CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
C al
“My skin has wrinkles,” I announce to Jason.
“Your skin will always have wrinkles when you’re old.”
“You think we’ll get old.”
He squeezes my hand. “Of course, we will. We’ll be rescued any day now. Any hour.”
We both stare at the horizon, but no one is there.
“It would have been cool if a helicopter had appeared right then,” Jason says.
“Yeah.”
“You now know how to swim. I would say you’re safer than ever.”
I grin. “I thought your specialty was frozen water.”
“I’m multidimensional.” His smile falters, and the moment turns too serious.
“I’m here if you want to talk. I mean, you know I’m here. No one else is here. But I mean—”
Jason gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “I get it. Thank you.”
“And if you’d prefer not to talk...” My voice wobbles. I don’t finish the sentence.
“I think I’ve not talked for many years,” Jason says finally. “Perhaps I should do something different.”
“Am I the only guy you’ve been, um, attracted to?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Oh.”
“But I’m glad you’re the guy I was with.”
“So you think you’re...”
“I guess I’m bisexual.” Jason chews on his bottom lip.
“Though honestly, I’m not sure. I only know I like being with you.
I don’t think I’m fully comfortable with women.
I always feel like I’m performing. I don’t hate sex with women.
But I never let myself enjoy it, either.
I was too busy pretending to be the guy I thought I had to be.
I was happier about the fact I was having sex with a woman than I was about having sex with that particular woman. I-I don’t think I’m good at sex.”
“I think you’re good,” I say.
A smile spreads over his face.
“I don’t like leading.” His voice trembles, and his face is red. He’s embarrassed, but he wants me to know. “Not in the bedroom. It feels fake. Like I’m an actor even though I don’t want to be. I-I like the way you take care of me.”
His gaze flicks away. He’s so adorable.
“Why am I writing an article about you being homophobic?”
“Because I’m an asshole?” Jason shakes his head, and something in my chest tears. “It didn’t seem fair that my teammates suddenly dated men and were completely happy and everyone was happy for them.”
“But if one day you wanted to do the same thing...”
“You’re right,” he says, and his skin is red. “Of course, you are. But I had to pretend I didn’t have those feelings. I had to force myself not to look. I just felt angry. I-I can’t explain it. I was wrong. I mocked it, and I mocked them. I hurt them, and all the time I was hurting myself too.”
Jason’s shoulders are slumped, and his expression contrite, and I hate it.
“You don’t talk much about your family,” I say. “Your dad and grandfather both played hockey.”
“You did your research. They both played in the minor leagues. They wanted me to have the life they never managed to achieve for themselves.”
“Well, you got it.”
“Currently.”
I don’t know how long the Boston Blizzards will wait for a player who has gone missing in the Pacific. Maybe they’re lobbying the top NHL leaders to see if they can get someone to take his spot.
A few days ago, I would have said they should have done that. I probably would have written an article about it.
“So, you come from a family of jocks.”
“These muscles had genetic help,” Jason says. “Look. Obviously, they gave me warnings about being anything else than one hundred percent acceptable. I’m pretty sure Dad knows. But I didn’t have to listen. Plenty of people don’t listen.”
“It must be hard to be bisexual.”
“I’m a multi-millionaire,” Jason says. “I take hits all the time for work. It shouldn’t be a big deal.”
“It was a big deal for Vinnie Di Costa,” I remind him.
“I guess.”
“And there are probably other gay and bisexual men on other teams in pro sports who are still closeted. It’s a big deal to them.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s okay for things to be a big deal. Especially this. I’m sorry I followed you here. I’m sorry I chased you from Boston.”
“Unfortunately, Dmitri is now deported because of me,” Jason says miserably.
I take Jason’s hand.
“Oskar and Dmitri moved to Sweden. They wouldn’t have done that if they hadn’t been married for real.”
“Sweden’s not a horrible country.”
“Dmitri should be in Boston. On his team. With his friends and new family.”
I stroke his hand. I want to ease his pain. I don’t have the words that will make it better, because he’s right, Dmitri is gone.
Jason untangles our fingers. “I’ll go check on the fire.”
JASON
I hurry away from Cal. This is why I don’t like talking. I just reveal all the parts of myself that make people hate me. Men aren’t supposed to whine.
But the next time I’m near him, he pulls me against him, like he doesn’t care at all.
Cal knows all the bad things about me. All the things that make everyone else in my life recoil, but he didn’t. The fire’s flames cast flickers across Cal’s face, and my fingers itch to chase each shard of gold across his planes.
“You didn’t mean for Dmitri to get deported,” Cal says.
“I didn’t.”
“You’re a good person.”
“I don’t think anyone has called me that before.” I force myself to chuckle, but the sound comes out disjointed and harsh.
Cal wraps his arms around me more tightly. “Maybe people weren’t paying attention.”
We don’t make love. It doesn’t feel right after the heavy conversation.
But as we drift toward sleep, it hits me I’ve never had this either. I’ve never had someone hold me in bed. I’ve never been with anyone where that was okay.
I don’t need to perform.
I don’t need to be Jason Larvik, NHL player.
I can be... me.
Rain wakes me up. Thunder roars, and Cal and I stagger up.
“Fuck,” I say. “The fire.”
The sky is black as we hurry across the beach, wind-driven rain lashing the back of my neck.
By the time we reach the shelter made of palm fronds and branches, my clothes are drenched. I take Cal’s hand, and usher him into the small space. “Watch your head.”
Cal drops to the ground. I’ve layered it with palm fronds, but it’s no substitute for a real house. Still, it’s an improvement.
“We should have slept here,” I say mournfully.
“I can dream you’re taking me swimming.”
I laugh, then realize Cal is shaking.
“Baby.” I pull him close.
Cal inhales sharply, but I pull him onto the ground with me.
The shelter is tiny, not big enough for us to stand in, but big enough to protect us from the elements.
I pull him against my chest, face to face, and frown. Usually Cal runs warm—I’ve noticed it when we sleep together, the way his skin always feels like he’s been sitting in the sun. But now he’s ice-cold.
His shirt is soaked, and I tear it off. “Feeling romantic?” he asks, still shivering.
Then he tenses. “Not that what we’re doing is romantic.”
“Be quiet,” I tell him.
My wet shirt is probably not helping him get warm, and I slide him forward. “One moment.”
I take off my shirt as quickly as I can. Cal continues to shiver, and I hate it.
“S-sorry,” he stammers. “J-just a b-bit ch-chilly.”
“Uh-huh.” I plop him back against my chest and run my hands over his body. “You’re going to be fine.”
I hope I’m correct. Worry fills me. It’s not like there’s a pharmacy here.
“I-I know,” he says. “I-I h-have you.”
I tighten my grip around him, and kiss his forehead. “That’s right, baby.”
He stiffens again, but I don’t take it back.
“I really like you,” I tell him.
“And I-I said you weren’t being romantic.”
“Hey! You only stuttered once,” I say proudly. “You’re warming up!”
He snorts, and I grin into his neck, as I continue to run my arms around his body.
My cock perks up, because slippery Cal is something my body appreciates and likes. A lot.
The rain patters harder for real, doing its best to blow down the shelter.
The thick heat that greeted us when we landed in Fiji has disappeared.
“I can’t believe you thought this was a vacation destination,” Cal grumbles.
“It is a vacation destination!”
“You know what I mean. Next time, check the weather.”
“I’ll check the weather and ask anyone who might be crazy enough to follow me around the world for their approval,” I promise.
Cal grins. “You know, The Maldives is supposed to be nice this time of year.”
“Oh yeah?”
“The optimal time to visit Fiji is in the summer,” Cal informs me.
“Fiji seemed far away.”
“It is far away.”
An awkward silence replaces our earlier laughter.
It’s no use calculating how many miles separate us from Boston. How many hours over uninterrupted ocean in a jet, before we reach the edge of the continental US.
No. I don’t want to think about it.
Absolutely no way.
I shift on the ground. It’s uncomfortable, but everything is. It’s not like skating is exactly a comfortable profession, no matter how fancy our seats are when we fly as a team on our jet. They have a full-time masseuse to take care of us. You don’t find that in insurance companies.
No, it’s the cold I hate the most. The cold reminds me we’re outside.
“This is why people built houses out of things besides leaves and branches.”
“Hey...” Cal says. “I’m glad you built this. I wasn’t going to. I would have been... wet.”
I shudder to imagine it, and pull him more tightly against me.