situation I'm in.

  I know, I know, I can't keep worrying about it. Believe me, I've come to that realization myself. I've gotta just play my game and not worry about it. If it comes out and nukes my career – fine. At least I'll say I gave it my all, like Grams said.

  Finally, the media guys are allowed into the room. I've never been so happy to see a bunch of journalist folk in my life – normally I dread 'em, but this time, their sight does me a favor: my cock goes limp.

  Whew.

  Nelson and a few others grumble and head to the shower. The media swarms around me and I give my interview.

  AFTER I FINISH UP MY interviews, it's time to hit the showers and get dressed. When I come out of the shower with a towel wrapped around my waist, I'm a little surprised to see that Vance is still here. He's all showered and dressed up already – in fact his wavy locks are starting to air-dry.

  Most of the other guys take off as soon as they get dressed, but Vance has stayed behind. He's chatting with Tanner and McNabb.

  But Vance turns when he sees me come back from the shower. “Hey bud.”

  “Sup Vance.”

  “I'll wait for ya, if you wanna walk together to the hotel again.”

  “Sure,” I say as I turn my back to Vance and the others and drop my towel.

  I hate to say it. But the idea that Vance, handsome fucking stud, is staring at my bare ass? And wants to walk home with me? It's exciting, alright. And I'm glad I'm facing this way. Not because I'm all giddy and getting hard over him walking me home, okay – I'm not that pathetic.