Six
OWEN
Instead, I flick the puck back to Menlo and try to get back around the defenseman. He’s in my shadow now. Breathing down my neck. Trying to shake him, I move around the back of the net and come out on the other side in time to see Franz Bauer, our other wingman, take a shot.
They’re not a bad team, but fuck. This is our last game before ten days off for All Stars and I really want to go out on a win. The last thing we need is to head into a break with four losses sitting heavy on our shoulders and questioning our life choices.
The puck drops and Menlo flicks it to Bauer. He’s one of the fastest on the ice. Like, in the entire league. It’d be a crime if he wasn’t invited to All Stars. There’s nothing like waiting until the last minute before they announce the invitations, so it’s not like we know yet.
Bauer practically skates a circle around their two defensemen and buries the puck. It flies by Trustein’s hip and hits the net. The crowd gets loud.
Since we’re in New York and the two state teams are playing, it’s a healthy division of fans in the stadium, so I see a balance of our black and yellow jerseys and the Gulls’ red, white, and blue.
There are boos and cheers mixed together.
I’ll take it. After the goal, we trade lines and I head for the bench.
I’m handed a water bottle as soon as I step behind the wall and chug a few messy swallows before sitting and watching.
We’re ahead by one now and I’d love to see us keep that lead.
That means we need to, at the very least, prevent another goal.
Defend that fucking net, bitches.
I’m not the hugest fan of our second line forwards.
It’s not something I say out loud, but they’re kind of sloppy and very greedy.
There’s so little teamwork between them that I get frustrated watching them on the ice.
All three of them are concerned with scoring. Not for the team, but for themselves.
I get it. Everything about sports is a competition. Your position isn’t guaranteed unless you can prove yourself. And if you’re not in a starting line position, that means there’s room for improvement.
But I’ve been around long enough to know being an individual player as opposed to a team player isn’t the way to move ahead.
The coaches see that shit and take notes.
Linden tried to explain that, but it falls on deaf ears.
The last time the second-string center got mouthy, it turned into a fight in the weight room.
There were enough witnesses to assure the bitchy center was suspended for a game and Linden received a slap on the hand.
So we don’t help the second string forwards anymore. They’re on their own. Instead, if we’re out with one of them, we avoid them unless it’s life or death. I give the puck to defense before one of them.
To be fair, our defense is solid. With Daryn in the crease and Pen paired with Linden, we do pretty well. That’s not to say pucks don’t get through. They do. But they’re still an amazing defensive team.
Coach signals for the switch again and I climb over the wall. My blades hit the ice and I head straight for the puck. It’s being fought over again but I don’t get in the way this time. I circle on the opposite side of the halfcourt while Linden fights for it.
As I hoped, the puck comes screaming toward me. But so does #13. Grabbing the puck, I spin around and cut it. It hits #13 in the arm.
Time slows as I watch it, making a slightly wide arc around him. Before the puck hits the ice, I have my stick under it. It hops and I use gravity and friction to keep it in the air as I flick it toward the goal.
Hockey happens so quickly that there’s no time to hold your breath. You’re already setting up for the denial and reshot before the puck either hits home or gets blocked. So I’m still sliding toward the goal when the puck meets nothing but net.
I raise my stick as my team surrounds me. We celebrate for only a minute before we move back into position. There are still three minutes left in the period. Two scores in three minutes to tie the game isn’t impossible. I’ve seen two scores in seven seconds to win a game before. Can’t get cocky.
However, we manage to take the win. There are no less than six attempts at goal against Daryn but he blocks them all. While Trustein keeps us from scoring again, it’s not enough to take the win back.
We celebrate on our way back to the locker room.
Cheering excitedly. This is definitely the way to go into break.
I peel off my gear and head for the shower, where I stand under the water and just let it seep into my skin.
You don’t feel the chill on the ice. Definitely not when you’re in the middle of a game.
But as your adrenaline comes down, the cold starts to creep in. I shiver and turn my face into the water, letting it fall over my head. As the sweat washes away, I begin to taste its salty tang as it slips between my lips.
Not for the first time, I think of licking Zak’s naked, sweaty flesh as he moans under me. It’s been three weeks since I sent him home with my number. Three weeks and I haven’t heard from him. For three weeks, I haven’t stopped thinking about him.
There are times even when I’m on the ice that I swear I’ll catch a glimpse of him in the stands, but when I look, it’s not him. Sometimes, there’s zero resemblance at all.
I’ve never truly questioned myself when it comes to connecting with another person. I’m a firm believer in the person and not the vessel. It’s someone’s personality I’m attracted to first. Gender isn’t even on my list of priorities.
When I tried to once again explain pansexuality and bisexuality to Linden recently, I attempted with that line of reasoning.
A bisexual person still completely recognizes gender.
Most of the bi people I’ve met also tend to lean heavily one way or another.
It’s not an equal-opportunity love fest. It’s rare that they find both genders equally attractive.
Pansexuals truly tend to find both genders equally attractive.
Because gender isn’t necessarily a marker for our ideal person.
A straight person will use a male/female pronoun when telling us what they’re looking for.
He’s tall. She’s got blue eyes. I always use ‘they.’ They’re happy. They’re smart. They have drive.
Gender is a construct. I’m into people.
I’m unsure whether this way of explaining actually helped Linden understand. There was a moment when he asked if there are genderless people because that’s how I see people. That was an entirely different conversation that would likely be far too complicated for him.
He's not dumb; though Linden often gives people that impression. The man is smart, but he’s smarter in certain areas.
He can talk to you all day about anything having to do with geology.
But talk math with him and he looks at you like you’re speaking a foreign language.
He loves chemistry and can rattle off the different properties of nearly every element in the periodic table.
But ask him about how the government runs, and he looks like you’ve just asked him to cut off his dick.
Linden says he’s selectively smart. If something is interesting to him, he can learn about it for years. But if he doesn’t have any interest in it, then you may as well be trying to teach a brick wall to speak. It just doesn’t happen.
Eventually, I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around my waist. Once more, I’m thinking about Zak.
How he snuggled into the towel I handed him after I washed him.
The way his smile settled on his pretty lips and how his eyes fluttered close as if he couldn’t help himself.
His hair dripped into his eyes and his narrow frame was all but swallowed by the towel.
He was breathtaking.
I let him walk out. Yes, I gave him my number and I truly thought he’d call.
I believed that he didn’t have a phone. There aren’t many people that would leave their phone behind, not even when attending a party.
I can confirm that he had exactly nothing with him.
No ID. No cash. No phone. His pockets were empty.
I know that because I touched that man everywhere. Clothes on and clothes off.
But I really thought he’d call me. I was sure that he felt the same electrified connection I did. He understood that my memory room was just that. Memories I wanted to keep. Not a showcase to my awesomeness.
“Coming out, Vinny?” Menlo asks.
Pulling up the towel, I ruffle it through my hair and then drop it on the bench. “Yeah. Where we going?”
“Food. Maybe the bar uptown with the pool tables,” Linden suggests.
“Cool.” I’m not entirely in the mood to drink or be surrounded by sweaty people. But I keep going out with the guys when we’re home in the hope I’ll run into Zak somewhere. Anywhere. I desperately need to see him again.
I truly appreciate playing the other New York team. It means I get to sleep in my own bed, regardless of which stadium we play at. Hell, even when we play New Jersey I get to return home. Those are by far the best games. I almost don’t care who wins.
Almost.
We take a cab together since the three of us live in the same condo complex.
They’re roommates. It didn’t take me long to realize it’s because Linden doesn’t like to live alone.
He’s leery of the big city and had been spending a fortune to stay in a hotel for almost six months because he felt safer there.
When Menlo found out, he invited Linden to move in.
Most of the condos in this building are three to five bedrooms. Never smaller; though I hear that the ones on the top floor might be bigger.
Which is seriously impressive for New York City.
Granted, we pay a pretty penny for the space we have.
But what else am I going to spend my money on right now? A comfortable living space is a must.
I let myself into my condo and toss my bag into the laundry room just off the entry.
I’m already stripping out of my suit on my way to the bedroom.
Sometimes, I look around and try to remember Zak in my space.
I try to catch a hint of his scent. I found myself standing right where he did in my hockey room the other day.
Sighing, I change into something that’s more appropriate to go out in. There’s no sign of Zak here. Nothing but memories. His smell isn’t even on my sheets anymore since I washed them.
In a city of nearly nine million people, how am I going to find a single one? What if he lives outside the city? He could live in Jersey. He could live further away than that.
Did I creep on the address he put into my phone for the ride share?
Yep. I even gave into being a creep and went to the apartment.
There's a buzzer out front like most buildings in the city, but none of the names next to the buttons were for a Zak. Some didn’t even have first initials. Just last names.
I’m not that desperate. He’s a single person. In a world of billions. With a B. If he doesn’t want to see me again, then fine. I think I made it pretty clear that I wanted to see him again by giving him my number. I left the puck in his possession.
He chose not to call.
That doesn’t stop me from looking for him everywhere. Like the bar that Linden brings us to. We get a table by the pool tables and order pizzas and beers. There are bodies everywhere. Gorgeous bodies. Pretty smiles. Flirty eyes.
But I’m just not interested in any of them. None.
I’ve never been a big man whore, but I’ve also taken advantage of the fact that sex is easy to come by when you have a recognizable face and a net worth with more than a single comma.
Since Zak, no one has looked appealing.
“Who you taking home tonight?” Linden asks.
I shake my head and take another long pull from my beer, letting my gaze move slowly around the bar one last time. Just to confirm that Zak isn’t here.
“No one,” I say when I set the bottle down.
The two men exchange looks but don’t comment. Linden gets into a tirade on why the beer we’re drinking isn’t the best he’s ever had and what they ought to change about the recipe. He goes into detail about how he’d change it, too.
Beer is one of his interests.
I nod, trying to pay attention while I continue to look for those dark brown eyes and biteable dark pink lips.