by Van Barrett
“Listen,” he'd said, “I'll be a good soldier. But I'm just letting you know that I don't like this, man. There's something off about him. There's something he's hiding from us and it's gonna bite us in the ass. I can just feel it.”
“Like what?” I laughed, uncomfortably. The prediction was chilling.
“I have no idea. But whatever it is, I know we haven't seen the last of it.”
The media, for what it's worth, has stopped asking why Jones was traded, why he disappeared that first game, why the Jets seem to keep hinting at some kind of rift with him in the dressing room.
Frankly, the Jets, and their captain Dimitri Burkhardt, come off like a bunch of scorned ex-lovers. He still keeps hinting about the reasons for the Jones trade, but at this point, the hockey world is pretty sick of hearing about it. Either spill the details or shutup – after a certain point, endlessly hinting about 'what he did' comes across as really petty and immature.
I've never asked Jones why he got traded, if you're wondering. I feel like that's his business. If he wanted me to know, he'd tell me. Maybe in time, he'll tell me – when he's comfortable enough.
THERE'S ANOTHER FUNNY thing that happens as the weeks pass by and we grind our way deeper into the season.
Me and Jonesy get closer and closer.
That's inevitable. You get real close with the guy you room with on the road. And he's made friends with the other guys – the other younger dudes like McNabb and Tanner, which is good to see. But when we're together, it's usually just the two of us.
But Jonesy is hilarious. Or, as I've started to call him when it's just the two of us, Cal. He's a real prankster off the ice, just like he is on it – you can always count on him setting you up for some kind of gag. Whether he's pouring water in your hockey gloves, dulling your skate blades before you hit the ice, or slightly unscrewing the cap to the salt shaker ... you gotta keep your eye out for that guy.
Naturally, I try to get him back with some pranks of my own.
But even when we're not traveling on the road – it still feels like we're rooming together, since our hotel rooms are so close together. That's probably helped us get to know each other.
The guys have always known me as a 'mysterious' and 'secretive' player. That I don't tell people a whole lot about myself. I guess that's true, since so many people say it and believe it ... but I never felt that way, deep down. I want to be close to people, it's just not always easy.
With Jonesy, though, it is easy. When we're on the road, sitting in a hotel room in our separate twin beds, all we do is talk. It's fun to find out about each other.
One night, we're in Dallas on a road trip. We just got back from the game – another victory – around 11 PM. Almost everyone else on the team is going to go out to the strip club in downtown Dallas. But Jonesy gives me a look that said he wasn't feeling up for it. So the two of us, after getting loudly booed by our teammates, head back to the hotel instead.
We order a pizza. Some terrible zombie movie plays on TV while we wait, but we talk over it.
“I'm glad you didn't wanna go, either,” Jonesy says. “After Montreal and Vancouver, I've about had my fill of strip clubs for the month.”
“Truth be told, I never wanna go. But as captain, I feel like I gotta go sometimes. If you skip out on all the team social events, you start to become an outsider.”
“Tell me about it,” he chuckles.
“Usually young guys like you love to go, though,” I laugh. “Especially when they're single. When are you gonna settle down and find someone?”
He shifts around. “No idea, Ty. Maybe not until I'm done playing hockey.”
With all the time we spend on the road, I understand his point of view. But it's still not something you see in the sport, where most guys are happily marrying beautiful girls who take care of the house and raise their children while they get to play the role of jet-set professional athletes.
“Really? Why?” I ask.
He pauses. “I can't do ... both. I just can't. For me, it's gotta be one or the other. It's either hockey career or love life.”
“Yeah. That's about what I thought.”
“What about you?” he asks. “You're still single, after all.”
“Yeah. I guess I'm the same. I've just always had this crazy idea of how things should work. You know, what order your life accomplishments should kinda go in. And uh ... ha ... things didn't really go as planned.”
Jonesy sits up in bed, his muscled thighs hanging over the edge of the bed. By this point, we're comfortable lounging around each other in our boxers. “What do you mean?”
I let out a half-groan. “I was gonna propose to my girlfriend when we won the Stanley Cup. I had this image of bringing home the Cup, and telling her to take a drink out of it. And then the ring would be inside it. Stupid, I know.”
“Oh. Oh.” His eyes widen as he realizes the implication: that I'd come one goal away from being a happily married man. “Well, err, what happened after ... Game 7?”
“I couldn't believe it, Cal. I kept wondering how I could miss that shot. I had the ring ready to go and everything.”
“Shit.”
“And I had this whole idea in my head, and maybe it was crazy, but I really had this image of how it looked. With me handing the Cup over, and the ring inside of it.”
“That's uh, that's a real hockey player's fantasy I guess,” Jonesy jokes, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Heh. Yeah, guesso. Even crazier part is, uh, I took that loss as a sign that we weren't meant to be and broke up with her instead.”
“Damn.” Jonesy gulps. “And no prospects since then, huh?”
“Ha. Not really, no. Can't say I've looked, though.”
“Damn.”
“Sorry. Am I bringing you down?”
“No, captain. Don't worry. Just a little sad.”
“Aw. It's not sad. I don't think so anyway. It just wasn't meant to be, that's all.” I look over and grin at him. “Don't worry. We'll find someone, me and you. Hell, maybe we shoulda went to that strip club after all!”
“Ha ... yeah right!”
What I didn't tell Jonesy is, he's the first person I've ever told that to.
I can't believe how close we've gotten over the past few weeks. And I can't believe how much better our team has gotten over that same period of time. I'm pretty sure it's all thanks to Jones, too.
I pop off my bed and land on the floor between our beds. It's time for my nightly push-ups. The first and last thing I do every day.
“That time again, huh?” Jonesy asks while I huff each rep out loud.
“eight, nine, ten – Yup! – eleven, twelve, thirteen ...”
“Alright, Ty. I'm gonna hit the shower. See you in a bit.”
“Sure thing.”
He heads into the bathroom and shuts the door. And I get a sneaky idea for a prank while he's in there.
See, Jonesy always takes long, steamy showers. Like real long showers. Wouldn't it be funny if his bath towel and all his clothes disappeared while he was in there? If I took all his clothes out of the hotel room, and he had to go buck-ass naked through the hotel for me and his clothes?
I finish up my hundred push-ups. Then I give him some time to really relax in his shower ... before I sneak in.
21.
Private Time
Callan
I close the bathroom door behind me and softly shut it. Turn the shower knobs and wait until the water is almost scalding hot.
Vance always laughs at me for taking such hot showers. He can't believe that I'm able to stand it – because after I'm done, the bathroom is like a sauna, the mirror totally fogged, my skin bright red.
The first time he saw it, he touched my pecs. His hand prints appeared, on my breast, stamped into my flesh. Like I was branded by his palm, his fingers.
“Look at your chest, man! It's bright red! How can you even stand that!”
Truth is, I dunno. I don't know how I could s
tand to have his hands on my chest, either – not without grabbing his side and pulling him closer, and finally doing what I can't stop thinking about doing ...
But it's just something I have to do, I guess. And the shower is the only place I feel like I can let go.
Hey, it's hard. It's hard rooming with Vance. It's hard being around all those guys and pretending to be something I'm not. The one place I can actually let go for a little ... and not worry about someone watching me ... is in that shower. And yeah, the water is burning hot, and maybe it even stings a little as the scorching spray raps at my skin. So what? I like it.
It's also where I, uh, unwind after a long day.
But even then I gotta be careful. 'Cause I know Vance is just outside that door, and could easily hear any, ahem, suspicious sounds.
Like fap fap fap.
Or unghhh!
So I try to keep it as quiet as I possibly can.
But, because I'm so sensitive? I can sit there and do it again and again and again. Until the water gets too hot on my skin and I gotta get out.
Otherwise I might stay all day. Ha.
That's exactly what I was up to in Dallas. I went into the bathroom, climbed into the shower. My cock was already at half-mast. I watched Vance do his push-ups just long enough. I love it when he does that – that's what he does when he wakes up, and what he does before he goes to bed, too. And it's the same thing every day.
A hundred push-ups. His sweet moans and groans. They sound sexier as he gets closer to his hundredth push-up. His voice wavers. His muscles turn red, swollen. They tremble when he pushes up.
Of course, all I can see when he does those push-ups is myself ... under him. How I'd wrap my legs around his rear and pull him in. Make him sink that cock into me. And his voice would waver.
Eighty seven ... eighty eight ... ohhhh! God, yes!
“Unh,” I groan, my throat aching, as I tug my rod faster and harder. I've already sprayed my load twice in here. Hopefully third time will be the charm – when I can finally muster up some will-power and shut the water off.
Vance works up a light sweat while he's cranking out his push-ups. Soon, his smell pulses through the room, radiating from his skin in waves of heat.
After a few weeks of being on the road with Vance? I'm well-acquainted with his smell. It fills the room when he sleeps. I'll wake in the middle of the night, and I'll smell him all around me. He must be a guy that sweats in his sleep. The thought makes me wanna climb into his bed, rub my hands over his sweat-slicked back, and bury my nose against his neck and shoulder. And just smell him the way I want to.
His scent is savory, but with spicy and charred notes. Like ginger, pepper, and a warm camp fire on a chilly fall evening. I have no idea how he smells that way. I've never seen the guy put any cologne on – it's just his body's natural smell. His pheromones, I guess – emanating from his every pore, designed to attract a mate.
So whose luck would it be that his straight-guy pheromones end up driving me crazy? Who has it worse?
Good question. It's like an ancient paradox.
But I swear his scent is all around me, like it's been permanently etched into my mind. Hell, I can even smell it right now, while I jerk myself off in the shower ... I'm hopeless.
I tug myself faster and faster until I bust all over the glass shower door for the third time this session alone.
“God damn,” I mumble. “I gotta stop.”
I gotta stop doing a lot of things.
At least I've held true on my vow so far this season. I haven't been with any other guys. Not since the last hook-up, back when I was with the Jets.
Problem with that is? I don't even want to. Because there's only one guy on my mind right now.
And that's fucking crazy. Because not only is Vance a teammate of mine, and my captain, and my roommate ... but he's also straight. So this stupid little crush is not doing me any good. And I like him ... a lot. I dunno how much exactly, but it scares me. More than I should, that's for sure.
I take a few moments to catch my breath. Then I wash up for real. I wash the seed off my hands, off the glass shower door. And while I soap up, I think about the week ahead.
Tomorrow, we're heading back to Chicago. We've got a stretch of home games coming up to close out the season. It'll be nice to be back home again, right before the playoffs start.
At least when we're at home, I've got some space from Vance. Even though he's right down the hall.
I rinse myself off. Take a deep breath.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself.
Once I climb out of that shower, I'm 'me' again, ready to face the world. I'm Callan Jones, Pro Hockey Player, Pest Extraordinaire and All-Around Straight Guy. Woooo!
I open the shower door and reach for my towel.
And it's not there.
“What the fuck?” I mumble to myself. I look all around. I don't see my towel anywhere. I don't see my clothes, either. “Uhhhh.”
I hope and pray that somehow, I forgot my things. But I know it's impossible – I remember setting my clothes right here, and my towel right there.
There's only one possibility.
Vance.
My heart pounds in my chest.
“Oh no ...”
Please, please, tell me I'm crazy here.
22.
Can. Not. Unsee.
Tyler
I slink into a stool at the hotel bar. I'm the only one here. The bartender is a young, college-aged kid. He nods at me.
“Whiskey on the rocks,” I grumble. The bartender turns around to make my drink.
I feel like I've got tunnel vision. The walk down here from the room was ... surreal. My legs felt like jelly – but somehow, despite their wobbly weakness, they propelled me forward. Through the long hallway, past all the doors and the rooms with the people hidden inside. Down the stairs, to the lobby. I wasn't sure where my legs were taking me, I was only along for the ride. Part of me kept hoping I'd wake up in a sweat.
At last, I ended up here. The bar. Normally I won't drink by myself – I only drink with the boys, or I'll have one with dinner. But uh, tonight, I guess, is an exception.
The bartender sets the tumbler in front of me. I fumble through my wallet and lay down a $20.
“Keep the change.” I close my eyes, tilt my glass back, and let the smokey flavors wash over my palette.
Man, I think to myself. The hell just happened?
But when I open my eyes, the bartender is still staring at me. He's smiling, too.
I raise my eyebrow at him. “Hm?”
“Did you get locked out? You know, you can go to the front desk and let them know. They'll be able to help.”
“No ...” I trail off, a bit puzzled. “Why do you ask?”
He points at my right hand. I look down at it.
“Uhh,” I stammer as I realize I brought Jonesy's bath towel and clothes out of the room with me. His neatly folded clothes, and boxers too, just resting on top of the bar. “Shit!”
I pull his stuff off the bar and set it on my lap so it's at least out of view. I look through his stuff. His pajama pants. His boxers. His t-shirt – a shirt from his Junior team, the Colts, with his name and number printed on the back.
Jones. 37. I drag my fingers over his nameplate.
“Didn't mean to bring this down with me,” I laugh to the bartender nervously.
He bobs his head, pretending as if he understands, but I can tell he thinks I'm crazy. And I don't blame him.
What the hell am I gonna do with all this? I gulp.
And how does this prank end? Because right now I've got visions of myself walking back into that room, with a bit of a buzz, and my head lowered in shame. “Here's your shit back,” I'll mumble as I toss him his clothes. And he'll just give me an angry look. “Well, are ya fuckin' happy, Vance? What'd you expect to see when you bust in on a guy in the shower?”
I dunno what I expected to see, honestly. I thought the dude liked taking long show
ers 'cause he just liked to relax in the hot water! Shit! If I knew he was jerking it in there, I never would've gone in, obviously. I mean, I stopped jerking it in the shower when I was like, 16, for fuck's sake – I didn't think it was a thing that grown men did!
And I mean I have ... never seen anything like that.
Of course, I've seen my share of naked guys. I'm a professional athlete, after all. We'll see each other naked hundreds of times in a given year.
But I never see them actually, y'know ... excited.
I never see them touch themselves.
I snuck into that bathroom so quietly, I was goddamn proud of myself. The steam was really thick, like it always is. Clouds of fog were practically rolling through the room. I stayed low to the ground, almost crawling on the floor so he wouldn't see me.
Honestly, I thought he'd hear me the second I opened that door and his sauna lost its heat. But he didn't. Oh man, I thought, I'm actually gonna get away with this one!
I grabbed his clothes, his towel. And as I turned to leave, I took a peek through the glass shower door.
And there he was, his back against the tile wall. He was facing me, just a few feet away, only a glass door separating us. But he couldn't see me because he had his arm up, his elbow crooked over the bridge of his nose. I didn't even have to look lower to know what he was doing. I could see it, feel it, sense it.
I knew exactly what he was up to.
And instead of laughing my ass off, shouting “Oh my God Jonesy what the hell are you doing!” and making a bee-line outta there? ...
Instead, I froze. Like a thousand pounds of cement were just poured all over me. And all I could do was sit there, hypnotized by it – the motion.
I let myself take just a peek lower. To the center of his chest. Random spasms jolted through him. His rock-hard abs strained and trembled.
I wouldn't look any lower. But I could still see the top of his forearm. It was a blur, jerking back and forth. His pace was frenzied, building faster and faster, until he down-shifted to a lower speed that pulled heavier, deeper. That made him look really weak – made him collapse back against the tile wall. Like he basked in the ecstasy of each deliberate stroke.
