Linemates (First Time Gay Hockey Romance)

by Van Barrett

  But, well, maybe because if I saw his eyes go down and steal a peek at my cock ... well, yeah, that would probably do it. And good luck explaining to a dressing room full of guys why my cock won't stop growing.

  Anyway, I step into a fresh pair of boxers before I can think about it too much and jinx myself. Then I put on the rest of my suit.

  “So, how'd you like the Chicago media?” Vance chuckles. “Just a taste of what's coming tomorrow, I'm sure. They're gonna be all over you after your first game with us.”

  “Aw, they're not so bad. And I'm sure they're ready to write a story about me actually playing, and not re-hashing the stupid trade for once ...”

  I finish dressing and say bye to the others. Vance says bye to them and we walk out together.

  Just outside the arena, we sign a few autographs for a group of waiting fans. The Spring air is sweet and soft, the temperature perfect.

  “I'm so excited for tomorrow,” I say to Vance as we make our way down the street. The after-game traffic rush has already passed.

  “I think we're gonna have some serious chemistry,” Vance says out of nowhere, and looks up at me with the corners of his eyes crinkled up.

  “Wha?” I stammer, but I immediately know he's talking about the other kind of chemistry. The kind between hockey players. On the ice. Duh. “Oh, yeah, totally – me too.”

  We walk another block without saying a word. I hope he didn't pick up on my obvious weirdness.

  “You played a pretty awesome game tonight, Vance,” I croak out. “I liked your goal. The ol' back-door beaut. You should've seen my fist pump in the training room. Haha.”

  “Oh, that,” he says dismissively. “Tanner did all the work on that one. What a beautiful set-up he made, huh? Man, that kid's really turned into a hell of a player.”

  “Do you ever just ... receive a compliment?” I laugh. “Without passing it off to someone else, I mean?”

  He chuckles. “I dunno. I guess not? I uh, I expect a lot from myself. So when I succeed, it's hard to get excited. It's more like ... I'm just doing my job.”

  “I know. I like it.” I bite my lip tentatively. Shit, did that sound weird? “I mean, that's a great trait for a captain to have. Sets a good example for everyone else to follow.”

  “I can tell you're the same way.”

  “Huh. Think so? I dunno.” I ponder it for a second, and then burst out laughing. “No, man, you're wrong. I love compliments. Go ahead and give me one and watch me soak it up.”

  “I meant your work ethic – not how you take compliments!” Vance laughs. “But hell, let's give it a shot anyway.”

  He thinks it over and gets a sneaky grin. “Okay, Jones, here we go: You're a hell of a hockey player.”

  Surely that was just the warm-up to the real compliment to come, right? A beat passes, then two, and three. And Vance ain't delivering. I shoot him an annoyed look.

  “... That's it? That's your compliment? 'A hell of a hockey player'? How generic, dude!” I suck my cheeks in loudly. “Don't you have, like, any glowing praise for me?”

  “Ahh, Jones!” Vance throws his head back, howling with laughter into the darkening sky. “You're ridiculous, man.”

  We pass by a sports bar and grill, but Vance throws on his brakes and grabs my shoulder.

  “Hold up. You have dinner plans tonight?”

  “Not really, no. I guess I was gonna check out the hotel menu.”

  “You wanna pop in and grab a bite instead? This is one of my favorite spots.”

  “Sure.”

  We walk in. The place looks busy, with a group of people patiently waiting for tables. But the hostess recognizes us with a knowing, coy grin. She mutters something to her co-worker and they whisk us off to a massive booth towards the back of the restaurant.

  “Right this way, Mr. Vance and Mr. Jones,” she says, and I know we've just received the special treatment.

  We take a seat and wait for our server.

  “Okay, here's a real compliment. But don't let it go to your head, alright?” Vance rubs his hands together, preparing himself. “And don't tell the boys, either – they'd kill me. But whenever we played you guys, and you'd get us all riled up? I loved it, man. I thought you were just the kind of presence we need, the ingredient we've been missing. No one else on the team plays a game like you. I've had my eye on you since our first game against each other.”

  “Whoa.” I'm at a loss for words. I run my hand over my short, prickly hair. “Thanks, Vance, I ... it's so weird hearing that from your idol ...” I stammer. I hadn't told him that yet. “Errr.”

  “Shutup.” His burning eyes narrow at me. “What'd you just say?”

  “Well. Yeah.” I clear my throat. “You were uh, kinda my hockey idol when I was growing up. I was 11 during your rookie year.”

  “... No kidding?” Vance chuckles, almost nervously.

  I can feel my cheeks heating up. Shit, should I not have told him that? “Don't worry. It's not like I had posters of you all over my bedroom or anything, ha ha ...” (Actually, I did, but I'm not about to admit that shit to him.) “I just liked the way you played.”

  Our server comes by and interrupts us to ask if we want any drinks. The server looks at me, wanting my order first.

  “I dunno,” I grumble, peeking over at Vance. Lately, some bad things have happened when I decide to drink. “I think I'm alright with water.”

  But Vance chuckles and tells the waiter, “Two Michelob Ultras.” The server walks off and Vance turns to me. “I don't care if you have a beer after a game, Jonesy. You don't have to try to impress me. Just be yourself.”

  “Impress you?” I force a laugh. I know I'm a terrible liar – but my saving grace is that nobody else knows that. Yet. “You don't know my reasons for not drinking. What if I have an alcohol problem?”

  He gasps, and his brows lift with a touch of concern. “Then I'd feel pretty bad.” He leans over the table, hushing his voice. “Do you?”

  I have to ponder it for a second. “No?”

  “Heh. You don't seem so sure.”

  “Yeah, alright. It kinda runs in the family. Or so I've heard. So I gotta be careful.”

  “Shit. I'm sorry, man. We can send it back. My bad. I didn't know.”

  I laugh. “It's okay, I can have one with ya. I'm just tryin' to make you feel bad.”

  “Oh.” He rolls his eyes. “You're good at that, aren't you?”

  “Yup. It's why you guys traded for me, remember?”

  “Uh huh.” He grins. “But, ya know, I know it's all an act, Jonesy. I'm curious to find out what you're really like, deep down.”

  I swallow. Something about that feels ominous. I don't want him to know what I'm 'really like.'

  Our attention turns to our menus. Vance takes a peek and folds up his menu, knowing what he wants right away. But I have a harder time choosing.

  “You said earlier your Grandma raised you.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Long story short, my Mom didn't want anything to do with me and I've got no idea who my Dad is. So uh, Grams raised me.”

  “Damn.” Vance looks pained on my behalf, but I don't need the sympathy.

  “Hey, it's okay. Grams was better than any parent I could've asked for.” I turn my attention toward the menu instead. “So what's good here?”

  “Um, it's a pretty standard bar and grill.”

  “I thought you said you loved this place.”

  “Well, I do ... I mean ... it's on the walk back to the hotel.”

  “Vance.” I stifle a laugh. “Did you remember to wear your fanny-pack today? 'Cause I'm getting a serious Dad vibe from you right now.”

  The server approaches with our beers in hand, and he's ready to take our order. Vance orders a salad with grilled chicken, and I get the fish and chips. After the server leaves, we clink our pint glasses together and take a big gulp.

  “Gotta admit, I wouldn't have pegged you as a salad guy,” I say, wiping the foam from my lips.

  “I
wasn't when I was your age,” he laughs. “But your body starts to slow down, and those fish and chips don't treat you quite the same.” He leans in again. “You're gonna have to work harder if you wanna keep those abs, bud. Get ready. 'Cause it's comin'.”

  My mouth falls open in mock outrage. “Why do I feel like you're taking delight in my inevitable downfall?”

  He grins. “Don't worry. You've still got a couple more years at your peak. Gather ye rosebuds, Jonesy.”

  “What's that mean?”

  “It's from a poem about youth. It's by Robert Herrick.”

  He must've seen the look on my face after telling me that. He waves his hand in the air like he can erase the conversation. “Ha. Nevermind.”

  I set my palms flat on the table and lean forward. I don't want him to feel self-conscious. “Don't feel bad, Vance. I'm just surprised. Honestly, I don't know anything about poetry. Or, uh, books. I basically don't read anything. I'm pretty dumb, actually. And I don't have a high school diploma to prove it. You know I dropped out of school to play Junior, right?”

  He chuckles. I guess I hoped that he'd jump up and say no, Jonesy, you're not dumb at all! I can tell you're really, really smart!

  ... But that doesn't happen. And a streak of disappointment stabs my heart. All I can do is wonder if he agrees.

  “I don't read as much as I should, either,” he says at last. “I read that poem in my one and only year of college. I was only 18, hopeful that I had a pro hockey career ahead of me, and I thought I'd never get old. Y'know?”

  He pauses. “And now, here I am, eating dinner with a guy that grew up watching me play. Holy shit. I am old. When did that even happen?”

  I don't know what to say. Vance seems to be looking through me, looking deeper into himself. Right now I feel like I'm not even qualified to hang out with this guy. He's deep and stuff. I feel like a dumb kid next to him. What the hell do I know?

  “You're only 29, Vance, that's not old at all.” Of course, I'm only 21, hardly qualified to tell him how he should feel about his age. So I'm not surprised to see Vance shrug my comment off.

  I take another big drink from my beer and ask him, “What'd you study in college?”

  “Well. As a freshman your classes are kinda all over the place. But,” he pauses, his head bobbing left to right as if he's still weighing his options. “I always thought psychology would be great to study.”

  I crack up. “A hockey-playing psychologist.”

  “Well, I'm not saying I'd practice it! I'm just interested in it. How the mind works and stuff. Why we do the things we do, I guess.”

  “So are you crazy, Vance?”

  He cocks his head at me. “The hell do you mean?”

  “I've always heard people say that a dude goes into psychology because he wants to find out why he's so fucked in the head.”

  “Huh.” Vance's lips make a funny pout. He looks like he's actually thinking it over. “I've never heard that.”

  “So? Is it true or not?”

  He gets a wily grin. “I guess I'm not qualified to say. Maybe if I ever go back and finish my degree I'll tell ya.”

  The server brings our food out, and by this point we're both starved. We dive right in, noshing away without barely speaking to each other – except a few muffled comments about how good the food is. We scarf the rest of our meals down and polish our plates clean.

  “I'm so stuffed, dude,” I say, rubbing my bloated belly. “I dunno if I can even make it back to the hotel. Salad seems like it would've been a good idea right about now.”

  The server comes by and drops off the bill. I reach for it, but Vance insists on paying it. “You can get it next time.”

  Next time. I know it doesn't mean anything, but I'm a little relieved to know I'm not too dumb or boring for there to be a next time.

  We head out and walk back to the hotel. Vance stops with me in front of my room door.

  “Alright, Jonesy, get some rest. Big game tomorrow.”

  “Of course.” I fumble with the key-card. I'm eager to part ways with Vance now, and when the door opens I practically burst into my room. “G'night Vance.”

  After the day I've had, I seriously need some alone time. I mean, I need to beat it. I can't tear my suit off fast enough – then I hop in the shower, turn the heat on full blast, and give in.

  “Hell yeah,” I mutter to myself. Clouds of steam roll all around me. The sound of wet flesh tugging up and down fills the bathroom. “Fuck, yeah.”

  It's all too much, man. All those guys, standing around, looking at my abs. Making jokes about 'em. Touching them. All while I've got a secret boner going on ...

  Then, going out to dinner with Vance ... staring at his handsome face all night from across the table. Ugh. What I'd do to him if I ever had the chance.

  My firmness fills my hands. I'm so hard and long, I stroke it with both hands. My vision goes white and my knees buckle as I give in to climax – and all I can do is lean back against the tile wall for support as my balls drain with one powerful blast of seed after another. I explode, streaks of my cream splashing against the shower curtain.

  “Fuck yeah!”

  20.

  Comfort Zone

  Tyler

  Jones' first game with us couldn't have gone any better. He's everything I hoped and imagined he would be for us, and whatever post-trade weirdness he was going through seems to be gone now.

  All night long, Jones is a thorn in the opponent's side. He's throwing his body around, crashing into guys, smashing them into the boards with every chance he gets. He's like a wrecking ball on the opponent's defense – every time they retrieve the puck, there's Jones, banging into them.

  His hits add up over the course of a game. You see guys start to look over their shoulder. They see him coming, and they think, oh no, not again, and they shovel the puck away to someone else.

  That's good. That's exactly what we want. Because when guys panic and make hasty decision to get rid of the puck, they end up making a mistake somewhere down the road.

  We get rewarded in the second period. Jones rushes the Canucks' d-man, who throws an errant pass up the middle. It goes right to me. I pick the pass off and dish it to Nelson, who slaps the puck into the open net for our first goal of the game.

  Five minutes later, I spring Jones on a breakaway with a pass up the middle. He makes a pretty move to make the goalie go down, then roofs the puck top shelf.

  His grin after scoring his first goal as a Hawk? Priceless.

  I'm the first guy there to celebrate it with him. His back is up against the glass, and I rush up and jump into him with a big hug. The other boys skate up after me and join us.

  At the end of the game – we win 5-1 – and Jones is named as the game's #1 star. The hometown fans give him a huge ovation, and he looks like he's on top of the world.

  I'm really happy for him.

  And over the weeks that come? I'm even happier.

  Because Jones is proving to be the team's missing ingredient all along. Whereas before guys were maybe getting too comfortable – Jonesy pushes us out of our comfort zones. Hell, his physical play demands it from us.

  Here's how that works. Jones goes out on the ice. He throws his weight around, smashes a few guys, chirps them with a few choice insults. Then the other team gets pissed off – suddenly they wanna hurt not just Jones, but all of us.

  Okay, I know that makes it sound like it'd be a bad thing – but actually, it's a good thing. Because, before, we were all content with sleepwalking through games. We'd go through the motions, waiting for some event – a big hit, a big save, a big goal – to finally rouse us from our slumber.

  And then, only then, would we start to play determined and focused, like we all knew we could. Sometimes, by the time we woke up, it'd already be too late in the game. It was a worrying pattern.

  I include myself in that group, too. I was definitely too content. Ever since the Cup loss, it's happened. 'Real life' just started to c
atch up with me. It got harder and harder to care only about hockey. When you play that many hockey games in a year, you just start to ... lose focus, a bit.

  But with Jones on the squad? We don't have that problem anymore. We're usually engaged from the moment the puck drops. He just keeps going. Chirping guys, hitting guys, scoring goals. He fights when he has to – like when an opponent hits a player and we don't like it.

  Some guys, like rookies, you just don't hit the same way you would a guy who has been around the league for a few years. Reason being, it's too easy to catch a rookie in a bad spot – like in open ice with his head down – and seriously hurt him.

  Sure, legally, you can demolish him. But there's something ... humane about not crushing him. Sure, give him a bump. Let him know what you could have done to him in that situation. Believe me, he'll look like he's just seen a ghost – eyes as big as dinner plates, face totally pale – and he'll mutter an embarrassed thank you. And you can growl at him and say next time I won't let you off so easy.

  But give him that chance. Let him learn from his mistakes.

  So it's great to have a guy like Jones on the roster. For as hard as Jones hits, he hits guys clean – and never to injure. And if someone tries to hurt one of our guys, there's Jones, immediately racing in and grabbing the offender and pummeling him.

  It sends a message to the other team: we won't stand for the cheap stuff. And when another team knows that, understands that, feels that? It calms the game down. It lets us play our game without fear.

  Slowly, as the weeks pass and we cross the games off our schedule, a funny thing starts to happen. We win a few games. We'll win 3, then lose 1. Then we'll win 4 before we lose another. Then we're on a 7-game winning streak. And before you know it, we're not just back in the playoff race, we're leading our division.

  Only Donovan doesn't seem thrilled with the growing influence Jones has had over this team. But he's kept his mouth shut, like he promised me back when we traded for Jones. There was one time, though, when he pulled me aside to have a private talk about him.