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January was a long, cold month spent riding all over states that were just as—if not more—cold than Cayuga. The Cougars were holding their own despite the loss of August Miles to the pros. Our new starter was good, no doubt, but he just didn’t have the crazy tight focus that Augie had possessed. Mitch was keeping us in the race though, and that was all you could ask from a tender. My game was on point. Scoring had never been an issue for me, and with Dan on my wing, we were coming off the ice nightly with at least a point per game for each of us.
We’d just rolled back into Cayuga from a four-game stint in Rhode Island, Massachusetts, and one game in Binghamton. The Cougars had grabbed six points out of a possible eight and were sitting at the top of our division. Everything in hockey land was good. Shit in the personal life was teetering dangerously.
Wade had five weeks until his parole hearing. Thirty-five days.
I worked on a new tie, pulling out the Windsor knot for the tenth time, my fingers suddenly unable to work the blue silk properly. My stomach was a toxic mess, acid bubbling like lava. The last time I had seen Wade had been at his sentencing for assault with a deadly weapon. He’d gotten ten years on the felony conviction. The fucker should have gotten more but they couldn’t get him on intent to kill even though he’d busted my nose with the handgun he’d been waving at my sister and Charlie. That he had only gotten ten years in the state pen was a travesty.
When we heard he was up for parole due to his ‘exemplary behavior while incarcerated’ Kimmy broke down and cried. I was close to tears myself, but since only little fags cry—as explained to me numerous times by Wade Hillgrove, bastard abuser and ex-brother-in-law—I put a fist through the door of my bedroom closet. It’s still there, just hidden by a poster of Bobby Orr. This was the man that—at one time—I’d thought would be the dad I’d never had. What a stupid kid I had been.
I had to stop working on my tie because my hands were trembling. I hated how weak the memory of that man made me.
Scrapping the tie for now, I pulled on my freshly pressed gray suit jacket and a thick pea coat and stepped out into the frigid wind. Time to shake it off. The awards dinner was tonight, and I had to have my public Sander March face locked down tight.
Ice and snow clung to the windows of my RAV 4, but she rolled right over when I turned the key. It was okay to sit here in the car outside my apartment building and listen to some Melanie Martinez as the interior slowly warmed. It gave me time to find my center. It would take me about ninety minutes on 414 to drive from Cayuga to Corning, where the dinner was being held. I still had no clue why they’d named me since our team didn’t play in the Twin Tiers area but here I was, going to this stupid dinner even though I had no interest in any of this kind of bullshit. The less my name was splashed around the better.
“Should have chosen to be a shoemaker,” I told my reflection. I bet cobblers aren’t talked about in the sports section all the time.
Melanie was taken over by some Vic Mensa, and I was on my way. The roads were clear, and I made good time, arriving at the Corning Regency Hotel a little after seven. Fashionably late as Kimmy liked to say. After parking the Toyota, I jogged to the hotel and pushed through wide glass doors. The lobby was nice, classy, with a sign leading jocks and journalists to one of the dining rooms.
Sneaking in was easy. I just slithered through the door and plastered my back to the wall. The dining room was vast, filled with tables covered with white tablecloths and people in suits and cocktail dresses. One side was lined with buffet tables and the rich smells of garlic and coffee filled the dry air.
“If you’re interested in the woman in the red dress, she’s not on the market.”
I glanced to my right and got a smile that could shame the moon from a man almost too beautiful for words. Dark brown hair with all kinds of curls, deep brown eyes, skin the color of creamed coffee, and a playful dimple. He was an inch or two taller than my six feet, lean, with long arms and legs.
“She’s not my type,” I dully replied, hoping that I could tug my gaze from those soulful chocolate eyes of his.
“Too old?” He stepped closer, our shoulders brushing.
“Too female.”
“Oh.” He leaned in a little closer, the pressure of his arm growing against mine. “I like older women and hot green-eyed men in suits who forgo that old tie makes the suit mantra.”
“Shit.”
“The look works for you. Mateo Castillo. I play centerfield for the Elmira Egrets.”
“Sander March. Baseball huh?” I took the offered hand and shook it. A nice warm sizzle happened when skin met skin.
“Yeah, minor league, double A. And you play what?” Mateo still had my hand.
“Hockey, up in Cayuga.” I tugged free and got a sassy wink from the centerfielder. “Not sure why I’m here to be honest.”
“Yeah? Do you suck?”
Okay, now that could be taken as a come-on or as a slam if one didn’t catch the glimmer of mischief in his eye.
“No, actually, I’m leading my division in goals and am tied with my winger for assists.”
A couple sauntered by, nodded, and then continued to the buffet tables.
“Then that’s why you’re here. They must have seen you play. Want to grab some food and a table?” I could see that people were now starting to move toward the buffet tables. “We can sit and talk sports until we both lose and go home all sad and dejected.”
“You go home to an empty house?” I nearly choked on some spit as soon as that rolled out. I mean, sure, Mateo was hot and obviously bi, and the vibes were super strong, but I generally didn’t swoop in on a guy that directly.
“I go home to my boyfriend.”
Figures. Dude that sexy had to be taken. Now I felt even stupider. “Lucky man your boyfriend.”
“Yeah, I keep telling him that. Let’s go eat and talk about how you don’t suck. That might be why you don’t have a man of your own.” He nudged me in the side, and I couldn’t help but snort at the comment.
We loaded up our plates with the standard buffet food: chicken, green beans almandine, scalloped potatoes, a roll, some butter pats, and a cup of coffee. Mateo jerked his head to a table by the stage. He sat down on my left, spread a cloth napkin over his lap, and began cutting up his chicken.
“You from the area?” I asked while buttering my roll.
“Nah, I was born in Puerto Rico. Got into baseball as soon as I could hold a bat according to my dad. He fostered my love of the game. We moved to the States after my parents got divorced. Lived with my mom, played baseball all through high school, got a scholarship, and here I am. Just a league away from the pros. What about you?”
I took a bite of my roll, happy to see that it was fresh and warm. After I chewed and swallowed, I gave him the public version of Sander March’s bio.
“Kind of the same. Hockey was my drug. Got lucky and fell into a charity program that the Carolina Wave were launching that gave low-income local kids hockey equipment.”
“So, your folks were poor too, huh? I get that. Grew up with a single mom. It was tough.”
I nodded as if I knew what a single mom was. My mother had died when I was four from an overdose of bad horse. They’d found her in the bathtub. Kimmy had been the only mother I really knew.
“Yeah, we were poor,” I mumbled then proceeded to stuff food into my face at a steady pace. Didn’t have to make small talk that way. Mateo seemed more than willing to talk while I chewed. He chatted with me, with the other people at the table, with a passing reporter, and even with the chick tasked with keeping our water pitchers filled.
“Do you ever come up for air?” I finally asked, well into the awards presentation.
Mateo laughed lightly. “Not often. My first coach stuck me out in centerfield so he didn’t have to hear my mouth going.” That was kind of funny. “You should smile more often. It does wicked good things for you.”
I blinked at the subtle flirtation. Or maybe it was just Mateo being Mateo. He was super outgoing. If not for that boyfriend of his I’d be hitting on him in a big way. The comment floated up into the ether, and we sat there, whispering to each other about ugly shoes several golfers were wearing or the bad hair dye jobs on some of the women. We discussed music and films, talked about video games. We both were avid Fields of Death fans and raved forever about our favorite first-person shooter. He told me that he worked as a carpet layer during the off-season, and his boyfriend was a senior at some art college.
Talking with him was easy. He made you feel like you’d known him forever. He was open and honest about everything from his politics to his taste in food. How I wished I could be like that.
The night raced by, and when it was over, neither Mateo nor I had won a damn thing. We got a spiffy certificate though. We lingered a bit as the dinner guests slowly left. Actually, we were the only two left, and we were so into our conversation about immigration that it took a server from the caterers bumping into the table as she gathered the empty pitchers to make us stand and pull on our coats.
“Hey, listen, why don’t we hang out sometime? Maybe play some split-screen Fields of Death.” He held out his hand. I stared at his palm like a dope. “Give me your phone, and I’ll add my number.”
“Oh, yeah, that would be cool. Do you live in Elmira?”
“I wish. We live in Varick, which is like a half hour from Cayuga.” He took my cell after I brought up the contacts list. “Takes me about an hour or so to get to the stadium.”
“Why do you live so far from the ball park?” I looked from Mateo’s fingers tapping his info into my cell to the bitter cold waiting for us outside the lobby doors. The thick panes of glass on the doors were frosted near the bottom.
“Noah goes to the Cayuga School of Modern Arts, so we had to find a place that was kind of in the middle but closer for him. As soon as he graduates this year, we can move down to Elmira. There.” He handed me my phone back.
“So, your boyfriend is an artist? Like he paints pictures?” I pretended not to be overly impressed with his phone number in my contact list, but deep down that hot nugget of attraction began to glow brighter, which was shit on my part since the guy had a boyfriend...who we were discussing right now.
“Nah, he’s a manga artist.”
“Oh, so he draws comic books. That’s cool. I like the X-Men.”
Mateo snickered. “Don’t let him hear you call manga a comic book. Noah’s usually really shy, but he will go off on trying to make that comparison.”
“Noted.” I shoved my phone into my pocket and looked right at Mateo. This would be the time I’d lean in for a kiss or offer to take him to my place. But there was this shy Noah the manga artist waiting at home. “So, I guess we’ll do some Fields of Death sometime. We get a couple of days off here next week. Maybe I could bring my controller and we can hang out?”
“I’d like that. Text me for directions.” He held out his hand as he should, but those dark chocolate eyes held lots of fire. We shook, and then he sprinted out of the hotel and was out of sight. After he was gone, I stepped out into the cold, shuddered violently, and then hurried to my icy cold car. Scraping ice off the windshield at midnight made me yearn for my days playing back in Alabama. This cold stuff sucked hairy nuts. I wondered how a boy from Puerto Rico managed all the snow and frigid temps. Thinking of Mateo helped warm me up a little, but my fingers were stiff and aching when I leaped back into the car and drove off, teeth chattering in time with Sarah Jaffe on the stereo.