Eighteen
OREN
It’s possible that I’ve been dreaming of Adak my entire life. Even before he had a face and a name.
…and a body that I am now touching.
I’m completely mesmerized. I know I’ve touched every inch of exposed skin at least a dozen times but I can’t stop. The way his muscles move under his skin. The shape of them. And the soft feeling of his hair.
And his nipples. I’ve never touched nipples before. Well, mine, sure. But that was just like showering and stuff. I spend a lot of time on his nipples just because I can. They’re fascinating.
My fingers trace the veins in his arms, over his hands. I examine his knuckles and his nails. His palms and the shape of the lines there. I measure our hands together, palm to palm, and love that mine are smaller than his. Not by a lot, but they’re still smaller.
When I look at him, Adak has a soft smile. He’s watching me. Every time I look up, he’s watching. It made me shy at first, wondering if I was making him uncomfortable. Then I was a little embarrassed because it’s very, very clear that I’ve never touched another man.
But his expression is never anything but that soft, comfortable smile. His brown eyes are warm. He’s entirely relaxed under me.
I study his face for a few minutes and find I’m having a hard time believing this man is fifteen years older than me.
He doesn’t look thirty-nine, although I suppose I’m not the best at guessing age.
But his body is still in its prime. His muscle tone is hard and shaped, his arms thick and rugged.
He has broad, strong shoulders. His black hair doesn’t have even a strand of gray in it.
Neither does his facial nor body hair, which is usually the first part to show age.
He's immaculate. Perfection. How did he even notice me in a crowd of thousands? On average, there are usually 15,000 fans in the stands. And he looked at me. He chose me!
“What’re you thinking?” Adak asks, his hand rising to touch the crease in my forehead. He smooths it out.
I bow my head, smiling. “Just that I can’t believe this is real. That you’re real.”
He hums. “Definitely real,” he says.
Smoothing my hands up his stomach and chest, I lean over him and bring my mouth to his for a kiss.
I’ll be honest, I’ve never been entirely sure I like kissing.
Everything about it, in principle, gives me the heebie jeebies.
You’re literally sharing spit. Your tongues touch and it’s just slimy and eww.
Before Adak, I’ve kissed three people. One was my friend Blanca after my first kiss with a guy. I had thought maybe it was awkward and almost creepy because he had been practically a stranger. But no, kissing Blanca was just as weird and gross.
In hindsight, part of the issue had been that she was a girl.
I had to get close to girl parts and… it made me all stiff and uncomfortable.
Which is kind of weird because in high school, Blanca and Greta would hug me all the time and their boobs never bothered me then. Apparently, kissing changes that.
The third and last guy before Adak was when I was nineteen. Yes, it’s been an embarrassingly long time. It was a guy that I kind of had a crush on and Shelton snuck him into the back of the coffee shop for me a couple times. We kissed and touched each other.
Literally, that’s my entire experience with men and sex (and women, I suppose).
So when I first start kissing Adak, and every time we begin kissing anew, my first thought is always eww, tongue and spit . With everyone else, that thought never left. I couldn’t get into it because it left me just… shuddering.
I’m not sure why it’s different with Adak. The initial internal response remains, but it fades as our kisses continue. Just like running my hands over his torso, my tongue doesn’t stop exploring his mouth and pushing against his tongue. It’s like playing tag then. Or a strange dance.
It’s becoming an obsession, despite my initial aversion.
A bell, loud and melodic, chimes through the room and makes me jump. I sit upright, looking around with wide eyes. My heart thunders in my chest and my palms instantly become sweaty. Is that the security alarm? Is someone trying to break in?
It’s a little upbeat for an alarm, but you never know!
Adak sits up, using nothing but those sexy abdominal muscles. Even through my near panic, I don’t miss it. The way his muscles contract and his skin emphasizes the shapes. The sound that leaves my mouth is indecent at best as I splay my sweaty palm against his stomach.
He’s grinning when his mouth touches mine. “Just the doorbell, sweetheart.”
I sigh. And then that momentary ease vanishes. Who is here?!
Adak gently guides me off of him and I sit at the end of the couch, right on the edge, my back stiff. Fight-or-flight is right there. Ready to send me running. I’m definitely not a fighter.
My eyes track Adak as he bends for his shirt and brings it over his head as he walks to the hall and disappears. I can barely hear anything over the rush of blood in my ears, but then… voices. Nothing hostile or concerning. Also not familiar.
The door shuts. Footsteps down the hall and then the light overhead clicks on. It’s only then that I realize we’ve spent hours on the couch. It’s dark outside now. I have no idea what time it is. Nor do I recognize the men that are with Adak when he returns.
One is of Indian descent. He has pretty bronze toned skin and dark features of the Indian people that I’ve always found simply stunning.
He’s lean and wearing what unmistakably looks like very expensive slacks, a black leather belt, and a button-down shirt tucked in.
The pants and shirt are exactly the same navy blue shade.
He has a gold and silver Rolex on one wrist and a paracord bracelet on the other, which seems out of place. There’s also a ring on his finger.
I’ve never cared about clothes. As someone who’s had his clothes choices dictated to him his entire life, it’s never occurred to me to even think about things like fabric and softness.
But looking at this man’s suit, my fingers itch to touch his pants!
I bet they’re the finest material in the entire world.
The second man looks suspiciously like a hockey player in shape and build.
His eyes are a very unique gray (that’s what gray eyes look like, Dad!
!) and his hair is short. I have a hard time deciding hair color since the sides look like they’re light blond, but the top looks brown.
Not that obvious transition because part is dyed, but like…
it gets darker as it gets longer, maybe.
He’s smiling. The first guy isn’t.
“This is Rakesh,” Adak says, squeezing the man with touchable pants’ shoulder. “My nephew.”
I tilt my head to the side and take another assessing look at Adak. He doesn’t look Indian. Is he?
“This is his husband, Egon,” Adak says, reaching behind Rakesh to grip Egon’s neck affectionately. Egon gives me an even wider smile as he lifts his hand in a wave.
Adak crosses the room to where I’m now standing in front of the couch. He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me against him. I relax at his touch. At the comfort of him holding me in front of these people I don’t know.
“My boyfriend, Oren,” Adak says, and my heart quite literally tries to beat its way out of my chest now. I think my ribs are internally bruised.
He called me his boyfriend!
Egon is beaming at me now, but his husband is still not smiling. His expression has turned curious, assessing as he looks at me with his head tilted to the side.
“Hi!” Egon says. He looks at Rakesh. “Coach has a boyfriend!”
Finally, Rakesh smiles when he looks at Egon. “I see that.”
I pause, though. Coach? I am quite confident he’s not a player with Anaheim.
“Egon was on my team at Eastern State University where I coached college hockey before I was offered a job in the NHL,” Adak says. “I may have inadvertently introduced him to my nephew, who was a graduate student at Eastern State at the time.”
“I was on scholarship and my classes were stupidly hard,” Egon says, sighing heavily. “I’m still shit at chemistry.”
“You understand it fine,” Rakesh says.
“You think I do. I fooled you well in school,” Egon says, grinning. He turns his attention back to me. “Where’d you come from, Oren?”
My eyebrows knit together. “Anaheim?” I say, unsure of what he’s asking. “I was born here and have lived here my entire life.”
Egon laughs. “Not what I meant.”
“We met at the arena,” Adak says. “I saw him in the crowd and knew.” He looks at me, and my stomach flutters dangerously. “This was the man for me.”
My cheeks flush. Jesus, he can’t look at me like that when others are around. I may turn into a puddle.
When I look at Egon and Rakesh, I find Egon’s head on Rakesh’s shoulder, watching us with a smile. Rakesh still isn’t smiling. I’m not entirely sure what to make of him, but I have a very sick feeling that he may not like me.
“So, did we have plans I forgot about?” Adak asks.
“No,” Rakesh says. “I saw a post online.”
I wince at the anger in his voice.
“Ah. Checking in on me,” Adak says, amused and touched. “A phone call would have sufficed, son. I’m fine. Everything is being handled.”
“Who is he?” Rakesh asks. “The man making the accusations?”
“My father,” I say quietly. Rakesh’s dark eyes turn to me in an instant and I shrink a little. “I’ve been… Well, I ran away and when he couldn’t force me home with a false missing person report and his corrupt police buddies, I guess he decided to try to attack Adak instead.”
Rakesh’s eyes narrow on me and then move across my body as if reassessing me for a third time.
“He’s an adult,” Adak says, chuckling. “From an abusive home.”
“Ah,” Rakesh says, his shoulders relaxing. The intense look softens, but only slightly. Turning his attention back to Adak, he continues, “I could have called, but I needed to see for myself.”
Adak inclines his head. “I understand. I’m assuming you’re staying for dinner.” He glances at the window and then pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Which we’ll be ordering. I didn’t realize the time.”
“Yes, please,” Egon says. “I’m famished.”
Rakesh gives him a fond smile before twining their fingers together.
“What do you feel like?” Adak asks as he unlocks his phone and opens the LOB app, which delivers food. Hell, it will even go to the pharmacy for you!
“Hungarian,” Egon says. Rake looks at him, one perfect eyebrow raised. “There’s a Hungarian player on the team and he’s always saying how much he misses food from home.” He shrugs.
“I’m not sure if there’s a Hungarian restaurant around,” Adak says.
“There is,” Egon says with a grin. “I was looking as we got close. Rake didn’t pack me enough snacks for this road trip.”
“The drive is thirty-seven minutes,” Rakesh says. “A sub should have held you over.”
“It did,” Egon says, almost shyly. “But I’m still hungry.”
Rakesh shakes his head, turning a smile on his uncle. “He still eats like he plays.”
“I exercise with them. And I sometimes join them on the ice for practice,” Egon says.
“Choose what you want from the menu,” Adak says.
“Oh, one of everything,” Egon says, making us all look at him. “What? I want to try it. And then we all have leftovers.”
Rakesh pulls out his phone. “I’ll order, Uncle Adak. I know what he’ll eat.” After a minute, Rakesh looks up. His eyes meet mine and I inhale. “Is there anything you don’t like, Oren?”
That’s a loaded question. There’s plenty, but it’s never been much of an option before. Now that I’m on the spot, I can’t think of anything. So I just shake my head. “Thanks,” I say quietly.
He watches me for a second longer before turning back to his phone. A minute ticks by with Egon commenting as he leans in to see Rakesh’s screen. Then they both look up as Rakesh pockets his phone. “Forty minutes.”
Adak nods and gestures to the opposite couch. Rakesh pulls Egon to sit while Adak and I retake seats on the couch we’ve been on all afternoon and apparently evening.
“You have an attorney?” Rakesh asks Adak.
“I do and I’m sure he’s already filed a defamation lawsuit,” Adak says.
“You should see some of the comments,” Egon says with a wide smile. “People from all over the country are furious at this guy for the lies. Guys from college have called bullshit on it, citing the fact that they’d played for you for years. Rake wouldn’t let me comment.”
“Good idea. Your ties to L.A. are important to consider,” Adak says.
“Oh, no,” Egon says, laughing. “There are professional players from all teams commenting on this, whether they’ve played for you or not. Rake’s just protective.” He looks at his husband, who stares right back.
I find myself smiling. You can literally feel the love between them. It’s warm and encompassing. The way they look at each other is worthy of poetry. My cheeks burn a little from witnessing it.
“You don’t need to get involved,” Adak says. “I promise, we have it taken care of.”
“And you’re safe?” Egon asks, looking at me.
“I think so?” I shrug one shoulder. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have predicted my dad would do something like this. I wouldn’t say my household is an ally by any means, but I didn’t think they were… this homophobic.”
I can see the questions on both of their faces as they look at me.
Neither of them ask. I’m not sure I really want to elaborate.
I’ve already talked about it more in the last week than I have in my entire life.
And after the dump yesterday afternoon at the police station, I really don’t want to live it all over again.
The conversation moves on. I lean into Adak’s side to listen. He doesn’t let me go the entire time they’re here. Or after.