Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
DIEGO
With one hand casually down my shorts, absently resting on my soft cock, I sink lazily into my couch, using the other hand to doom scroll while something I’m not paying attention to plays on the TV.
Slapshot snores noisily at my feet, lying on his back with his stubby legs in the air, his paws twitching with whatever dream he’s having.
Callan didn’t have time for a training session today, but after I signed up for a membership, I stayed for a long workout.
The pleasant soreness in my muscles is comforting after too many months of having to “take it easy.” Ugh, if I never hear that fucking phrase again it’ll be too soon.
I shift and flex in my seat every so often though, just to double check that my hip doesn’t feel any more sore than it’s supposed to.
With the bulk of my exercise restrictions lifted, my physical therapist just keeps telling me to listen to my body to know if I’m overdoing it, but I don’t have the first fucking clue what that even means.
For as long as I can remember I’ve had coaches telling me shit like “pain is weakness leaving the body” and to push through it, but it turns out that’s terrible goddamn advice when you’re rehabbing after surgery.
My phone buzzes with a message and I grunt under my breath as I click on the notification.
Lavoie: How was the gym? Did the trainer work you hard?
The text includes an eggplant and a laughing face emoji, just in case I could have thought for one second that sending me to a gay gym was a mistake instead of a dumb-ass prank. Callan’s words from earlier echo in my head.
What’s the joke?
I’m still not sure exactly how to answer that.
Was the prank, like, homophobic or something?
Or was it just stupid? I scratch my balls and think harder about that question than I’ve bothered thinking about most things.
I don’t think I’m homophobic. I mean, sure, I’ve thrown around the word “gay” in the locker room from time to time when a teammate was being a little bitch about something, but I’ve never gay bashed anyone or anything like that.
I pull my hand out of my shorts and start to type a response to tell him that the gym was great actually and I signed up with a trainer.
I stop halfway through typing and backtrack though.
After everything that’s gone down lately, the last thing I need is for him to take it the wrong way and start running his mouth to everybody that Crystal cheating on me gave me a jones for dick.
I respond with a middle finger emoji instead and leave it at that. Why does it matter where I’m working out anyway? All that matters is that I’m ready for opening day of the season on October seventh.
I’m about to toss my phone down when it buzzes again. I roll my eyes and prepare to tell Lavoie to go to Sweat himself if he’s so hard for the idea of a gay gym. But the new text isn’t from him.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Hey, it’s Callan. I got your number from your form, hope that’s ok.
DIEGO: No worries. What’s up?
CALLAN: Just wanted to let you know that my 8am training for tomorrow morning canceled if you wanted to come in early.
DIEGO: Hell yeah, I’ll be there.
CALLAN: Cool. Wasn’t sure if you were going to decide there was way too much gay to deal with once you left and had time to think about it.
DIEGO: Dude, why are you so convinced I’m some kind of homophobe? It tripped me up for a second because I wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.
CALLAN: If we hadn’t met at the bar and gotten along the other day, would you have stayed today to hear me out?
I frown at his text and sink a little lower in my seat, propping my feet up on the coffee table as I consider it. Would I? I want to say yes, but I don’t know for sure. Not because I have a problem with gay people though. It’s just awkward to be someplace you don’t belong.
The wheels in my brain turn slowly and I don’t know why this didn’t click earlier, but the pieces fall into place now with the realization that Callan is probably gay.
He would have to be to work at a gay gym, right?
No straight guy takes a job at a gay gym, unless maybe they were too dumb to realize it was a gay gym at first. But you’d have to be pretty dumb for that.
I can’t ask him though, can I? Does it matter?
I wrestle with the question for a second until I ultimately decide it doesn’t.
If he can get me in game shape, then I couldn’t give less of a fuck who or what he does with his personal time.
I guess I am curious if he goes for other muscled up, sports-loving dudes.
Or is he more into the colorful, petite type of gay guys?
I probably can’t ask him that either though.
CALLAN: ?
Oh, right, he asked me something. Would I have stayed to hear him out if we hadn’t met before?
DIEGO: I don’t know man. I swear I’m cool though. And if I say something dumb or act like an idiot about the gay stuff, just kick my ass until I figure it out. Alright?
CALLAN: Don’t think I won’t.
DIEGO: I’m counting on it.
The message shows as read, and he doesn’t respond again right away. Are we done talking? I guess he texted me to tell me about the time change tomorrow, so now that’s taken care of, there’s nothing left to say. So why do I feel the tiniest bit bummed?
It’s probably a sign that talking to my dog and bitching at my teammates isn’t quite scratching the socializing itch like it should. I fucking hate words like “lonely.” They sound so damn needy. But I could seriously go for some bro time.
Fuck it. I type out another text.
DIEGO: So, what do you do when you’re not pissing off Cubs fans or organizing the gay orgy at the gym?
CALLAN: Those take up a hell of a lot of my time. But tonight, I’m relaxing with a beer, watching my friends make idiots out of themselves on the dance floor at Crossing Swords.
I’ve never heard of the place, but I’m assuming it’s a gay bar.
My heart sinks just a little and I laugh at myself.
What was I hoping for? That he’d tell me to come by his place for a cold one and a late-night viewing of Rambo?
I mean, that would be dope as fuck, but I don’t even know what the client-trainer relationship is supposed to look like, so that would probably be a lot to ask.
I don’t know why, but I snap a quick picture of my feet up on the coffee table and the soccer game that happened to just be starting on the TV.
DIEGO: Exciting night around here too.
CALLAN: Lol, looks like it.
CALLAN: Rest up because I’m not going to go easy on you in the morning.
I guess that’s his way of telling me to fuck off, stop bugging him, and let him cruise for a hookup. I sigh and toss my phone onto the cushion next to me. Tomorrow I’m going to stop feeling like such a pathetic loser and remember the confident, borderline cocky Diego I’ve always been.
CALLAN
“Dude, you are not seriously sitting at the bar texting when there is a sea of horny men dancing half-naked all around you,” Fender says, sidling up next to me at the bar and waving down the bartender, Tony, for another drink.
“I’m putting it away.” I shove my phone into my pocket and hold my hands up to show him that I’m unarmed. “I just wanted to get my eight a.m. squared away.”
“So, you were texting that fine-ass hockey player?” Fender waggles his eyebrows. “I can’t believe no one came to get me so I could ogle him in person. I was back there in the boxing gym, kicking the shit out of my punching bag and missing all the good shit going on up front.”
“He’s straight.” I bristle a little and take a sip of my beer.
Fender shrugs. “I said ‘ogle’ not ‘fuck.’ Looking doesn’t hurt anybody.”
I grumble under my breath, but I guess I can’t argue with that considering I’ve happily enjoyed an eyeful or two of Diego already, and I’m sure they won’t be the last if I’m going to be training him for the next three months. I’d really rather Fender keep his eyes to himself though.
“Just leave him alone when he comes in tomorrow, okay?”
“Feeling a little territorial?” he teases, taking the drink Tony slides across the bar and blowing the man a kiss before reaching over the bar top and stuffing some cash into his back pocket before he can walk off.
Fender tilts his head a little to enjoy the view of Tony’s tight ass for a few seconds as he hustles away to help the next customer.
I ignore his taunting and wave after Tony.
“Don’t let me hold you up, Fends. If you’re hoping to take the bartender home later, you probably want to lock that down before someone else does.”
He shakes his head and takes a sip of his drink. “Nah, we hooked up a couple months ago. You know me—I don’t do repeats.”
I snort a laugh into my beer. I know Fender’s policy well, but that doesn’t make it any more logical from where I’m sitting.
“I don’t get it. You spend most of your free time writing those crazy, horny stories about guys falling in love, but then you come up with all these weird-ass rules for your own sex life.”
“The rules make perfect sense. They’re based on all of the pitfalls I’ve learned about from writing all the ‘crazy, horny’ stories: If you start hooking up casually, you’re bound to fall in love.
Never hook up with a stranger before starting a new job or they’ll inevitably work there.
If you run into your former high school bully, definitely don’t fuck them…
” He ticks off his rules on his fingers as he lists them until I hold up a hand to stop him.
“I’ve heard your rules,” I assure him. “What do the fanfic gods say about rooming with your bisexual coworker’s gay brother?”
“Well, now that you’ve mocked me, I’m not going to tell you.” He lets out a little huff. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. AJ told me yesterday that Logan canceled the move for now and got back together with his boyfriend. We’ll see how long that lasts.”
“Bummer. You going to be okay living all alone?” I know we all make enough to afford it, even with the price of rent in the city, but I got the feeling that Fender wanted a roommate more for the company than anything else after Butch kicked him out so he could move in with his boyfriend.
“I’ll soldier through.” He turns around to lean against the bar and scan the crowded dance floor behind me. “I’ll just need to keep a steady rotation going so the silence doesn’t get to me.”
“If you stick to your no-repeats rule, you’ll have fucked every gay, bi, and curious dude in Chicago by Christmas.”
Fender smirks. “Sounds like a goal to me.”
I chuckle and shake my head as he pats my shoulder and slinks off to find some company for the night.
I pick up my beer and swivel in my seat to face the dance floor too.
Normally, I would be right behind him, but I’m not really feeling it tonight.
Crazy as it sounds, I’m more focused on mentally planning the workout I’m going to put Diego through tomorrow.
In fact, maybe I should finish my drink and get an early night.
It’s not like any of the guys are going to miss me.
AJ and Slater are making out on the dance floor, I don’t see Butch or Percy anymore, so I’m assuming they already went home to get naked and lick the sweat off of each other, and Silas is grinding up on some guy who’s actually taller than he is, so he’s all set.
I gulp down the last of my beer, wipe the back of my hand across my mouth, and slide off my stool.
Sure, sex is cool and all, but I’m about to save Diego’s hockey career, and damn if a power trip like that doesn’t get me a hell of a lot harder.