Chapter Thirteen
Nate clomped into the dressing room, breathing hard, and collapsed into his stall. He hadn’t skated in a few too many weeks and pushing his muscles hard felt good. The stretch and pull of his tendons, the pumping of his blood, a hard-earned sweat. He swiped an arm across his forehead.
A pickup game was a nice way to dip a toe in, get a sneak peek at the way his new teammates thought the game, the way they moved, how they skated.
Training and targeted workouts were just around the corner.
He pulled an orange-flavored sports drink from the back corner of his stall and took a swig as he glanced around the Locomotives dressing room.
The oval-shaped room had doors at either end and in the center of each curved side.
The goalie stalls were located on either side of the door leading to the tunnel and the ice beyond.
The door opposite led into the changing room.
Along the left curve, a doorway opened into a warren of rooms for trainers and medical staff.
On the right, a matching door led to the showers and the workout rooms.
Light blue lines ran diagonally through the royal blue paint.
The team logo, a locomotive engine, hung back lit in the center of the ceiling.
The stalls were made of bleached wood with dark blue metal framing.
A narrow column of shelving sat between each stall to hold a player’s pads.
Skates could be shoved below the bench seat and helmets could be tossed on the shelf above their head.
The goalies were assigned two stalls since goalie gear was so large compared to everyone else’s.
PawPaw had the first two stalls to the right of the door; Nate had the two to the left.
The Locomotives dressing room was one of the nicer dressing rooms he’d been in.
Nebraska was all about Cornhusker football and Locomotives hockey and the organization had spent lavishly.
They’d brought him here for a reason, right?
A flicker of optimism sprang into being.
Maybe, just maybe, things would turn out all right.
The rest of the guys straggled in, razzing each other about slick passes or missed shots. Nate sat with his eyes closed, listening to the rise and fall of voices as everyone reached their designated spaces. Pads clunked into cubbies; helmets thudded onto shelves.
“I’m going to Runza, if anyone’s interested,” said one of the bottom six forwards. Nate couldn’t remember his name. Checking line. Bald. Huge grin. Older player.
“Fuckin’ Hooters, man,” said one of the younger guys. Of course. Shoulder-length blond hair, bright blue eyes, patchy beard. Also a bottom six forward; maybe his second or third year in the league.
“Oh, hell, yeah,” replied Tommy, voice grating on Nate’s nerves like a bow screeching along a discordant violin string.
He was a shit-hot D-man, Nate would give him that, serving on the team’s top four.
He’d managed to score on Nate during the pick-up game.
He hadn’t made a big deal about it, and neither would Nate.
He supposed they’d come to a polite détente after Nate’s promise, threat, whatever.
Of course, they hadn’t crossed paths since that day at his condo.
“Wonder if that red-headed girl will be working,” Tommy remarked. “She’s smokin’. Maybe she’ll give me her number today.”
Nate wanted to go to Hooters just to warn said red head against giving Tommy any kind of time.
“I need pizza,” called Nader above the din. “That place on Leavenworth is calling my name.”
Hoots of agreement followed.
“What about you, Nate?”
He cracked an eye open and looked over at Nader, who stripped off his red practice jersey, before bending to untie his skates.
Nate thought of Wesley back at the condo.
Much as he wanted to include him, this wasn’t a family event and Nate needed to bond with his teammates.
“Yeah. Sure. Pizza sounds good.” He nudged his skates below his seat with his heels and stripped off his socks, tossing them toward the large canvas laundry cart in the middle of the room.
“Text me the address and I’ll meet you there.
” He’d text Wesley to let him know he’d be out a while longer.
Nate tugged at the back of his practice sweater and pulled it over his head.
“Oh, God, I forgot,” Tommy said on a groan, “there’s that dude that also works there. Gotta be gay. Last time I was...”
Nate’s neck hairs rose, his shoulders tensed.
Staying cocooned in his jersey a moment longer, he took a breath.
Whatever Tommy was about to say wasn’t worth getting in trouble for.
He couldn’t afford to be branded a cancer in the room before the season even started. The flicker of optimism guttered.
“...gay ass mother fucker tried to grab my ass so I told that fa—”
Heat exploded inside Nate. He yanked off his jersey and was across the room in two steps with Tommy jacked up against the shelves of his stall. He fisted a hand in the shoulder of Tommy’s Under Armour and pressed a forearm against Tommy’s throat.
“Shut your god-damned mouth, you fucking cock-stain.”
The silence was deafening. Tommy’s eyes bulged and his mouth fell open.
“I fucking warned you the last time you mouthed off.”
Nate increased the pressure.
Tommy gasped for breath. “Get off me, asshole,” he choked out.
“Fuck you. I told you to keep your trap shut.”
“Nessy, man, come on. You made your point,” someone said. Nate had no idea who. The blood pounded in his ears too loudly to associate a voice with a face.
Nate pressed a little harder. Tommy’s face went red.
“Have I? I didn’t beat the shit out of him like I said I would.”
“Hey!” a new voice yelled.
A moment later, arms circled one of Nate’s shoulders and his other arm, pulling him away from Tommy.
He struggled for form’s sake but didn’t really fight it.
He’d crossed a line, and he knew it, but fucking homophobic trolls like Tommy needed to know that shit was not okay, not anymore, and certainly not in any locker room Nate stood in.
“That’s enough. Get back to your stall or go shower.”
Nate shrugged himself free and stalked to the showers, shoving off his shorts and briefs as he went, kicking them in the direction of a shower stall.
He cranked on the water and let the heat and the pressure wash away the surface anger.
He hung his head and sighed. Losing his cool was definitely going to come back and bite him.
He’d have to apologize and then live with whatever disciplinary actions the team wanted to mete out.
Eventually, someone called out the all clear and he grabbed a towel before going into the changing room to get dressed. There was one other guy in there, young forward from Europe. Dark hair, big dark eyes. The kid just nodded and then disappeared.
Well, shit. He’d made the kid wary of him. He’d have to apologize.
An assistant coach poked his head in the room. “You’ll be getting a call.”
Nate nodded. Guess he wasn’t going out for pizza with the guys now.
He shrugged. As important as bonding with his new team was, he couldn’t deny he’d much rather be at home with Wesley.
* * * * *
Nate’s spirits lifted the moment he walked in the door.
A rich, savory scent hit him. Something hearty and instantly mouthwatering.
Stress slid from him like the snow shoveled off the ice surface during a tv timeout.
Coming home to whatever that delicious aroma mitigated the lack of pizza.
The kitchen was clean as if no one had been there all day, but the humming dishwasher and the fragrant scent of chicken and sauce said otherwise.
He peeked into the crock pot on the counter.
Chunks of chicken were nestled with veggies and some sort of cream sauce.
A sense of rightness settled within him at the sight of the table.
A pair of place mats set with napkins and silverware sat at one end.
Salt and pepper shakers sat in the swath of wood in between.
Various piles of laminated illustrated words and pictures littered the end closest to the wall.
A large map of the United States sat with a pair of scissors on it, ready for all the excess plastic to be cut away.
Until Wesley, Nate ate in the kitchen, leaning against the counter shoveling in breakfast or he sat hunched over his plate at the coffee table watching the golf channel.
“Hey,” said Wesley, coming from the hallway, a short stack of folded dishtowels in his hand.
Another surge of warmth washed through Nate.
God... Life had been eased—no, transformed—by the advent of Wesley in his life over the last week. Sending him home was going to suck hockey sticks. “You sure you don’t want to be my personal assistant? The pay is really good. Includes room and board.”
Wesley smiled that lop-sided grin of his, and Nate just went warm all over and yeah. The man had wormed his way into Nate’s affections, into his heart, but it would never work. For obvious reasons, of course, but for the not so obvious ones, too.
People didn’t stick by Nate. Not family. Not teams. Why would this situation be different? There was obviously something wrong with him. No reason to get his hopes up and his heart broken one more time.
He had no idea what the fuck was going to happen, but when you threatened and assaulted a team’s star D-man, no doubt you were in for some trouble. Well, Nate was too good to send back to the farm team, but life could be lonely and uncomfortable when you were the outcast.
A shame, too, ‘cause the guys had all seemed like a tight group and happy to have him. Of course, the Lumberjacks had been that way, too. Right up until they shipped him out. Of course, that had less to do with his teammates and more to do with team owners and the black eye they thought they’d taken after those pictures went viral.
“Nate?”
He blinked. “Huh? Yeah. Sorry.”
Wesley patted his shoulder. “It’s fine. Everything okay? You looked really pensive there for a moment.”
“Yeah. I mean no.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Fucking Tom—”
A long beep from the kitchen sounded.
“—my.”
“You hungry?”
His stomach growled just then. “Starved.”
“How about I dish that up and you tell me what happened over dinner?”
Warmth and wanting and a feeling of being seen and heard and cherished took root in his chest. Fuck. How was he going to give this up? Since his arrival, Wesley had just been that person. He had no choice but to live without it. Wesley had his own life to live.
A few minutes later, they were seated across the table from each other. Nate didn’t remember owning place mats. “Wait. Did you buy these?” He tapped the corner of the blue plaid fabric with his fork.
Wesley bit his lip, one eyebrow arching. “Maybe.”
“Why?”
“Because you deserve to have people do nice things for you. Sadly, I won’t be around much longer to do it.” He shrugged. “They’re just dollar-store place mats. Nothing fancy.”
“Thanks.” Yeah, he was making way more out of this than he needed to.
“You’re welcome.” Wesley cut up his chicken breast. “Now, what did Tommy do?”
“Just mouthing off after the scrimmage.” Nate shook his head. God, he was dumb. Should have just let it be. “I overreacted.”
Wesley’s palm hit the table, making Nate jump and his eyes meet Wesley’s.
“Vocal ally, remember? Don’t apologize for standing your ground over something as insidious as homophobia. You warned him. You followed through. Maybe he’ll think twice before opening his mouth again.”
“Only when I’m around. You think he cares or even understands?”
Wesley deflated. “Still. Maybe talk to the coaches or HR or someone? I don’t know the hierarchy of a hockey team.”
“Yeah, about that. I’ll be getting a call from someone. Shit. I should call Wade. Give him a heads up.”
“Yes, you should. You need someone in your corner.”
Nate’s phone jangled and buzzed in his back pocket. He groaned and fished it out. Time to face the music.
“Hello?
“Yes, sir.
“No, sir.
“I’ll see you at 9:30.
“Yes, sir.
“Bye.” Nate pushed his plate away. “Fuck.”