by RJ Scott
“Let me clean that ass for you.” He offered me a hand.
We went into the shower, hands greedily roaming over each other. “I love you,” I moaned into his ear as his soapy hands lathered my ass. “You make life complete, you and Noah—is like dream coming true.”
He arched into me, his cock plumping up, his fingers sliding up from my ass to my back. “Living the dream, aren’t we?” Erik rose to his toes to bite at my jaw.
I made love to him in the shower, burying myself in his hot, tight body, all the while telling him how I adored him, worshiped him, loved him madly. And, to my joy, he repeated all the love words back to me.
After our passionate shower, we dried off and shaved, talking low and familiar, like lovers or partners do. Planning the day, discussing the super fancy dinner out Erik had planned for us tonight. We dressed quickly, Erik grabbed the baby monitor, and we slipped into the hall.
We snuck past Galina’s door, then checked on Noah. The baby was sleeping soundly, so we went to the kitchen and started cooking. I was ravenous, so Erik decided to make his special waffles with blueberries. Over the baby monitor, Noah started jabbering to his new blue teddy bear that shared his crib.
“You make waffle. I get Noah and wake Galina. She love your waffles much.”
“Kiss me first.”
I did, with fire, then I jogged back up the stairs to get Noah. He was smiling but wet. After a complete change of clothes and a dry diaper, I picked him up and cuddled him. Such a good, happy baby. I kissed his soft cheek, glad I had shaved the thick, dark, rough whiskers from my face.
“Come, we go wake Galina. Watch her eat many waffles.”
“Bah!” He patted my face as we made our way to the room my sister occupied. Shuffling the heavy boy to my hip, I knocked on the doorframe.
“Wake up for waffle time,” I called around the cracked door.
“Bah, bah, bah, GAH!” Noah shouted. I peeked around the door to see her bed neatly made, a small note propped against one of several rose-colored throw pillows.
Slipping into the feminine room, I walked to the bed and lifted the note from the thick duvet.
“She spend much time with Arvy,” I explained to Noah in case he was looking for Galina. Shaking the paper open, I bounced Noah on my hip as I read the neatly penned note to Noah. It was in Russian, but I read it in English for him. Someday I hoped to teach him Russian. Erik will teach him Swedish. He will be the smartest boy in his preschool.
“Dear Stan,” I smiled at my…Erik’s boy chewing on a fist. “Do not be mad.”
Oh. That’s not a good way to start a letter.
“What has she done now? If she is making to drop off school to make whoopy with Arvy, I will be most mad,” I told Noah.
“Bah.”
“Yes, that would be most bad.” My gaze went back to the letter. “I am not in trouble. I am in Las Vegas.”
I lifted my gaze from the note. Las Vegas? Why is she there? To see our next game? But that was not until late tomorrow.
“Maybe they wish to gamble and see shows,” I told Noah. “Viva Las Vegas.”
“Bah.”
“Yes, much Elvis. I will seek blue suede baby shoes for you when there over weekend.”
Noah began to wiggle. I read faster.
“She is with Arvy. They are so happy in love and she knows this is for the right, so she does not want me to be mad about them getting married.”
“Bah?”
I stared at the letter for so long my eyes got dry. Erik shouted up the stairs that the waffles were ready, and Galina had better hurry or he would eat them all. I stalked out of her room, the letter in my hand, and went down the stairs like an angry elephant.
Erik looked at me over his shoulder when I stormed into the kitchen, his soft smile fading when he saw my face.
“What’s wrong?” He turned from the waffle maker with a plate piled high with blueberry waffles.
“Galina has troped with Arvy!” I growled, and shook the paper in his face. He blinked at me. “She has run off to marry him! Using ladder and sneaking off from window. Troped! Troped!”
“Eloped,” he said as he took his son from me.
I filled the kitchen with Russian expletives as I balled the note and whipped it into the trash. “Call nanny. We go to Las Vegas now. I kill him for sneaking off with my sister! She has big wedding plans in church. Mama will shit cow when she hears!”
“Stan, take a breath.” He buckled the baby into his high chair. I took several. It didn’t help. “Did she say why they’d run off? I didn’t think people did that anymore.”
“She no say, but she will—you make trusts me she will tell me!”
Erik tried to tell me things while I made reservations for the first flight to Las Vegas. Things like I needed to calm down, we had a game there tomorrow so why not wait to find her then, and to calm down. He said to calm down the most. He was still telling me to calm down when we landed at the McCarran International Airport four hours later. He should know by now that Russians do not calm down. We find the problem and beat it into no longer being a problem. Arvy would no longer be a problem.
In the back of a cab that smelled like purple onions, I called my sister. Again. For the fortieth time. “If she does no answer my head will make explosion,” I told Erik.
“Coach was not happy about us taking off and missing morning skate,” he sighed as desert rolled past. I grumbled in Russian as Galina’s phone rang and rang. “She’s not going to answer.”
No, she wouldn’t, but to my surprise, Arvy did. “Stan,” he started, “let me explain.”
“Where are you with my sister?”
“Stan, we have a good reason.”
“I have good reason to make boot go up your fucking ass.”
“Okay, yeah, maybe…”
“Where are you with my sister?” I repeated, Galina now bitching at Arvy for answering her phone while she was in the bathroom.
“A tiny chapel on the strip. It’s white and pink and has a big statue of Elvis out front.”
“We be there ten minutes. Marry her before I get there I will have you killed. I know people. They will make your eyeballs disappear and leave your body in the desert for the coo-hoots to eat.”
“Coyotes,” Erik yelled for clarification. I hung up on Arvy and my now-angry sister. The bright-light city did not set my soul on fire. Slamming into the small chapel and seeing my sister and stupid Arvy who was on crutches did that. I lunged at my fellow Railer. Erik leaped between us, using all his strength to push me in reverse so my hands didn’t go around Arvy’s neck.
“Stanislav!” Galina slapped at my arms, her blows making more pain than I’d ever admit. “Stop it! Hitting a man on crutches is low! You have no say, no say, in who I marry!”
Erik wrapped his arms around me, pushing steadily back as I tried to move forward.
“I have all say! I am man of family. You know Mama want church wedding for you. Only child who can marry in our church. You know this! Why break Mama heart?!”
Arvy dropped down to sit in a pew, his crutches making noise as they fell off the wooden seat to the floor. Galina stopped hitting me. Erik didn’t let go of me.
“I had no choice. I love him,” she said, her big gray eyes still lit with Soviet fire. “I know Russia and America are not on good terms. They do away with exchange students, my visa is only temporary. I want to live here with him, go to school here, work here and make a family like you and Erik have done.”
“You can do this without marriage. You know him two months!”
“I know I love him and this is best way for me to stay in America.” She tipped her chin up and folded her arms over her breast. I did the same. Well, I jerked my chin up. Crossing my arms was impossible, since Erik was still glued to my chest. A skinny man with a big black wig peeked through some white-and-gold curtains.
“That is the preacher. We’re next. Will you be a good brother and give me to Arvy?”
I stare
d daggers at the man in the sequined jumpsuit. Erik slowly released his hold on me and stepped back, just an inch in case I tried to get to Arvy again.
“Arvy, do you love my sister tender and true?”
He stood up and stood behind her. “Yes, I do.”
I looked deep into his eyes and saw truth. “If you hurt her or look puck bunnies on the road, I have you killed. I know people.” I pointed at his left eye.
“Right, yeah, I got that. Eyeballs and coyotes. I will never hurt her. Ever. You have my word.” He extended his hand to me.
“Arvy is a good man, Stan, you know that,” Erik whispered to me, his firm body at my side calming.
I wasn’t finished. “When season is over, we have big wedding. In church for Mama. I pay. You say no, I make call to eyeball pluckers,” I said to Arvy. Galina rolled her eyes.
“That’s fine. I want to marry her right and keep my eyeballs.”
I took his hand and pumped it. Once. Just once. My sister stepped up to me, her eyes less angry. I pulled her to me and hugged her hard.
“You are my sweet little bird,” I cooed as I ran my hand over her long, dark hair. “If he does one thing wrong…”
“I will call the eyeball pluckers myself.” She went to her tippy-toes to kiss my cheek. “Come, walk me down the aisle.”
I glanced at Erik. He smiled and nodded, and went to sit in the front pew.
All too soon it was done—my sister had been given to Arvid Ulfsson and was now repeating vows fed to her by the Elvis impersonator. Erik sat beside me, his arm and leg pressed to mine. I could smell his shampoo. His leg was warm and strong. I leaned to the left just a bit.
“Thank you for stop me kill him,” I whispered.
He smiled gently and let his curls rest on my shoulder. I took his hand and threaded my fingers through his.
“All part of loving a wild Bolshevik,” he replied in soft tones.
“Good thing I have Swedish in life to be calm neutral.”
“Very good thing, or we’d have a Railer with no eyeballs and coyote bite marks all over his face,” he chuckled as Elvis blessed the couple, then threw sequins at them instead of rice. Ah, America. What a wonderful country.
Fifteen
Erik
Stan was quiet on the way to the arena. Didn’t matter that we’d just come from a wedding, we had to switch to hockey mode, and we’d already fucked up by missing optional skate. A family emergency for one of us? Coach could handle that. But both of us?
Which was why me and my quiet lover were now in the small visiting team office, standing in front of Coach Benning and waiting for the shit to hit the fan.
I wondered if we should get our player rep up here. Toly was the kind of person you needed in the room when you were going to be hauled over the coals. Or maybe we should get Connor in; maybe our captain would be a calming influence.
Coach Benning regarded us steadily.
“I don’t want to know,” he began. “Stan?”
Stan looked confused, and I didn’t blame him. Was the simple use of Stan’s name with a question mark on the end of it a request for an explanation, even though Benning said he didn’t want to know?
“I don’t think Stan knows what you mean.”
Stan shot me a look and scowled. “I’m talk self,” he said, and I left him to it. He’d been so happy after he’d accepted the whole Arvy-marrying-his-sister thing, and then something had changed.
“And?” Benning prompted. “Do I put you in net tonight? Is your head straight?”
Stan blinked at him and rolled his neck. “Head is fine.”
“I mean, are you okay?” Benning asked in plainer English.
“Vegas pipes need me,” Stan said, then he nodded and left the room. Walked out on Coach, and I knew damn well that he’d get away with that shit because of his weird goalie reputation.
Me, on the other hand, I was fourth line.
“He needed you to go with him?” Benning asked, indicating the closed door that Stan had just shut. That was a loaded question. If I hadn’t, then Arvy would have been “vanished” into the desert never to be seen again.
“Yes, Coach,” I answered, simple and truthful.
He seemed way too thoughtful, and I imagined my start tonight was in danger of becoming a healthy scratch.
“See the PT before the game. You’re favoring your left leg.”
“Okay, Coach.”
I turned to leave, assuming I was in the game, that I hadn’t been scratched, but until I managed to get out of the room, who knew what the hell would happen? I got as far as having my hand on the doorknob.
“And Gunner?” My heart fell, and I slowly turned to face him.
“Yes, Coach?”
“I’m fining you and Stan ten thousand each. Also, you will never miss a team flight again. Fair?”
I nodded, because yeah, that was fair. “Yes, Coach, thank you.”
Coach Benning shook his head. “Don’t thank me—thank Toly and Connor, who separately felt they needed to come to your rescue like you were two damsels in fucking distress rather than grown fucking men. And for fuck’s sake, score a fucking goal tonight.”
I left before he got more wound up. In fact, Coach wasn’t one of those guys who cursed a lot, and I think every other word in his last sentence was “fuck”.
Toly was outside the room, Charlie next to him, and I felt a swell of gratitude that my line was there to back me up.
“Arvy texted me,” Toly announced.
“And me,” Charlie added.
Seemed like Arvy had called in support from Stan’s fellow Russian for him, and Charlie, who was possibly the closest I had to a friend on the team, for me.
Toly left, I fist-bumped Charlie, and together we headed for the locker room. There was no official skate that morning, not on game day, but we all worked on conditioning, and yeah, I was favoring my left leg after a particularly shitty check had me hitting the boards at an angle.
The sports PT tutted at the range of motion in my leg, announced it wasn’t optimal, then pummeled the offending set of muscles and ligaments into submission. An ice bath later, and I was ready to say I was retiring to get away from the torture.
Until I pulled on skates and uniform and followed Toly onto the ice for warmups. Then I remembered exactly why I went through the pain. Hockey.
Stan was there, crouching in front of his pipes, staring out at center ice, his body rigid, his focus absolute. I wanted to go over and stick-tap his blocker, but didn’t, instead skating lazy circles around the net and coming back to the blue line. The stands weren’t full—this was warmups—but there was a strong contingent of Railers fans who were at the glass with signs. Mostly for Ten, who despite coming out as gay and in a relationship, was still fawned over by the entire female fan base, and to be fair quite a lot of the males as well. I think it helped that Ten was the star of our team; maybe him being gay was more acceptable all the time he was scoring and dragging us closer to the playoffs. Hell, he was tied for second place in the entire freaking league for points.
One sign caught my eye, a huge picture of Ten and a bright flash of white over his head on black card. I read the words, God Hates Fags, and felt sick, sliding to a stop right in front of it and staring at the guy holding it. I was blocking everyone’s view, and fuck knows how I was going to stop Ten from seeing it. Someone skated up next to me. Ten. I didn’t even have to look to see who it was, he just had this way about him—a confidence and speed, and his voice was firm.
“I already saw it,” he murmured.
“How did he even get that fucking thing in here?”
“Coach is calling security,” Ten said.
My heart ached for the kid. Why was it so wrong to be in love? Why did people have to judge you for it?
Someone else joined us.
“Wassup?” Toly asked, echoed by Charlie, who also joined us. Soon the entire Railers team stood nose to nose with the asshole, who was fucking brave with the glass b
etween us. He faltered a little, the sign drooped, and then somehow, he must have found resolve, because he spat at the glass. The people next to him, the ones with signs that loved on the team and Ten, stepped away, looking at the man in horror. He was nothing special, not much more than a kid himself, wild-eyed, his long hair hanging around his face.
He smiled, then, his grin obscene as security arrived and politely asked him to get the hell out. I would have punched him to the ground, but Ten, he just shook his head and skated backward and away. The guy with the sign struggled and ended up on the floor, his sign thrown down and left as he was escorted away. A small girl, no more than ten or so, picked up the sign. She frowned, then took out a Sharpie and crossed out the evil words, turning the sign so we could see what it said now. We love the Railers, with a big heart in the white space.
I blew her a kiss, and smiled, and she dipped her head in embarrassment. I tossed her a puck, and she grinned at me. That was the kind of fan we wanted, the one who just loved hockey and knew that if a player was good, then they should play. Simple.
I don’t know if it was that gesture of team solidarity, but we played our hearts out. Stan with a shutout, me with my tenth goal of the season, and Max with a Gordie Howe hat trick—a goal, an assist and a fight—and now missing a tooth after taking a puck to the jaw with seconds left in the third. I collected the puck for Stan so he could keep it to celebrate his shut-out. The entire team stick-tapped him as we did the whole head-bump thing post-game. That was us saying thank you to the man in the pipes.
Our man.
No. Mine.
“Am needing little bit talk,” Stan announced after we got back to the hotel. He wasn’t quiet anymore; he’d laughed and joked with the team after the game, still on a high from the shut-out. There had been forty-one shots on goal, and insanely, he and the defense had stopped every single one.
But he’d been quiet in the coach to the hotel, his headphones in, and I’d kind of wanted to pull out his earbuds and ask what the hell was going on. I hadn’t, because I’d guessed he needed space.
“Okay,” I said, uncertainly. We normally made every show of going to our separate rooms, but this time Stan took my hand and pulled me from the empty elevator straight to his room. I attempted to tug free—this was way too dangerous—but he gripped tight, and when we were finally in his room, he pulled me so close I could hardly breathe.
