Him

by Sarina Bowen

  Time slips. Once we start kissing we don’t stop. My lips are swollen and I’m so hard it’s painful. But this isn’t about sex. Each kiss is a promise of more to come. I know we need to stop. There are plans to make, and there’s a dinner I have to get to, but each time I tell myself that this is the last kiss, I go back for one more. And then one more.

  I pull back eventually. “You have to live here,” I blurt out.

  “Wha?” Jamie says, looking dazed. His cheeks are flushed and I’ve tousled his hair.

  “A twenty-two-year-old rookie might have a roommate, especially an old hockey friend. It would actually be weirder if you were coming and going all the time.”

  He smiles, and I think he’s going to make a joke about coming and going. “Did you just ask me to move in with you?”

  “Well…yeah. Would you?”

  Jamie’s eyes sweep the room. “I can’t afford this place.”

  I’m already shaking my head. “That is not going to be an issue. You can pay the utilities or some shit.”

  “I can’t…”

  “Yeah, you can. Consider it a gift for putting up with ten months of hiding.”

  “I can’t pay nothing.”

  “Fine. Contribute what you would otherwise budget for rent money.” I stand, offering him a hand. “Come on, let’s have a tour.” I don’t want to talk about money. Fuck that.

  Jamie takes my hand and follows me to the little hallway off the kitchen.

  “We’ll put a bed in this room, but it’s not going to be our room. You can have a desk in here, though, if you need one for your job. It will give you a place to work.”

  This all seems so easy now. Toronto just became a place I really want to be. “And this is our bedroom.” I walk him into the big room, which is slotted into a corner of the building. “See how private? When we fuck, nobody can hear us.” I risk a look at Jamie, and his eyes are molten.

  Fucking hell. Shouldn’t have said that. I’m hard, and there’s no time to do anything about it. “Wait. What time is it, anyway?”

  He checks his watch. “Six.”

  Shit! “I have to be at this restaurant in a half hour. And my hotel is on the other side of town…” I look down at what I’m wearing. Track pants and flip-flops. Great. I’m going to be late for my first team event. Goddamn it. I chuckle, because it’s either that or cry. And I’ve already done the latter today.

  “Babe, do you want to wear this?” Jamie indicates his suit.

  “Really?”

  He shrugs. “You don’t have to, but…”

  “Let’s try it.” I laugh, because this is crazy. But that’s what happens when he and I are together. Crazy happens.

  And we are just about the same size. Jamie’s waist might be a little wider than mine, but he’s wearing a belt.

  He’s looking down at himself, doing the same math. “What size are your feet?”

  “Ten and a half.”

  “I’m eleven,” he says. “Close enough.”

  We’re grinning like idiots as we strip off our clothes in the big empty bedroom. Jamie is down to only his dress socks, and I groan at the view. “I hope this dinner doesn’t last too long. Will you stay with me tonight at the hotel?”

  He licks his lips. “Sure. But you’ll have to tell me where that is.” He passes me his shirt and I put it on. It smells like him. I’m going to be horny all evening. The best kind of torture.

  We make the switch and I don’t look half bad. The jacket shoulders are a little wider than I’d wear them, but fuck, who cares. “I forgot something.”

  “What?”

  I work on tying Jamie’s tie, but there’s no mirror, so it’s slow going. “That night we were making the list of benefits of being gay? Borrowing your boyfriend’s clothes.”

  Clucking his tongue, he pushes my hands out of the way and straightens the knot. “You look hot in my suit.”

  “You look hot in anything.”

  He reaches down and squeezes my dick through the wool trousers. “You get a blowjob later, just for saying that.”

  I groan. Then I have a thought so evil I almost can’t say it with a straight face. “Tonight, I want you in nothing but my Toronto jersey.”

  Jamie sputters with laughter and gives my cheek a fake slap. “You ass. I’m not your puck bunny.”

  “Please? I’ve never fucked a puck bunny. This is my only chance.”

  He wraps his arms around my body and squeezes my ass. I receive a single, bruising kiss before he steps back. “Now give me your hotel key and go to your dinner already. No more lip.”

  When I step out onto the sidewalk a few minutes later, I’m a little dazed and walking carefully in shoes that are slightly too big.

  And I’ve never felt better in my life.

  38

  AUGUST

  Wes

  At the end of my first week of training camp, Coach Harvey shifts the lines around and puts me in the second line with Erikkson and Forsberg. The latter led Chicago to a Stanley Cup win three seasons ago before being traded to Toronto. The former was tied for highest-scoring offensive player last season. And then there’s me—Ryan Wesley, wet-behind-the-ears rookie, skating with two goddamn legends.

  It’s a promising sign, because that means they’re seriously considering me for the roster this season, instead of sending me down to the farm team for more development.

  Our shift lasts two minutes, and just before Coach shouts for a line change, I slap a one-timer past the goalie (another former Stanley Cup champ) and accept a vigorous back clap from Erikkson, who’s grinning behind his facemask.

  “Shi-it, kid, that was a beauty!”

  The praise warms me up inside. And I’m even giddier when I notice Coach nodding in approval from the bench. “You’ve got solid instincts,” he tells me when I heave myself over the boards a moment later. “No hesitation. I like that.”

  Is hearing that good for my ego? Damn right it is. These past two weeks, I’ve learned that praise from our head coach comes about as often as a solar eclipse. But even though he pushes us hard and is tough as nails, he’s a nice guy when we’re not on the ice, and the man sure knows his hockey.

  Forsberg sidles up to me as I head down the chute, ruffling my hair like I’m a five-year-old. “You’re fast, Wesley. Keep showing off that speed in practice, okay? I want you on my line.”

  My heart does a crazy somersault. Jesus Christ. How is this my life?

  But my good mood doesn’t stick. I’m scheduled to meet with one of the team publicists in thirty minutes, and depending on how that goes, practice might not be the only thing that’s over today. My career might end, too.

  Before it even begins.

  I haven’t changed my mind, though, no matter how many times Jamie has urged me to reconsider. I’m not giving him up. This next year might be tough for us, especially if my publicist goes all fire and brimstone on my ass to keep the relationship under wraps. But I know we can weather through it.

  I love Jamie. I’ve always loved Jamie. And now that I know he feels the same way, I can’t wait to see him again. To live with him again.

  After accepting the coaching job and informing Detroit of his decision, Jamie went back to Lake Placid for two weeks. He told me this plan when we were lying in my hotel room after sex. And even in that blissed-out state, I’d thought it was a terrible idea. “Don’t go,” I’d argued. “I just got you back.”

  Smiling, he’d kissed me. “We can’t get into the apartment yet, anyway. And Pat needs the help. Plus, this means you can focus all your energy on impressing your coach.”

  I miss the hell out of him, but I’ve done what he suggested. All I do is practice and talk to him on the phone at night. My lease on the condo began three days ago. I went shopping for the essentials—a king-sized mattress and a giant flat-screen TV. But that’s all I’m buying until Jamie comes back next week to help me pick everything out.

  Actually, I found an armchair on the curb yesterday and hauled it
upstairs. But when I set it in front of the living room windows I noticed that it wobbled.

  I snapped a pic of the chair and texted it to Jamie with a note about finding it outside. His response was fast and furious: It has to go! People throw shit out for a reason! I bet you someone died on that chair!

  Tonight’s agenda: getting rid of the death chair and going grocery shopping.

  Look at me being all domestic. I’m kinda digging it.

  After I’ve showered in the locker room and changed into my street clothes, I walk toward the elevator bank at the far end of the training arena. The PR guy agreed to meet me in the upstairs offices, saving me from having to trek to the team’s head offices on the other end of the city during rush hour.

  He waits for me in the corridor when I step off the elevator. I’ve already met him once before. It was after I signed my contract, when he’d given me an info packet about the promotional events I’ll be expected to attend this season.

  “Ryan,” he says warmly, extending his hand. “Good to see you again.”

  “Frank,” I greet him as we shake hands. “Thanks for coming down to meet with me.”

  “Anything for our new rookie superstar.” He grins and gestures for me to follow him.

  A moment later, we’re seated in a small office with a view of the parking lot. Frank dons a wry look. “Not exactly the lap of luxury here. I can’t even offer you anything to drink.”

  “That’s fine. I just chugged two bottles of water in the locker room.”

  “I caught the end of practice. It looks like you’re meshing well with the other guys.”

  “I think so,” I admit. “Hopefully Coach agrees.”

  Frank smiles. “Trust me, kid, Hal loves you. I heard that when the coaches were going over the draft prospects, he refused to look at any other centers. You were his first and only choice.”

  Pleasure shoots through me. Then guilt. Because the thought of disappointing my new coach makes me sick to my stomach.

  But the thought of not having Jamie in my life makes me even sicker.

  “So, listen. I had something important to discuss with you,” I start awkwardly.

  Frank’s expression goes serious. “Is everything okay? Someone giving you trouble?”

  I shake my head. “No, nothing like that.” A rueful sigh slips out. “If anything, I’m the one who’s about to give you trouble.”

  He actually laughs. “Gotta tell you, lots of conversations start this way. By now, I’m unshockable, Ryan. Just hit me.”

  I clasp my hands in my lap to stop from fidgeting. “Frank…the roommate I listed as my emergency contact on my health forms? He’s actually my boyfriend. But, uh, nobody else knows.”

  He doesn’t even blink. “Right.”

  Right? Confusion fills my gut as I attempt to make sense of his response. It hadn’t sounded sarcastic, like riiiiiight, sure he is. It hadn’t sounded hostile. It hadn’t sounded like anything.

  “I’m only telling you this, uh, because it could leak out. I’d never try to bring negative publicity to the team,” I hurry on. “My sexual orientation has nothing to do with my skills as a hockey player. I plan on playing my ass off for this club, and I truly hope that who I date in my spare time won’t affect my teammates’ opinions of me as a player. But I also know the media will jump on this story if it gets out.”

  Frank is nodding now.

  “I…” I take a breath. “I mean, I’m living with someone. It’s serious. The only, um, scandal is that he’s a he.”

  His lips twitch.

  Fucking hell. Is he laughing at me?

  I clench my teeth and force myself to continue. “We’re willing to be as discreet as the team needs us to be, but we can’t hide our relationship forever. We shouldn’t have to.” My breath comes out in a rush. “So I figured I’d disclose this information and let you and the team decide what happens next.”

  Frank leans forward, resting his arms on the desktop. “Ryan.” He chuckles. “I appreciate you coming forward, but…we already knew about your sexual orientation.”

  I cough in surprise. “You did?”

  “Son, we have a thorough vetting process for all our draft prospects. The last thing a club needs is to draft a kid in the first round, only to find out later that he’s got a criminal record a mile-long or he’s addicted to pills or has some other skeleton in his closet that might negatively impact the league.”

  Jesus. So they knew I was gay before they drafted me? How?

  I voice the troubled thought. “How did you know?”

  He chuckles again. “Were you trying to keep it a secret? Because from what we gleaned, your college teammates—and coaches—were well aware of it.”

  I’m…dumbfounded. “My coach told you?”

  He shrugs like this is nothing surprising. “The coach didn’t want you to hitch your wagon to a team that wouldn’t treat you right. He did you a favor. And like I said, Hal was impressed with you, and not just with the level of talent you bring to the team. You’re smart, discreet, you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. That’s all that matters to him. To us.”

  “So…” I try to find my voice. “You guys don’t care that I’m involved with another man?”

  “Not at all.” He folds his hands together. “In fact, I’ve already written the press release for whenever this eventually leaks. The organization has agreed on all the supportive language. We’re ready.”

  I just sit there, my mind reeling. There’s something tickling the back of my brain about this discussion. It almost sounds as if they’re hoping to issue that press release. “What’s in it for you?” I blurt.

  He grins. “Faith in our fellow man?”

  “Bullshit. What does this get you?”

  Frank opens his hands in a gesture of humility. “Last year we traded Kim to Anaheim, and Owens to Miami. Because we had—”

  “—too many right-handed D-men,” I finish.

  Frank nods. “Only Kim is Korean-American and Owens was…” He stares at the ceiling trying to remember. “I forget. But some dipshit sports reporter made a big stir about how we didn’t want to be a diverse team. Someone jumped on that and started a petition that somehow gathered twenty-five thousand signatures.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “So you drafted the faggot.”

  Frank rolls his eyes. “I’ll have to ask you not to use that word, son. It’s not nice.”

  My groan echoes off the walls of the office. “Please tell me you’re not going to leak my sexual orientation the next time some asshole writes that Toronto isn’t a PC organization. I don’t want to be your pawn.”

  He grins. “We’re not interested in turning you into a poster boy for gay athletes. We don’t need to invite the circus to town—it always shows up eventually. But we won’t be sending you out to face the media waving a rainbow flag, or ask you to give interviews touting yourself as the ‘first openly gay player in the NHL.’”

  He air-quotes the headline, chuckling again, and I realize they’ve put a lot of thought into this. And meanwhile, I’ve spent every waking moment since I got drafted worrying about how I would keep it under wraps.

  “I gotta say, though. If you’re telling me you’re in a committed relationship, I’m doing a happy dance. When the press finally catches on to you, it won’t be some photo of you in a skeezy bathhouse on Jarvis Street. I prefer the visual of you and your boyfriend having a candlelit dinner.”

  I open my mouth to argue with this bit of cynicism, and then discover I don’t care enough to fight this fight. Toronto is keeping me, even if Jamie and I are outed. That’s all that matters, I tell myself. And the man in front of me is paid to think like a jackass, just like I’m paid to think like a killer.

  “Is there anything else you wanted to discuss, Ryan?”

  I blink. “Um...no. That was it.”

  Frank scrapes his chair back and stands up. “Then I hope you don’t mind if we cut this chat short. I need to speak to Hal befo
re I head home to the wife and kids.”

  My legs are wobbly as I follow him to the door, where he stops to clap me on the shoulder. “You should come to dinner at our place sometime. Your boyfriend’s welcome, too.”

  I blink again. What fucking planet am I on right now?

  He grins at my confusion. “I know you’re new to the city and probably haven’t met a lot of folks yet. And my wife loves to host members of the team. She’ll be thrilled if you came by.”

  “Oh. Um, sure, then. I appreciate the invite.”

  We go our separate ways once we reach the lobby. I’m not feeling too steady on my feet as I head outside and walk toward the subway stop. It’s like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders, and I’m not sure how to handle the sensation it leaves behind. Lightness, giddiness. Relief.

  I can’t wait to tell Jamie.

  39

  Jamie

  It’s been a long day of coaching.

  Pat runs a two-week intensive at the end of camp, and we really fill the place up. Since the dorm is jam-packed, the kids who show up stay in condos with their parents. We max out our ice time, and we max out our waking hours.

  It’s tough, but I love it.

  I’m on pins and needles all day, though, because Wes has his meeting with the PR guy. So after the last session of the day, I run back to the dorm. This morning I intentionally left my phone in the room so I wouldn’t spend the day checking it.

  There’s something in front of my door. It’s a FedEx package. When I pick it up, it’s weightless.

  I unlock the door and push inside my mostly empty room. Pat is still a coach short, which means it’s a good thing I came back to help him.

  Checking the phone is the first thing I do. There aren’t any voicemails, and the only email is a solicitation for discount sunglasses. So I turn my attention to the package, tearing off the strip at the edge and opening the envelope.

  A gift box falls out—the same one I recently filled with purple Skittles. I yank open the top and find a piece of paper inside, grinning when I see a single purple Skittle taped to the page.