Harrisburg Railers Box Set 2

by R J Scott

  Even now, I felt the low hum of his presence in my veins. I had feared this moment would come. From the first time I’d heard his name mentioned as being a new member of the Rush, our AHL feeder team, I’d known he would eventually stand in front of me, tipping his head, with his curls, his eyes and his mouth.

  Connor was looking at me as if he expected something from me. Ah yes, words. He wanted me to say something. How did “go fuck a donkey” translate into English?

  “We are known to each other.”

  I skated to my net, mask perched on my head, and tried to focus. The humming in my blood was unsettling. Closing my eyes, I let the blue ice under my skates talk to me. Opening myself up to the sounds of hockey, the stress of seeing Erik again lessened. I whispered to the pipes as I tapped them. Asked them in Russian if they were going to be my friends during this practice.

  “Uh, hey, I know this is a strict breach of protocol and all…but is there a problem between you and Gunner?”

  I glanced to the left. Tennant stood there, geared up, his stick casually resting across his shoulders. So Erik now had his American hockey nickname. Why didn’t I have a new American hockey nickname? Pah. I was being petty. It tasted bad on my tongue.

  “Gunner is okay person from time back in space.” Was that right? English was hard to speak. It made no sense. How could there be three ways to spell one word? Russian was simple. Strong. Pure. A language of passion and spirit. American was whiney and tied my brain into knots. No, that was not true. American was a wonderful language. It was me who was whiney and unhappy. “Time back. In the back of time. Is bad time to talk. Go away.”

  I waved my stick at him.

  “Okay, yeah, sorry. Didn’t mean to mess up your mojo, big man.”

  My best friend skated away, looking like a whipped dog. When he returned to the others, he shrugged, then they talked. About me. I knew it was about me. I was being stupid and making my friends confused. Truly, they couldn’t be more confused than I was. On one hand, I hated Erik for using me, but I had used him too, a bit. More than a bit. But last summer in Helsinki had been meant to only be for sex, slaking the need. We had been the only two men who liked men among forty or so others. And he had been so handsome and smiled so prettily when I would wink at him secretly. Ugh. My pipes were not talking to me. They were angry that I was ignoring them.

  “I am done with him in my head now. Only you.” I ran my gloved hand over the icy steel.

  When I turned to face center ice a moment later, every Railer was staring at me. But the only gaze that burned into my soul was Erik’s.

  “I am make good now with pipes. We may play.” I reached up and flipped my mask down.

  “So let it be written…” Adler Lockhart said, and many laughed. I didn’t know what that meant. There was so much said around me that I didn’t understand. I felt like the foreigner that I was all the time. Sometimes I wanted to just go home to my mother, but that wouldn’t be safe. Russia was not a good place for a gay man. Mama knew that and never asked for me to come back home to visit. She and my baby sister were the only ones who knew. And Erik, of course. Keeping the secret had kept me safe, perhaps even alive, until I could leave Mother Russia.

  “Stan, are you feeling okay?”

  My gaze flew to Alain Gagnon, our goalie coach, who had skated up on my left unseen. So bad. That was so bad. My concentration was gone today. I blamed Erik and his curls.

  “Yes, fine. Fit as fiddle.” I grinned and tapped my chest with my blocker. “Someone shoot puck at me!”

  They all stared at me like idiots. I looked at Alain. He was not a handsome man, but he knew goaltending. He wore two diamond-studded Cup rings. How many did I wear? None. That was because I let things like Erik’s bouncy blond ringlets make my pipes stop talking.

  “You do know that if you need to talk to me about anything, I’m right down the hall from the dressing room.”

  “Yes, I know. I am good. Strong in head.”

  He nodded. I nodded.

  “Shoot pucks at me!” I bellowed.

  The squads hurried to comply. Angry Russians seemed to intimidate them for some reason. Blocking shots would be good for me. Alain skated off after giving me a funny look.

  The first shot came from Tennant. It hit me dead center of my black practice jersey, right in the train on my chest. I drew in a long breath through my nose, exhaled, and let the puck drop to the ice. It got kicked away. Another shot came at me from the left, another soft one. Warm-up shots. Each man took several at me, even Erik. His snap shot had improved since we’d been on the ice together last. A flash of my glove up, and I had the blistering shot neatly caught.

  And then it started again, over and over, the shots growing faster, harder, more accurately aimed. Sweat ran down my neck, into my eyes, down my back. It was good sweat, though, cleansing sweat. The sweat of hard work. That was a sweat any poor Russian boy was familiar with.

  Now that I was in my head, the pipes felt warmer to me. Happy to have me near. They caught two slap shots and sang out in joy. Such good pipes. They were truly a goalie’s best friend.

  Coach Benning gave us a talk after scrimmage had ended. I was seated alone, my back to the other men, hoping I could undress and shower without seeing Erik again. It was a bad situation there in the dressing room.

  “Tomorrow night we’re hosting Boston. I want you all to have your skates sharp and your heads on straight. We’re in a three-way tie for first in our division. Every game counts. Every point is important. The battle for bragging rights for Pennsylvania is on the line.”

  Everyone mumbled in agreement. Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, and Harrisburg were all log-jammed at the top of the Eastern Division. With about a third of the season behind us, now was the time to make sure we did not slip.

  “Tomorrow’s skate is optional. I want you all rested and mentally sharp. Boston will not lie down for us. They’re big, tough, and hungry. They want to stay on top in the Atlantic Division as badly as we want to stay on top in the Eastern. So go home, sleep, eat, meditate, do whatever it is that gets your head into the space where we need it to be.”

  Coach Benning walked out then. The dressing room got loud. Men laughed and talked. Someone turned on some music. Dieter yelled at Adler about hairbands. Dirty socks flew overhead. I paid it all little mind. I needed to get showered, leave, and go home to Lucy. Maybe watch TV and plan more for my party for New Year’s. My sister was coming. She had never seen my home in Harrisburg. She was so excited to finally see America. My mother also had been invited, but her fear of flying kept her grounded in Leskovo, the dying little farming town I had grown up in. I invited her weekly, it seemed, and she always refused.

  If only I could go back and sit beside her on the plane, hold her hand, but she would not let me. She feared my secret being discovered just as deeply as she did getting onto a plane.

  “Hey, we’re all going to get together at our place for some Pokémon training. You want to come?” Tennant sat down beside me. He had just left the showers and had a towel around his lean waist. Water ran from his hair down his nose.

  “No, thank you. I have food-planning for party.”

  My friend slapped my sweaty shoulder. “Okay, cool. I hope you have those cheese pancake things like you had last year. Those were freaking incredible!”

  “Syrniki. Yes. I have those coming with catering.”

  “You rock.” Tennant bumped the side of my fist with his, then leaped to his bare feet and ambled off to talk with Arvy and Dieter.

  My gaze moved over the room and landed on Erik. Undressing, his back to us, showing me and the world his ass. It was still as tight and high as I recalled. Try as I might, I couldn’t look away from his backside. Skate dangling from my hand by its laces, the tidal wave of memories from our summer together crashed over me, pulling me out to sea in a salty, frothy wash of remembered passion.

  Erik spread out over the bed in my tiny room in the training center, one hand gripping the headboard t
ightly and the other over his mouth to mute his cries of pleasure. I was between his spread legs, his beautiful prick in my mouth, working his tight ass with three fingers. His body was slick with sweat, as the air conditioning in my room was weak. Sitting in Harrisburg, I could still smell him. That tangy aroma of man, sweat, sex, and cucumber-melon soap filled my nose even now. I could hear the headboard creaking as he pulled strongly on it each time my fingers stroked his prostate. And if I closed my eyes, I could taste him. Musky and male on my tongue as he came, coating my throat. He thrashed madly, pumping deeply, making me gag and groan. I took myself in hand then, with the zest of him thick on my tongue, and stroked myself hard and fast until my palm was slick with my release.

  I dreamily tasted my lips and found them dry and lacking the erotic flavor of Erik Gunnarsson that I’d become so addicted to last summer. Now I felt battered and bruised, as if that wave of hot lust had beaten me against the rocky shore of reality. When I opened my eyes, Erik’s gaze met mine. I shifted uncomfortably, my hard cock unhappy over the cramped conditions of the two cups pressing against it.

  His eyes were such a stunning shade of green, and the undercurrent of emotion and want began to tug on me yet again. Just a taste, maybe…for old time’s sake, as they say. One hot, hard purging of any lingering tenderness. In the skate-sharpening room maybe. Up against the wall… Ugh! This situation was…was…

  “Pizdets,” I muttered, my gaze flying from Erik to the water cooler.

  “What is fucked up?” Toly asked while walking behind me to the showers.

  “What is not?” I grunted, and threw my skate into my cubicle. I spoke to no one else as I stripped and showered. My friends tried talking to me while I was dressing, but I remained inside myself, eager to put distance between Erik and my upset.

  “Stan, where are you going?” Toly shouted at my back as I stalked from the dressing room, winter coat on my back, large lapels up to shield my ears from the wind and cold. “Stanislav, you rode in with me!”

  I bulled through the door, ignoring Peter, the nice security man who stood guard by the players’ entrance. Peter called out something to me as the door slammed shut but I didn’t answer. Now I felt bad. This wasn’t me. I was always nice to people because mostly I liked them all.

  I stepped out into the weather, turned from the players’ cars, and headed to the street out of the back entrance. Fans didn’t know I did this otherwise they might have been waiting and one day they’d figure it out, but that day wasn’t this one.

  Then I stood huddled up with several other people, waiting for a bus. No fan would assume the goalie for the Railers would be taking a bus and that was working for me right now.

  No one huddled here talked to anyone. Usually people smiled or nodded at me because I stood out a bit. Today, they looked up at me then glanced away. My angry face must be scaring them. I didn’t see anyone pull out a phone and take photos though; people here seemed to respect my privacy.

  Large, flat flakes blew around the bus shelter, adding fluffy inches to the already heavy amount of snow on the ground.

  The cold didn’t bother me too much. When the bus pulled up, I admit to being glad to see it, though. The warm air flowed out of the open door. I allowed an old woman to enter before me, then I climbed into the city bus, taking a seat by a window.

  It would take several buses and a few changeovers to reach home, but that was good. It would give me time to clear my head. A man behind me coughed wetly. Hopefully I’d not catch the flu that was going around. Burrowing into my coat, I pulled out my phone and found a music app that Tennant had shown me how to work. Since I read little to no English, everything in America was a struggle for me. Driving, for instance. I was not yet licensed in Pennsylvania but was studying the drivers’ manual hard. The state issued them in Russian, and the test was given in several languages, Russian being one of them. Anatoly had helped me find all this information on a Russian website the state had set up. That was kind of the people who ran Pennsylvania. I know many people say that we should not get benefits if we do not speak English, but truly, it is a hard language, and we who come here are trying hard.

  In the spring I would be ready, I felt, to take the drivers’ test. That would make me even more American. That was my goal. To become an American citizen and bring my mother and sister over to live with me. There was little in Russia for a man like me. But here in America, there were roads lined with yellow bricks. No. Was that right? Gold bricks, maybe.

  I pulled out my phone and looked up yellow bricks. They were not in America but in Oz. I liked that movie. I liked so much about America, the hard language aside. The food was good, the movies filled with action and sex, and the music was uniquely American.

  The bus rolled along, stopping to let people on and off. I found my earbuds and slid them in, content to bounce along until I had to catch another bus for the final ride out to Hershey. My playlists were long and had funny names. Tennant had told me to give them funny names as he did our groups chats on the computer. Those I also had trouble reading, but the pictures and gifs were funny.

  This one that was playing now was my favorite. I had named it “King of Las Vegas and World”, because Elvis was that. I loved him so much. Hearing him sing made me happy, and happy was what I needed now. Happy would always win out over unhappy. So I listened to Elvis singing, working on trying to memorize the lyrics because Elvis spoke good English. It was very hip and cool English too. His movies were hip and cool, just like him.

  It took me over an hour to get from the arena to my neighborhood. The ride with Anatoly usually took half that, but I had needed the time alone. Walking along the well-groomed streets, I was peaceful inside now. My house was waiting for me, tucked back among some big trees. The siding was gray and the shutters black. It was a big house. Five bedrooms and three bathrooms. Plenty of room for my sister and mother to settle in. I might have gone wild when I chose it, since I was a bachelor, but maybe…someday…I’d have a husband and enough children to fill all those bedrooms. That was also my dream. American citizen, Stanley Cup champion, beloved husband and father, and my mother and sister there to enjoy all my success and spoil the children.

  As I stepped inside my massive house, there was no husband or child to greet me. I stamped the snow from my shoes, tossed my keys and phone to the table in the foyer, and called out for my cat.

  “Lucy, I am home,” I shouted, and my sweet kitty ran down the stairs, meowing loudly. I picked up the longhaired brown cat and draped her over my shoulder. She purred and began pulling threads out of my suit jacket as she kneaded. “Silly cat. Let’s eat and watch ‘Viva Las Vegas’ again.”

  Elvis and Ann-Margaret. Yes. They would be far less confusing than thinking about Erik and how his hard body fit so perfectly next to mine.

  Three

  Erik

  When a coach tells you that a skate is optional that doesn’t apply equally to every member of the team. Arvy was there working on his accuracy, and then there was me, and Toly, and the last man in our line, Martin “Charlie” Brown. We would be working together tonight against Boston, and today was all about getting a feel for each other. We’d practiced yesterday, but this was more concerning skating in a simple cohesive line and passing the puck.

  I’d never played with Toly before, and to be honest I was still overwhelmed that I got to play on the same line as him at all.

  Charlie, on the other hand, had attended a lot of the same intense training and conditioning schools as I had in summer breaks, including the fateful one where Stan and I had happened.

  Please don’t Charlie talk about last summer.

  We skated in soft, flowing movements, getting our line in sync. Toly was slower, but his accuracy was spot on, Charlie was like a damn greyhound, and me? I managed to find a rhythm that was halfway between. I had to study my line, learn Charlie and Toly, the look of them, the way they reversed direction, how fast they were, how quickly they could pass, the moves they made, and had
game tape keyed up that I could check out later.

  “I want to see you a step ahead, Charlie,” Coach Benning said as we huddled around him. “Toly, you’re backing this up.” He tapped the board that held an assortment of Xs and Os. “Use your speed, Charlie, get into position—and Gunner, I need you here, so that you can cover their D getting to Charlie and get that puck over the center line.”

  I listened to every word, even said my bit when asked if I had questions, and then Charlie and Toly called it a day, which left me alone on the ice. There’d been no sign of Stan today, and why would there be? He was a starting goalie who was likely at home doing some of those incredibly impressive stretches that had made my mouth water every time I’d seen them.

  If you haven’t made love with a stretchy-bendy goalie, then you haven’t lived.

  A second person joined me in lazy circles. Arvid “Arvy” Ulfsson was not only a fellow Swede, but he’d lived only a few towns over from Ornskoldsvik, which is where I grew up. Everyone in and around O-vik plays hockey, like hockey town Sweden. He knew the beautiful summers and the dark, cold winters on icy lakes as well as I did.

  “Det var länge sedan vi sågs sist,” he said as we fell into a smooth set of figure eights, crossing in the center of the rink. Long time no see.

  We were around the same age, but he’d been drafted and actually played NHL hockey straight from his second year. The six-foot defenseman was one of these eternally happy guys, the one on the bench who kept spirits high even if you were losing so badly you just wanted to go and hide in the locker room. I liked him, and hell, he spoke Swedish. Of course, we both spoke excellent English—in Swedish schools it’s a pre-requisite, along with a love of hockey, it seems. But sometimes you just want to talk in your own language and know that it’s just the two of you who understand.