12. Tennant #2
Coach sent me out first to face off against the Boston goalie.
He tapped the pipes as I skated out to center ice, kind of like a “Bring it, punk” gesture.
Arrogant SOB. Turned out he had a right to be arrogant.
I tried my best, pulling a trick out of my hat that I’d seen one of the Rangers wingers do once.
It was a slow approach to the net with a quick wrist snap to send the puck past the tender.
Seemed like that Rangers forward had that move locked down, because my shot went right into the Boston goalie’s big catching glove.
The bench was vocal when it was our turn again.
Our captain snuck one in with a glorious little toe-drag move and a deke.
After that it was the Stan Show. That massive Russian in our net turned into a brick wall.
When the final shooter for Boston—my brother—failed to sneak a shot past Stan, we all went to our skates with hoots and shouts.
Then we went out to hug the towering Russian, who was smiling broadly, the big chump.
Stan was chosen as the first star of the game, and rightfully so.
He’d faced forty-two shots and only allowed one in.
I got second star for my goal. It was a great game.
The dressing room was wild pumped. I sat in my cubicle grinning, my gaze roaming over the gathered men.
My team. It was time the men I played with knew they had a gay man in the ranks.
But telling them there felt wrong. I didn’t want to bring down the emotions with what might be a badly received announcement.
Maybe over food? Mom always baked Dad treats when she had something bad to tell him, like that time she’d backed into a tree with the new car.
He’d come home to find a triple-layer white coconut cake waiting for him.
“Hey, dinner’s on me!” I shouted so that I was heard over the din. “And yes, that means I’m paying,” I added when no one responded.
Soon as they knew I was footing the bill, the team cheered. What a bunch of A-holes. We all agreed to meet at this cool little sports bar/eatery right off the Capital Beltway.
I found Mads in his office after the game. “Hey,” I called after rapping on the open door.
He glanced up from his laptop, and his smile almost knocked me out of my shoes. Have I mentioned how lush the man is?
“I’m taking the team over to Roger’s by the Beltway for dinner to celebrate. You coming?”
“I have videos to make for the game against Pittsburgh.”
“Oh man, that sucks.” I leaned a hip against the doorframe. “See you later, then?” Which was secret, gay-player-having-a-relationship-with-his-coach code for, “I’ll see you at your place. I love you and I plan to suck your dick as a private celebration.”
“Yep,” Mads said as his gaze lingered on my mouth. “Oh. Nice eye.” Yeah, he was so getting his dick sucked as soon as I got home.
I jogged off to meet up with Stan and Addison. The Boston team was leaving. We met in the corridor. Brady dropped an arm around my shoulders.
“You guys got lucky this time,” he announced loudly while tugging me into his side a time or two.
“Yeah, right. You’re just all butt hurt over being whipped by an expansion team,” I countered. He tightened his arm playfully around my throat, then shoved me away.
“No one likes a wise-ass,” he said as we walked outside. Early November was damn cold in Pennsylvania. I didn’t like it. “You coming home for Thanksgiving?”
“Oh, uh, man, I really don’t know. Depends.” More secret code that meant I didn’t know what Mads was doing for turkey day, Mom and Dad didn’t know about Mads, and I wasn’t sure even where I’d be living by the end of the month. “I’ll see and let them know.
“No, none of that shit. You get your ass home. It’ll be cool.”
“Thanks,” I said as sincerely as I could. “Thanks for the two points.”
“Brat,” he chuckled.
He shook my hand, then hustled into the waiting charter bus that would take them to the airport and back to Boston.
After waving, I hurried to my Jeep, got inside, cranked it over and turned the heat to the broil setting.
Jesus. It must be forty degrees out there.
Winter in the north was going to be tough for this beach baby.
Arriving at Roger’s Ribs got me a rousing round of cheers from the patrons of the sports bar and restaurant. Fans left their seats and meals to come talk to me, take selfies, or have me sign something.
“Man, Rowe, all the ladies do love you!” Arvy shouted when I finally wiggled free from the knot of females giggling and batting their lashes. “What’s your secret?”
I shrugged and sat down next to Connor. My captain inclined his head, then led the team into some long-winded tale about when he was playing in the minors up in Saskatoon.
It was a cool move, although I was used to deflecting chick comments.
Food started arriving then, as well as pitchers of soda.
Steaks and pork chops, whole roasted chickens, platters of pasta of every shape and size.
We dove in, eating and joking, telling our own stories and reliving beating Boston a few dozen times.
The food disappeared quickly. Twenty hungry hockey players can really put grub away.
Amid all the laughter and dirty jokes, I could feel us bonding.
The servers were kept hopping, but were friendly and cute, flirting a bit with the guys as they cleared off the dinner plates and brought out desserts and coffee.
I sipped some coffee and watched the guys interacting.
Then I leaned to the side and whispered to Arvy.
“Hey, I’m gay. Pass it around the table.”
He drew back and looked at me as if I’d just said I was Queen Victoria. “Really?”
“Truth, man.” I smiled, and then jerked my chin at the team to make him get whispering.
We used to play that game all the time when I was a kid.
Each man got the whisper, looked at me, then passed it on.
By the time it had traveled around the table and landed in Stan’s ear, I was chuckling.
The big goalie stared at me openly, scratched his long nose, and then asked the table, “Tennant Queen of May? What is mean?”
We all lost it, and we all stayed way later than we should’ve.
I crept into Mads’ place around two. He was sound asleep, long arms and legs taking up most of the bed.
I stripped and wiggled under the covers, seeking his body out in the dark.
He barely stirred when I pressed my cold ass tight to his side.
He did make a kind of purring sound of contentment, but then returned to softly snoring.
I dropped off quickly now that I was warm and next to Mads.
When I woke up, I rolled around, groggy and confused, trying to figure out what had woken me.
It hadn’t been Mads, because he wasn’t even in the bed.
I flopped onto my back and yawned, then heard him talking.
Okay, so maybe it had been Mads. And talking wasn’t the right term.
He was pushing words through gritted teeth.
Seething. Snarling. Whoever had called had the man fired up.
I rolled my head and saw that it was five minutes after six.
For the sake of all fucks, who was calling this early and giving Jared shit?
I kicked off the covers and stumbled out into the living room, rubbing my eye while scratching the dry skin on my stomach.
Heat and winter. It was making me itch. Ugh.
I needed Southern heat and humidity, stat.
“Dude, what’s the issue? It’s not even seven yet,” I said, and got a look from my boyfriend. Was it cool to call him that? And was it cool to be eye-stabbed at asshole o’ clock in the morning by the dude you planned to suck off? No. No, it was not.
“Ten, please,” Mads snapped. “Ev, we’ve been over this before. He’s doing this my way.”
Mads’ glower was still resting on me. I gave him the middle finger, then fell face-first onto the couch.