Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CALLAN
The careful sound of shuffling footsteps and the quiet rustle of clothes pulls me gently out of a pleasant dream.
It takes another few seconds for enough of my brain cells to come online and my eyes to unblur for me to be able to tell what’s actually happening.
In the dim morning light, Diego is standing with his back to me, still not wearing anything except for the same pair of socks he left on last night.
I’m distracted enough by the sight of his bare ass that it doesn’t register right away that he’s rummaging through the top drawer of my dresser.
“Looking for something?” I ask, my voice hoarse from sleep.
He startles, his soft cock slapping comically against one thigh, then the other as he whips around to face me.
“Shit, I thought you were still asleep,” he whispers.
“So you were planning to raid my clothes then take off without waking me?” I tease, sitting up and letting the sheets pool around my thighs.
There’s a satisfying twinge in my well-used ass and some dried cum crusted in the hair on my belly. I definitely need a shower and to throw my sheets in the wash, but both those things feel a lot less important than figuring out if Diego is finally having his long-overdue Big Queer Crisis.
“No,” he scoffs. “You ripped my shirt and putting dirty underwear back on skeeves me out. I was just going to borrow a couple of things so I could get back home to feed Slapshot.”
“How is that different from what I just said?”
“You implied that I was stealing shit and sneaking out, but my motives are a lot less shady than that.”
I notice that he’s got one of my jockstraps in one hand and a Brewers t-shirt in the other. I give him a go-ahead gesture so he knows he’s free to borrow them if he wants. Diego grimaces.
“I was looking to see if you had any briefs or a t-shirt for a team that isn’t dog shit.”
I bark out a laugh. “What’s the thing they say about choosing beggars?” I fling the sheets off and climb out of bed. “I only wear jocks, so you’re outta luck on that one. I could give you a different shirt, but should I?”
I saunter over to my dresser and nudge him out of the way so I can open the second drawer.
Is the feeling of his eyes raking over my naked body wishful thinking or did his post-nut revelation last night actually stick?
I rummage through the stack of folded t-shirts until I find the one I’m looking for near the bottom.
It’s one that was selling as unlicensed, fan-made merch a few years back after Diego gave a memorable pre-game interview that went viral for about a week.
It has his number on it and the quote he gave the interviewer: “We’re here to eat their asses. ”
I unfurl it and he stares at it for a few beats before howling with laughter.
“You do not fucking have that shirt.” He snatches it out of my hand to get a better look. “Do you know how long it took before people stopped wearing these to our games? The guys still tease me about that flub.”
“It was classic.” I chuckle.
“I meant to say beat.”
“I know, but this was so much funnier.”
I reach for the shirt to take it back, but he yanks it away, then tugs it over his head. He steps into the jock next. When he picks his shorts up off the floor and starts to pull them on, it hits me that he’s actually getting ready to leave.
“Let me make you breakfast,” I rush to offer.
Diego rakes his fingers through his hair to tame the bed head, and indecision flickers on his face.
“Slapshot’s been alone all night,” he says, but there’s no conviction behind his words.
He’s offering me an excuse, but he’s hoping I’ll give him a reason to stay instead.
Maybe it would be better to let him go, to get a little distance this morning so I can remind myself what this is and why I shouldn’t be so eager to play house and make him breakfast.
But I swear there’s the tiniest bit of pleading in his eyes, begging me to stop him from running away.
“I’ll scramble some eggs, then we can swing by your place together to feed Slapshot and take him for a walk before we go to Sweat for your morning session.”
He cards his fingers through his hair again, hesitates for a fraction of a second, then nods. “Yeah, alright.”
“Cool. Let me hop in the shower quick.”
I’m tempted to invite him to join me, but I bite my tongue and tell him to make himself at home before I head into the bathroom alone.
Just because he’s not straight doesn’t make him my boyfriend, and I definitely need a few minutes alone to remind myself of that.
I’ve fallen into this trap before, too many damn times with too many guys, and I’m not going to do it again.
As much as I’d like to spend an hour under the hot spray of water, replaying every second of last night over and over while simultaneously trying to convince myself not to fall any harder for Diego, I hurry through my shower.
By the time I’ve dried off and pulled on clothes I’ll be able to wear to Sweat later, I can smell coffee and the distinct scent of cooked eggs.
“You said to make myself at home,” Diego explains when I step into the small kitchen to find him scooping scrambled eggs onto two plates, along with a couple of slices of buttered toast.
“I meant help yourself to the TV.”
“Oops,” he deadpans, then smirks as he hands me one of the plates. “I wasn’t sure how you take your coffee.”
“Black is fine. I can get it though.”
He waves me off and pours coffee into two mugs, handing me one just like he did with the plate.
“Thanks,” I grunt, and we both sit down on the stools next to the island to eat. “Sorry, my place is a lot smaller than yours. No fancy dining room or anything.”
He rolls his eyes. “Dude, every time you’ve eaten at my place, it’s been in front of the TV. Don’t try to act like I’m bougie or some shit just because I get paid a stupid amount of money to slam into other guys on skates.”
Dude. Am I going to be able to hear that word out of his mouth ever again without remembering the breathless, horny way he said it when he was buried balls deep inside me? I’m not even sure I heard the rest of whatever he said after that, so I just nod.
He digs into his eggs, and I watch him for a minute.
He seems totally relaxed; happy, even. If he’s having any kind of existential crisis about his sexuality, it doesn’t show.
Maybe the right thing to do is to leave him alone to work it out, not pester him first thing in the morning about something he might have blurted out unintentionally when his dick was still inside me, but I’m not sure if I can.
“Why are you staring at me?” he asks through a mouthful of eggs.
I clear my throat and take a sip of coffee. “Just wondering if you want to talk about last night.”
He takes another bite of his food and chews it slowly while looking at me. When he swallows, the corners of his lips twitch with a smirk.
“You want to post-game the sex or are you trying to ask about that whole ‘I don’t think I’m straight’ thing?”
I give him a pointed look to let him know that we both know he’s being a smartass before shrugging and taking a bite of my own eggs.
“Whatever you want. I just thought I’d open the door to anything that might need more discussion than post-nut blurting allowed.”
He snorts. “I don’t know, man. I’m not sure what else there is to say. I guess maybe I’m bi? AJ and Slater listed off a whole bunch of words I’ve never heard before though, so maybe I can look into those. All I know is that I haven’t been into a guy before, but…”
My pulse skips a beat, but I try not to let it show on my face, doing my best to play it cool.
“Are you trying to say you’re into me?” The teasing in my tone keeps it from feeling like a heavy question, even though my stomach is tying itself in knots as I wait for his answer.
Diego’s lips twitch again and he looks down at his plate with another weak shrug.
“I’m attracted to you,” he mumbles. “I tried to chalk it up to my long dry spell and being lonely, but you’re not just a convenient mouth or whatever, Cal.”
My throat tightens and an unexpected feeling wells up in my chest. I clear my throat a few times, then settle for nodding when I realize that I’m not going to be able to say anything without sounding too damn emotional about it.
It’s not a declaration of love or anything, it’s not even a confession of a crush, but it’s more than I was expecting.
DIEGO
I’m glad Callan doesn’t press me for anything more concrete than that, because that’s about as far as I’ve worked things out in my head at this point.
Can you be bisexual if you’ve only ever been interested in one guy?
Fuck if I know. I’m not even sure it matters when my career needs to come first right now anyway.
And maybe what happened with my ex was just proof that relationships don’t mix well with a pro-hockey travel schedule, no matter what your sexuality is.
“Maybe you were right when you told me not to overthink it,” I say before shoveling the last bite of eggs into my mouth.
“What does it matter if I’m bi or pansexual or whatever else?
I’ve still got at least five to ten years of good hockey left in me, and I’m not sure I want to be the poster boy for inclusion in the league. ”
“That’s fair,” Callan says, and it sounds like he means it. “Figuring it out for yourself doesn’t mean you have to tell anyone else though. In my opinion, living an authentic life means knowing yourself and doing what makes you happy, it doesn’t mean you owe anyone else an explanation.”
“Yeah,” I murmur.
I try to imagine what that would look like while I sip my coffee and Callan eats his food.
I’d be putting on a front every time I stepped into the locker room or got in front of any cameras.
I’d always be looking over my shoulder to make sure no one was about to catch me being not straight. It sounds fucking miserable…
And there are guys living like that in the league right now.
It’s not a new realization that there are likely closeted guys in the locker rooms, but I never thought about what it’s like to be one of them before.
I never really considered how lonely it must be to have to tell so many lies all the time and hide so damn much about your personal life from everyone; your teammates, the media, probably your own friends and family if you don’t want it to get leaked.
“Fuck, it’s such bullshit,” I mutter.
“It is. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t let fear keep me out of sports. I think I could have handled the heat of being the token gay player, and maybe that would have made it a little easier for guys after me.”
Shit, it sounds noble when he says it like that.
I don’t know if I have it in me though. I guess I don’t have to decide right now.
Nothing has to change except for all the excuses I kept making up in my head for the way I was feeling.
Now, if I want to lean over and kiss Callan right here in the kitchen, I can do it without pretending it has anything to do with my ex turning me off women.
It can just be because he looks kind of cute when he’s scowling in defense of closeted queer players everywhere.
Fuck it. That’s exactly what I do, pushing my plate out of the way and hooking my hand behind Callan’s neck to drag him closer. It’s not rough or wild when our lips meet this time, it’s soft and a little bit sweet.
He makes a quiet sound against my mouth and puts his hand on my thigh, not groping me or turning the kiss into anything more than it is, just a touch because neither of us can seem to help ourselves. A warm feeling floods my chest, and I smile against his lips.
There are too many things to work out still, and complications that are bound to derail whatever this is before it can become something.
But he hooks his foot around the leg of my stool to drag me closer, our tongues tangle in a slow, lazy rhythm, and I decide to let myself pretend for right now that this is the beginning of something.