by J. M. Snyder
Ronnie skids to a stop in front of the penalty box, the puck between the boards and his stick, his back to Christian. With a burst of anger, Christian launches himself at the glass separating them, fists banging to get Ronnie’s attention. “Hey!” he shouts, his voice lost in the cry of the crowd and the rambunctious music pounding through the stands. “Ronnie! Hey!”
Ignoring him, Ronnie hits the puck back into the center of the ice. The players scatter after it. Christian sinks back to his seat as he watches Ronnie skate away. He thought he knew where things stood between them—Ronnie had made it clear when Christian left the team, and the attitudes of his former teammates tell him exactly what they think of him now. So why does Ronnie want to meet up with him after the game? Is it a trap, and the rest of the team will be there waiting to jump him? Or will it just be the two of them, like old times?
Christian doesn’t know, and part of him doesn’t want to know, either. Ronnie is the type who hints at his thoughts without ever making them known. For all the time they spent together last year, Christian still doesn’t know exactly what Ronnie thinks of him. What he feels for him. Even at their best, he caught glimpses but never had anything concrete to back up his own suspicions.
And now, this. What’s Ronnie playing at, anyway?
* * * *
It was after the third game in the playoffs that Christian told Ronnie about the trade. They had just won against the Fairfax Fury and, as had become their custom, Christian had followed Ronnie home after the game. The box of condoms was his this time—he lay nude on Ronnie’s bed, the sheets twined around his legs, his ass comfortably warm from the arm Ronnie had draped over it. He felt loose and pliant, like an old rubber band that had been stretched beyond its means and no longer held any tension in it. The pillow was cool beneath his cheek, the mattress firm against the front of his body, his lover on his back beside him. One of Christian’s arms was around Ronnie’s waist, keeping him close; the other lay straight beside him, fingers toying with Ronnie’s hand where it rested against his hip. The only light came from the overhead out in the hallway, which Christian had flipped on as they came up the stairs and forgot to turn off before they made it to the bedroom.
Despite the idyllic moment, the amber afterglow of sex, the cocoon of safety in which they lay, Christian’s mind churned in turmoil. He had to tell Ronnie. He had to.
Clearing his throat, he studied his lover—the thick eyelashes, the mussed hair, the scratchy growth that was beginning to fill in on Ronnie’s chin and cheeks, which had caused Christian to writhe in delight when Ronnie had knelt between his legs earlier and tickled his balls with that scruff. “Ronnie,” he whispered. Suddenly he felt cold, and he shivered against the covers.
The arm across his buttocks tightened. “What?”
For a moment, Christian didn’t know how to proceed. He’d told no one on the team yet, not even the coach—the phone call had come in two days prior, and he’d been so wrapped up with the playoffs that he hadn’t really had time to consider the offer. But lying here beside Ronnie, he already knew he’d take it. Best to just say it straight.
“I got an offer from the Blizzard.”
Ronnie made no response; he didn’t move, didn’t even blink.
Christian cleared his throat again and explained, “The Bedford Blizzard?”
“I know who you mean.”
The words were short, succinct, clipped almost. More like the Ronnie Christian had met at the start of the season and nothing at all like the man who had just made love to him moments ago.
Still, Christian soldiered on. “They want me to sign with them for next season. This is a great opportunity for me, Ronnie, you know that. Playing with them, I can get seen by AHL scouts, I can get picked up for the major leagues…I can go places.”
Now Ronnie turned toward him, but in the semi-darkness of the bedroom, his eyes were unreadable. All Christian saw were shadows obscuring his face, hiding his emotions. Don’t be mad, he wanted to say, but that would sound stupid, wouldn’t it? Why would Ronnie be mad that he wanted to play for another team? It wasn’t as if they were more to each other than two teammates who got off together after the games. It wasn’t as if they were in love.
At least, Ronnie had never said the word, and Christian would be damned if he said it first.
“Sounds like your mind’s made up,” Ronnie said softly.
Christian shrugged, a move that snuggled him closer to his friend. “It’s a good opportunity,” he said again. Then, tentatively, he asked, “What do you think?”
Ronnie stared at him, quiet, and Christian bit his lower lip to keep from saying anything else. Let Ronnie think, let him work it through in his mind. This didn’t mean they were over, not really, but it did mean a drastic change in their relationship. If they had a relationship. While Christian played for the Rebels, it was convenient for them to be together. Coming over to Ronnie’s place after practice or shacking up in a hotel room after an away game was easy—they played on the same team. They kept the same schedule.
But if what they had together were real, then they would make a long distance relationship work. Bedford was a few hours’ away, granted, but it wasn’t that far. If they needed each other. If they wanted things to work out.
After a lifetime, it seemed, Ronnie rolled over toward Christian and pressed his mouth to Christian’s forehead in a platonic kiss. “You do what’s best for you,” he murmured.
Christian closed his eyes, disappointed in Ronnie’s answer. What about doing what was best for them?
* * * *
The third period passes in a blur. Christian is benched for most of it—the coach says he can’t afford any more penalties, but Christian thinks it’s more than that. From the player’s box, he watches his teammates skate around the Rebels, the puck zooming from one end of the rink to the other without landing in either goal. His mind careens in much the same manner, swinging from, What the fuck does Ronnie want anyway?, to the melancholic, almost nostalgic notion that it’d be nice to catch up with him again, just like old times. By the time the buzzer sounds, he still hasn’t decided what he’s going to do. The team bus back to the hotel? Ronnie’s truck? He almost hopes for a sudden death overtime to delay his decision.
But the score remains the same as it was at the end of the second period—five to two. A good game, Christian thinks as he skates out with the rest of his team to shake the other players’ hands. He can be generous now because his team won. He lines up between two of his teammates, hand out, and waits as the Rebels skate down the line. It’s a show of good sportsmanship, shaking hands after the game, but the first guy skips Christian’s hand completely; the second hits him so hard, his palm stings. The third is Ronnie, who stops and takes Christian’s hand in both his own.
Christian raises his gaze to meet his old friend’s, and for a moment, the world stops. All thought disappears beneath that crystalline stare, and Christian gasps like a fish out of water, unable to draw breath as long as Ronnie’s watching. “Hey,” Ronnie says softly.
“Hey.” Christian mouths the word, and isn’t sure it comes out loud enough for Ronnie to hear.
A faint smile tugs at Ronnie’s lips. “Good game. You still got it, Magic.”
In that instant, Christian knows he’ll be skipping the team bus ride this evening.
Later, in the locker room, Christian is in the showers with shampoo running down his face when his roommate Burle takes the shower beside his. “Five to two,” he says, turning on the spray. “How many of those were yours? Damn, Chris. You couldn’t lose tonight.”
With a laugh, Christian turns his face up into the hot water and lets it wash away the suds. “Tell the coach that. He blames me for the two they managed to score.”
“He’s just busting your balls,” Burle tells him.
Christian drops his head and lets the water splatter the back of his neck as he wipes the soap from his eyes. Speaking of balls, from this position, he gets a good look at Burle�
�s thick dick and low, hairy nuts without his roommate knowing. Too bad the guy is straight—a cock like that? Christian would love to make it stand up and salute. He’s not into Burle, personally, but it’s been too long since he was last with someone. Ronnie has a good size on him, as well.
“Hey, Gordy. Listen.” Christian cuts off his shower and brushes the hair back from his face as he turns toward Burle. “I’m not going to ride back with the team, all right?”
Confusion clouds Burle’s face. “You mean to the hotel? Why not?”
“I’m meeting up with a friend.” Christian wipes excess water from his face and makes a conscious effort to keep his eyes above Burle’s waist. “This is my hometown, you know? So when I knew I’d be down here again, an old friend of mine called me up and asked if we couldn’t do something after the game. I’ll probably get in pretty late.”
“Your friend’s here now?” Burle asks. “Coach ain’t going to like that.”
“He doesn’t have to,” Christian mutters. “We’ll just get a bite to eat, catch up with each other, you know how it is. I’ll get him to drop me off at the hotel when we’re through.”
Burle frowns as if he thinks that’s a bad idea, but Christian isn’t asking his permission, he’s telling him what he’s going to do. “We’re leaving first thing in the morning,” Burle says. “If you miss the bus…”
Slapping Burle’s bare shoulder, Christian assures him, “Don’t worry, I’ll be back tonight.”
Though honestly? Christian isn’t so sure.
* * * *
Christian stayed with the Rebels through the season, and acted as surprised as the rest of the team when his trade to the Blizzard was announced. Only Ronnie knew otherwise, but he didn’t mention it, not to Christian or to the rest of the team. Up until their last game together, he acted as if it wouldn’t happen, and Christian didn’t bother to bring it up again. So this was where things ended between them? So be it.
It was one thing to turn away from his friend on the ice when others were watching—it was quite another to struggle not to think of him as he packed the last of his things into the trunk of his car. They had been so good together, Christian thought. What he’d felt between himself and Ronnie had been so…so real. Had he been the only one who felt that? Had all those evenings alone, all those touches, those kisses, had they meant nothing to Ronnie?
Christian didn’t know. But damn it the hell, he needed to find out.
With the last bag secured in his car, he locked up the apartment where he’d been staying and tore out of the parking lot. He’d mail the key to the rental office once he got situated in Bedford. The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, and he had a good four, five hours worth of driving ahead of him before he reached his new home, but he couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.
The route to Ronnie’s townhouse was a familiar one. Christian took the corners a little too fast, zooming through yellow lights and swerving around slower vehicles as if begging to get stopped. He’d relish a traffic cop at the moment—he needed something tangible to get angry at, somewhere to direct his emotion, before he reached Ronnie’s. Anything to tamp down the feelings swirling inside him…
Just his luck, no cop. He made it to Ronnie’s without incident, and squealed to a stop in front of his friend’s townhouse. The car door slammed behind him. With giant strides, he took the steps two at a time to the front door, where he leaned on the doorbell for a full thirty seconds before he attacked the door with a barrage of knocks. “Ronnie!” he shouted into the quiet afternoon. “Open the fuck up!”
No answer.
Christian knocked again, gently this time, as if that might coerce his friend to listen. The doorbell chimed as he prodded it, once, twice. He could hear it echo throughout the home. So this was it then, eh?
Fuck Ronnie.
Storming down the steps to his car, Christian slid behind the wheel, twisted the key in the ignition, and waited. He stared at the front door, willing it to open. He looked at each of the windows in turn—the three high circles in the garage door, the large bay window in the living room, the two smaller windows upstairs in the bedroom where he’d spent so many nights. He hated that he felt this way, this torn up and lost, this…this alone, about anyone. He was Magic, wasn’t he? He wasn’t supposed to be left hanging like this.
If only Ronnie had said something to indicate what they’d been to each other was magical, too.
Pissed—at Ronnie, mostly, but at himself as well, if he were honest, because he’d let himself get hung up on the guy, he’d let Ronnie in—Christian put the car into reverse and peeled out of the parking spot. He narrowly avoided hitting a car pulling into the lot behind him, and with a roar of his engine, he raced around the other vehicle to the exit. There he braked, briefly, before pulling out into the flow of traffic. He had to leave for Bedford—practice with his new teammates began first thing the following morning. He didn’t have time for Ronnie, if the guy didn’t even have time for him.
At the end of the block, he caught a red light. As he waited, he gunned the engine just to hear it tear into the stillness of the day. Fuck Ronnie, he thought, fiddling with the radio buttons. He wanted something hard and fast, a beat he could lose himself in. He had a long drive ahead…
The light changed. Before Christian could shoot through the intersection, he glanced over at the oncoming traffic and recognized Ronnie’s truck. His foot slipped off the gas pedal as he watched Ronnie drive past. His former teammate looked straight ahead, as if he didn’t see Christian’s car. If he did, he ignored it.
The driver behind Christian hit his horn. That tinny sound made Ronnie look over—for one breathless moment, the two stared at each other, and the world seemed to hang in the balance.
Then the horn sounded again. Ronnie looked away, and the moment, if there had been one at all, was lost.
Christian stomped on the clutch to keep his car from sliding back. The light ahead had turned yellow—he didn’t care. Shifting into first, he hit the gas and shot through the intersection. In his rearview mirror, he watched Ronnie’s taillights flash, and his turn signal clicked on. If he did a U-turn in the middle of the road, if he made any move to follow, Christian would have pulled over to wait for him. They would’ve talked things through, sorted out their feelings, defined their relationship right there on the side of the road if necessary, anything to clear the air between them…
But no. Ronnie turned into his parking lot and disappeared from Christian’s mirror. For the remainder of the trip out to Bedford, the cell phone that sat beside Christian on his passenger seat remained silent. Ronnie’s number hasn’t appeared on it since.
* * * *
Christian lines up with the rest of his team outside the locker room, but as they file toward the exit and the bus beyond, he ducks through a service door. He knows the Coliseum inside and out, from his time with the Rebels. A few empty corridors later, he steps out onto the crowded thoroughfare and easily mixes in with the crowd. Only the heavy gym bag he carries over one shoulder makes him stand out, but no one notices and he slips through the turnstiles out into the night without getting stopped.
Outside he pauses to zip up his jacket. It’s colder than he thought it’d be. Most of the crowd huddles in oversized parkas, wool caps, and thick gloves. He tugs on a pair of thin leather gloves, flexes his fingers in them to settle them right, then realizes he’s dawdling. He should just get this over with already. What’s Ronnie want with him, anyway?
Hefting his gym bag again, he cuts across the flow of the crowd to the small, private lot across the street where the players park. As he approaches, he notices the lot has emptied out—only a handful of vehicles remain. The coach’s Beemer, a battered Toyota he thinks belongs to one of the referees, and Ronnie’s pick-up truck. Christian doesn’t see his old teammate inside the cab or standing by the driver’s side door. Maybe he’s not out of the locker room yet.
Coming up behind the truck, Christian deposits his bag in the
bed. Then he walks around to the passenger side, hands shoved deep in his pockets to warm them up. And he sees Ronnie.
His former friend leans against the outside of the passenger side door, hands in his pockets, feet crossed. An easy stance that matches the lack of emotion on his gruff face. His hair, dark and damp, falls around his brow, combed down after the shower but already the ends are beginning to stand up on their own, itching to fly off in different directions. His unshaven cheeks look thinner than Christian remembers, and his eyes much more piercing. For a long moment, the two men study each other, neither daring to be the first to speak.
Finally Christian clears his throat. “Hey. I got your note.”
Well, yeah, no shit. Ronnie handed it to him, of course he got it. But what else is there to say?
Ronnie nods. Clearing his throat, he rubs at his nose, his fingers red and chapped from the weather. So he’s been out here awhile then, Christian suspects. “You played real good tonight.”
Christian sighs. He skipped the bus to hear that? “Ronnie, what are we doing here?”
“You tell me,” Ronnie answers. Damn him.
Closing his eyes, Christian pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “It’s been what, three months? You haven’t written to me, you haven’t called—”
“You haven’t called me either,” Ronnie points out.
“Why does it have to be me? Why can’t you pick up the phone for once in your life? You saw me leaving your place, I know you did, but you didn’t even turn around to stop me. I thought…”
He shakes his head, angry. At Ronnie, yes, but mostly at himself. For letting Ronnie get to him like this. He should’ve torn that note up into a million little pieces and thrown it away. He should’ve balled it up and tossed it out onto the ice, where the other guys could’ve skated it into oblivion.
In a quiet voice, he admits, “I thought I was over you, damn it.”
Color rises to Ronnie’s cheeks, twin spots of red just under his eyes that make the rest of his skin look drawn and pale. “Is that why you never called? Because we’re over?”
