Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Grayson
Sitting on my bed, back against the headboard and legs stretched out in front of me, I stare down at my phone and try to think of something I can tell him that isn’t humiliating. I actually kind of like this guy, and though I still have my reservations about meeting up with a stranger I met on an app, I’m definitely enjoying talking to him. I wasn’t lying when I told him that I wanted to message him after work today. Embarrassingly, the first person I thought of, after scoring tonight, was him.
Pulling up his profile picture, I stare at his stomach and reach for inspiration. I’ve definitely got a type as far as men are concerned, and Ree has—so far—checked all of the boxes. Probably too good to be true , I warn myself sternly, don’t get attached to an internet stranger. Unfortunately, staring at Ree’s hairless, chiseled abdomen has given me nothing in the way of dirty secrets I could share. Given me a few ideas of dirty things I’d like to do , though .
Tapping a finger against the corner of my phone, I decide I can be honest with him since he was honest with me.
Brody
Well, I’m not sure if this qualifies as a dirty secret, or if it’s more of a humiliating one. I’m in the midst of a two-year dry spell.
Ree
How??
Brody
Disinterest. Time. Work. A lot of reasons, I guess. No connection with anyone and I’m not usually a casual-sex guy.
Ree
Disinterest?? Listen, I thought I was straight as a fucking arrow until I stumbled upon your profile. You’re so hot you’re recruiting for the other team.
I laugh into the silence of my empty bedroom, shaking my head and grinning at my phone. I’m glad he’s making jokes. Whether it was his intention or not, I feel less embarrassed than I did a few moments ago.
Brody
My job makes it hard to meet people, sometimes.
Ree
I notice you didn’t put your job title in your bio.
Brody
I noticed the same thing about you.
He doesn’t respond right away, and I wonder if he’s trying to find a way to sidestep the job talk. I shouldn’t have even brought it up since there is no way in hell I’ll be telling him I play for the NHL. There’s a slim chance he won’t recognize me if we do end up meeting in person, but not a chance I’d put money on. Canada is a hockey country, and being an out gay player has only made me more recognizable. I can’t even walk through a grocery store without somebody gawking at me these days.
Ree
Yeah, I’m probably going to play the job thing a little close to the chest. At least for now, sorry.
Brody
Same.
Ree
Kinda a bummer though, because now I don’t get to hear about what made your day at work so good.
Brody
Haha eh, nothing that special. Just connected well with a coworker and got to do something I don’t usually get to do. My boss has been leaning on me pretty hard recently, and narrowing my scope of practice. Today was different, and it felt good.
Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I read through what I wrote and check it for slip-ups. It seems fine. It seems like I’m talking about any old nine-to-five, and not a hockey player ragging on his coaching staff. I almost laugh out loud when I reread “narrowing my scope of practice.” Accurate, if by narrowing I mean completely cutting me off at the knees. I’d tried giving Coach the benefit of the doubt after I came out to the league, thinking maybe he was just playing me less until the media storm backed off.
But now, several years later, I’m still playing on the third line and have half the amount of ice time that I used to get. My teammates don’t pass me the puck if they can get it to anybody else, and nobody has my back in a scrum. It’s a good thing I don’t pay attention to my own press—I can only imagine the field day the media has been having with my plummeting stats. Over the summer I’d told my agent I was open to a trade, but if I ever did leave Calgary, I doubt I’d be able to sign with a new team for even half of what I’m worth.
Annoyed now, I lock my phone and scrub my hands over my face. I meant what I’d said to Remy, earlier. I’m so fucking tired of this. I just want to play hockey. Unfortunately, I’m starting to wonder if I’ll be allowed even that if I stay here. My phone buzzes, but I give myself a few more moments to compose myself before I check it. Perhaps part of the problem these past two years has been me—hockey, once a safe space for me, has become so fraught with anxiety that it’s seeping into my normal life as well. No wonder nobody sticks around to date me.
Ree
I actually just started a new job. Not sure it’s going to be for me. Only one good guy in the bunch, as far as I can tell.
Brody
Shit, you started a new job right after getting a divorce?
Ree
It’s been a fun couple of months.
Brody
I’ll say.
The house is so silent, one would think I was alone. I listen hard for a moment, but Remy is either moving around stealthily or not moving at all. I feel like I owe him an apology. I shouldn’t have said anything about the team and just let him figure it out for himself. Now, if he has a hard time fitting in here, I’m going to wonder if that’s because I colored his opinion about the team. It’s not fair of me to project my own issues on someone just because he’s living with me.
Ree
So, wanna send each other dick pics?
I burst out laughing. I don’t know what this guy’s face looks like, but the picture in my head has him smiling—a devilish smile to go with the sense of humor, and a healthy mop of blond hair because, sue me, I have a preference.
Brody
Sure. Kinda seems like I’m at an unfair advantage though. I’ll actually like your dick pic, but you—recently divorced straight man—will probably not get too excited over mine.
Ree
Woooow, ye of little faith! Let me ask you this: are you really 6’7”?
Brody
I think I’m just over that, but, yeah.
Ree
Yeah, I’m for sure going to need the dick pic. Hard, obviously. Want me to go first ?
He doesn’t even wait for a reply before a picture comes through. Eyeing my closed bedroom door, I slip off my pants and underwear, sliding down to a more comfortable prone position. Wrapping the fingers on my left hand loosely around myself, I click open his picture. Immediately, my mouth goes a little dry and I have to swallow, working my hand a little faster on my already hard dick.
Ree is definitely a blond based on the smattering of well-trimmed pubic hair around his base. Long and lean, cut, and with a prominent head that I long to wrap my mouth around. His fingers are in the picture, splayed gently around his base as though he was playing with his balls before taking the picture. Somehow, it’s the sight of those long, thin, tanned fingers that send my system into overdrive. Closing the app, I open my camera and take a picture of myself to send him before I blow it and come.
Trying not to think too hard about sending a raunchy picture to a stranger on the internet, I do a quick scan of the photo to make sure there aren’t any incriminating items in the background or on my body. It’s not like I’ve got my jersey number tattooed on my groin, but the picture still makes me nervous. Deciding it’s fine, I send it and reopen the one Ree sent me as I reach my other hand toward my bedside table for some lube.
It’s quick and dirty, and somehow feels better than any other time I’ve jacked off these past couple of years. Fingers still wrapped loosely around myself, I stroke idly as I close the picture and return to the chat. There aren’t any new messages from Ree, just our pair of dick pics floating out there in cyberspace. Locking my phone, I get up to clean myself off in the bathroom.
When I get back to the bedroom, there is a single message waiting for me from Ree: Apparently, I’m not as straight as I thought I was.
Coach reads the lineup for tonight’s game against Texas. Gritting my teeth, I listen as my name is called for the fourth line. I’ll be paired up with a rookie and eighteenth round draft pick from Kansas. He looks thrilled, and I try to return the smile he sends my way even though my jaw is clenched in anger. It’s early in the season, they’re going to throw random shit at the wall and see what sticks. Across from me, Remy is frowning even though he’s been bumped up from second to first.
The moment Coach leaves, talk picks up as everyone gets excited for the game. Standing, I try to shake out some of the tension knotting my shoulders and to school my features into something less than pissed off. Beside me Zolkov is muttering to himself in Russian, which is a sure sign he’s not happy, either.
“Let it go, Z,” I warn, not wanting him to be distracted by my shit when he’s got a game to worry about.
“Yes, let it go. Because first round draft pick and best defenseman on team should play least amount of time, yes?” he says, rounding on me.
“They put me with a rookie, maybe they’re just?—"
“No,” he cuts me off, shaking his head. “They are trying to freeze you out, and now we shall lose games in the process. Watch. You will see.”
He devolves back into Russian, and scowls at anyone else who tries to lure him into conversation. When we head out to warm up, Gordon, our starting goalie, gives me a light tap with his stick before taking his place in the crease. I avoid Remy as much as I can, not wanting to see or hear any I told you so’s tonight.
As expected, the line shake-up is an unmitigated disaster. My rookie is weak on the backcheck and loses turnover opportunities that might have ended in scoring chances for us, had we been able to clear the puck to our offensive zone. As it is, I spend the majority of the night playing both strong side and weak side defense, essentially doing my level best to do the work of two defensemen.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, sitting down next to me on the bench as we rest after our shift. “I don’t usually play D-line.”
I squirt a stream of water over my face and down the back of my neck. My legs are on fire and we’re only halfway through the second period. “It’s all right, you’re doing fine,” I lie, and he smiles weakly. “You’ve got to back Gordon up, though, when you’re on the weak side. He can’t cover the net alone.”
“Yeah, sorry. I played forward, mostly, in college. I’m still trying to reroute my brain to defense. All I can think about is cutting off the fucking passing lanes.”
“Leave that to the wingers,” I advise, and he nods. Poor kid clearly wishes he was one of the wingers. I nudge him with my shoulder. “You’re doing fine. We’ll get it.”
He grimaces, which is a sentiment I understand. On the ice, Remy slides up and bends to take a face-off. He wins, backhanding the puck through his open legs and onto Zolkov’s blade. He fires a shot that rings off the crossbar and deflects to the opposite side. Chewing on my mouthguard in agitation, I watch as the opposing team is able to travel coast-to-coast and score yet another goal.
Zolkov’s line is my fucking line. I can read him like a book and would have been there to cover the rebound on his shot. We sure as shit wouldn’t have turned over the puck in the offensive zone and then let them score a fucking goal. Fuming, I count down from a hundred in my head, waiting to be sent over for my shift. I want to hit somebody.
It never comes. Instead of rotating through the lines, Coach puts the top line back out after three comes off, changing the forward pairs in the process. Everyone looks confused, but nobody says anything—why would they, when I’m the one whose ice time is being reduced. By the time the game ends, we’ve lost by a humiliating margin of five points and looked like an entire team of rookies. It’s just one game, it’s just one game, it’s just the one game, I chant, trying to say it to myself enough so that eventually I’ll believe it.
I’m barely aware of the bus ride to the airstrip, or sitting down in a random window seat. I don’t have to worry about somebody unwanted sitting next to me since the only friend I have on the team is Zolkov. Turning my face toward the window, I wait for him to board the plane. When I feel a body hit the seat and an arm brush mine, I look over. It’s Remy, not Z.
He’s not looking at me, but has his head tipped backward against the headrest and eyes closed as though he’s already fallen asleep. His hands are resting loose in his lap and one might think he’s relaxed if they couldn’t see the way a muscle is pulsing in his jaw. Zolkov boards the plane and narrows his eyes when he sees Remy seated next to me. Before he can pick a fight, I shake my head and shrug, trying to nonverbally convey that he doesn’t need to come to my rescue.
Remy waits until the plane takes off and levels out before he speaks to me, voice pitched low as though he doesn’t want to be overheard.
“So, that was a clusterfuck.”
I nearly laugh even though he sounds as dejected as I feel. Peeking over my shoulder I ascertain that Romero, my line partner for the evening, isn’t within hearing distance. I don’t want to make him feel worse than he likely already is.
“Romero hasn’t played D since college,” I tell Remy softly. He makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat.
“We have enough D-men to cover the line,” he says. “There is no reason to play a kid they signed as a winger in that position, unless we were short defensemen.”
“I know.”
“You played twelve minutes of that game, Grayson. Twelve . What the fuck? That was…I don’t know, self-sabotage or something. It’s like they wanted to lose.”
“I know,” I repeat, and sigh, trying to ignore the sick feeling in my gut. He’s right, but he’s also wrong. It’s not the team they’re trying to sabotage, but me. They want me gone.
“Bullshit,” he mumbles, more to himself than to me.
“It’s just one game,” I say, starting to sound like a broken record. “Maybe this was just a fluke. It’s early in the season.”
“Hopefully. They need you and Zolkov together. You guys have that freaky, fucking mind-meld thing going on.” I laugh and he grins at me. “And you need to take more chances on net. Put that big body to use.”
Huffing a laugh, I shake my head and stretch my legs out as much as I can. “What is it with you and wanting me to score goals?”
He turns in his seat, a challenging glint in his eye. “Your rookie year you had twenty-one goals and sixty-nine assists; you won the Calder Trophy. Calgary signed you for one before extending that to eight after your first year on the team. Last season you only scored four goals, and had thirty-eight assists.”
“I remember,” I say, a little peevishly. His lips twitch.
“You lit the league up your rookie year. You and Troy Nichols, skating circles around the rest of us. God help us all if the pair of you were ever signed to the same team.”
“What I wouldn’t give,” I mumble.
“You, me, and Zolkov. Let’s get this team back to the way it used to be. I don’t want to play for a team that shoots itself in the foot, because they have a personal beef with one of the players. Let’s show them that they’re wrong. Let’s show them that you can be the best D-man in the league and suck dick at the same time.”
“Remy,” I say, eyebrows raised and tone serious, “you are an inspiration to the masses.”
“Shut up.” He rolls his eyes, flopping backward against the seat and tipping his head back. “You know what I meant.”
“Yeah,” I say, no longer joking, “I know what you meant. And that sounds great to me, but what are the odds of them putting the three of us together?”
“I’d say pretty good, unless they want to finish bottom of the league and be fired by management,” Remy deadpans.
“True,” I agree, thinking of the few times I’ve met Ryan Todrick, our GM. No nonsense and unafraid to make changes—there is a reason Calgary was historically ranked as one of the top teams in the league. Anything less would have him breathing down the coaching staff’s necks and ready to make cuts. I relax a little into my seat. “You’re right.”
“So, let’s fuck shit up at practice, you and me. You’re going to have a record season.” He holds his fist out for me to tap my knuckles against.
“We,” I correct, bumping my fist against his. “We’re going to have a record season.”