by RJ Scott
“Sorry, Captain,” I called out. “Night.”
There was some muttering from outside the door, more words, but I wasn’t really listening. All I knew was that the voice was receding and that I’d been reminded that Connor was in the room next to mine.
Stan was pressed right up against the wall between the bedroom and the bathroom, his palms flat to the wall, his eyes wide. He looked scared. Was he scared of me? Or us? Or being found out? It was probably losing control; Stan didn’t lose control very often. He’d run now. I knew it as I knew my own name. His stupid head would be spinning this and making it a terrible thing, when fuck, it could be the best thing ever to happen to us.
I went with my instincts, prowling toward him, and he shook his head a little.
Nope. I wasn’t having this. He’d started something that he clearly needed, and this was happening. One way or another, I was getting him inside me tonight. When only inches separated us, I really thought he would run, and I tensed, but he didn’t even move. I shrugged off my jacket and flung it toward the chair, not even caring that it might well end up on the floor. And then I loosened my tie and unbuttoned my shirt, taking the whole thing off in one move. That made him flinch, and he leaned to one side, as if readying himself to run. My pants would have to stay on; I couldn’t take the chance that he’d sidestep me, even if my cock was so hard that I just wanted it out.
I reached for his hand, and he let me take it, then I went to my knees in a smooth move, right in front of him.
“Nyet,” he murmured, but I wasn’t having any no’s tonight. He was fucking me, and I was showing him the way. I took his hand and rested it on my head, carding it through my hair, and instinctively he gripped my curls. I released my hold and leaned forward, pressing my mouth against his cock hidden in his pants. He was as hard as steel, and I kissed him through the fabric and he groaned. Unzipping him was easy, all while kissing and nuzzling him, but still his hands didn’t move in my hair, they stayed still; he was striving for complete control, but I knew one way to get his resolve to crack.
I pulled down his pants, his underwear, and nuzzled him again. The heat of him against my skin was another reminder of better times. Reflexively, he dug into my hair a little, not as hard as he needed, not as hard as I liked, but enough to know I was getting to him. His jersey boxers were just under his balls, and I licked and sucked on every part I could reach, then took the tip of him into my mouth. I sucked, just on that end, the weight of him heavy on my tongue, and then as his fingers flexed in my hair I slid my lips forward, taking more of him into my mouth. So deep I nearly gagged before sliding back up. I let him go, looked up at him, just as I knew he wanted me to, how he loved me to, with his fingers in my hair and me on my knees. This was his kryptonite.
“Eton piz`dets,” he said, his voice hoarse. This is fucked up. There was nothing fucked up about me and Stan together. Nothing wrong with us.
“Stan,” I said, my words a command and a plea.
“Nyet,” he said, but this time the word was accompanied by him tightening his hold on my hair. He was done, and he knew it, and I knew it, and it was powerful.
I swallowed him down, and he held me. With his fingers twisted in my hair, he held me there, then loosened them enough for me to move back a little and breathe. I went limp in his hold and silently begged to be used.
Cursing in a mix of Russian and English, he fucked my mouth, held me tight, and I gripped his ass, seeking balance and needing to feel him. He was going to lose it soon, I could tell—the way his hips stuttered, the way language of any sort vanished and he was just moaning. When he let me back a little, I put my cards on the table between breaths.
“Inside me,” I begged, and he cursed and yanked me up at the same time, and fuck, I was so hard I was scared I’d lose it in my pants. We scrambled to get me out of the remainder of my clothes and to get him naked. Gloriously naked, fucking hot, and erect, and rooting around in my bag for something to use as lube. When he pulled out the bottle and condoms, he looked at them momentarily, and it must have dawned on him that I’d brought them for a reason, but he couldn’t know that I’d had them on me ever since he’d shoved his Russian ass back into my life.
I wouldn’t be the one to start things, but fuck, I was going to be ready.
“On bed,” he commanded, as loudly as he could and still whisper, and I did as I was told, on all fours, needing him now. This wasn’t kissing and flowery words; this was a connection at the deepest, hardest level. He covered himself, pressed fingers into me, and then he was inside me, pausing until my body let him in, and then I was full. He moved against me like that, my cock hanging, rubbing the covers. I needed more, but right then I wanted to be on that edge where the need built and where I demanded more.
He pushed hard, deep, and then slowly pulled back, fucked into me again, and I splayed my hands, giving myself balance to rock against him. He reached around me, and I thought this was it, that he would close his hands around my cock and I could finally come with him after all this time. But all he did was wrap his arms around me, pull me up, his hands moving to my chest and steadying me. The angle, my back to his front, meant he could go deeper, and his fingers pulled and twisted my nipples until I was nothing but sensation. He whispered things in my ear, heated Russian, words he’d taught me.
I’m fucking you. I want you. I love your cock. I’m fucking you.
I’m fucking you.
“Please,” I begged. I needed his hands on me, but all he did was fuck me hard and bite my neck and pull on my nipples, and I was going to come. He used one of his hands in my hair, twisted me to kiss me, and I was so close. “Please…” I begged into the kisses.
“I’m get you there,” he whispered, and then he was coming, stiffening beneath me, fucking up into me, and his hand was on my cock, and it took two strokes, no more, and I was coating his fingers and forcing my hand into my mouth to stop myself shouting. For the longest time, he held me, until he had softened enough to pull out. He disposed of the condom. I lay down on the bed, totally boneless, my nipples aching, my cock spent, exhaustion flooding me.
“Why you have these?” Stan asked softly, and I turned my head to see the condoms and lube. Stan looked deadly serious.
“For you,” I murmured, “always for you.”
He curled his fingers in my hair, but softly, massaging my scalp, and I was taken back to our time in Helsinki, when he would spend hours playing with my hair after we’d made love. Then his hand was gone, and I was tired and closed my eyes.
When I woke up, to a clock that showed four a.m., Stan was gone.
And my heart ached for the loss.
My cell woke me at six a.m., this time with a call from Amy, who wanted to know where Noah’s health records were. She needed them to check up on inoculations, and I explained they were in the third box from the bottom in the pile in my room. She sent me a quick LOL.
That was a running joke between me and her, the fact that I’d never actually unpacked, choosing instead to throw a cover over the boxes and pretend the unpacked mess was a cupboard or something. It wasn’t as if we were staying in that apartment anyway; it was an emergency let, and I needed to find somewhere to stay for real. Maybe I should take the team up on what they’d offered, or yeah, get some money out of them at least. I made a mental note to search for finances, and sent a quick text to my agent, Sven Haalsen, whose job it was to keep on top of salaries.
Amy texted me to say she’d found the records and that I needed to unpack.
Yeah, yeah, whatever.
I didn’t text that, but I wasn’t staying in that place, and I wouldn’t unpack until I felt more settled than I did right then.
When you’re traded, when you get the call, you never really expect to stay where you’re sent. There are a million ways to fuck up. I could have been the best in my AHL team but been crap coming up to the NHL. The Railers could have sent me packing, and that would have been it, I would have been out of the NHL, back do
wn to the AHL, and god knew if the Rush would have kept me.
Next thing I knew I’d have been in Canada, or LA, or Florida.
But somehow, I was doing okay. My line had clicked, Charlie, Toly and I were giving a solid, respectable fourth line showing, and I wanted to stay.
With the team.
In Penn.
With Stan.
Make a home, find a proper place for me and Noah.
A text came in from Sven. Money had been released, I didn’t need to worry, and could I make sure that I did well enough to get another couple of years on the Railers, as he liked them.
I’ll try, I thought, even if it does mean coming to some kind of agreement with Stan.
I showered and dressed, knowing that whatever time it was I would find someone up and ready to show me to coffee. Connor was the one I spotted first in the hotel’s twenty-four-hour coffee shop, surrounded by the remnants of a breakfast burrito and two coffees. He looked as he hadn’t slept, and immediately my thoughts went to Arvy.
“Shit,” I said, and slid into the seat opposite him and asked about Arvy. “Is it that bad?”
Connor looked at me—focused right on me, despite the bloodshot eyes. “You tell me,” he said cryptically.
Me? I hadn’t heard anything about Arvy that morning. Had I missed a text? I checked my phone, but there was nothing.
“Was there a message in some kind of group chat? I’m not in a team group.” I tried not to let that hurt—after all, I was new on the Railers, and maybe they didn’t even have a group chat. If they did, then Ten would be in charge of it, no doubt.
Connor leaned forward and passed me his cell, which I turned to face me. There was a notepad app open and some words on it. “You want to translate this that I heard through my freaking wall when I was trying to sleep?”
The words made no sense to read, and then I sounded the words out phonetically, and it hit me. Connor in the next room. Connor hearing Stan saying he was fucking me, and to suck him down. Connor writing down the words he’d heard.
“Shit,” was all I said.
Connor crossed his hands on the table and banged his head on them, twice, three times. I was worried our captain was going to give himself a concussion. He mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like the words “odd one out” and “fuck my life”, but I didn’t like to ask.
Connor lifted his head, “Just…jeez…do me a favor…”
“Anything,” I said immediately
“I’m already down a defenseman—don’t fuck up Stan’s game over this shit.”
Wow, that was honest and direct and made me acutely aware of my place on the team. I guessed if it was Stan or me, then it would be the fourth line winger who was out of a job.
So much for dreams of putting down roots.
“You’re saying we can’t—”
“I’m saying it’s your life, but next time keep the noise down, and don’t mess with Stan’s head. He’s a good guy.”
So am I, I thought, but I didn’t say it out loud.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” I said softly, recalling Stan’s fear of exposure and word getting back to anyone around his mom in Russia.
“I won’t,” he said, and he looked tired, so I decided to change the subject.
“How is Arvy?”
Connor sighed heavily. “He’s comfortable.”
That didn’t sound good; if anything it sounded like a death sentence for a hockey player.
“Is he coming back with us now?”
“Doc Roberts is staying with him, and they’ll be going back to Harrisburg.”
Which meant he wouldn’t be flying with us for our next away game in Toronto.
Silence. He stared at me, and I felt as uncomfortable as if a million fire ants were crawling over me.
“Stan and I,” I began.
Connor held up a hand. “We have an inclusive team, you know that, but we need Stan, okay?”
There they were again—the damning words that I was replaceable—but it seemed as though Connor wanted to continue.
“And Erik, you’re the best fourth line winger in the AHL. The Rush were lucky to get you, we’re lucky to have you plugging away for us. Don’t fuck it up.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Connor collected his stuff and left without asking anything else, and for a while I sat there staring into nothing, aware of the team coming in and out of the breakfast room. Someone brought me coffee, someone else placed a plate of bacon in front of me. I must have looked spaced-out. I was alternating between pride at Connor’s words and terror of what I might do to Stan.
At this point in the story of Erik and Stan, I could back away. I had a baby, I needed to find a place to live, and Stan was likely still on a strong hating-me kick. But he didn’t have to be. Right?
The Erik/Stan story didn’t have to end now. I didn’t have to back away; I could work at this, and we could get back what we’d lost.
So now I was standing at the crossroads and unsure which way to go when Stan slipped into the chair opposite me.
“Not do bad thinks,” he said.
“Okay,” I agreed, even though I didn’t know what the hell he meant—bad thoughts or something, I guessed.
“Focus Leafs,” he added. “Not bad game for Leafs.”
“You want to focus on the game.” My heart stopped, because he was echoing what Connor had said and, hell, he was right. This was about the team, not some stupid kid like me who could cause problems.
He nodded and sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. “And on us,” he added, and he half smiled.
Hope swelled in my chest.
Twelve
Stan
Sitting across from Erik that morning with the cold winter sun touching his golden hair, I had no idea how or what “focusing on us” meant, but I knew that it was as vital to me as breathing. I could see the warmth of promise light up his beautiful jade eyes, and it filled my breast with potential as well. How to act on it was just not clear.
We tried to be professional on the road, because for me, coming out big was not going to happen. My mother still lived in Leskovo, which sat perhaps five miles from the border of Chechnya. Terrible things were going on in the Chechen Republic—purges of gay men, deaths and murders. If word spread of her son being gay…
So, no, there would be no splashy “pressers” for Layton Foxx to organize for Erik and me. Not until my mother was safely in America. Then perhaps we could simply be. As much as I respected and admired Tennant and Coach Madsen for being brave and facing the fire, I could not, nor would ever be so happy for the attention. I wasn’t sure how Erik would feel about this, and I had yet to talk to him about it, for private time was strictly limited.
On the road, we slipped into playing that we were friends only. Erik and I talked hockey on the bus, on the plane, during scrimmages and practice, but at night we went to our rooms alone. I longed to go to him and hold him, merge my body with his, talk about things that held meaning for us, but in a hotel filled with ears and eyes, no, that could not be. Our captain already knew of our secret according to Erik. There could be no others discovering our new romance…if one could call it a romance. It was a most unsettling time, but we struggled through that long road trip, picking up three wins to help even out the losses on the road.
My house, my cat, and my sister were waiting for me when I arrived home at the end of January, but not for long.
“I’m going to visit Arvy today,” she informed me as she swept through the living room, pulling on a coat.
“But I have come just home,” I said, my cat draped around my neck, making claw marks in my blue suit jacket.
“Yes, and you are so handsome. I’ll be at his place. Text me if you need anything. Happy homecoming, big brother!” She ran over, kissed my cheek, and raced off. Why would she run off when I had so much I needed to talk to her about? She was the only person who knew I was gay, and so I’d held everything inside about Erik and me to tell
her. Did a broken leg outweigh a brother who had deep secrets to confide? What did she care about Arvy? They barely knew each other.
Lucy purred into my ear. “Yes, pretty one, you are always here for me.”
I reached up to scratch her soft head, then carried my bags to my room. She leaped from my shoulder onto the bed and curled up on her pillow. I looked around my bedroom. It was so big, so nicely decorated, and so empty. Sharing this night with Lucy was not what I had wanted at all, not that she was not a loving pussy-cat. She was. And she adored me. I wanted human contact, though. Someone to talk to who would understand. Someone like Galina, or Mama. Or Erik…
As soon as I thought of him, my body reacted with heat and yearning. So much yearning that I rushed to change into jeans and a thick fleece sweatshirt. I pressed a kiss to Lucy’s head and left her to nap, my blood hot in my veins. I jogged to the nearest bus stop, climbed into a warm city bus, and pulled out my phone to play music and double check his address as he had entered it into my phone. I rode to his apartment building on Derry Street. It was a big one, with perhaps ten floors. I studied the big sign with the address to be sure I was in the right place. Puzzled about why he would live in a rather rundown building when he played professional hockey, I went inside and rode to the eighth floor, my earbuds resting on my neck so that I could hear Elvis singing sweet romance songs.
The elevator opened onto a long corridor. I exited and went in search of apartment 8D, which was one door past a home with loud children.
The tiny girl who pulled the door open gawked up at me, her eyes going wide.
“I am Stanislav. I have business with Erik Gun—”
The door slammed in my face. I had never had a door closed on me before. I looked up and down the long hallway and lifted my hand to knock again. The door flew open, and Erik smiled up at me, his cheeks a soft pink.
