Life According to Liam

by V. L. Locey

  “Could you send me a link to his blog?” I nonchalantly asked Ashley. She winked and before I could blush properly, every woman at that table was plotting out my wedding to Uncle Mike.

  “I’m sorry about them,” Brent whispered when the discussion broke out about how sexy two handsome men saying “I do” in tuxedoes were. My teammates were chuckling behind their hands at my embarrassment. “I don’t know what kind of madness takes over their brains but not everyone on the planet wants to get married,” he said as he stared at his wife. Misty waved him off and then copied down the Life According to Liam website link, just in case I lost the one that Ashley had sent me.

  “Make sure you look him up,” Misty whispered while tucking the napkin with the blog link written on it into the pocket of my vest. “He’s funny and hot. Oh, and it says on his profile he loves hockey. Talk about a killer combination,” she added while patting the napkin.

  I couldn’t argue with her, so I shoved the napkin further into my pocket to make sure it stayed put.

  Three

  Mike

  It was midnight and I was still at the computer. My eyes were tired, probably red and streaked, and my back ached like an impacted wisdom tooth. The day had been killer. Liam had a cold and was miserable and needy, so I hadn’t had time to sneak online and work on this new website for a gay hockey romance author. Who knew there was even such a thing as gay hockey romances? Not me. I did purchase one of her books as a professional courtesy. Okay, I bought her entire series of novels and several novellas. Don’t judge me. I’m a lonely man who spends his days playing with Lego Star Wars characters and wiping a runny nose. So what if I spend the darkest hours of the night reading about two hot gay hockey players having ribald relations in the penalty box? I was only human, and she was an exceptionally talented writer. I’d lost count how many times I had jerked off with one hand while holding my eReader with the other.

  Needing a diversion from this rush job for the romance author, I rolled back from my desk, listening to the silence of my house. Liam and Kelly were both sound asleep upstairs. My eyes felt sticky. I closed them, rubbed them with the tips of my fingers, and then slowly opened them. The website I had been working on sat there waiting for more data, but it wasn’t going to get it tonight. I was done. I’d finish early in the morning. Kelly was off tomorrow so she would have Liam. Shutting down the web design program I trolled through Facebook and Instagram then I dropped by my blog. I needed a new post for next week, but Liam’s cold had put a damper on his usual chipper banter, the poor kid.

  Arching my back, I began to read through the comments. I entertained the idea of writing a post asking for help locating Captain America. Liam had lost him four days ago when he and I had gone for a bike ride around the neighborhood. It had been a warm day for early November so off we had gone. He had been secure and well protected from the cold in his hat, scarf, mittens, and winter coat. Winter would arrive any day and we’d be housebound, so I was keen to get one last bike ride in before the flakes began to fall.

  It had been a wonderful outing until we returned home, and he informed me that Captain America was not in his backpack. I quickly unbuckled him, hoisted the lad out of his ride-along seat behind me, and searched through his Avengers backpack. Things got quite teary after that. It had taken the better part of two days for Liam to get over losing Cap. Kelly and I both offered to buy him a new stuffed Steve Rogers, but he wanted none of that. Then the poor kid came down with that miserable cold. It had been a rotten week so far for Liam. His bad times made Kelly and me feel rotten too.

  Since I had nothing to write about, I returned to going through the hundreds of comments. It had been a few weeks since I sorted through this mess and I was paying for my slothness. After about five minutes, the comments began to run together. However, I liked to see what my followers liked and didn’t like, so I read every comment unless it was bigoted bullshit—those I deleted with relish. I kept reading and deleting spam when I came across it.

  I took a sip of herbal tea, which Kelly had insisted I drink to ward off Liam’s cold. It tasted like crap, but she claimed it worked wonders because it had antioxidants or anticoagulants, or maybe it was Antietam. No, that was a national park and famous battlefield in Maryland.

  “Maybe you should just go to bed, Mike,” I mumbled to myself as I moved from a vlog post to the one about dating Bryn Mettler. I lifted the nasty tea to my lips, took a sip, and then nearly choked to death after seeing a comment on my blog from Bryn Mettler. Coughing violently, I tried to read what he said but my tears blurred my eyes.

  It took me a full minute to hack up the tea and clear my lungs. Then, with a runny nose and weepy eyes, I pushed my face as close to the monitor as I could and slowly read each word from someone claiming to be Bryn Mettler.

  Michael,

  I love your blog…and your eyes. If you’re serious about a dinner date, call my service at 412-567-1912 and leave a message. I’ll get back to you quickly.

  Bryn

  Okay, this had to be some sort of bullshit. I wiped my damp cheeks. Yeah, this was someone being a dick. It had to be, right? I mean, really, would the Bryn Mettler contact me on my blog? Of course not, that was just stupid. So why was I digging my cell phone out of the pocket of my lounge pants?

  “Michael Penn Kneller, this is stupid,” I said as I dialed the number. I sat there like a jar of gullible-flavored jellybeans staring at the screen. A soft-spoken woman picked up the phone after the first ring. “Hi, I’d like to leave a message for Mr. Bryn Mettler,” I said and started chuckling to myself as the “answering service” asked me to hold for just a moment.

  Oh man, whoever was behind this joke was certainly going all out. Hiring a woman to answer the phone was brilliant. As I waited for the woman to return, I sat up straighter when I realized that the answering service had to be real because who would pay someone to sit by a phone indefinitely. I could have never seen that short comment on my blog. So yeah, okay, maybe this was real…or maybe it was my buddy Steve from college. He lived with his mother. That could have been Mrs. Rottingham on the phone. Actually, this felt more and more like a Steve prank the longer I sat there waiting. I was about to end the call when the woman came back on the line. She had a cultured European speaking voice so maybe it wasn’t Mrs. Rottingham from the Bronx after all.

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, sir. I had several calls at once. What message would you like to send to Mr. Mettler?”

  “Oh, um, well,” I stammered as I pushed to my feet to pace my office. “How about something like ‘I saw your comment on my blog and would love to meet you for dinner. Call me at 412-448-0029 to set things up’. How does that sound?”

  “That sounds just fine. I’ll make sure Mr. Mettler gets your message. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Nope, just that message to the world-famous goalie who tries to pick up blogging gay men will do,” I said with more than a little sarcasm.

  “Very well then, have a pleasant night.”

  She severed the call. I tossed my cell on my desk then stood there, arms folded over my Scooby-Doo and Shaggy T-shirt, staring at the phone.

  “You’re an asshole, Mike. There is no way in hell that phone is going to—”

  I jumped like a kangaroo rat and scooped up my cell when it buzzed.

  “Hello?” I croaked and a voice as deep and smooth as river rocks spoke into my ear.

  “Hello, Michael, it’s Bryn Mettler.”

  Four

  Bryn

  There was something instantly endearing about the way Michael fell over himself after answering his phone. He had a nice voice. It was warm and kind. Since I had read every post and watched every vlog on his blog, I knew he possessed some real intelligence, wit, and humor. He just wasn’t displaying it at the moment and that made me smile into the darkness of my bedroom.

  “I’m generally not this stupid,” Michael finally told me after the initial shock wore off.

  “
I know. I’ve spent the last week reading your entire blog.”

  There was a pause on the other end. I shifted around in my big bed, phone to my ear, wondering if I had just come off like some sort of stalker. Maybe I should have waited to call him after I woke up a bit more.

  “Did you really?”

  “I really did. It made that road trip out to Colorado so much more enjoyable,” I informed him.

  “You guys crushed Colorado. It was a thing of beauty. And you, my God, you pulled some phenomenal moves out of your grab-bag of incredible saves to secure that shutout.”

  “Well, thanks, but it wasn’t just me. The team played remarkably.”

  “Yeah, they did.”

  “I didn’t call to talk hockey though,” I said hoping to get him out of that starstruck mode people fell into frequently when meeting an athlete. Not that I didn’t appreciate his love of the game and my team, but I wasn’t looking for someone to tell me how great I was. I was searching for someone to tell me jokes, read books at my side in bed, and meet me at the airport with a warm kiss and a soft embrace.

  “Oh, sorry, that was my fan breaking free. I have him firmly locked down in his Ravens man cave. He won’t be a problem for the rest of the conversation,” Michael assured me. The way he turned a phrase really appealed to me. He made me smile. “So, how goes it?”

  “It goes well. How is Liam?”

  He dove into the details of his nephew’s cold and his crankiness. He chatted about cold medicine, and how he had somehow been hoodwinked into taking some medicine every time Liam did, even though he wasn’t sick. I suspected he was a nervous talker, and that was also damn cute.

  “My genes are mutating as we speak. When I am sick, I’ll have to drink organic bee spit and dandelion blow tea to find any relief because I’ll have built up immunity to OTC cough syrup.”

  I chuckled at the man. My bed felt bigger and colder by the minute. “Where exactly does one find bee spit and dandelion blow tea?”

  “My sister would know. She’s big into tea.”

  “I wouldn’t know a tea bag from a tarantula,” I offered, and he laughed heartily at the comment. We talked for over forty minutes about kids, sisters, exercise, running shoes, manicotti, and action movies. When I heard him cover a yawn, I knew we both had to wrap this up. It was now close to two in the morning. “So, what about dinner sometime?”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Me too,” I said as I left my bed to gaze down on my street. It was silent and dark. I pushed the curtains back into place then padded back to my bed. “I have a game tomorrow night but I’m free on Friday.”

  “Friday, sure, that would be great.” He sounded a little nervous.

  “If you’re not sure about this, I fully understand.”

  “No, no, it’s not that at all!” Michael quickly assured me. “It’s just that I’ve been away from the dating scene for a long time.”

  “Ah, well, it’s pretty much as you remember,” I told him as I walked around my dimly lit bedroom, phone resting on my ear, and feet chilling quickly.

  “So there are still lots of long looks, awkward conversations, and lurching attempts to kiss each other after plates of shrimp scampi?”

  “Exactly.” I chortled then planted my ass on the edge of my bed. “If you wear that brown tweed jacket you seem to favor, I’m relatively certain I’ll make a lurching attempt to kiss you before the scampi arrives.”

  “I do work that tweed, don’t I?”

  “Yes, you do. Give me the name of your favorite restaurant and I’ll meet you there Friday night at seven sharp,” I said while rubbing my soles over my thick carpet. Sparks shot out from under my feet. They matched the flickers of lusty attraction leaping inside me from talking with Michael Kneller.

  “Artie’s Bar & Grill on 6th Street,” he quickly said. I knew the place and heartily approved of his choice. “They have the best fried fish dinners.”

  “Yes, they do. I’ll see you at Artie’s at seven on Friday. If something should come up and you need to back out, let me give you my personal number.”

  “Thanks,” he said after I passed along my cell number. “You never know what will pop up with kids. Can I just say that this whole experience should be in a gay hockey romance novel?”

  “Is that even a thing?”

  “You’d be amazed.”

  “Okay, well then, at least we’re starring in a romance instead of a post-apocalyptic horror novel. A romance sounds like it has potential.” I chuckled and wished I had this man here, so we could talk more, or possibly do other things.

  “Oh yeah, we have lots of potential,” Michael replied, his voice growing low and smoky.

  “I’m looking forward to Friday,” I responded in a way that I hoped sounded sultry.

  “Me too. Sounds like Liam is awake. I’m going to get him before he wakes up Kelly since I’m already awake talking to a handsome man. See you Friday, Bryn.”

  “Yes, Friday. See you then.” I let the man go so he could check on his nephew and crawled back under the covers, feeling a wee bit less alone than I had before my service had called with that message from Mr. Kneller. Friday could not come soon enough to suit me. With hope he will be wearing the tweed jacket.

  Five

  Mike

  “If you don’t stop changing your mind you’re going to be late,” Kelly said for at least the tenth time. I threw her a dark look then pulled off yet another shirt. She rolled her eyes, picked up the soft gray sweater, and then shoved it back into my chest. “Put that back on. If you insist on wearing that old tweed jacket, this sweater will work with it better than anything else in your closet.”

  I sighed and pulled the sweater back over my head. Kelly and Liam both nodded in approval. At least they liked the look. Why had Bryn asked for this old jacket anyway? Why had he even called and asked me out? Why was I going? Oh yeah, because it was Bryn “The Hottest Man on Skates” Mettler.

  “I think I’m going to start hyperventilating,” I told my sister. She hit me with another classic roll of her eyes and began picking up the discarded clothing littering my bedroom floor.

  “What’s hyperbendaling?” Liam enquired while using my bed as a trampoline. His cold was finally going away, thank goodness. Kelly and I were just waiting for the germ time bombs inside us to detonate. It was only a matter of time. “Can I go with you on your date?”

  “No, sweetie, you can’t go on dates, and please stop jumping on Uncle Mike’s bed,” Kelly replied as she tidied up. “I should make you a cup of ashwagandha tea. It’s really wonderful for relieving nervous stress.”

  “Just bring me a brown paper bag,” I said in a clipped tone as I stuffed my change, keys, and wallet into the pockets of my dark blue jeans. “Are you sure this look isn’t too casual?”

  “You want to wear a tuxedo?” Miss Wise-Mouth asked.

  “Okay, point made.” I pushed my feet into the old loafers Kelly had suggested and then turned to my family, arms out to the side, for one final round of comments. “Well, do I look as moronic as I feel?”

  “You look like a million bucks,” Kelly said with a loving smile, her arms full of my cast-off clothing.

  Liam stopped jumping to study me closely. I got two thumbs up and a juicy sneeze.

  “Ugh, Liam, please cover your mouth when you sneeze,” his mother chastised then dropped my clothes on the floor to get a hankie for her child. I whipped out the one from my back pocket. She thanked me and ran over to wipe off Liam’s red nose.

  “Okay, so, here I go. Off on a date. With a sexy man who is probably wondering why he ever left that comment. Is it too late for that Rastafarian tea?”

  “It’s not Rastafarian tea, it’s ashwagandha, and yes, it’s too late. You have fifteen minutes to make it to Artie’s on time. Now go!” She got behind me and pushed me gently out of my own bedroom. I gave her a plaintive look over my shoulder. “Go and enjoy yourself. It’s not every day you get to live out the plot of a gay hockey romance n
ovel.”

  “I really hate myself for telling you that,” I muttered then jogged down the stairs and out into the crisp fall night, my nerves jangling like the keys in my pocket. My car was cold but warmed up nicely by the time I was parking behind Artie’s Bar & Grill. I had exactly two minutes to spare before I was late. Mulling over the hundred reasons that I should have stayed home I pushed into the old bar and inhaled the smell of deep-fryer grease and hops. Artie’s was a local staple. Friday nights found the bar and all the tables full, and tonight was no exception. The fish fry dinners were to die for, honestly.

  My gaze flew over the crowd. When I didn’t see Bryn I drew in a deep breath. Good. I could have a drink, or ten, and get my rattled nerves under control before Mr. Sex on Blades showed up.

  “Michael, you wore the tweed.”

  I craned my head around to see Bryn standing behind me. My brain fell into a freefall. My God above, he was even better looking in person. Short, dark hair neatly styled, deep brown eyes, perfectly executed stubble length, and a smile that could melt the polar ice caps. He had gone upbeat casual in light brown slacks, white shirt, and gray sweater.

  “We both wore gray sweaters,” I pointed out as my sight roamed over him. “You make it look much better,” I confided as I turned to face him.

  “I’m not so sure about that,” he replied then reached up to flatten out the lapel of my old tweed jacket. The room grew hot and confining suddenly. “I called ahead to reserve a table,” he managed to get out before the owner hustled over, all smiles and handshakes, to lead us to the best seat in the house. A small table tucked back behind a small divider but close to the bar. It was a perfect spot for a secluded yet public meal. “Thanks, Artie.” Bryn smiled as we took our seats. The sturdy captain’s chairs felt secure and comfortable. The table, as well as the chairs, was dark wood that blended well with the paneling on the walls. “So, are you as nervous as I am to be here?”