Chapter Twenty-Five
Denis
It had been a lousy week. We’d hit a three-game losing streak, and Coach was hoarse from screaming at the refs out on the ice and reaming us in the locker room.
Thank God it was Friday and the bye week was upon us, because I was pretty fucking sick of everything and everybody at the moment.
Myself included. I needed the reset that time away would bring to return to play, fresh and ready to get back on track.
I’d persuaded Sterling to take the time off as well, and we’d decided to go away to someplace warm, hoping that leaving behind the gloom of winter and the constant stream of news would lift both our spirits.
Since hearing about his mother, he’d retreated somewhat, and I’d had to push him to spend our nights together.
The excuse he gave was that our vacation required him to clear the work off his desk and he wouldn’t be home until late, but I knew Sterling.
He was locking himself away and hiding. I solved that problem by showing up at his apartment each night and waiting for him.
After hearing a news story about his mother’s health issues, I waited for him outside the news station with a car.
His grateful smile didn’t hide the shadows darkening his eyes.
We arrived home and I ordered us dinner, but he didn’t have much of an appetite.
“Come. Let me take you to bed.” I undressed him, we lay together, and I did everything I could to take away his pain.
“Denis.”
We’d made love, and I’d yet to catch my breath.
“Mmm?”
“I know what you’re trying to do, and I love you.”
I rolled onto my side and skimmed my fingers over his cheek. “I don’t like seeing you sad, with faraway eyes.”
“I shouldn’t be. After all, she and I are strangers, only connected by blood. So why do I feel like I might be losing something I never had?”
I had no answer for him. All I could do was hold him tight. “Je t’aime.”
**
The night before our bye week started, I’d allowed four goals for the first time that season. It was an ugly loss, and I took it personally. Then in the locker room afterward, I got a text from Sterling, saying he had an emergency meeting after the ten p.m. newscast and wouldn’t be home until late.
I’ll see you in the morning.
That left me alone, and when I was by myself and in a bad headspace, I tended to do foolish, self-destructive things. I went to a bar I used to frequent and drank a very large straight vodka.
“Hey, you’re Denis Bouvier,” some dude said, sitting on the stool next to me. “I’m an Icers fan.” He wore one of their caps.
“That’s nice.” I beckoned the bartender. “Hit me up again, Tommy.” There were two TVs on the wall—one had a West Coast basketball game on, and the other a replay of our hockey loss. My mood grew blacker.
“Sure, Denis. Been a while since I seen ya.” He clinked the neck of the vodka bottle to my glass and filled it almost to the rim. Tommy always did have a heavy pour.
“Been busy.”
“Busy losing a buncha games lately, huh?” the guy next to me said with a snicker, and I turned my head slightly, glaring at the dickhead.
“Fuck off.”
“The Icers are gonna kick the Blades’ asses in the playoffs this year. You’re all a buncha old men.”
“Hey, don’t go bothering people in here.” Tommy smacked a receipt in front of the guy. “That’s your bill. Pay it and get outta here.”
“Whatever. Place sucks anyway.” He tossed a few bills and walked out.
“Whatta dick, huh?” Tommy took the money and stuck it in the register. “Don’t let him get to ya.” He kept up a steady stream of conversation as I drank. “So, where you been hidin’?”
“Nowhere. Just practice and the games.”
“Well…” He leaned on the bar, his biceps bulging. “I know it’s the bye week, so if you wanna hook up, I’m free after midnight.”
In the past, if I’d been out clubbing and no one caught my eye, or if I just felt like drinking and getting laid, I’d take Tommy home and we’d fuck.
It was nothing more than pure sex, but it served its purpose.
I met his gray-blue gaze, and even through my alcoholic haze, I sensed his lust. No one would ever know.
But his eyes were the wrong shade of blue, and I didn’t want some stranger in my bed.
I wanted my uptight, snarky boyfriend who spent half an hour every morning with his skin creams and potions.
I didn’t even mind the health food and all the vitamins and supplements and those fucking awful wheatgrass shots.
God, I fucking loved him and missed his damn face.
“I can’t. I gotta go.” I took out a wad of twenties and gave it to Tommy. “Thanks.”
A bit unsteady on my feet, I used the cold air and the three-block walk home to try and sober up, but it didn’t work that well. My head still spun when I lay on my couch, and though he’d said not to, I called Sterling.
“Bonsoir, mon bébé. Comment ca va?”
Drunk Denis was in the house. Once I started speaking only French, I was in trouble.
“Denis? What’s wrong?”
“Tu me manque. Miss kissing you. Can’t you skip that stupid meeting?” If any of the guys saw me begging and pleading to see a man, they’d laugh in my face. I didn’t care. I didn’t want to be alone tonight.
“I wish I could, Denis, but the meeting is mandatory. I can’t miss it. And it’s going to go long. Did something happen?”
I couldn’t tell him it was because I’d given up four goals and lost a game. He’d think I was silly and wouldn’t understand.
“No, not really. I just want you. Wanna be with you.”
“I want to be with you too. And starting Sunday, we’re going to spend six whole days together.”
“Not enough. Je te veux. J’ai besoin de toi.”
“Have you been drinking? Where are you?”
“Home, home, all alone with my telephone,” I sang and laughed out loud.
“I think you should go to sleep, and I’ll come by in the morning and bring you breakfast and make you feel better.”
“But—”
“I have to go. The station owner is here. Good night, Denis. Je t’aime.”
I smiled at his awful French accent. The phone went dead, and I stared at it. No one wants me…not Sterling, not my parents…
I rubbed my eyes and shuffled over to the refrigerator. A bottle of the wine Sterling liked was half-full, and I took it out, uncorked it, and not bothering with a glass, drank until my head buzzed.
I returned to the couch and picked up my phone.
I was making a huge mistake, but I couldn’t stop.
It was as if I were separate from my body, watching from above as I made one bad, wrong choice after another.
I found the number that was once as familiar as my heartbeat and touched the Call icon.
After five or six rings, my father answered.
“All??”
“C’est moi…Denis.”
I heard the sharp intake of breath. “Denis…ca va?”
“Oui, je vais bien.” I braced myself and asked the question foremost on my mind—why did they call Gil? “Gil m’a dit que tu l’as appelé après ma blessure il y a quelques mois. Pourquoi?”
“Je lui ai dit de ne rien dire. Ce vieil imbécile.”
How could my father think that Gil would keep this from me, even if told to do so? And calling him an old fool…that was typical, unfortunately, and not something I could ignore. “Ne dit pas ca. Il n’est pas un imbécile. Réponds-moi. Pourquoi l’as-tu appelé?”
The conversation didn’t last more than five minutes, but it was long enough for me to hear that twenty years had passed but nothing had changed.
My parents were angry that Gil and Mary had taken me away, but they had no regrets for relinquishing parental rights to their gay son.
Me playing hockey was more important to them than understanding and accepting me.
Now, like then, my father believed I was disgusting, a pervert.
He had no interest in my life. The only reason he’d called Gil was because my mother had heard of my injury.
But again, they’d called Gil. Not me, their son.
All the ugly truths had spilled out. I buried my face in my hands.
I should never have gone out drinking. I wouldn’t have called him and could’ve stayed in my bubble of ignorance.
There were times I could even feel nostalgia for the way we were.
Pictures in my mind of playing with my father on the ice.
Him and Pépère showing me how to use the goalie stick and properly guard a net.
My first game as a child and seeing them cheering for me in the stands when I’d block the shots. A life that no longer existed for me.
I did my second stupid thing of the night.
I finished the bottle of wine and called for a car to Sterling’s apartment.
By some luck, I didn’t get sick and managed to walk straight to the building.
The doorman knew me, and Sterling had given instructions to let me up.
I had my own key and opened the door. By that time, it was past midnight, and Sterling was sitting in the dark with the damn news on, of course. He jumped up when I opened the door.
“Denis?” He turned on the lamps.
I swayed and grimaced, flinging a hand to cover my face. “Too…bright. Turn it off.”
He strode over to me, brows knitted. “I thought you were going to sleep.” He reached up and brushed the tangled hair out of my eyes. “Wow. You’re really drunk.”
I belched and gave him a smile. “Very good obslervation. And it’s your flalt…fault.” My stomach heaved. “I’m gonna…throw up.”
“Not in my living room, you’re not. These floors cost me a fortune.” Alarmed, he pulled me into the hall bathroom. I stumbled after him and sank to my knees.
“You always say the schweetest thrings…I love you.” I stuck my head in the toilet and promptly got sick. I lay on the floor of his bathroom, my hot cheek pressed to the cold tiles. My stomach made some disturbing sounds, and Sterling huffed.