Roughing

by Michaela Grey

  Someone hooted. “Why don’t you just bend over and let him have it?”

  Saint stiffened.

  Kasha skated back up to them, looking rueful. “You right,” he said. “I’m try top shelf next time.”

  But Felix blocked the next shot too. The same player who’d chirped Kasha before laughed even louder.

  “Maybe if you blow him, he’ll let one in, eh?” he shouted. “Pretty boy like you, you’d probably like it!”

  Saint whirled on him. It was David, the player Kasha had pointed out earlier, and he blinked at the fury Saint knew was clear on his face.

  “That’s enough,” Saint hissed.

  David shifted his weight. “It’s just chirping, Cap. Doesn’t mean anything.”

  “While you’re on my team—” Saint straightened and lifted his voice so everyone gathered could hear him. “On this team, there will be no homophobic slurs, you get me? None. You go there, you get benched. No discussion, no debate—I won’t put up with it.”

  Someone—Tye, Saint thought—raised a tentative hand. “Can I still call someone a cocksucker? Because like, I don’t care if someone sucks cock, but that’s kinda my go-to insult, you know?”

  “Because you’re about as creative as a bag of flour,” someone else said—Saint couldn’t see who the speaker was.

  Tye scowled but didn’t argue.

  “Look,” Saint said, gripping his stick harder. Carmine had drifted over to listen, but he said nothing, eyes intent. “I’m not going to be able to stop you from using all derogatory terms on the ice. I know that. But you start calling people ‘pretty boys’ and inferring they like dick just because of how they look or act, and we’re going to have a problem. Get me?” He stared at David, who looked at the ice. Saint lifted his voice. “Are we clear?”

  “Clear,” the team chorused back.

  “Then go back to what you were doing,” Saint said. The players dispersed, all except for Kasha and Carmine, who was studying Saint intently. “What?” Saint snapped, more sharply than he intended.

  Carmine lifted a shoulder. “Just interesting to see the rumors are true.” He skated away and Saint looked at Kasha, baffled.

  “Rumors?”

  Kasha shrugged. “I’m not know. Only thing I hear is Saint great captain, gonna save team, make playoffs, maybe even win Cup.”

  Saint laughed in spite of himself. “Fuck off.”

  Kasha grinned back at him. “Is true,” he insisted. “Saint is best captain. Even if no playoffs, you best.”

  Saint ducked his head, cheeks firing. “Thanks,” he mumbled. He glanced up. “So tell me more about yourself. I need to know you if I’m going to run effective plays with you.”

  By the time practice was over, Saint knew almost everything about Kasha, and a lot about the other new members of the team. Kasha missed Russia, but loved American hockey. He had a girlfriend he doted on and was thinking of buying a house in the area if they extended his contract. “Only one year right now,” he’d said, making an exaggerated sad face. He loved punk metal, which made Saint tease him about never having the right to choose the music in the dressing room, and Bob Ross, causing Saint to double over with laughter.

  “Is good painter!” Kasha insisted over Saint’s giggles. “And so nice, yes? Is… calm. Peaceful. Makes me….” He made a frustrated face as if he couldn’t find the word.

  “Centered?” Saint suggested.

  “Yes,” Kasha said, nodding. “More should watch him. Like David, yes?” He grinned, sly, tip of his tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth.

  Saint snorted another laugh. “You might be onto something there.”

  In the dressing room, it was raucous, packed with players trying to find their spots and arguing over the best ones. Saint ignored them as he got undressed and hung up his skates. He came out of the shower, toweling his hair dry, to find Velvet waiting for him.

  Several of the new players were making exaggerated offended noises about a woman in the dressing room. Saint rolled his eyes and lifted his voice.

  “First of all, she’s seen way better than your shriveled excuses for dicks. Second, I’m pretty sure her wife isn’t threatened, so stop acting like children and get back to what you were doing. Which hopefully involves showering, because you fuckers reek.”

  Velvet stepped closer as the dressing room chatter resumed, somewhat muted. “I can handle it on my own,” she pointed out. “But thanks.”

  Saint tossed the towel aside. “It’s fucked up, but sometimes they listen better when it comes from a guy. What can I do for you?”

  “Coach wants to see you.”

  Saint groaned. “Again? Can it wait?”

  “Unfortunately not.” Velvet looked uncomfortable, which made Saint tense.

  “What’s going on?”

  “He made me promise not to say,” Velvet said, glancing around the room. “But it involves Carmine.”

  “Fuck.”

  He took the stairs two at a time, eager to get it over with, but Carmine was already in the conference room, drumming his fingers on the table.

  Flanahan was sitting opposite him, in the middle of saying something, but he cut off when Saint knocked. “Good to see you, Saint, good to see you!” he said, as if he hadn’t talked to him two hours before.

  Saint nodded, glancing at Carmine, who wasn’t looking at him. “Velvet said you needed to talk to me.”

  Flanahan looked pleased with himself, which was never a good sign. “Well. The thing is, management feels we’ve got a real opportunity here. A way to get people through the doors.”

  Unease crawled over Saint’s skin but he said nothing, waiting for Flanahan to get to the point.

  “The last time you two were on the ice together, you had a bit of a donnybrook, didn’t you?” Flanahan said. He laced his fingers and rested his hands on the table. “And now here you are on the same team.”

  “No,” Saint said flatly.

  “You haven’t even let me finish!”

  “You’re setting us up to be rivals,” Saint snapped. “You’ve probably got at least one commercial with the footage from our fight ready to go, don’t you?”

  Flanahan didn’t have the grace to look ashamed. He just shrugged.

  “He’s my teammate now,” Saint continued. “Whatever my personal feelings, that all goes away when we step on the ice together. I will not participate in this dog and pony show you’re putting on. I won’t.”

  “Good!” Flanahan said, bouncing to his feet, and Saint blinked. “Because Carmine doesn’t have a place to live right now, and you’re all alone in that huge house with all those guest rooms and it’s a perfect solution. You guys can carpool!”

  Saint opened and closed his mouth. He’d somehow walked right into the trap Flanahan had set for him. He glanced at Carmine, who hadn’t said a word, and back at the coach, who looked far too pleased with himself.

  “You’re not serious,” Saint finally said.

  Flanahan’s smile showed too many teeth. “You may be the face of the franchise, but you still have to do what I say. And I’m saying Carmine is now your roommate.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do outside this barn!” Saint protested.

  “Maybe I can’t force you,” Flanahan said thoughtfully. “But it sure would be unfortunate if a news outlet got hold of the information that Carmine’s living in a hostel because you refused to let him bunk with you.”

  “For how long?” Saint demanded.

  “We’re thinking three months,” Flanahan said, and Saint flinched. “That’ll give us time to really build the narrative the way we want.”

  Saint swung toward Carmine, panic swelling under his ribs. “You can’t be okay with this.”

  “Why not?” Carmine said. “Rent-free, nice place—I’m assuming—not too far from the rink? If it’s a big house, we don’t even have to see each other.”

  The panic was crawling up Saint’s throat. If he opened his mouth, he’d scream. His stomach cramped
and twisted. People, in his space. Not just people but a person he intensely disliked. Living with him.

  “Excuse me a minute,” he managed. He spun for the door and made it to the bathroom down the hall before his stomach rebelled and he vomited in the toilet, clinging to the porcelain.

  Felix found him there. Saint was slumped against the bathroom wall, pale and sweaty. Felix said nothing, just dampened a paper towel and knelt to wipe his face.

  “Coach sent me,” he said when he was done. There was deep sympathy in his eyes.

  “I can’t do it,” Saint whispered.

  Felix sat down beside him, stretching out his legs with a sigh. “Hard practice today. The new guys all want to prove they’re good enough. For you.”

  Saint closed his eyes. “It’s too much.”

  Felix put a hand on Saint’s thigh. “For someone on their own, maybe yes. You’re not alone, though, are you? You have me. You have Roddy. You even have Velvet—you know you’re her favorite. And I think… I think you have Kasha.”

  Saint rolled his head sideways until he could rest it on Felix’s shoulder. “I just want to play hockey.”

  “And you will,” Felix said. “With us.”

  Saint looked up. “If they traded you, I’d walk away. I would. I don’t even care what they’d do to me.”

  Felix’s eyes creased with affection. “Probably good I just signed a five year contract, eh?”

  “You did?” Saint sat up straight and Felix grinned at him. “Five years, Butterfly, that’s great!”

  Felix shrugged, but he was still smiling. “I don’t wanna play unless it’s with you either.”

  Saint leaned back against the wall. “How’s your girlfriend?”

  “Broke up over the summer, which you’d know if you turned your phone on.” Felix nudged Saint’s side. “Met a cute guy a few weeks ago, though. Gonna maybe see where it goes.”

  “Do you ever wish you could be out?”

  “Sometimes.” Felix sighed. “I don’t wanna do it alone though, you know? Too much… attention.” His smile turned sly. “Come out with me, eh? Twice the news, half the attention.”

  Saint laughed. “You’re full of shit.” He pushed himself upright. “I should go back.” He rinsed his face and mouth with water from the sink before acknowledging that he was delaying. “Butterfly.”

  Felix, on his feet and smoothing the wrinkles from his pants, glanced up. “Hm?”

  “Thanks,” Saint said. “I’m—thanks.”

  Felix smiled at him. “You can do this. Text me whenever you need a break.”

  2

  There was dead silence after Saint bolted from the room.

  “That went well,” Carmine finally said. “This was a bad idea, Coach. I’ll find somewhere else to stay.”

  “Absolutely not,” Flanahan said, voice harsh. “Saint just needs to get used to the idea. He likes things a certain way, but he’ll come around.”

  “He ran away,” Carmine said. “And I’m pretty sure he was going to throw up. I know that expression.” Guilt and resentment prickled his gut. Was the idea of living with him that repulsive?

  Flanahan waved that off. “He’ll be fine.”

  Carmine turned away and stared out the window. The players had left the ice, and the arena was quiet. He liked it here, he thought. He hadn’t wanted to come, had wanted to retire with the Otters, but he could get used to playing with this team. Some of them were assholes, but that was to be expected anywhere. Carmine liked what he’d seen of Felix and Kasha, and a few others had been welcoming. It could work out. Even if Saint hated him—if, he thought scornfully. It was pretty fucking obvious Saint hated him. Still. He could make this work. He had to make this work.

  They waited in silence until the door opened and Saint stepped through. His face was pale but set. “I have some conditions.”

  “Let’s hear them!” Flanahan said.

  Saint shot him a look so filthy, Carmine couldn’t help being impressed.

  “I’m not talking to you, unless you’re planning on moving in with me too. In fact, you don’t even need to be here.”

  Flanahan shrugged, pleased with his victory. “See you boys tomorrow.”

  The room was quiet after he left. Saint shoved his hands in his pockets and looked everywhere but at Carmine, still sitting at the table.

  “I don’t know what you’ve heard about me,” Saint began.

  Carmine opened his mouth to answer but Saint wasn’t waiting for a response.

  “I’m neurotic. Prone to throwing fits when I don’t get my way or when my routines are fucked with. I don’t want a lot of guests. If you want to have a friend or two over, fine, as long as you run it by me first and they’re not just random people you picked up in a bar or something. But no parties, no noise complaints from the neighbors, and you check with me before anyone shows up at my front door. Also, you stay in your wing of the house when you have guests.”

  Carmine tried to say something but Saint was still talking.

  “The wing you’ll be in has its own living room, den, office, and bedroom. You’re welcome to stock the kitchen with whatever you want. Do not fuck with the contents of the fridge, but you can put food in there as long as you don’t overstuff it. My wing is off-limits. No one, including you, is welcome back there without express permission. Do what you want in your side of the house, but don’t trash it and don’t make too much work for the cleaning crew.”

  “What about—”

  “No loud music ever,” Saint interrupted. “I don’t care about your bedtime routines, obviously, but if you keep me up, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “Okay, so—”

  “Oh, pets,” Saint said. “Do you have any? I’m allergic to cats.”

  Carmine waited pointedly until Saint flushed and gestured for him to proceed.

  “I have a dog,” Carmine said.

  “Is he housetrained? Long haired or short? He’s not yappy, is he?”

  “He’s a pitbull,” Carmine said patiently. “Short haired, of course he’s housetrained, I’m not a complete asshole. He’ll bark if he’s left alone too long, but he’s crate-trained and I keep him with me when I’m home. It shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll take him to a kennel for our away games so you don’t have another stranger in the house.”

  Gratitude flashed across Saint’s face, there and gone so fast Carmine thought he might have imagined it, and he nodded.

  “Is he here yet?”

  “I just got here this morning,” Carmine said. “He’s with my moms. They’ll bring him to me once I’m settled.”

  “Your… moms?”

  “Yeah. Two of them.”

  “You have two mothers?”

  “That tends to happen when they’re lesbians,” Carmine said, and was treated to Saint flushing again, his cheeks pinking up.

  “What was that like?” he asked, and then shook his head as if irritated with himself. “Sorry. Stupid, invasive question. Are you ready to go?”

  Carmine stood.

  “It was pretty much what I assume any other childhood was like, with a lot more ‘go ask your mother’,” he said as they headed down the hall.

  Saint actually laughed out loud, a giggle-snort that Carmine told himself was absolutely not charming. “Where do they live?”

  “Seattle. They’re thrilled I’m so close.”

  They got to the parking lot and Carmine hesitated as Saint kept walking, straight for the exit.

  “Where’s your car?”

  “I don’t have one,” Saint said over his shoulder.

  Carmine gaped at him and scrambled to catch up. “You don’t have a car.”

  Saint didn’t look at him, giving the security guard a smile as they passed. “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I don’t have a license, so why would I?”

  Carmine stopped dead at that. “You’re shitting me.”

  Saint sighed, turning. “Look. It’s not a big deal, okay? Everyone k
nows I don’t drive. Portland has decent public transportation, and I walk a lot.” He scowled. “Can you please stop looking at me like I’m some sort of fucking alien?”

  Carmine snapped his mouth shut. “Sorry,” he said. “Um. It’s just—you’re what, twenty-two?”

  “Twenty-three,” Saint said, turning away to start walking again.

  “But you can drive, right? You just… don’t?”

  Saint didn’t answer, picking up the pace.

  “You’re shitting me,” Carmine said, lengthening his stride to keep up. “You really don’t know how to drive?”

  “We’re done with this conversation,” Saint said tightly.

  “One more question and I promise I’ll never bring it up again,” Carmine said.

  Saint gave him a wary look but didn’t say anything, which Carmine took as permission.

  “Do you have, like, a thing about being in cars? Like they don’t freak you out, right? Can you ride in one?”

  “Yes, I can ride in them. I just don’t know how to drive.” Saint spun, jabbing a finger at Carmine’s chest. “You tell any of the rookies about this and they’ll never find your body.”

  Carmine held up his hands. “Lips are sealed, I promise.”

  They walked in silence for about ten minutes, Carmine dividing his time between looking at the neighborhood around them and Saint beside him.

  He had to admit Saint was ridiculously attractive, with that olive skin and liquid brown eyes. His cheekbones were high and sharp—he needed to put on a little weight, in Carmine’s opinion—and his eyebrows said volumes even when his wide, expressive mouth was closed. Carmine wondered vaguely what Saint saw when he looked at him. Brick shithouse, nose broken too many times, scarred knuckles, mud-colored eyes. He wasn’t in Saint’s hotness bracket, that was for damn sure.

  Saint stopped in front of a house with a solid metal gate and punched in a code. “I got people trying to see inside,” he explained as the gate rolled back. “Still do, sometimes, but at least now it’s more effort.”

  Carmine shuddered as they walked up the driveway. He would hate that level of exposure. “So are you single?”