Chapter 9 You Want To Rub Your X’s And O’s All Over His…
YOU WANT TO RUB YOUR X’S AND O’S ALL OVER HIS…
Alex
Alex
Vancouver in December is the pits. Zero out of ten experience, would not recommend.
Elliot
Boston isn’t much better. I’m pretty sure my nipples almost broke off like tiny pink icicles when we got off the plane. Who invented winter and then decided it was the best time to play sports?
Alex
Dude. At least you get to play on grass. I have to walk through the Canadian frozen tundra to a rink where I play on ice. *ice*, Elliot! My nips are way worse off than yours are.
Elliot
Dude. I’ve seen how fucking sweaty you get under all those pads. No way is the ice affecting your body temperature that much. Your nips are fine.
Alex
No, but being a hockey god only raises my body temperature when I’m on the ice. As soon as I cool down, it's bye bye nipples.
Elliot
Fair. But I’m playing outside in the snow tonight. Snow makes everything worse. My nipples are on their last legs.
Alex
It’s too bad we’re on opposite coasts. If we were in the same city, we could meet up after our games and keep each other’s nipples warm.
Elliot
…
Do you even realize what you just said?
Alex
I don’t fuck around when it comes to nipples, Elliot.
Elliot
You’re a goober, goat.
Alex
And you love me. Break a leg tonight. Kick some New England ass. XOXO
Elliot
You too. Show those Canadians how San Francisco handles shit.
Alex
You have to say XOXO
Elliot
Uh, why? I’m not a conversation heart.
Alex
El, please. I’m testing a theory.
Elliot
Does this theory have anything to do with karma or juju or other wacky universe shit?
Alex
If I answer that, it will ruin my experiment. Don’t fuck with the scientific method.
Elliot
Fine.
Good luck tonight, Alex. XOXO.
The Thunder is kicking ass so fucking hard tonight, its almost not even fun.
Who am I kidding, of course its fucking fun.
My guys have been on fire since the very first drop of the puck. Miles is on a whole other level, taking shot after shot on goal every time he’s on the ice. He’s scored once on his own and has two assists, letting the rookie left winger take some glory for himself against Vancouver’s defense.
And me? I’ve been a brick-fucking-wall. I feel like Superman out here, plucking bullets out of the air and keeping Vancouver from lighting the lamp.
My D-men have kept the puck out of the crease, but on the few opportunities Vancouver has had to take a shot, my lightning reflexes have kept their score at a big old goose egg.
With only a few minutes left on the play clock and this game in the bag, I’m content to sit back and watch as San Francisco takes this thing to the finish line.
All the action is on the other side of the ice, but when the puck gets loose and Vancouver’s right winger comes at me, I’m back on high alert.
I focus in, the roar of the crowd dulls, the chill of the rink is gone.
It's just me, this guy, and the puck. Defense is there but they’re not quick enough.
Vancouver takes his shot, the puck careening toward my left foot at the speed of sound.
But I’m watching, I’m ready, I’m a goddamn goalie god.
My stick snaps out, stopping the soaring puck in its tracks.
Across the ice, I see Miles completely uncovered and instinct takes over. Before Vancouver knows what hit them, I’ve sent the puck soaring to Miles’s awaiting stick, and then he’s flipping it past the goalie like a line cook flipping a pancake.
The lamp lights, my team tackles me, and the game is signed, sealed, and delivered ours.
I’m thrilled, fucking ecstatic, but the butterflies in my stomach are so much more than just that post-game adrenaline.
I think I might have just proven my own theory, the one I cooked up in bed hours after spending Thanksgiving with Elliot.
After we kissed outside of my house, I played the best game of my career.
Tonight, I got him to give me the text version of a kiss, and would you look at that? Another W up on the board.
And now I seriously need to talk to someone as soon as possible.
Soon comes sooner than I thought, when, later that night, the hockey gods bless me with an open seat at the back of the team plane next to Mikhail Kovalenko, a defenseman who came to San Francisco from North Carolina.
He’s a total grump who pretends he only speaks Russian when in the press room—even though he’s been in America for, like, eighteen years or something.
But he’s an openly queer player who came out early in his career and has been madly in love with his husband for five years, so he’s exactly the guy I need to talk to.
Typically I sit closer to the front of the plane—the fourth row window seat on the left side, to be exact—but desperate times call for desperate measures.
I take my usual seat at first, just in case.
Once we hit our cruising altitude, I give Franny a little rub for good luck, and I’m on the move.
The lights in the cabin are dimmed, the only sounds to be heard over the roar of the engine is the three rookies playing Fortnite in the middle row and Miles snoring like a freight train right behind them.
Everyone else is either sleeping or trying to when I plop down next to Mikhail.
“Whatever it is, Holmes, the answer is no,” he mutters right away, crossing his massive arms over his chest and leaning his head on the window.
“How’d you know it was me?” I ask, since he hasn’t bothered to open his eyes.
“Could hear the rustling of that ridiculous butt-bag. Cheap plastic and nylon garbage.”
I gasp, placing two hands on either side of Franny to cover her ears.
“You are not cheap garbage, my sweet girl,” I whisper to my bag as I unzip her and pull out the bribe I brought along for this very occasion, quietly peeling the corner of the wrapper open. “I brought something for you, Kovalenko.”
“I don’t speak English,” he grunts.
I hold up the strawberries and cream protein bar I know Mikhail loves and wave it under his nose, hoping the cloying sweet scent of the world’s nastiest post-game treat will get the angry Russian to open his eyes and talk to me.
He doesn’t open his eyes, but he does snatch the bar from me.
“You have until I finish,” he says. I’ve seen Kovalenko inhale three of those gross protein bars in one breath before, so I hurry and say what I need to say as quickly as possible.
“I think I might be gay. Or bi. Or some kind of queer. I’m not sure but I keep having these sex dreams about this one guy in particular and I’ve ruined like, four pairs of pajama pants, so I need to know how you knew you were queer because I’ve never had sexual feelings for another man before, but it doesn’t feel like there’s anything heterosexual about the way I want him to pin me down and make me beg for it, you know? ”
It all comes out in one long-winded run-on sentence, and I get the nervous urge to glance around and make sure none of our other teammates are listening.
But the second I hear the words out loud from my own lips— “I think I might be queer”— I feel like a thousand pound weight has been lifted off my shoulders.
Like something I didn’t even realize I’d been carrying is suddenly on the ground in front of me, a package arrived at its destination.
The thought has been knocking around in my noggin since I met Elliot, but saying it out loud makes it feel… real. Right.
Maybe this is what they mean when they say that acceptance is the first step…or whatever.
My teammate opens one eye, and given his naturally surly demeanor, I can’t quite tell if the look on his face is just his usual “I just look constipated” schtick or if he’s as confused as I feel.
“You are not gay?” Mikhail says, and I tilt my head.
“Are you telling me I’m not gay or asking me?”
“Asking. I always assumed. You’ve got what my husband would call “the vibe”. But you’re telling me you’re confused, yes?”
I squint, the cogs in my brain grinding against each other as I try to piece together what he’s telling me.
Kovalenko, an out, queer man, already thought I was gay.
Elliot thought I was queer, too, or he wouldn’t have kissed me that first night.
Images flash through my mind like a film reel of every interaction I’ve ever had with another man where they thought I’d been coming on to them.
But, I mean…surely that happens to everyone, right?
I’m a nice guy, I’m cute, it’s inevitable that every queer man I’ve interacted with has thought I was flirting with them at one point or another.
Hadn’t I been flirting, though? Hadn’t I initiated nearly every touch with my high school best friend who once accused me of being a tease? Hadn’t I kissed Elliot back on my front stoop?
Have I been queer this whole damn time and everyone knew except for me? The realization washes over me in waves, and I feel suddenly unsteady. I drop my elbows to my knees and my face into my hands.
“Oh god, I’m like those women who didn’t know they were pregnant until they found a baby in the toilet aren’t I?” I groan into my palms.
“I do not know what this means. But it is not all that uncommon for it to take time to discover yourself. For me, I didn’t know until I was an adult.
I grew up in Russia, I didn’t…I didn’t know two men could…
it took me a long time to know who I was.
But you are American, yes? You have had sex with women?
” Mikhail asks, and I nod against my hands.
“And you have enjoyed it? Enjoyed them, enjoyed their bodies?”
There goes that spinning film reel in my mind once again, this time showing me highlights of the women I’ve had in my bed over the years.
The instances are few and far between—hockey season is long as hell—but nothing sticks out to me as awkward or unenjoyable, save for a couple of firsts when I was untried and nervous as hell.
I have enjoyed the company and the bodies of the women I was with.
I love their softness, their curves, their tits, the way they always smell like fruity, floral shampoo and sometimes wear flavored lip balms. I love going down on them, feeling them fall apart under my touch, so…
“Yeah. I definitely enjoyed the sex I’ve had with women. Enthusiastically so.”
“Alright then, not gay. For me, it was not like that. Fucking for me wasn’t enjoyable, no sexier than cracking my knuckles or scratching an itch until I met Daniel. But your dreams, they do it for you?”
I bite my lip, thinking about my recent sexy dreams and all the jizz-stained pajama pants I’ve thrown out this month.
“That would be a yes, too.”
“And this man in your dreams. Do you think about him? His body, his touch? Do you want to touch him, too?”
Jesus fucking christ. I didn’t have Mikhail Kovalenko straight-faced dirty talking me into the most confusing boner I’ve had in my life, but my dick is thickening in my pants at just the mere mention of the man in my dreams.
“Yes, I do. In the dreams…I don’t just want to be touched. I want to touch, to explore. I’m turned on by all of it. Everything about the dream guy turns me on. Not just the general sexiness or the fact that I’m humping my bed in my sleep.”
Mikhail’s nose scrunches, his lips pursing like I’ve disgusted him, but he moves on quickly.
“Okay, so then bi. Or pansexual, maybe somewhere in between on the spectrum. I do not see the problem. Unless your football player does not have sexy dreams about you, too?”
I feel my eyes go wide, my cheeks reddening as I realize that Mikhail has put the (admittedly, very easy) puzzle pieces together. The broody Russian just shrugs.
“Kovalenko sees everything. The kicker, he likes you, no?”
I fight the urge to blush and kick my feet like a school girl with a crush. I can’t say for certain if Elliot likes me, likes me or not. But I can say that I like him, like him.
“I mean…he kissed me once. The first night that we met.”
“So what is problem?”
“What is problem?” I repeat, putting on my best, thickest Russian accent. Unlike Mikahil’s take-no-shit and give-no-fucks tone, I sound like my Mom’s grandpa Lenin when he’d get drunk and yell racist obscenities at the hedges in the backyard. Mikhail gives me a bored look, and I shrug.
“The problem is I don’t hook up during hockey season. Everyone knows that. My lips, hands, and dick are off limits until we’re done for the year.”
“But you just said that football boy kissed you. That was during the season, da?”
“Da.”
“And did we lose after?”
“No.”
Smart Mikhail, he’s caught on to my theory, too.
“Then maybe your no hook up rule only applies to women. You kissed this man, and you win games.”
I nod, feverishly.
“And look,” I say, pulling out my phone and opening to my thread with Elliot. “I was having the same train of thought, so I told him XOXO before the game and made him say it back.”
“Fucking Americans. As if two letters that aren’t even in the words could represent a hug and a kiss. I do not understand your culture.”
“Shut up, Mikhail. Look, he said it back, and we fucking killed it tonight. I think you’re right. Maybe my hook up rule had nothing to do with the act of hooking up, but the people I’d been hooking up with!” I squeal, bouncing up and down in my seat.
“There you go, problem solved. Call the football boy and tell him you want to rub your X’s and O’s all over his cock, da?
” He balls up his empty protein wrapper and shoves it at my chest. “And get the fuck out of my row so I can sleep before I throw you out emergency exit and watch you splatter on the earth like goo.”
Well, when the angry, murderous Russian puts it like that, it sounds almost too easy.