by V. L. Locey
“You’re such a pot,” I replied. His sleek eyebrows tangled up. “I mean like the pot and the kettle?”
“Ah, yes, I thought you were making a comment about my stomach.”
“Right, like that washboard of yours could ever be called a potbelly.” I poked my gut soundly. “Now mine on the other hand…”
“Is sexy as hell. Merry Christmas.” He handed me a long white envelope.
“Season tickets?”
“Something I hope you’ll enjoy more than cold plastic seats in an icy barn.”
“Wow, this must be something truly amazing because watching you play hockey is the sexiest thing ever. Well, no, having you deep inside me is the sexiest thing ever.” I paused in opening the envelope to ruminate. “Yes, sex with you is for sure sexier than hockey with you, but just by a little bit. Hmm, I like the way your nose crinkles when I begin rambling. Kind of like it is now and—”
“Michael, please open the envelope.”
“Yes, sir.” A spark of lust leaped between us. I tore open the flap and took out two tickets that he had printed out himself that read ‘Tickets to Paradise’ surrounded with hearts and palm trees. “Oh holy ham bake.”
“You, me, rum drinks, tropical breezes, and warm sun baking our naked flesh,” he whispered, his voice as smoky as the ham bubbling away in the oven.
Words failed me, startling I know. I kissed him instead of talking. He leaned into me, pressing me into the fridge, tasting me possessively.
“A month from now.” I sighed into his mouth. “You and me alone in paradise. I can’t wait.”
“Uncle Mike! Mama says first no freaking out,” Liam shouted as he thundered into the kitchen. “But the soap dish in the bathroom upstairs felled into the toilet somehow and is stuck. I think Loki do it. Cap says he’s a no-goodnick!”
Off the child ran. I looked deeply into Bryn’s dancing eyes. “You know, it would be nice to have one day without blogging material appearing.”
“Mm, living without blogging material isn’t all that wondrous.”
I patted his cheek. Hearing him say that kind of made me stop and think. Yes, he had the adoration of thousands on a near nightly basis, and made millions, and looked like a damn movie star but he spent more and more time here soaking up the madness of the Kneller household. That said a lot.
“Mike! We’re going to need a mop!” Kelly yelled from the second floor.
“You grab the mop,” I said. “I’ll call Danny the Plumber. Maybe if he gets to meet you, I’ll get a discount on the holiday rate.”
There was no discount from Danny, but Bryn did get a magnet and a robust handshake, and I got my soap dish back just in time for dessert. Oh, and of course a post about holiday coffee and fruitcake with plumbers.
Twelve
Bryn
The All-Star break, and Michael all to myself for six days, was one period of hockey away. One. Sadly, it looked to be a long twenty minutes.
This was one of those slow games where I stood on one end of the ice while the opposing goalie, Anders Olsen, a nice guy from Norway who I had played with back in my youth hockey days, stood on the other end and we waited for a shot on goal. Most of the action was in the neutral zone. The coaching staff had been deliriously happy with the defensive showcase the Ravens had been putting on. I had to wager the coaches for the Minnesota Mavericks had been just as giddy. Both teams were playing stellar defensive hockey. Keeping each other locked down tight, crisp checking, tight corner play, and low shot-on-goal opportunities. These types of games were the most difficult for me. I found my mind wandering as I waited for some action. Heavy action was much better for it kept me sharp and in the game. These torpid games left me too much time to think about other things.
Things like visiting the airline website and making sure we were checked in and had our boarding passes. Things like what I would pack to wear: lightweight shorts and shirts, sandals, perhaps something fashionable for a few nights out, lots of swimwear, and plenty of lube along with a box of condoms. Did I have my passport? Did Michael?
I planned on spoiling Michael like he had never been spoiled before. He was a warm and wonderful man who deserved some pampering. He so rarely did anything for himself. So, it fell to me as his boyfriend to lavish him accordingly, and then tell him I loved him as the sun sets behind us, warm frothy water splashing over our toes as he said he loved me as well. Yes, the romantic Bryn was well-pleased with everything. The first-class flight, the luxury accommodations, the private patio that overlooked the sea. I’d forgotten nothing so far and the perfectionist in me was at ease.
A puck rolled toward me, a flimsy shot that I easily kicked to the corner for my teammate to pick up and move out of the zone. Someone yelled for the puck down ice. I watched the play tighten up again, our team clamping down on a weak breakaway attempt that fizzled out before the skater could cross into our zone. I swept the puck to Brent and then settled on my skates, crouched over, back to the top rail, mind skipping around like a schoolgirl.
Not being invited to the All-Star game had stung a bit, at first. I’d taken part four times in ten years, so I felt as if I should be automatically considered, but such was not the case. Looking at my thirty-third birthday in three days, I knew that my stats were not what they used to be. Yes, they were still good, better than good, but there were younger goalies with slightly lower goal against averages who had been the sweethearts this year. Such was life. I begrudged them nothing, truly, for now, I had this lovely break to look forward to. Time to celebrate another year of life on this planet with a man that I loved. Last year at this time I’d not thought such a thing possible. Now, here he was, gracing my life with his wit, sweet smile, and big heart. Maybe next year if the voters skipped over me, I’d take Michael back to the tropics to ask him to marry me.
I stood up quickly, my back catching on the bar and lifting the net off the moorings. The linesman blew the whistle and skated over to fix the net.
“Anything wrong, Mets?” he asked, and I shook my head, smiling at him widely.
“Just forgot to skate out a bit before standing. Old age.” I rapped my mask with my blocker. Tim, the linesman, chuckled, and the game resumed, with me more than a little shocked over the course my thoughts had traveled.
Marriage? Where had that notion come from? I was putting my cart so far in front of my horse it was in the next state. Yes, I loved Michael, adored him…desired him like no other man I’d been with in years but marriage? How foolish. Love and marriage did not go together no matter what Frank Sinatra said. Well, I mean they did, of course, but not as a one-two punch. You could love a man and not wed him. There was no rush to think of such things. I was just being impetuous. Yes, I was all caught up in the romanticism of our upcoming trip. It was a slow game and my mind was bored, so it was spinning fluffy visions of buttercups and puppy kisses. Clearly, Romantic Bryn was in full control of my every thought.
I wiped the silliness away and focused on the faceoff taking place. Somehow I managed to not allow a puck past me in that dull third period, so we went into overtime. Perhaps five minutes of three-on-three would shake me out of the gauzy torpor I’d slipped into. We needed every point to stay in first since Buffalo was breathing down our necks, so I had to find my focus. Skating to the bench during a short TV timeout, I refilled my water bottle, joked a bit with my goaltending coach about how senility had caused me to stand up and dislodge the net, and then took a bit of ribbing from the team about my advanced age. It was all in good fun and helped to push the fluffy idea of marriage to a far, far corner of my mind where it belonged.
Back in the crease and ready for action, I drew in a slow, calming breath, and shut down my mind to everything but hockey. My skates sat perfectly under me, the ice in the crease a bit worn from twenty minutes of play and no smoothing, but I would manage. Preferably, I’d have time to dig at the ice a bit with my blades, working it up as I liked, but there was no time between the end of the game and the start of overtime
in a regulation game. So, I had to work with Anders ice. I’d make the most of it. God knows I’d played on worse ice. Like every time we played out in Arizona. That ice was always slow and wet. And I was off thinking about bad ice in Phoenix. Dammit!
Find your focus, Bryn!
Why was I so scattered tonight? Whatever the reason, I had little time to mull as the play roared down to my end as did a blistering shot from point that slapped me on the shoulder then fell to the ice directly in front of me. A knot of players skated into my space, sticks jabbing at the fat rebound I’d allowed. The puck bounced off my left leg pad, sliding precariously closer. I fell on it, slapping my catcher down over the little black disc, freezing play with a whistle that could have come a bit quicker in my humble opinion.
I’d been lucky that time. Rebounds like that were a bane to goalies, and I’d been having more of them than I liked this season. Whispers on sports blogs claimed I was showing my age. They said my reflexes weren’t as sharp as they had been ten years ago. Many cited the All-Star snub as proof that it was perhaps time to find Bryn Mettler a new home, a retirement home, one particularly toxic blogger had written. Generally, I paid such shit little attention but that comment about a retirement home had hurt—perhaps because I knew that I wasn’t my twenty-two-year-old self anymore—and was the main reason why I’d trained harder this past summer than I had ever trained before. Watching yourself age and slow was hard on a man’s ego.
I settled into my crease, shoving the stupid mental chit-chat to the side. My goalie coach would tell me that one rebound is not an issue, it’s what you allow your mind to make of the rebound that causes the issue. Which was quite true as my mind was making the proverbial mountain out of a small molehill. I’d fallen on the puck, no harm had been done, no goal scored on me, and no quarter given.
The remaining four or so minutes went by quickly, ending with one of our defensemen sneaking the puck past the Minnesota goalie with a beautiful wraparound that ended the overtime with only four point two seconds left. I was thankful because I did not wish to go into a shootout with my head as out of it as it was. We’d take the extra point, snub our noses at Buffalo, and go off for a week of relaxation. I was beginning to think I needed it more than I had realized.
During the interviews in the dressing room, the press asked the usual questions. I stumbled through them, eager to be off. We had one player heading to the All-Star event down in Florida, our captain, so we all wished him well before filing out, icy cold wind freezing my still damp hair. I burrowed into my coat, stopping just a few times to sign programs for the truly devout fans. It required dedication to stand out in ten-degree weather to get a tired, surly goalie to autograph your program. I admired that kind of tenacity.
I’d been the same way about a player I’d idolized back in Sweden growing up. I’d watched every game he played, memorized his stats, patterning myself after him as a child does. Then, one year, he appeared at our rink in Gothenburg for a charity game. I had waited outside the rink after the game with my father, my goalie stick in hand, eager for this man to sign my stick and perhaps give me some words of wisdom. When he’d exited the rink, he brushed past all the children there, never once looking our way. I was crushed, and I made a vow that if I ever had fans and they braved the elements to talk with me, I would always stop and interact. And yes, there were nights such as tonight when I was feeling odd and out-of-sorts, and all I wanted was to walk past them all and just go home. That was when the memory of that snub from my hero would rise up and remind me that I was nothing without these people. So, I always stopped, and I always signed, and I always smiled for the selfies for any child who approached me. I had no wish to shatter a dream.
Driving home took no time, and when I walked into my home, my bags were packed and waiting for me beside the door. Michael was probably asleep by now, turning in early due to our early-bird flight leaving PIT at seven in the morning. I padded into my bedroom, stripped off my suit and pulled on some thick lounge pants and top then made my way into the kitchen for a latte. By the time I sat down on the sofa it was past midnight. Television held little appeal, so I picked up the remote for the stereo and turned on some music to reflect and unwind with. I’d last played a CD by an up-and-coming indie Swedish band, very new age and mellow, perfect for easing my mind from hockey to sleep. The lead singer was a young man with bright blue eyes and a voice that was ethereal. The lyrics were quite fey, many songs going on about fairies and sprites and kisses shared under a glowing moon with men crafted from dew drops.
Smiling at the rather whimsical notion of dew drop men, I recalled Michael saying my loving was sweeter than a sugar drop, and my smile grew wider. I shifted on the sofa, looking out the window at a sliver of moon in a winter night sky, and felt a deep yearning for Michael flare to life in my breast. I wanted to hear his voice. Truthfully, I wanted more than his voice. I wanted him, here, in my arms, talking with me about my rebound issues or the cold weather or Liam’s latest brilliance, or his sister’s lack of quality men to date or even his technical talk about codes and website structure. I just wanted the man here. What we were discussing wasn’t important. I wanted him beside me, with me, in my arms, to ward off the loneliness and, perhaps, find some succor. I’d dialed his number before I was quite aware of doing so. As soon as he picked up, I felt bad for waking him.
“Hey, handsome,” he said, his speech thick with sleep. “Nice win.”
I sank back into the couch, mug resting on my thigh, his voice making the night much less lonesome.
“I fumbled that shot. That rebound should never have happened.”
“Stop beating yourself up over it. You recovered and sealed it to the ice. No harm, no foul.” I heard the bed clothes rustling as he moved and yearned to be there beside him whispering into his ear, his warm skin next to mine.
“Yes, I suppose.” I sighed, took a sip of my latte, and said what was on my mind. “I wish I’d have gotten us a flight out after the game. This night feels as if it will drag on forever.”
“You only think you want to see me with no sleep. Trust me, it’s ugly. Like frightening small children ugly. No, I want you to be agog with how beautiful I am in the morning, which requires lots of work.”
The humor in his voice cheered me. “You do realize that I’ll be witnessing your morning ugly firsthand soon.”
“Don’t remind me. I’ll have to wake up an hour before you to hide the ice mask and wash off the anti-aging mask I sleep in.”
“Perhaps we should both use that anti-aging mask,” I offered as he yawned in my ear. “I should let you sleep. I’m sorry for calling, I just…I longed to speak to you.”
“Never apologize for calling just to talk. I love that you long to speak with me.”
“Goodnight, Michael. I’ll be there promptly at six to whisk you away.”
“I’ll be ready. Night, Bryn.”
The words were there, resting on the tip of my tongue, but I held them back and ended the call. Sighing dramatically, I sipped my latte and watched the sliver of moon slip out of sight behind a passing snow cloud. Warm beaches and fruity drinks called my name. As did the man drifting back to sleep on the other side of Pittsburgh. The sun couldn’t rise soon enough.
Thirteen
Mike
I threw Bryn a look and gathered the wailing boy closer to me.
“It’s not that long, buddy,” I whispered beside Liam’s ear. I doubted he heard me, he was in a full-blown tantrum and nothing short of yelling louder than he was would penetrate his meltdown. I’d known it would be bad, but not this bad. “It’s barely a week.”
“I want to go too!” the child screamed, clinging to me like a two-dollar cigar habit.
“You can’t,” Kelly stated, her tone growing firmer the longer the fit went on. “This is Uncle Mike’s and Bryn’s time away.”
She lifted the boy from me. He squirmed and kicked at first, his little fat cheeks red from crying and wet with tears.
“
I want to go too.” Liam sniffled, and I nearly capitulated. Bryn’s hand on my arm was what saved us.
Bryn pulled me aside. “Michael, if it’s a choice between a week on the beach or upsetting your family this greatly, we can call it off. Perhaps take Liam to a football game or—”
“Uhm, hey, hello?” Kelly peeked around Bryn’s arm. “No, no, and no. No one is changing plans. This too will pass. You two need couple time. Go.” Bryn and I exchanged worried looks. “The cab is waiting,” Kelly gently reminded me. I leaned in to get a kiss, but Liam twisted away from me. That cut me deep, and yes, I knew he was a child and his anger would abate quickly. Hell, in an hour he’d have forgotten about not giving me a goodbye kiss and be knee-deep in his new daycare routine. I ran a hand over Liam’s tousled gold hair, my gaze touching Kelly’s in the cold dawn creeping over The Burgh.
“We’ll call you tonight and tell you all about how much fun daycare was.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek and then gave Bryn one as well. “Go. He’ll be fine. Change is good, Mike.”
She hip-bumped me out the front door and then closed it in my face. It felt like someone had carved out my heart.
“Michael, come along. He’ll be fine. He’s a child. The cab is waiting.” Bryn grabbed my chilly hand and led me to the street and the yellow cab idling by the curb. I got in, sat down, and stared at my dinky little rowhouse as bags were tossed into the trunk.
Bryn nestled in beside me, his hand coming to rest on my thigh.
“I feel like a heel,” I moaned.
“I know but that will pass.” I frowned. He cupped my chin, the soft leather of his gloves warming my skin. “Michael, this is our time. They’ll be fine. They need to learn how to survive without you.”
“But—” I cut myself off and nodded. “I know. You’re right, it’s just…no, you’re right. Change is good.”
