Chapter 8
Quentin
“They want you on Rise and Shine America,” Billy Rasmussen said through a mouthful of muffin.
They were eating breakfast together at a diner near Quentin’s apartment.
Quentin had a game later today, the first game of the regular season, and he was having his typical pre-game breakfast: bacon, eggs, pancakes, hash browns, and lots of coffee.
“The morning show?” Quentin asked, after swallowing a mouthful of potatoes.
“No, the other thing called Rise and Shine America,” Billy said.
“It’s too early for sarcasm.”
“Mm, if you say so.” He held up a finger. “Correction. They want you and Joel for Rise and Shine America.”
Quentin blinked. “Oh. Okay.”
Yesterday, that idea would’ve made him want to crawl out of his skin, but this morning…
this morning he didn’t really care that much.
He was still buzzing with adrenaline from the concert last night.
The crowd had been cheering for him and Joel for almost two minutes straight, and after the concert, Joel had found Quentin backstage.
“Dude!” he’d cried. “That was fucking incredible! I didn’t know you could sing!”
Quentin had pushed him gently on the shoulder. “Yeah, your plan was to humiliate me, wasn’t it?”
Henri and Cort had watched with wide-eyed interest, and maybe a little terror.
“It was,” Joel had admitted, looking genuinely sorry. “And that was shitty of me.” He’d hesitated, and then stuck out his hand. “Can we start over? I’m Joel Beckett.”
Quentin had thought about it for a moment because he wanted his response to be genuine, and then he had shaken Joel’s hand. “Quentin Hartley. It’s good to meet you.”
Billy slurped some coffee. “Also, I’m sending Shivonne tickets for Joel to come to an upcoming game.
I talked to the owners about it. Last night, after the concert, we saw the highest spike in ticket sales for our games that we’ve ever seen.
Whatever this thing is with Joel, it’s good for us.
All his fans who were shitting on hockey have decided they’re die-hard fans now, apparently.
” He eyed Quentin. “How was last night?”
“Honestly? Fun.”
“Do you still hate Joel?”
“No, I don’t think I do. I think we could even be friends.”
“I’m glad you didn’t hit him in the nose.”
“I thought about it when he brought me out to sing.”
Billy snorted. “Don’t ever do that. Shiv would kill me.”
“Oh, it’s Shiv now, is it?”
Billy actually blushed, and Quentin smiled, and kept eating his breakfast.
Boston’s first game of the season was a home game against the Québec Snow Owls. Québec had a strong team, and they were one of Boston’s strongest rivals. The French-Canadian fans were as intense as Boston's, and the two factions of fans hated each other.
Several hours before the game, Quentin drove to Henri and Cort’s apartment. He and Henri had developed a tradition of arriving at the first home game together.
The couple let him into the apartment, and Quentin immediately noticed that Cort was carrying three coffee mugs from the living room to the kitchen to wash them.
Quentin grinned. “How was your night with Harlan?”
“A lady never kisses and tells,” Cort called over his shoulder.
“Fucking incredible,” Henri said, giving Quentin a bro-y hug. “The things we did together…if I believed in religion I’d think I’d need to take a shower in holy water right about now.”
Quentin almost choked, he laughed so hard.
“I’m glad you had fun,” he said. “I hope you still have some energy for the game today.”
“It was a great warm-up,” Henri said with a grin. “What did you do last night?”
Quentin shrugged. “I just went home.”
“Damn. Didn’t try to sign a deal with Joel’s record label?”
Quentin rolled his eyes. “My future is on the ice, not on the stage. But last night was great, and I think Joel and I will actually be friends now.”
“Good, because I don’t think he’s an asshole.”
Cort reappeared from the kitchen. He wore only a pair of gray sweatpants, and Quentin deliberately didn’t stare at the imprint of Cort’s cock. “Though,” Cort said, “if you hadn’t been able to sing, that would’ve been a real dick move on his part.”
“That’s a good point,” Henri said.
“I’m glad you’re friends, because that means we can see Harlan again and not feel guilty,” Cort sang, heading towards the bathroom. “I mean, we would’ve seen him again anyway.”
“I’m so impressed by your loyalty,” Quentin deadpanned. “You might have a chance to see him soon, actually,” he said to Henri. “Billy invited him to an upcoming game, but I don’t know which one. Apparently, the Internet loved last night, and Rise and Shine America has invited us onto their show.”
“You and Joel?”
“Mmhm.”
“Newest famous bromance, I guess,” Henri said. He looked like he was going to say something more, but then didn’t.
Quentin almost wanted to tell Henri everything in that moment.
That when he’d seen Joel onstage, shirtless and sweaty, and when he’d been so close to him, singing while staring into Joel’s eyes, he’d felt something inside of him.
It was so close to the irritation he’d felt for a long time, but it wasn’t exactly the same.
He was afraid he knew what it was. He was afraid it was attraction, and he couldn’t let that be the case.
He was looking forward to seeing Joel again soon.
The Boston Minutemen played their home games at the Regency Insurance Arena in downtown Boston. It was a large arena and had recently been renovated. It had good seats and a great rink and state-of-the-art locker rooms.
Quentin felt as at home in the arena as he did in his own apartment. The team arrived for the game together, dressed in suits and ready for battle.
The game against Québec would be a good one. They played each other several times in the season, and it was always a toss-up who would win. They were pretty equally matched in skill and playing style.
Quentin changed into his gear in the locker room, and Coach Bogdanovic gave a short pep talk to the players. He reminded them that they’d been preparing for this, that they had what it took, and that they had to give it their all on the ice that night.
When Bogdanovic was done, it was Quentin’s turn.
The guys had given him some shit about his little adventure last night, but it was all in good spirits.
He loved his team. They were like this family, his brothers, and he liked how they all supported each other and genuinely seemed to love each other, even if they didn’t always get along.
A lot of them were hotheaded, and they had some strong personalities, but they were all incredibly talented and would put the team before their own needs whenever they had to.
He was honored to be their captain, and he wanted to lead them well.
“All right, boys,” he said. “When we’re out there today, I want you to remember everything we’ve learned and practiced. Yeah, we’re playing to win. I want to crush those Canadian motherfuckers and drag ’em around the ice with the Zamboni—no offense, Bellancourt.”
Henri grinned. “Some taken.”
Quentin continued, “But we’re also playing because, at the end of the day, this is what we all love to do. Don’t forget that. We love this game, and we’re fucking good at it. So is Québec, I’ll give ’em that, but this is our home, and this is our ice, and this win is ours.”
The team cheered. They were ready for this game, and they were ready to win.
Quentin wasn’t sure he believed in the concept of a calling, or some sort of divine or universe-ordained purpose that each person had. But, if such a thing existed, he was pretty damn sure that his purpose was to play hockey and to play it well.
He fucking loved the game.
He loved being on the ice, plotting out his moves, and anticipating his opponents’ moves, all in the space of a few heartbeats. He loved the cold air, the sweat, the adrenaline, and the intensity. He loved the camaraderie with his teammates and the angry respect of his opponents.
He loved winning.
And he was good at it. He could move like a phantom on the ice, especially when he was really in the zone, and he could dodge around any player trying to get in his way.
He could find gaps to pass that no one else could, and could score goals that looked impossible.
Sometimes he heard people say that he was headed for legendary status, and he took the compliments in stride.
He didn’t play for the fame, but because he genuinely loved what he did.
He cared less about fame and more about legacy, and he wanted his legacy to be of someone who had skill and dignity on the ice.
He respected Québec, and he enjoyed playing against them because they were just as talented as his team.
Their rivalry was intense, but it only made the games more passionate and important.
He loved how the fans showed up in legions, ready to cheer their hearts out and scream in joy or agony, depending on how the game went.
There was so much love and passion in a hockey arena, and he knew this was something he wanted to do as long as he could.
Boston played a great game that day, and so did Québec.
It was never clear who would win. The teams were equally matched, and even when things got heated, Quentin had fun, and he knew his teammates did, too.
With his leadership, he never wanted them to forget that they had all once been kids who loved hockey because it was play.
There was something magical about getting to spend your life doing something you loved so much, and he didn’t want any of them to lose that magic.
He believed that sense of magic made them even better players and an even stronger team.
In the third quarter, Quentin scored a goal against Québec, and the fans lost their mind. He heard them cheering his name, just like Joel’s fans had cheered his name last night. He grinned and held his stick in the air.
In the end, Boston won, and it was Quentin’s goal that did it for them.
The team celebrated in the locker room, and Henri didn’t even seem all that bothered that they’d crushed his hometown team.
They’d earned the win, and they’d all earned it.
Quentin might’ve been the one to score the goal, but he couldn’t have done it without his team.
Later that night, he was walking to his car, and his phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a cool night, and the city was awake around him.
He checked his phone and saw a text from an unknown number:
Bet my fans cheered louder than yours did.
The number had a Los Angeles area code, and Quentin found himself grinning. He knew immediately who it was: Joel.
He got in his car and typed out a short response:
No chance.
He was still smiling when he drove home.