by Van Barrett
“Hey Vance, heard you're Jonesy's new roommate?” he says.
“Yeah,” I grumble. I'm not much interested in whatever their fight was.
“You catch him sneaking out late at night yet? You know ... going to any strange places?”
My eyes narrow. “The hell are you talking about, Burkhardt?”
“I guess he hasn't told you then. You better ask him about it!” he cackles as he skates off.
Uhh. Okay. Strange places? The hell could that mean?
Jones skates up to me right afterward. He stares after Burkhardt.
“What'd he say?” he says quietly.
“Not much,” I mumble.
Play starts again. It's late in the third, the game is still tied 0-0, and finally someone starts to step up and take control of the game. It's Donovan. He's seen enough and he's taking matters into his own hands.
“C'mon, I don't give a shit about these jerk-offs! Let's rally boys!” he roars at us on the bench.
But his play on the ice is the real inspiration. Donovan is a big guy, a real heavy-weight d-man and something of a dying breed in the NHL. Throwing your body around year after year can really take its toll on your body – and Donovan realized a while back that he had to dial the physical play back a notch or two if he wanted to wring a few more years out of his career.
But when Donovan gets pissed off enough, he will play like he did when he was 25, and it's a sight to behold.
A Jets forward skates down Donovan's lane. The Jets player has taken it for granted that Donovan doesn't hit anymore. He gets careless and hits his top gear, trying to sprint around Donovan's outside. But Donovan surprises him with a flash of his youth – he takes a powerful stride backwards and lunges at the player with his hip stuck out. Don-o catches the forward and throws his weight into the guy, crushing him into the boards with a thunderous hit. The Jets player falls on the ice, dazed and slow to get up to his skates.
The crowd stands up and roars. Finally they have something to cheer about.
Donovan's snarl is the missing element we've been looking for. With the veteran throwing his weight around, the team wakes up, at last, and we start to find our offensive game. In the end, with only a few minutes to go in the game, it's an innocent looking wrist shot by Tanner that deflects off a skate and wobbles through the air and finds the back of the Jets' net.
And that'll be the game winner. We'll win the game 1-0.
After the game, Jones will be swamped by the media all over again. He fields question after question about the trade, some truly and utterly ridiculous. Jones refuses to comment on the rumors, and I can't help but think he finally looks frustrated by it all. He only wants to talk about the game, not the trade or anything that has happened in the past.
Donovan pulls me aside during all the commotion.
“Look,” he says. “I dunno what the hell this kid did, but this is starting to get weird. You hear what the Jets players were saying all game long? Just hinting about how they can wreck his career. They're toying with him, Vance, whatever he did in Winnipeg, they're dangling it over his head and letting him torture himself.”
I nod. After that game, I've got no choice but to agree with him.
“You gotta get to the bottom of it, Vance. Make sure that whatever it is, it's not gonna blow up in our faces, alright? Last thing we need is a media circus hanging over us in the playoffs. I wanna win a Cup, Vance, this is my last shot.”
“Yeah,” I grumble. “You're right.”
“It's gone on long enough, Vance,” Donovan says, shaking his head and he walks off. “For fuck's sake, make him put an end to it.”
25.
WTF Confessions
Callan
It's practically a celebration in the dressing room after the game. I cheer and joke around and dance with the guys, but deep down, I don't feel all that excited.
Sure, we won. And Tanner got his $1,000 check from me for scoring the winner. And the guys are real excited for me.
But I played like shit. Because the Jets let me know it: do anything to make them mad, and they'll tell everybody everything.
I guess I naively hoped that they'd just be happy to be rid of me and let sleeping dogs lie. But now, I know, I was mistaken. They're gonna use it against me ... when the time is right.
Ugh. I'm back to square one. Waiting for the day when those assholes decide to blow my career up.
But until then, I have a role to play. I have to look like the happy guy. So I exchange high-fives with all my teammates, who are real happy for me. And I force a smile, even though deep down, I know I'm doomed.
I wish they'd just fucking come out already and tell everybody. That way I could just move on. I'm sick and fucking tired of living in limbo.
After we give our interviews, we march off to the showers, and everyone's still yelling and hollering and laughing. Everyone's in a real good mood and I know I should be happy, and it kills me that I can't enjoy this moment with them. But it's all my fault in the first place.
“We're goin' out to celebrate!” the boys shout.
Oh no, I think. I really, really don't want to. I want to go home, bury my face in my pillow, and sleep this off until I know what to do next.
But they're all hyped up, throwing out names of places to go. They want to go out, and I'm the reason why. I can't get out of this.
“I dunno, I'm really tired,” I say lamely.
Boos and hisses come my way.
“Ugh, fine!” I say. “But I'm not choosing the bar. You guys know this city better than I do.”
Once we're all dressed and ready to go, we head straight to a club that everyone else agrees on. Almost the whole team comes out to celebrate – except some of the older guys and the family guys who need to rush home and be with their families.
I'm inundated by a deluge of beers and shots. Seems like every time one of the boys needs a drink, he runs up and gets one for me, too. And these maniacs won't take no for an answer – I have to drink with them.
... Practice is sure gonna be interesting tomorrow, eh.
The hours pass, and the night gets later. Ties come undone, shirts unbuttoned, words slurred. Young and pretty girls start to adorn the necks of my teammates. And one by one, my teammates start to disappear and head home.
I'm sitting at a booth with Vance and Nelson. Girls cram themselves between us on the booth. We don't know them, can't remember their names or where they came from. We're wasted, after all, and although me and Vance can behave ourselves – Nelson can't keep his eyes off their cleavage. To be fair, the girls are more than happy to let him stare.
The whole thing is odd. If we were anybody else, they wouldn't talk to us. They'd see us for what we are – a trio of super-wasted drunken dudes who can barely string together a coherent sentence. And they'd be creeped out and stay far, far away.
But that's not who we are. We're professional athletes. We're famous. Or something.
“So, like, why did you get traded after all?” one of the girls asks me.
I roll my eyes. “Please ... not again ...”
Nelson roars with laughter and reaches over a girl to clap his hand on my shoulder. “His teammates hated him, sweetheart! Ain't it obvious!”
She frowns. “But why?”
I see Vance peer at me, suddenly interested in our exchange.
“Tell ya the truth – we love him, so we don't care!” Nelson roars on my behalf. “We're playoff-bound, sweetheart, that's all that matters!”
I take a deep breath and check my watch. It's almost 4 AM. I've more than served my time.
“Guys, I think it's time I call it a night.”
“Awwwwh!” the girls all sigh with disappointment.
“Yeah,” I say as I stand, “you still got Nelson and Vance to keep you company, though.”
Vance stands up. “Actually, I'm coming with you. It's late and I'm tired too.”
“Alright, whatever,” I shrug. I guess we can share a taxi, as long as he
's not acting all awkward still.
The girls grab our hands and try to pull us back into the booth. “We can go somewhere else?” they plea, and they give us those bedroom eyes, those looks that say we'll make it worth your while.
And I can only shake my head. If only they knew! I'm not interested. If only everyone knew ... my life would be so much easier.
“Night, ladies.”
Me and Vance stagger outside, hail a cab, and take it back to our hotel.
“I'M GLAD YOU CAME OUT tonight,” Vance says when we're in the car.
I turn to face him, my brows scrunched up. “Hm?”
“I could tell you didn't really feel like it.”
“Who said that?” I ask with a dismissive laugh.
“No one. But I can tell.”
I go quiet. “Oh.”
“You weren't yourself today. Didn't really play your game. You were nervous playing your old team. Which is ... normal,” he pauses. “But, you're not normal.”
I feel like he's putting me on the defensive, and I don't like it. “Well I feel like you haven't been yourself for a few days either.”
Vance turns and looks out his car window. “Yeah, you're probably right.” Then he turns back to me. “But my point is, it means a lot to the team that you'd come out.”
“Well, I wouldn't wanna leave 'em hanging.”
The cab pulls up to our hotel. The ride feels ridiculously short, and I'm surprised it's already over. But I guess alcohol makes time fly. We lurch inside and wait for the hotel elevator, hoping the other hotel goers don't recognize us.
We ride the elevator with an elderly lady who keeps giving us the stink eye. No doubt she can smell the sour alcohol stench coming off us and filling the elevator car, and she doesn't like it. We're glad when the car reaches our floor and we can get off.
“Did you see the look she gave us?” I stifle a laugh as we make our way through the hall. “The hell you think she's doing up so late anyway?”
Vance laughs, but it's followed by a guilty frown. “Maybe she's waking up?”
“Shit. You're probably right. Damn, I bet we look like a bunch of drunk assholes then, huh?”
“Yeah, bud.”
“At least we're drunk assholes in the playoffs ...” We reach my room. I'm ready to part ways and end the night on that note. “Well, alright, Vance. I'll see ya later, man.”
“Wait,” he says, leaning up against the wall outside my room. “I wanna talk.”
Uh oh. “Oh, er – what about?”
He sighs. “I think we need to clear the air about a few things. Hold up. Lemme grab something from my room. And I'm gonna change outta this damn suit already.”
Vance trots off to his room. I leave my door propped open and fall backwards onto my bed while I wait. He comes back a second later, wearing khaki shorts and one of the muscle tees he likes to sleep in. He's got an armful of something pressed up against his wide chest.
“What's that?” I ask, my eyes adjusting.
He lays it down in front of me. I gasp.
“Oh,” I say with a big gulp. It's my clothes. My Colts shirt, my boxers, my pajama bottoms. “Um. My clothes. I thought those went missing ...”
“Yeah,” Vance scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, that's my bad, dude.”
As mortified as I was earlier? Right now, I just feel like laughing. Because this is too ridiculous to be believed.
I have to choke my laughter back. “What happened ... dare I ask?”
“Um. That road trip in Dallas. I was gonna play a prank on you where I stole all your clothes while you were in the shower.”
“Uh huh,” I chuckle gleefully.
I don't know what my fucking problem is – but this is somehow amusing to me right now. In fact, call me crazy, but I feel a connection with him right now! Then again, I'm notoriously bad at reading situations when I'm drunk ... so I have to remind myself to keep it cool.
“And so what happened, Ty?”
He grunts and walks to the window. Pulls the curtain back and looks out over the city. “Man. I dunno how to even say it. But, the reason I've been acting weird ...”
He trails off, unsure how to say it. I'll help meet him half-way.
“... Is because you saw something.”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me what you saw.”
He takes a deep breath. “... I saw you jerking it, dude.”
Yes, I think, biting my lip. Finally.
My cock stirs, growing against the crotch of my boxers. Just the mere thought of him seeing all that excites me. I guess it helps to get things out in the open, huh?
“I thought so,” I laugh.
“You knew?”
“I knew my shirt was fucking gone.”
“And ... what'd you think?”
“I knew I wasn't crazy. I knew you had something to do with it, and I knew what the hell I was doing while I was in that shower. And then you disappear and come back acting all weird. Why the hell didn't you say something?”
“Why didn't you?” he asks.
“Oh. Yeah. Good question. I was pretty mortified, I guess.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“Good to clear the air, then, isn't it?” I grin.
“Yeah. I guess so.”
And then I have a moment of weakness. A moment where I don't 'keep it cool,' where actually, I get the nerve to say something crazy.
“Did you like what you saw?” I blurt out.
Holy shit, Callan! I silently scream at myself. The fuck is wrong with you? Shut your goddamn mouth!
“Uhh, what?” Vance laughs uncomfortably. He's got the typical, aloof straight guy, pretend-I-dunno-what-you-just-said thing going on full bore. He's got that routine down pat.
“Haha! I'm just kidding, man,” I chuckle.
“Oh.” Unsure, Vance grins. “Haha. Right.”
He turns away from the window and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “You been up on the roof yet? It's beautiful up there.”
“No. I didn't know we were allowed up there.”
“Sure. Well, technically, we're not allowed to after 10 PM, but no one will stop us. C'mon. Let's go.”
Ooh, forbidden adventure. Tired as I am, it sounds kinda exciting and sexy.
“Hold on. I wanna change into something more comfortable too.”
“I'll wait outside,” Vance says.
I change into some shorts and a t-shirt myself. Then I follow Vance out. We take the stairs up to the roof, peer over the ledge and look out over the city.
It's early morning and Chicago is still asleep; a city caught between night and a new day. The stars can be seen above us, but not for much longer. The first hint of daylight cracks along the horizon in the East. A wall of clouds blanket the sky in the West, and though they're distant, they seem to be rolling closer so fast you can see they're on the move. A strong breeze, charged and frenetic, tousles our hair and announces the coming storm. It smells like fresh rain and dirt. Tiny forks of lightning flash in the distant clouds.
“Damn, Vance!” I gasp. “It's a beautiful night. We got a great view up here, too.”
“Looks like we got a big storm comin'.”
“Yup. I'd say so.”
The air smells earthy. Feels purifying. I inhale it deeply.
At last I turn back to Vance. “Well, thanks for giving me my shirt back. I've had that since Junior, you know.”
“Yeah. I almost threw it away. I mean, I did throw it away. I had to dig through the trash can the next day before our flight ... I couldn't have lived with myself if I threw it away.”
“Wow,” I laugh. “That's kinda fucked up ... and thoughtful, all at the same time.”
“Yeah. I dunno what got into me. Seeing that whole thing was just kinda – uhh. Err.” Vance stops himself short and looks away shyly.
I squint at him. “Wait ... what were you about to say?”
“Hell. Nothin' really.” Vance turns and watches the storm clouds. I grab his shou
lder and pull him around to face me.
“Hey. We just said how good it feels to clear the air, right? You were about to say something. Tell me, dude.”
He laughs. Shakes his head nervously. He seems to be thinking something over. Then he speaks. “Okay, tell you what. I will.”
Yes! I think to myself.
“... But only if you promise to tell me something after.”
“Ha,” I laugh, thinking I've won this bet fair and square already. “Deal, but you hafta go first.”
“Alright.” He takes a deep breath. “I dunno what came over me. I couldn't move. I – I saw it all, Cal. I was there, crouched on the floor, for at least a couple minutes. You had your eyes covered up, and you – you jerked it until you came all over the glass door.”
Of course I'd been there – I didn't need to be told what I'd done – but the way he told the story made it sound so hot. Even though he didn't include any sexy details? The idea that he was there, watching me, until I blasted all over the glass door? Holy shit, man.
I shift my weight and shuffle my legs. I'm trying to hide the growing bulge in my pants.
“You actually watched me cum, Ty?” I manage to say at last, my jaw falling open. “That's fuckin' dirty, man.”
Why the hell would he stay and watch? I ask myself, totally shocked.
“Yeah. I dunno why, I just – I couldn't move! I was so afraid you'd catch me. That's why I've been so quiet and weird the last couple days. I uh, I didn't know how to even bring it up. I'm sorry for invading your privacy. It was supposed to be a prank, but I guess it backfired.”
“Chyeah. Guesso.”
A silence comes between us. With a touch of disappointment, I sense that Vance has told me all that he can really say. He's already told me more than most people would, after all. But I won't lie – he's got me riled up and I wanna know more. It's hard not to feel a little let down when I there's a lot more I wanna know about this situation ...
I'd love to ask him so much more. But the questions I wanna ask him will be a big, red fucking flag. Questions like, What's it like to see another guy do something like that? Did it excite you? Do you still think about it? Did you like the size and shape of my cock? Did you wish you could help me? Did you get hard?
