Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
You probably shouldn’t have horny dreams about a person you’ve just spent the weekend with. Yet there I am, right in the midst of a lucid dream of the man himself, Eric Sinclair.
With as active of an imagination as I have, it’s all too easy for my mind to taunt me with more visions of alternate ways last night could have gone in vivid detail.
In my dream’s version of events, there’s no reason, no rationality.
Eric kisses me senseless inside the elevator while we ride down to our floor.
We hurry to my hotel room, all too eager to get our hands on each other, and once inside, our clothes become a scattered trail leading to the bed.
He takes control, as confident, suave, and considerate in bed as he’s been all weekend.
My dream-self has no worries or concerns.
He’s the kind of man who wants to be seduced into a one-night stand.
He doesn’t judge or ask questions. There’s just Eric, the bed, and the carnal desire to surrender everything to a man I’ve lusted after as much as I’ve admired.
My body belongs to him, made for his satisfaction, yearning to please.
But because it’s a dream, there’s a haze at the edges, like the fuzz around an image displayed on an old TV.
There’s almost too much awareness; I can’t let go and fully give in.
Every touch comes from phantom fingers, every caress a whisper of what could be.
No matter how much I wish otherwise, it’s not real—nothing more than an intangible specter.
I wake up to the sound of my phone’s alarm.
Details of the dream are fading, but its power over me remains.
I roll onto my back, close my eyes, and draw my fingers over my lips, wishing it was Eric touching me instead.
My hand slides down my body, catching on a stiff peak, but I hesitate at my abdomen.
I shouldn’t. It’s one thing to dream about a person, it’s another to act on a fantasy in the daylight hours.
Yet I can still smell his soap, fresh from the shower. Those rough fingers brushing against mine as he handed me my glass after refilling it with wine. The smile, sly and full of mischief. Piercing green eyes. The low rumble of his voice carrying over the restaurant’s ambiance.
If a person’s ears really do burn when someone else is thinking about them, then Eric’s must be on fire, because I can’t stop.
I reach into my underwear and tuck the hem under the base of my cock.
My fingers circle around my length, stroking hard and fast, hellbent on exorcising Eric’s ghost. I’m so far gone it takes little time, even less effort, to come into my clenched fist to memories of our night blurring with my dream.
I have enough sense to clap my hand over my mouth to muffle my shrill cry of his name as if he—or someone else—could overhear through the walls.
My chest rises and falls hard as I catch my breath. I glance down at my fingers and blush in embarrassment. With hardly any stimulation, I came a lot. I guess I can’t be surprised; it’s been awhile since I’ve had a spare moment to give in and seek relief.
A fast, frigid shower quenches the last embers of my desire. Standing under the spray, I still can’t escape thoughts of Eric. Somewhere on this floor of the hotel he’s in his own room getting ready for the day, too, but what’s on his mind? Has he already shifted back into regular season mode?
I finish cleaning up then turn off the water and wrap myself in a towel. There’s no time to brood. My flight leaves at noon, and because I was slow getting up this morning, I have less time to get dressed, pack, and check out of my room.
After hustling downstairs and turning in my keycard with the front desk, I find Eric in the hotel’s atrium, leaning against a pillar with his own luggage resting at his feet.
Like myself, he’s well-dressed this morning (after all, you never know if you might run into the media).
A pair of aviator sunglasses cover his eyes, and those two sinful strands of dark hair dangle over the lens.
He’s typing on his phone, and when he finishes, he looks up to see me.
“Oh, hey! Good morning!” A broad smile spreads across Eric’s face. “Heading out soon?”
“My flight’s scheduled for noon. Are you flying straight back to Seattle?”
“Yeah. We have a home game tomorrow, so Elizabeth’s flying with our folks back to San Jose.”
Around us, the hotel bustles with people coming and going. Other NHLers are gathered around, waiting for rideshares or to say last minute goodbyes to their fellow players. Travel day after any big event is bittersweet.
“I was just about to get a ride to the airport. Do you already have something planned?”
“No, I haven’t arranged for one yet.”
“We could share if you want?”
Well, I’m not about to turn down one final chance to spend more time with Eric. “If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it.”
We collect our luggage and leave the hotel.
Outside, morning sunlight greets us. When our ride arrives, we pack our bags into the car’s trunk and then settle into the backseat.
We hit the road as low talk radio comes over the speakers.
I lean my head against the window and stare at the passing landscape: freeway traffic, concrete, graffiti and murals, tall buildings which give way to rolling hills.
Every city is so different, but Los Angeles will be full of memories from this weekend forward.
When we arrive at LAX, the driver drops us off at the terminal.
We join the crowd and cross the entrance to wait in line for TSA screening then check in with our respective airlines.
These are mundane, typical parts of prepping for a flight, but each crossed threshold is just another reminder our time together’s coming to an end.
With less than an hour before my flight, we grab a late breakfast from a kiosk called Danny’s Donuts inside my airline’s terminal.
We find a table to sit by the large bay windows, watching the morning’s arrivals and departures.
Like so much of this trip, even the stupid glazed donuts are memorable, shaped like tiny capital Ds, and the coffee’s not half-bad.
The maw in my chest grows with every passing minute, clawing at my insides.
I avoid looking at my phone even though I really should keep track of the time so I don’t miss my flight.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m freaking out over nothing.
All-Star Weekend has no bearing on the rest of the season.
This was the condensed, adult equivalent of making a new friend over summer camp and having to separate once it's over. I’m not the first person to have to say goodbye to a fast friend, and I won’t be the last.
But why does it have to be this way? Why does it have to hurt so much?
I have Eric’s number, but will he still want to keep in touch when we’re back to the regular season grind? Will he be as interested in keeping in touch when he has his usual teammates for company?
I don’t have the same network as Eric. I don’t have the same support system waiting for me back in Chicago. Of course my coaches and the staff will be glad to get back to our routine, but it’s not the same as having a close friend…
But did we even become friends, Eric and I? Do I have the right to call this a friendship? How much of this weekend has been my own warped perception, my own projecting, my own wishful thinking? How much was Eric just being a nice veteran helping out a younger player?
With each passing minute, I’m running out of time before I can plead my case to Eric, asking him to stay in touch without appearing like a total unhinged mess.
Maybe this whole weekend has been nothing more than just a strange fluke, a fever dream I’m bound to wake up from once I land in Chicago. Would that make this moment any easier?
Only time will tell, and time is my enemy.
“James,” Eric calls to me with a gentle, soft tone, “they just called your flight.”
I crash back down to earth and search my pockets for my boarding pass, but I can’t find it. Right as I’m about to panic, Eric taps the table with a solemn half-smile.
“It’s right in front of you.”
“Oh.” I snatch it off the table, ears pink with embarrassment. “Thanks.”
I rise, feeling wobbly on my feet. My stomach flips, and I feel sick from too much sugar and coffee. Eric joins me, placing a steadying hand on my shoulder.
“You okay?”
My upper lip quivers, and I bite it to stop. No, I’m not okay. I’m a professional goaltender who takes shots from flying rubber discs for a living, but I’m freaking out inside of a terminal because of separation anxiety.
But it’s also because I’m a professional goaltender that I pull myself together. I’ve been through so much worse.
“Yeah.” I take a deep breath. “I’m fine.”
Eric hesitates, but then he pulls me in for a hug. At first, I’m shocked, but then my shoulders slump, and I give in, leaning into him and closing my eyes. Why am I not surprised Eric gives great hugs?
After we part, Eric waves goodbye and heads for his own flight’s terminal.
I try to memorize him—the particular shade of his green eyes, the line of his jaw, the scruff of his facial hair, the shape of his smile, the way those loose strands of hair fall into his eyes.
It’s not as though I’ll never see him again.
I’ll always be able to watch his games just like any other fan could.
I take the mental snapshot and file it away for safekeeping in my heart.
Then, I turn away and board the plane.