Dating Him: The Series

by Michelle MacQueen

  Kenny deflected the blow off his shoulder before driving his fist into the side of Morrison’s helmet. Both skaters yanked their helmets off, freeing their faces from the protection of the metal cages.

  “Come at me, bro,” Morrison yelled.

  Kenny raised an eyebrow. This dude had seen way too many hockey movies with cheesy fight lines.

  Every skater on the ice crowded around them as the refs hung back, waiting to see if they needed to step in. Glancing down at his already bruised knuckles, Kenny remembered what Kyle had once taught him. Don’t fight someone bigger, someone smaller, or someone with a chip on his shoulder. Too many hockey players had dulled their skills fighting senseless battles on the ice. Breaking hands and fingers so many times they lost the ability to puck-handle at a high level. For as much of an asshole as pretty much the entire world thought Kenny was, he did care about one thing: his future in hockey. It was all that got him out of bed some mornings.

  He shook his head. “You’re not worth it.” He turned to skate toward the bench.

  “I knew you were too much of a fairy to fight,” Morrison yelled after him.

  Kenny froze, his back still to the rest of the guys on the ice. Ever since the photo came out, he’d prepared for the remarks he knew would come once hockey season started. It wasn’t exactly a welcoming or diverse sport. There were no openly gay professional hockey players, and in the high school ranks, it tended to be mostly open to wealthy white kids who didn’t accept people different from them.

  But there was a difference between preparing for the words and actually hearing them.

  “Say it again.” He turned so abruptly his skate created a rut in the ice. “Go ahead. I dare you.”

  Morrison approached, dropping his voice and lifting his chin. “Fairy.”

  He barely got the word out before Kenny lunged, tackling him to the ice. Morrison’s head hit the cold surface with a crack, but he didn’t stop struggling until two refs pulled Kenny off him. Kenny yanked his arms out of their grip and wiped blood from his lip. His breath came rapidly as he stared at the boy who still lay on his back.

  It was only then Kenny noticed the rest of the scene. A line brawl broke out with Killer hauling guys down to the ice, a dangerous look in his eyes.

  The refs blew their whistles, and all ten boys on the ice stopped as if they hadn’t noticed the chaos they’d created.

  A ref skated toward Kenny. “I’m throwing you out.”

  “Perfect,” Kenny spat. First game of the season and already a game misconduct penalty. But he didn’t care. Before this year, he’d have said hockey was the most important thing in his life. Now, everything confused him. He walked down the hall toward the locker room, slamming the door open. A trainer followed him.

  As Kenny sat on the bench in front of his locker, he hung his head. The trainer dabbed a damp towel across his busted lip. “You don’t need stitches.”

  Kenny only grunted and bent to untie the laces of his skates. The trainer left, giving him the blissful solitude he wanted.

  Running a hand through his sweaty, brown hair, Kenny wished he could turn back the clock to before he’d realized, as a fifteen-year-old boy, just how different he was.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall before the door swung open, and Kyle walked in with a scowl on his face. “What was that?”

  Kenny only shook his head, still too keyed up to answer. He’d known Kyle for years and could handle anything the ex-NHLer threw at him. He was supposed to advise him on all things related to the business of hockey. It was why Kenny accepted Boston College’s offer over others. Kyle said it was a good path to the NHL after the draft.

  “Answer me, boy.” Kyle stopped in front of him, glaring down at the top of Kenny’s head.

  “I got carried away.”

  “Carried away? You think NHL scouts watching want to see you pummel some kid, risking injury to those skilled hands of yours?”

  “Just leave me alone, Kyle. I’m not in the mood.”

  Kyle blew out a breath. “You know I care about you as if you were my own, right?”

  The sad thing was, he did. Kyle was more of a father than Kenny’s own dad. He’d certainly been to more of his games over the years, and he represented the path Kenny wanted to take—hockey. His father only wanted him to consider a career in politics.

  Kyle sighed. “All right, nothing I say will help you with whatever is going on in that head of yours, I get that. Go take a shower. I’m heading out. Dinner tomorrow before I fly back to New York?”

  “Sure.”

  He squeezed Kenny’s shoulder before leaving him to the quiet locker room once more.

  After removing his pads and sweat-soaked clothes, Kenny walked into the bathroom and stepped into the shower. A blast of cold water hit him before it warmed, but Kenny barely felt it. He’d been called a lot of things in his life. Ken doll was a favorite because of his resemblance to the little plastic man with all-American good looks. Short brown hair. Golden eyes. Tanned skin.

  He could probably have any girl in the school.

  Some people called him Mr. Montgomery, mocking the importance of his father.

  Fairy… that was a new, but not unexpected name.

  Placing both hands on the wall of the shower, he let the water stream down his spine and examined the bruised knuckles of his left hand…his shooting hand. Coach was going to kill him.

  Commotion came from the locker room. The game must have ended. Kenny turned off the water, ready to face the music. He wrapped a towel around his waist and joined his raucous teammates. Smiles lit their faces, and some kind of country music blared from the speakers.

  “Ugh,” Will, the team’s best defender, complained. “Whose turn was it to choose the music today?”

  Killer pulled his shoulder pads over his head and threw them at Will. “Don’t be an asshole. Beckett Anderson is awesome.”

  Kenny knew he’d recognized the voice. He wanted to dislike Becks, but the man had talent. “What’s the verdict?” He guessed the team won by the joyous atmosphere but needed to hear it.

  Will snapped him with a towel. “Well, after you got thrown out, Killer was angry. And we all know what anger does to him. He didn’t let a single puck through. St. Mary’s was all over us. I’ve never seen a sequence quite like that from him.”

  A man of few words, Killian only grunted and turned to his locker.

  Will continued. “Then yours truly fired a slapper from the left dot, and that was all she wrote.” He took a bow, not realizing Coach Ryan stood behind him.

  “Take a seat, boy.”

  Will scrambled to sit.

  “You should all thank Killer for saving this game.” His hard eyes found Kenny. “And you…” He shook his head. “I want you back out on the ice right now.”

  “Coach?”

  “Your teammates were out there for a full sixty minutes. You will be too.”

  Kenny didn’t bring up the fact that he’d already showered or that it was only the first game back and his legs were already killing him. No one argued with Coach Ryan. “Yes, Coach.” He sighed as he pulled on dry workout clothes and laced up his skates.

  Will clapped him on the back before going to take his well-deserved shower. The rest of their teammates offered little in the way of comfort for their top centerman. Before this summer, they’d been like a family, but since the picture of “the kiss” came out, Kenny hadn’t known how to act around them.

  But Kenny had wasted too much time worrying about what everyone else thought of him. He stepped onto the ice. The Zamboni had yet to clean the rutted surface.

  “Suicides,” Coach said, following him. “Start at the blue line.”

  Kenny sucked in a breath, inhaling the cold air he’d come to associate with home. The stands finished clearing out, leaving Kenny alone with his coach. In the silence, he could almost forget about the game that happened only minutes ago.

  It was his senior year but the first year Kenny lived in the dorm
s rather than his parents’ large house in Twin Rivers. He’d been one of the few commuters. Since that changed, he’d found himself wandering campus late at night, sometimes ending up inside the arena that brought him peace. When everything else in his life was torn to shreds, this, hockey, was his constant, the only thing he could count on.

  As he started his suicides, he focused on the wind rushing in and out of his lungs and the burning in his legs. He pushed himself as much as he could, hoping it was good enough.

  When he got the chance to glance at the bench, Coach was gone. He’d left Kenny to do as many suicides as he saw fit. Not for the first time, Kenny marveled in his coach’s trust of his players.

  Kenny didn’t trust anyone.

  He skated until his legs gave out beneath him at center ice. The Defiance Academy logo sat underneath him, a knight meant to protect its charges. That was what the school was for. Politicians, diplomats, and other important people sent their children to this school to keep them out of the public eye, to keep them protected.

  Kenny lay back, enjoying the feel of the cold ice on the back of his head. He closed his eyes, soaking in the peace he never found anywhere else. He’d never been more sure of anything. Hockey was in his blood. It owned him, heart and soul. He couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

  But what if the game betrayed him? What if it pushed him out simply because of something he hadn’t chosen for himself?

  Sometimes, the fear of being who he was overcame the relief at finally not having to hide anymore.

  “Mr. Montgomery,” someone called from the Zamboni tunnel.

  Kenny lifted his head, finding Frank, the elderly man who led the arena’s maintenance team. “Hey, Frank. I’m in your way, aren’t I?”

  “I can give you a few more minutes, kid. Don’t worry about it.”

  “No.” Kenny got to his feet. “It’s okay. Ice is all yours, man.” He nodded a goodbye to Frank before stepping from the ice and walking toward the locker room once more. One of the trainers waited for him, protein bar in hand.

  Kenny took it. “Thanks.”

  “You good now, son?”

  Pulling off his skates, Kenny nodded, giving the only answer people wanted to hear. They didn’t want a sob story or anything resembling the truth.

  But what was the truth?

  No, Kenny was not okay.

  He didn’t bother showering or changing his clothes before stepping into his tennis shoes and hiking his hockey bag onto his shoulder. With a wave at the trainer, he walked out.

  A ding sounded from his bag, and he pulled his cell free of the side pocket.

  Kyle: You’re going to be okay, kid.

  He didn’t respond because another text came in.

  Nicky: Saw a clip of the fight on YouTube. You good?

  He wanted to hate Nicky. He and his superstar boyfriend were the reason Kenny was outed in the media after all. But for so long, Nicky had been the only person who knew Kenny’s secret, and there was something bonding in that no matter how their relationship ended.

  Besides, Nicky was the only person who might understand.

  Walking into his dorm, Kenny peered into Will’s open room. Seeing his roommate already passed out, Kenny crossed the sitting room to drop his bag in his room before entering the bathroom.

  After taking a quick shower and pulling on a pair of sweats, Kenny flopped onto his bed and pulled up the video Nicky mentioned. You couldn’t hear what Morrison said, but the word wasn’t hard to make out on his lips.

  Kenny regretted the anger he saw flash across his face as Morrison’s head snapped back. It didn’t take much searching to find out Morrison went through concussion protocol and would miss St. Mary’s next game.

  Kenny opened Nicky’s message again.

  Kenny: I didn’t mean to hurt him.

  Nicky: I know. It gets better. I promise.

  Kenny didn’t respond, because he wasn’t so sure he believed Nicky’s words.

  He scrolled through the contacts in his phone, stopping at his dad’s number. Would he answer? He’d spoken to his parents once in the last two months. Neither mentioned the picture, but they’d informed him he’d be living in the dorms this year.

  He didn’t understand why he couldn’t live in their Twin Rivers house. It wasn’t like they were ever there, spending all their time in Washington DC instead.

  Mustering up the courage, he pressed his thumb over his dad’s name. It rang once before going to voicemail.

  “Hey, Dad,” he said. “I was just… If you and Mom are going to be in town anytime soon, I’d like to see you. Please… I… Yeah, just call me. Your son. This is Kenny. Um… Bye.”

  Throwing his phone onto the bedside table, he sat back against his headboard and closed his eyes.

  His dad didn’t return the call.

  2

  Asher

  “We could work at my house.” Asher Brooks watched his classmates stare at him blankly, and he realized how dumb that sounded. “I mean, I have a studio we could use if, you know, we need a place to work.”

  “That’s cool. Thanks, Ash.” His best friend, Harper, was his savior. “Let’s meet at Asher’s place next week to come up with a plan for our company. Everyone, think about company names and branding ideas. We’ll need a kick-ass logo by the end of the month, so let’s all come up with two good ideas and some sketches before we meet.”

  “Sure, Asher’s place sounds good,” Nichole said, grabbing her things to make a quick escape.

  “Whatever.” Ethan left to follow Nichole.

  “Have I mentioned I hate group projects?” Asher pulled his hoodie up over his head to hide his telltale natural locks courtesy of his African American father and Caucasian mother.

  “Hiding again?” Harper followed him down the wide hallways of Sidwell Friends School—the most elite private high school in DC.

  “It’s easier.” Asher shoved through the double doors of the ultra modern building into the quad teeming with other Sidwell students heading home for the day.

  “Later,” Harper called as she waited for her driver in the long line of sleek black town cars making their way up the main drive to the school.

  “Let’s go, Valor.” The tall suit lurking behind him closed the space between them.

  “What did I say about codenames, Danny?” Asher’s shoulders slumped at the snickering coming from a group of seniors nearby.

  “Right, not at school, sorry. Let’s go, Asher.” He shoved Asher toward the waiting limousine. “And it’s Special Agent Fuller or Dan. Only my mother gets to call me Danny.” He held the door open for Asher and slid in beside him after checking their surroundings. “Why so glum about the art project?” Dan asked, nodding to the chauffeur to leave along the rear routes reserved for certain students and their drivers.

  “The art part is a no-brainer. I just don’t like group projects.” Asher stared out the window.

  “At least you have Harper on your team. But it wouldn’t kill you to make friends with the other two since you invited them to your house.”

  “I don’t know, it might.” Asher fiddled with his phone in his lap.

  “You have invites to several art shows next month. If you want to show at any of them, we need to know this week so we can get protocol in place.”

  “I’ll let you know.” Asher loved creating art. From painting, sculpting, and digital art to photography, he loved it all—and he liked to think he was pretty good. But the attention he got for his art wasn’t about his art at all, and that made him second-guess his talent. When the whole world kissed your ass because of who your parents were, things like real friends and honest opinions didn’t mean much.

  Asher’s phone buzzed—something it didn’t do often.

  Mom: Stop by the office when you get home from school.

  Ash: Almost there, anything I should worry about?

  She didn’t respond. She was busy, and he was used to it. “Drop me off at the office, will ya?” He slid his ear
buds in to drown out Dan’s constant droning.

  He didn’t wait for one of his babysitters to open the door before he hopped out of the limo and entered the building. Asher set off down the wide, shiny hallway to meet his mother, leaving Super Agent Danny to field all the attention-seekers eager to kiss Asher’s butt.

  “Hey, Asher, my man.” Some dude in a suit tried to high-five him as he walked past.

  He just nodded and kept walking, focusing on the beat of the music only he could hear. He paused outside the white paneled door, waiting for permission to enter.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” his mother called from her perch on the sofa where she preferred to work.

  Over the last ten years, Asher had entered the Oval Office thousands of times. He was so young when his dad first landed the top job in the West Wing that the reverence most people held for this room was completely lost on him.

  “We’ve talked about the hoodie, son.” His mom frowned at him. “Don’t cover your beautiful hair.”

  With his natural Afro hair, coupled with hints of his mother’s blond coloring, most people recognized Asher by his hair alone. He shoved his hoodie back and snagged the earbuds out of his ears.

  “What’s up, guys?” He shot a look at his dad behind the Resolute Desk, his feet propped up on top of the antique desk. “You supposed to be there?”

  “Come sit, Asher. Let’s talk about your birthday.” His mom patted the sofa cushion beside her.

  “If the word party comes out of your mouth, I’m bolting for the door.” Asher took the seat by his mother and propped his feet on the coffee table.

  “Feet on the floor, son.”

  “Seriously? What about Dad?” He pointed at his father’s shoes scuffing the priceless furniture.

  A knock at the door interrupted them. “A word?” Senator Montgomery stepped into the room before anyone could respond. “The bill you asked for review, Madam President.” He placed a large binder on the table in front of Asher’s mom.