Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Grayson
Andrei Zolkov talks into his phone in a dizzying stream of Russian, waving expansively as though the person on the other end can see him. I know better than to assume he’s as angry as he sounds—Russian, no matter the tone used, always sounds particularly violent. When he hangs up, I glance over at him.
“Good?” I ask.
“Is fine.” He waves his hand and rolls his eyes. “You would not understand.”
“Ah.” I smirk. “Women problems?”
“Always.” He sighs, and punctuates this eye roll with a shake of his head.
“I had no idea so many Russian women lived in Calgary,” I muse, and he waves his hand again, letting loose another torrent of Russian. “Pretty soon you’ll have to look further away.”
“Aye. Maybe take a break. I shall become you—a monk. ”
Pulling into the parking lot, I send a glare his way. He pretends not to notice, turning to look out the window.
“I’m not a monk, I’m…discerning.”
“This word means being alone forever?”
“Z, today is a full-contact practice and we’re scrimmaging. Are you sure now is the moment you want to piss me off?” Putting the car in park, I pop my door before he can answer and slide out. We meet at the trunk. I grab my bag and wait for him to get his own before continuing. “Discerning means I don’t just fuck the first willing man who passes by me. It means I have standards. Unlike some people I know.”
“Your standards keep you warm at night, yes?”
“Have we become the sort of friends who have serious heart-to-hearts?” I ask, and he shrugs.
“We have always been this friend,” Zolkov answers. “I usually give you my opinion in Russian.”
“Can we go back to that?”
When we reach the lockers, he tosses his bag into his stall and sits down to take off his shoes. The locker room is only half-full, and the guys who are already here don’t bother to greet us with more than a head nod. Z doesn’t seem to notice, but a sliver of shame lodges in my chest anyway. I’d loved playing for Calgary until the day I came out. I made the mistake of thinking my team would welcome me the way Troy Nichols’ did for him, with silent and sometimes loudly vocal support. I was wrong. My teammates tolerate me and my sexuality with barely concealed distaste, and make wildly exaggerated efforts to keep themselves covered in the locker room. They never say anything to my face, but I can hear the whispers just the same.
Zolkov, who lived with me his first season on the team, has been treated with the same cold shoulder since the day he showed up to practice with me. He could have taken the easy road and relegated me from friend to acquaintance. Instead, he’d pretended not to notice the less-than-welcoming response to our friendship and stuck with me. I appreciate the gesture while also drowning in the guilt of it. He’s young, and still relatively new to the NHL. He should be grabbing a beer after practice with the guys, not alienated because of his proximity to me.
A welcome distraction comes in the form of our newest teammate. Remy Stone walks in and I struggle to keep from proving my teammates right by obviously checking him out. He is every bit of the classic California boy and every bit my type: blond hair short enough to not need a hair tie, but still toeing the line between styled and messy; hazel eyes. He’s tan enough that the rest of us glow like beacons around him—skin pale from spending so much time indoors and living in Canada.
He scans the room in search of his stall, raising a hand in acknowledgment when some of the guys offer welcome. I turn away, facing my own stall while I strip down. As always, the need to keep my eyes off the room burns like acid in my chest. I shouldn’t have to bend over backward to make sure my teammates are comfortable, as though I can’t control myself enough to not stare at their dicks while we change. Fuck this team .
“Hey, man,” a voice drawls from my right.
“Hey,” I reply, barely glancing at his face before focusing my attention back on the wall in front of me. “Welcome to Calgary.”
“Yeah. Thanks. Hey.” This last is directed at Zolkov, who leans around me to greet the newcomer .
“You will hate it here,” he informs Remy Stone, making me laugh.
“Maybe,” Stone admits. “I hear the Canadian winters are hell.”
“Colder,” I mutter, and chance another peek at Stone. He’s smiling at me, teeth white against that sun-darkened skin. I return the smile and he takes it as impetus to keep the conversation going.
“Remy Stone,” he says, holding his hand out to me to shake and introducing himself as if we didn’t already know who got traded to us.
“Grayson Brody,” I reply, holding on to his hand just long enough to give it a firm shake before letting go. I can feel the eyes of the room on us, burning a hole into my back. I hook a thumb toward Z. “Andrei Zolkov.”
“Nice to meet you,” Stone says, and begins the process of suiting up.
I’m the first to finish changing and don’t linger in the locker room. Coach nods as I pass his office but offers no further greeting, nor do I stop and look for one. Pausing at the bench, I take a second to appreciate the pristine ice.
“Hey.”
I turn, surprised. Remy Stone, helmet tucked under his arm, stops next to me and tries to brush his bangs out of his eyes. Apparently, he’s angling for the second-fastest-dresser award. Again, I don’t stare at him too long. Everybody in the hockey world knows I’m gay, and the last thing I need is the newest member of the team taking offense where there isn’t any.
“Hey, man.” I take a step away from him, but he calls me back.
“Brody?” He waits for me to face him before he grins at me—crooked and a little bit sheepish. Also, adorable, but that is neither here nor there. “I, uh, didn’t get a lot of notice from management about being traded, so I didn’t have time to find a place to live. Petterson picked me up from the airport yesterday and mentioned that you might have a spare bedroom…”
He trails off uncertainly, either feeling awkward for asking something so personal or from the look on my face. Petterson is a dick. The only reason he’d offer up my house as a viable option for the newbie is because he wants access to low-hanging fruit when it comes to gay jokes.
“Or, not. No worries,” Stone says, trying to backtrack.
“I’ve got room if you need a place to stay,” I tell him, trying to match his casual tone, “but I’m gay, so if that’s going to be a problem, there are a couple dozen other people to ask.”
I nod toward the locker room to indicate where he might find some of those people and watch as he works through what I said.
“I don’t have a problem,” he responds slowly, as though he’s still trying to decide what he wants to say, “and I already knew that about you. That you’re…well, I follow NHL news and…sorry.” He laughs, crooked smile fixed back into place. “You kind of caught me off guard with that. If you don’t want another newbie on your couch, I can find something else. But if you don’t mind dealing with me, I’d really like to take advantage of your hospitality.”
“Bold of you to assume there is any hospitality to be had.”
“Please, your little Russian shadow lived with you his first year here. I follow NHL news, remember? I’ve watched all of your interviews and all of Zolkov’s, too. ”
“Is the stalker talk meant to convince me to let you move in?” I ask, returning his smile. His grows, and he steps toward me, tipping his head back to keep his eyes on mine as he thumps a hand against my chest guard.
“Yes,” he says, before stepping neatly around me and onto the ice. “Now come on, let’s warm up before the rest of them get out here.”
Snorting, I join him, watching as he skates a figure-eight pattern, slowly tightening the loops as he warms up. I’d known why they signed him—anybody who watched the All-Star Skills last season was impressed by his footwork—but seeing it in person makes me feel a stirring of excitement. He is fast and can turn so quickly it seems incredible he doesn’t lose an edge each time and wipe out. If I tried to mimic him, I’d embarrass myself.
“You skate like Troy,” I muse, and then mentally smack myself for saying it out loud. He coasts to a stop in front of me, far enough away that he doesn’t have to strain his neck to look me in the face. How tall is he? 5’11”? Shorter? Maybe I need to catch up on some NHL news, myself.
“Nichols? You guys played juniors together, right?”
“Right.”
“Cool. And you skate good.” He eyes me. “For a giant.”
The sound of our teammates joining us derails the conversation and I automatically skate backward to put more space between us. Stone’s eyebrows pinch together in a frown, but before he can say anything, he’s called over to the boards by Petterson. With one last look my way, he skates off. Zolkov joins me, fiddling with his glove and smirking.
“Z,” I warn, “don’t.”
He shrugs, but doesn’t say anything. Nor does he stop smirking .
“New guy is going to stay in your old room while he finds his feet,” I admit, and Zolkov nods sagely.
“Will be nice for you. Now you will not be so lonely.”
Sighing, I shake my head and skate away without responding. Behind me, he laughs softly. I skate all the way to the other end of the ice where Gordon, our first-string goaltender, is stretching out. Bending over so he can hear me over the voices of the rest of the team, I make the prerequisite small talk before diving into defensive strategy. Other than Zolkov, Gordon is my closest friend on the team. I couldn’t say whether that’s because he’s a tender and I’m his defensive shield, or if he doesn’t buy into the homophobic shit. Either way, I’m happy with the way things are between us and eager to keep them that way.
Practice ends and I fall into my usual routine of waiting out my teammates. I strip at a glacial pace and don’t enter the showers until most of them are done. Z, as always, waits for me—sprawled lazily on the bench seat in front of our stalls, towel barely covering him as he chats aimlessly to me about his latest girlfriend. By the time we finish showering, the locker room is empty but for Remy Stone sitting fully clothed in front of his locker.
“Fuck, Stone, sorry.” I pull my street clothes out and start getting dressed. “I should have given you my address so you could head out if you wanted.”
“No worries. I, uh, don’t actually have a car here, so…” He grins at me, the left side of his mouth higher than the right and blond hair an unruly mop on his head. It doesn’t look like it’s seen a brush in days .
“Oh, right, you said Petterson picked you up at the airport. You planning on going back to California, then, at some point? Or just getting a car here?”
“Well, I have a house there. Right on the beach—it’s fucking sick. Perfect morning waves.” He grins, staring off into the middle distance of the locker room as he thinks about the ocean. “I figure I’ll go back there over the summer and I’ll need a car. I’ll just get something for here at some point.”
He shrugs, unbothered by the fact that he came here with nothing but a duffel bag and no home or means of transportation. I suppose it’s something all of us have to think about at some time in our careers. It’s the unfortunate fact of professional sports. At any point you could be sent to another team, and you’ll be lucky to have enough time to make plans before you go. When I first came to Calgary, I lived in a hotel before someone took pity on me and offered me a spare room.
“You can ride in with me,” I offer, and he smiles—a flash of white teeth against tan skin.
“Right on,” he says, “thanks.”
“Right on,” Zolkov mimics from beside me, trying to copy Stone’s Californian drawl. I laugh and nudge him with my elbow.
“Z, I’m not sure you have a leg to stand on when it comes to making fun of the way people talk,” I tell him, slinging my bag over my shoulder and waiting for Stone to stand up. He’s still smiling slightly, amusement glinting in his eyes as he looks at Zolkov.
“English is stupid language,” Zolkov says dismissively, and follows Stone and me out the door. Stone doesn’t comment, unconcerned with our chirping .
“Z rode in with me today,” I explain, even though he hadn’t asked. He flashes his teeth at me again. “His car is in the shop. Again.”
“Maintenance?” Stone asks.
“I hit someone,” Zolkov answers morosely. Stone’s smile slips and he glances at me.
“Some thing . You hit something, Z, not someone.”
“Is same thing.”
“It’s really not,” I grouse, and Stone grins, looking delighted with our bickering. “He jumped a curb, popped two tires, and fucked up his rims after he drove home on the flats. Word of advice? Never get into a car with Z. Not if you value your life.”
“Noted,” Stone says, tossing his bag into the back of my SUV. He settles into the back seat, sliding into the middle so that he’s positioned between Zolkov and me. Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on his knees and looks out the windshield as we drive. “You guys know any cool clubs around here?”
Zolkov, immediately interested at the prospect of a wingman, turns to face him. “Yes, let me tell you.”
Focusing on driving, I tune them out. The kind of clubs they’ll be frequenting aren’t the kind I’d choose. If I’m going to troll for dates, I go to a gay bar. Although, as Z so kindly pointed out, it’s been a long time since I’ve done even that. At this point, I might as well be a celibate. I can’t even remember the last time someone touched me outside of hockey practice, and god knows those aren’t exactly satisfying encounters.
A hand on my shoulder startles me, and I glance up at the rearview mirror, locking eyes with Stone. Strange, seeing hazel eyes on somebody so blond , is my first thought.
“Brody?” he prompts, drawing my attention to the fact that I’d effectively checked out of the conversation a while ago.
“Yeah?”
“You want to come with us?” he asks, leaning forward a little farther. His hand is gone from my shoulder, and I definitely do not wish he was still touching me. Perhaps Z is right—I’m lonely enough that the platonic touch of a stranger is giving me ideas.
“Where? Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” I admit, and Zolkov snorts.
“Gray does not come to clubs with me, this is why I need you,” he tells Stone. I put the car in park and pop the trunk, waiting for Z to hop out of the passenger seat and Stone to take his place. As soon as I see Z’s face in the rearview, and he’s pulling his bag from the back, I call out to him.
“You need a ride tomorrow, too?”
“I will text,” he says, and raises a hand in farewell. I wait until he’s inside his house before reversing down his drive and pointing the car toward home. Stone, now sitting beside me in the shotgun seat, is staring out the window at the passing scenery.
“So, not into the club scene?” he asks minutes later, turning his head to watch me. I shrug, but don’t look away from the road.
“Nah. Not the kind of clubs Z is talking about, anyway. You should go, though. Have some fun. You moved here alone”—I glance at him—“so does that mean you’re single? Or is there somebody back in California?”
“Just me,” he answers quietly. “I…well, yeah, long story short, I’m single. ”
I nod, letting that go even though it sounds like there is much more to that story. “Me too.”
We lapse into a comfortable silence as he goes back to staring out the window. I eventually pull into my driveway and idle as the garage door opens; he leans forward in his seat to stare wide-eyed at the front of my house. Grinning, I bring it up before he does.
“It’s crooked,” I tell him, and laugh when he gives a relieved sigh.
“Dude, I thought I was losing it for a second. You sure it’s safe for us to be in here?” he jokes, but doesn’t wait for me to answer before he hops out of the car and goes to grab his bag from the trunk. He pulls mine out as well, waiting as I slam the trunk and close the garage door. I reach a hand out for mine, but he steps away.
“No worries, I’ve got it,” he says easily.
I show him inside and watch in amusement as he immediately kicks off his shoes. His socks are mismatched, and one has a hole in the toe.
“You can drop my shit there. I’ll show you your room first so that you can put your stuff down.”
He follows me around the corner and down a short hallway. Opening the door and flicking on the light, I step aside for him to pass and then tuck my hands into my pockets as I wait in the hall. He stops in the middle of the bedroom, lays his bag gently on the floor, and surveys the room with hands on his hips.
“Bathroom is here across the hall,” I tell him, pointing to the closed door behind me when he turns at the sound of my voice. “I’m sorry the room is so small. You’re free to spread out to the rest of the house, though, and any guests I have over can use my bathroom so that you don’t have to share. ”
“This is perfect,” he says emphatically. “I don’t need much beyond a bed”—he pauses to think before grinning at me—“and a kitchen.”
“Follow me.”
The rest of the tour takes all of five minutes. My house—along with the crooked walls—is small. When Zolkov first moved in, he likened it to a dollhouse, although that might have had more to do with my size than the house. Regardless, it’s just big enough for two people to live together, if they don’t mind bumping into each other in the kitchen and hallways.
“This is wild,” Stone says, running a hand along one of the more obviously crooked doorframes. He tries to pull the door closed and it sticks. Delighted, he grins at it and tries again.
“Yeah, I’m not sure how it passed inspection with the builders but”—I shrug, watching as he continues to play with the door—“I like it.”
“Me too,” he agrees.
“Both your bedroom and bathroom have working doors. And locks,” I add, but he’s already shrugging.
“Whatever. Hey, you should call me Remy, by the way. My teammates always call me Stone or Stoney, but nobody else does. I’m just Remy.”
I return his grin easily. “All right, just Remy. I’m just Grayson. Or Gray.”
He holds his hand out to shake mine, as though we haven’t already been introduced and spent half the day together. Adopting a serious expression, he gives my hand a firm shake.
“Nice to meet you, Grayson.”
I laugh, and he lets go of my hand. I’ve never, in my life, touched a man with hands that soft. Maybe it has to do with all the saltwater.
“Do you mind if I change and go for a jog? I want to get a lay of the land,” he says, nodding toward the window behind the kitchen sink.
“No, of course not. I’ll be here. I was going to grill burgers for dinner. Are you in? Or I can make you whatever. Or you can make your own.” Or, Gray, you can shut the fuck up. Just because he’s pretty doesn’t mean you need to act stupid.
“Burgers sound great, thank you!” His eyes light up and both sides of his mouth participate in the smile this time. “I’ll handle the cleanup. Full disclosure, I am a terrible fucking cook. Like…I can’t even think of a good metaphor to explain how bad I am. Bottom line is: don’t ingest anything I prepared.”
“Noted. In contrast, I’m an excellent cook. I’ve lived alone pretty much my entire life, so I’ve learned a few things.”
“I am so glad I live here.” He sighs, making me laugh again. Pretty and funny, so that’s great for me. Fuck my life.
“Enjoy your run,” I tell him, and leave him to change even though I’d like to stay and see how much real estate that tan has.
My phone chimes with a text as I’m putting together the burgers. Leaning over, I stare at the message from Zolkov, confused. It’s an app, but I can’t tell what it’s for and Z’s message doesn’t help: so u not lonely. Curious, I wash my hands and pick up my phone. Thirty seconds later, I’m less confused and more annoyed.
Grayson
I don’t need a dating app.
A. Zolkov
for sex
Grayson
I don’t need that either.
A. Zolkov
is gay men sex app
Grayson
Yes, Z, I know what it is.
A. Zolkov
use this picture
“Oh, for the love of…” I mutter as Z sends a picture somebody took of the pair of us in the locker room hallway. We’re in nothing but our underwear; there is a lot of skin on display.
Grayson
I can’t use that. Everybody in fucking Canada knows who we are, and it doesn’t matter because I’m not making a profile, anyway.
A. Zolkov
like this
Sighing, I close my eyes and rest my hand over my face. Z edited the picture so that he’s cut out and my head cut off. It’s nothing but a picture of my chest, abs, and thighs, at this point.
A. Zolkov
I will help u
Grayson
Jesus fucking Christ, no. All right, I’ll set it up. Leave me alone, I’m making dinner.
A. Zolkov
can get laid after dinner
I consider blocking his number for the evening, but compromise by locking it and putting it facedown on the counter. Unfortunately, Z did exactly what he set out to accomplish—now I can’t stop thinking about dating apps or getting laid. It has been a ridiculously long and embarrassing time since I’ve been out with another guy, let alone had one in my bed. Maybe I should set up a profile. It couldn’t hurt, and it’s not like I have to worry about running into any of my teammates on there. I could make it as anonymous as possible—not talk about hockey and use a pseudonym.
Drumming my fingers on the counter, I look down at my phone. You could always set it up and delete it if you don’t like it, I reason with myself. You don’t have to go through with anything if you don’t want to .
I wait until the burgers are sitting on the grill before I download the app and start setting up a profile. Even though I’m only twenty-nine years old, I sometimes feel ancient to some of the younger players. This is one of those things that makes me feel that way. Dating apps are just so impersonal and shallow. I feel as though I’m signing myself up for a meat market. Which, I suppose, in a way I am: 6’7”, 252 pounds, come and get it if you want some.
“Christ, this is so stupid,” I mutter, as I set the picture Z sent me as the profile picture. Flipping the burgers, I pause over my name. I can’t put Grayson, obviously, since it’s not exactly a common name here and my goal is to be as anonymous as possible. Brody seems safe, since only my teammates call me that and the odds of them finding my profile are laughably slim. I type it in before I can second-guess myself, post the profile, and immediately shut the app down.
I hear the front door open and Remy calls out to me that he’s home from his run. In my pocket, my phone vibrates through several notifications, and despite telling myself how uninterested I am, my fingers itch to pull it out and check. Before I can, the back screen door slides opens and Remy’s sweaty head pokes out. He grins, eyes flicking between me and the smoking grill.
“How was the run?” I ask him.
“Good! Nice night for it. How much time do I have?” He nods toward the grill.
“Not long. Eat sweaty,” I advise, and he laughs.
Stepping out onto my patio, he comes close enough that I can smell him over the burgers. My phone buzzes through another notification, but I ignore it in favor of Remy. Nobody on a dating app will be half as good, anyway.