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Ten days later, we were on the charter bus, idling outside the Rader, waiting for the last member of the coaching staff to arrive. When he did, it was like witnessing a ginger tornado blowing into the bus.
“Okay, whoever keeps dropping these motherfucking things in my office is going to have to get a bootectomy to remove my fucking shoe from his tender little ass!” Victor whipped a small rubber shark into the seats, his hazel eyes snapping with anger. “I mean it, you sniggering twat lizards. If I find out who’s doing this on a fucking daily basis, I will bench your ass. Keep that in mind the next time you’re all about the tee-hee-hee middle school prank shit. I am beyond deadly serious. I will find you, and I will kill you. Liam Neeson has nothing on me, you immature fucks.”
I watched the shark get tossed from left side of the bus to right after Kalinski threw himself into his seat next to Dan. Someone started tossing out quotes from Jaws. Smiling internally, eternally grateful to the internet and express shipping for one hundred rubber toy sharks, I sat back, earbuds in, and started listening to one of Noah’s books in audio. The trip to Binghamton was just over an hour. We’d play and go back to Cayuga, rolling in around midnight or one.
Then I’d leap into my car and drive to Varick to spend what was left of the night with Noah and Mat, since he was flying out on a red-eye tomorrow morning for Phoenix and spring training. Noah was a mess already, fluctuating between stressing over Mat’s impending absence and my lack of therapy/meds. Last night, I had promised him I would get on track, and I would, but now I had a bigger worry to attend to. Not that the rise in anxiety triggers wasn’t a worry, because it was, but I wasn’t ready to toss all my shit out into the open. Asking for personal days to go to the parole hearing on Thursday was bad enough. Begging for a shrink and dope for my issues was just unthinkable. Yet, the attack I’d last had made it hard to ignore. One thing at a time. That’s what they say. One thing at a time. Parole hearing first. Keeping Wade in prison was the top priority. Once I knew he was safely behind bars for a couple more years, I’d be able to breathe and the need for a counselor and meds would be less pressing. See, everything hinged on Wade staying behind bars.
Someone tapped the top of my head. I rolled a lip and ignored. The next tap was more of a slap and that could not be ignored. I ripped out my earbuds and threw a glower at the redhead hanging over the back of my seat.
“Hey,” McGarrity whispered from behind me. “It’s my birthday.”
“Yeah? You get your new AARP card in the mail yet?” I went to cram my earbuds back in. He laughed once, a sharp bark, and then cuffed my head again. Mitch, who was always at my side now like a fucking mole or some other kind of annoying skin malady, chuckled.
“Damn, you are funny. That came the other day.”
“Congrats. Bet Lila’s looking forward to the travel discounts.”
“I love funny people. Pity you’re not. Listen, the reason I told you it was my birthday was because birthday boys get to pick the travel music.” He waved a CD under my nose. “I saw how smiley you were when Vic detonated. I kind of suspect it’s you planting toy sharks in his office, which is fucking hilarious, and I am envious of your cunning and intelligence gathering.”
“Not a clue of which you speak,” I replied and tried, yet again, to get back to my audio book.
“Right. Okay, well, anyshits, I got this great CD that Vic will love. Want me to use my birthday boy privileges?”
“Whatever gets your dick hard, man,” I coolly responded, but inside I was kind of looking forward to seeing Victor get a bit more shit. He deserved it. No one was a bigger ball buster than Victor, and so few were willing, brave, or creative enough to give it back when he dished it out.
Mario grinned and stood up. Mitch and I both rose up in our seats to see as McGarrity sauntered to the front of the bus, his kilt swirling around his legs.
“I’m claiming my rights as birthday boy to play the travel music,” Mario shouted and got a loud round of well wishes and offers to find him a cane or a walker to ease his time on the ice. “Oh yeah, you guys are fucking hilarious. Anyway, Coach Dewey, I’ve got this here CD, and we’ve got nothing but miles of road and time.”
“I hope this isn’t that hip-hop shit,” Dewey rumbled as he got to his feet and opened one of the overhead compartments. Inside was a DVD player, which had a copy of “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation” stuck inside it, and a CD player hooked to the small TV’s that hung from the overheads every ten feet or so.
“Nope, no hip-hop shit,” Mario promised, crossing his heart as he made his way back to his seat.
As soon as the country music started, I knew we were in for a long haul. Then, someone started yodeling and even in the middle of the bus, with all the hooting and attempts to yodel, I could hear Kalinski coming completely undone. While I might side with Victor on this one—this music was shitty—I’d swallow down my love for some good metal just to enjoy the massive meltdown taking place up front.
“Ah, yodeling and fiddles. What a great way to start my special day,” McGarrity shouted.
“You suck elephant dong, McGarrity!” Vic bellowed from the front.
I snickered, stepped over Mitch, and wiggled into the tiny bathroom. I hated using these things. They reminded me of a coffin, but I’d downed two huge mugs of coffee before boarding. After exiting, I caught the rubber shark as it sailed by, and made my way a few rows past my seat to sit down beside Coach Hart, stopping only to whip the shark back over my head. He looked up at me over his reading glasses, the paperback book in his hand old with yellow pages.
“Can I talk to you?” I asked, picking at the pearly gray tie Noah had expertly knotted for me this morning.
“Sure.” He closed the book and removed his glasses, which was a pity because he looked fucking hot with them on, that whole DILF thing and all. He turned in his seat a bit to give me his full attention. “Is something wrong? Are you sick?”
“No, nothing wrong at all. I just uh...need a few days off for personal reasons.”
One slim brown eyebrow climbed up his forehead. “Is there a sickness or death in your family?”
“No, no sickness or death.” I flattened my tie against my stomach. “It’s uh...something of a legal matter.”
“Something of a legal matter.” He drew that phrase out way past his usual highly relaxed speech pattern. “Will his legal matter come back to reflect poorly on the team?”
God, I hope not. “Absolutely not. I just have to attend my brother-in-law’s parole hearing and read a few letters. I’ll be driving so no cost to the team at all, aside from me missing Thursday’s game against Wheeling.”
He stared at me with intent whiskey-colored eyes. I fidgeted with my tie more, a nasty bile starting to brew in my stomach. Too much coffee. It was making me jittery and queasy. Damn Mat and his skill with a coffee maker.
“Okay, we’ll scratch you for the Thursday night game. You will be back in time for the Saturday matinee at home?”
“Yes, I will be home and ready to play. Thanks, Coach Hart.” I started to leave, but he laid a hand on my forearm, keeping me seated for a moment longer. When I could no longer stare down at my tie and not look rude, I glanced at my coach. He wasn’t mad, just concerned.
“Sander, if you ever need anyone to talk to, you have the entire coaching staff here. You do realize that, right?” I liked hearing him talk. His Southern accent was much stronger than mine, and he spoke so lazily that it was relaxing. Generally, just not of late. Not much was easing me of late, aside from being wedged between Mat and Noah, their arms around me.
“Yep, I know that. Everything is fine. Mind on the game, eye on the prize, skating hard to make the playoffs, and sharing my skills with the world.” I smiled widely, making sure he got a dazzling dose of Cocky Sander.
“Okay then,” he sighed, releasing my arm. I shot to my feet, patted the headrest for some odd reason, and made my way back to my seat, climbing over Mitch who was napping. He woke up when I bumped his knees on my way past. I gave him a look and whatever he was about to say stayed in his mouth.
I shoved my earbuds in and tried to calm the burbling mess now churning in my gut. The feel of the rolling wheels was making my palms damp. I turned up the volume and found some relief in the story of two gay men who fall in love while working at a bakery. If only life was as easily wrapped up as this manga was by the end. We could all use one of Noah’s happily ever afters.
* * *
Some games were symposiums on playing great hockey. This was not one of those games, not for me anyway. Sitting on the bench after committing my third turnover of the night, sweat in my eyes, mouth sour and dry, I watched my team trying to battle back from a four-goal deficit. Two of those four goals were right on me. That last goal resulted from a turnover in the neutral zone, me trying to be fancy and make-up for a previous turnover in front of Mitch. A Broncos forward intercepted the drop pass intended for Dan and streaked down the ice, one-on-one with our goalie. Five-hole shot and red lamp lit. I wanted to put the blame on someone other than me, like Mitch. If we still had August in goal, he would have blocked that shot and saved my ass. That wasn’t true though—or probably not. Mitch wasn’t August Miles, but he was good, damn good. I needed to focus, but my thoughts were spinning like a May twister in Kansas.
“Are you listening to me?”
Coach Hart’s slow Southern drawl was not at all soothing right now. It was crackling with irritation. He was pounding on my left shoulder, driving in his thoughts, or trying. Maybe he needed to pound on my foggy fucking head. All I could think about was Wade, seeing him and having to read those two letters as his undead gaze rested on me, sliding through the flimsy layers of faux confidence that I wore like chain-mail to protect me from—
“March, I swear to God, if you don’t pay heed, I am going to glue your ass to this bench for the rest of the damn game.”
I snapped back, the haze lifting when McGarrity slammed into one of the Broncos and sent him ass over skates into our bench. Whistles blew, and Mario was assessed a crosschecking penalty, which meant that I was needed out there on the ice. There was a pause, a glitch, inside my mind, a tiny voice...a mere whisper of Wade’s voice right beside my ear.
And now the true fuck-up that you are is beginning to shine through, you queer little loser.
He was right. I would fuck this up. Just like I had earlier. My heart felt funny in my chest, too big and too loud. I could hear it pounding in my ears...
“March, haul your ass over those boards!” That was Kalinski. A spark of rebellion flared up, and the dark whispers died off. Slinging a leg over the boards, I took a deep breath, bit down on my mouth guard, and hit the ice with absolutely no clue how I would manage to get through another twenty-five minutes of hockey.
“Sander, you okay?” Dan asked, cruising around me. “You look pale.”
“Yep.”
He seemed less than convinced, but took his place behind me for the faceoff, which I lost. Our penalty kill was second in the league and the Broncos’ power play something like fifteenth. Yet, I felt a step behind even though I was much faster than anyone on the ice, Dan Arou-Kalinski included. The Broncos used that faceoff win to their advantage, carrying the puck to our end of the ice, and setting up in a fucking classic umbrella formation with their high D-man quarterbacking the play, another D-Man on the high defenseman’s offside to allow for a possible one-timer, the right winger on the high D-man’s other offside in case of a one-timer opening up from the left, the center hanging out in the slot hoping for a chance to deflect the shots coming from the outside, and the final forward being a fucking irritant in front of the net.
It’s a tough formation to defend against. We all dropped back to try to intercept or block the shots coming from the sides. I managed to clip one blistering shot with my body, dropping down to a knee to do so. That irritant in front of Mitch stayed planted in front of our goalie as the Broncos tightened up after getting the puck back after I blocked it. They converged on the net, poking and shoving the puck at Mitch. Shot after shot after shot. Players went down in the crease, Dan laying on the ice with a huge Broncos D-man on top of him. We did our best, really we did, but the puck slithered under Mitch’s left pad and slipped into the net. Mitch dropped to his knees, head back, totally deflated. I skated to the bench, eyes on my skates, and sat down as the Binghamton fans began chanting Mitch’s name over and over, taunting the goalie when it was—yet again—not his fault.
True to his word, Coach Hart sat me for the rest of the game. It was humiliating, infuriating, and totally deserved. The third period saw some effort being shown, but it was too little and far too late.
We left Binghamton with a 5-0 loss, an ass-reaming from the head coach that no amount of Preparation H would ease, and our tails tucked up to our bellies. Thankfully, we were on top of our division by several points, and a loss now and then was okay. No team won every game. But a spanking like that and being benched for the final period made me feel lower than dog shit on a hot sidewalk.
Mitch, sitting down beside me, wet hair frozen to his rather round head, looked to be as down as I was. Funk filled the bus. We all burrowed into our chosen individual escapes. Mine was Noah’s bakery romance. Mitch was watching some old cartoons. We didn’t speak until we pulled up to the Rader.
“Hey, I’m sorry for not playing better out there. I totally bailed on you tonight.”
Mitch shook his head while rolling up his earbuds. Guys were filing off the bus, not much in the way of chatter or ribbing going on.
“Nah, it wasn’t all you. I’m the last line of defense. If I don’t keep the puck out of the net...” He shrugged, shoved his buds into the pocket of his blue suit jacket, and stood up. “Just an off night, yeah? We’ll be back in form for Wheeling no worries.”
He gave me a meager smile and stepped out into the slowly moving line of men eager to get home and nurse their wounds, some literally. The arms of my lovers had never called so strongly.
It took fifteen minutes to thaw out my car enough to see clearly through the windshield. I slid in some Melanie Martinez, buckled up, and set off for Varick. The ride was just long enough to give me time to dwell, probably not the best thing to be doing, but there it was. By the time I pulled up in front of Noah and Mat’s apartment building, it was well after two in the morning, and I was thoroughly disgusted with myself.
I reached in the back seat, grabbed my overnight bag, which was now a permanent fixture in my car, and hoisted it to my shoulder. It was so late, I assumed I’d just use the key Mat had given me and let myself in and slide into bed with Mat and Noah. Seeing Mat sitting on the sofa, a cup of coffee by his feet and a PS 4 controller in his hands surprised me. The lights were out, but the flickering light of the TV illuminated his face. He looked exhausted and incredibly beautiful.
“Hey,” I said, letting my bag slide off my shoulder then removing my heavy coat. I tossed the coat over the back of the sofa and sat down beside him. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping since your flight is leaving in like three hours?”
“That would be the sensible thing,” he sighed but never looked at me, his attention fully on killing aliens. I plucked the controller from his hands and got a lethal glare.
“Talk to me.” I powered down the console and laid the controller on the coffee table. Mat reached down to pick up his mug of freshly-brewed deliciousness and took a long pull.
“It’s just Noah and leaving and baseball and...yeah.” He exhaled into his mug, shoulders falling inward, his attention on the soft blue of the home screen filling the room with a relaxing sapphire glow. “He’s not handling me leaving well. I mean, he’s better than he was last year with you here, but he’s still a wreck. Had to get him to take a sedative and get him into bed.”
“Wow.” I glanced at the closed bedroom door.
“Wow about covers it. And the fucking awful thing about it—aside from seasonally pushing my already emotionally delicate boyfriend to the brink—is that I’m not sure all of this agony is worth it. This will be my third spring training, Sander. Will I ever get called up? Or will I be stuck in Elmira playing the game I love in the summer while making less than a kid in a fucking convenience store, then killing myself in some sort of manual labor job all winter forever?”
“I totally understand what you mean. I’ve been in the minor leagues for four years now, and every season, I hear the same thing from the scouts and coaching staff.”
“Wait, let me guess,” Mat put his mug on the table and slid around to face me. “You need another year of seasoning, kid. Then we’ll reevaluate your progress next season.”
“Right on the fucking nose,” I said then tapped the tip of my nose, falling back into the old sofa and toeing off my dress shoes.
“Yep, and so we struggle and starve and play our hearts out. For what? I’m just sick of leaving my man all the time while trying to make ends meet, you know?”
“Noah said when he graduates he’s going to get a job,” I commented, tugging my tie off and tossing it to the table where it landed next to Mat’s empty mug. “That’ll help financially.”
“Yeah, I know he says that, but he’s not really emotionally stable enough to work outside the home. He’s too anxious, too tenderhearted, too easily shoved into a state of depression that will take him weeks to climb out of.”
“Such a sensitive artistic soul,” I whispered, thinking of the gentle man sleeping soundly in the bed we all shared.
“Extremely sensitive, so him working outside the home isn’t likely, and that’s fine. I want to take care of him; I enjoy knowing that he’s safe and happy and able to create his manga. My mother says I’m this super nurturer who has to protect the people they love from every little bump and ding.”
I sort of smiled. “Yeah, I think she might be right.” He tossed me a sour look. “Not saying that’s bad, but you do coddle Noah. I love that you do that though.” I placed my hand on his thigh. “I love that you take care of me too, clean up after me, and hold me when I’m scared. I’ve never had a man willing to do that.”
“I love you, Sander. I’d carry all your burdens if I could.”
My fingers slid around his neck, pulling him gently to me...to my mouth. “I love you too.” Saying that aloud for the first time lifted some of the sadness from my heart. I slanted my mouth over his, feeling him relaxing into the kiss, his weight increasing as the kiss deepened. I rubbed my tongue over his, wriggling to the side, spreading my legs, letting him settle on top of me, his teeth nipping at my lower lip as he ground against me. His cock was rigid.
“I need you,” I panted when the kiss broke. “We need each other.” I wiggled a hand between us and shoved it into his pants, finding the head of his prick slick with precum. I grabbed his dick, stroked it, and lifted my ass from the sofa to try to entice him. “Replace this bad shit with something good and right. Fuck me, Mat.”
I’d never begged another man to enter me. Ever. It was always me in charge, but with Mat and Noah, I’d switch and love them however they needed loved. Tonight, we both needed to give something to the other we could carry in our hearts during the long separation.
“You sure?” he asked, his teeth grazing my jaw. I freed his cock from his jeans.
“Completely sure.” His mouth crashed down over mine. Clothes melted away. Hot flesh pressed against hot flesh, cocks hard and slick, we suckled and nibbled at each other’s mouths, his dick resting now right under my balls.
“My bag...get my bag. Lube packets and condoms...inner pocket,” I huffed as my fingers dug into his ass, the muscles flexing as he reached over the arm of the sofa. I pulled his nipple into my mouth as he pawed around in my bag. He groaned then moved away, leaning back on his calves, a packet of lube and a bright red square in hand.
“You’re like the missing third of my soul, you know. You get me in a way that Noah doesn’t. You get this obsession to play a game. Noah...” He glanced at the door then back at me. “He hates it, and he cries and rails and begs me to stop playing baseball and stay here with him but...”
“But you can’t because the game is who you are, no matter how much you fucking hate some of the aspects of it.” I took the condom from him, ripped the packet open, and rolled it over his cock. He drew in a long shaky breath. His pupils were blown out, his nostrils flaring. Getting him into me was all I could think of.
“Exactly. If I didn’t do baseball, I just...I’ve been playing since I was a little boy. I love him madly, but there was always this hole in me because he just couldn’t understand my passion with this sport.”
“Totally get it,” I whispered, taking the lube from him and ripping a corner off. He watched me working the slick all over his cock. “Get inside me,” I said when he was shiny from tip to base. “Fuck me hard. I want to feel you for days, yeah?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, hooking my legs over his shoulders then pressing into me, slowly, the fat head of his dick first. Eyelids dropping, I bit down on my lip, the stretch and burn familiar yet unfamiliar. It had been a couple of years since I’d trusted a man enough to let him get this intimate. “Oh hell, you’re tight.”
“Don’t stop, Mat.” I tightened around him, and we both gasped. “Hard now. Make me feel it.” He did. Oh, man, did he. With one thrust, he embedded himself in me. I cried out then turned my face to the left and buried my cries of passion in the sofa cushion.
There was no quarter given, and I whimpered and moaned into that old cushion as Mat pumped in and out, balls slapping, his cock going so deep, it stole all my air, yet I asked for more, faster, more and more and yet more. Clawing at his ass, I jerked him deeper and felt him tremble as he came. His cock kicked inside me. I took myself in hand and pulled on the head of my dick roughly once or twice and then gave it up to the orgasm steamrolling through me. Semen speckled my chest and stomach as Mat lunged forward for that extra quarter of an inch.
“Ah fuck!” I yelped, riding out the orgasm while wincing at the man’s depth.
“Sweet virginal Mary,” Mat panted, his grip on my ankles loosening. He fell over me, chest to tacky chest, and licked his way into my slightly open mouth. I pushed my fingers into his hair, fisted those soft curls, and kissed him with passion. “God, I do love you,” he whispered over my puffy lips.
“And I love you and Noah,” I breathlessly replied, carding my fingers through his hair, enjoying the soft tug of curls before they sprang free.
“Take care of him, okay? He’ll be leaning on you a lot now. Don’t let him dwell on me and the distance.”
“I promise; I’ll keep him as happy as I can.”
I yanked his mouth back to mine, releasing him only when I had to so that we could clean up, rouse Noah, and get him to Ithaca-Tompkins and onto his cheapo flight to Tuscon. We spent a few minutes kissing goodbye, the three of us clinging to each other in that nearly empty airport. Some scruffy guy with a mop and yellow bucket kept eyeballing us from a men’s room doorway was the only person outside of staff around.
“I have to go. Hey, you two, I want to hear from you both every day,” Mat said then extricated himself from our arms. “I mean it, both of you. Every. Day.”
He got one last kiss from Noah, a tender one amid tears and sniffles.
“Keep him as close as you can,” Mat whispered beside my ear, stole a fast kiss, and then went off to be scanned and board his plane.
Noah grabbed my hand, his gloved fingers toasty warm. We waved at Mat until he disappeared, and then went to the walls of frosty glass to watch the only jet in sight sitting in the cold darkness, wing lights flashing.
“I heard you and him fucking out on the couch,” Noah said, his fingers tightly holding mine. My stomach dropped. My head swiveled, and I gaped at his profile as the cold somehow managed to work its way through the sturdy glass. Oh God. Would he hate me now? I wasn’t sure I could handle that. He peeked to the right, saw me looking at him, and placed his head to my shoulder. “It’s okay. He was hurting, and you were hurting and it just...I’m happy you could give him succor when I couldn’t. I’m a terrible boyfriend.”
He started weeping silently, using his free hand to hide his face in the thick purple scarf dangling loosely around his neck.
“No, no, you’re a wonderful boyfriend. He loves you so much.”
“I’m greedy. So greedy. I just don’t want him to go. I don’t want you to go.” His cheeks were wet with tears. The rolling stairs were moved from the side of Mat’s jet, and it slowly began rolling toward the runway. “I’m a greedy bitch of a man.”
“No, you’re just in love. I feel the same way.” Noah waved weakly at the jet as it rolled out of view and then turned to me, wrapping his arms around my neck. I held him tight, kissed the tears away, and then led him to my RAV 4 and took him home and put him to bed.
“Lay here with me,” he whispered groggily, his voice raspy from crying.
So, I stripped off my clothes and crawled into bed, opening my arms for him. He finally began to wind down as dawn arrived. I held him for hours, listening to him breathe, touching his hair and the soft shell of his ear, and wondering how two wrecks like us would ever manage to get through the next month without Mateo, our rock, to keep us sheltered and grounded.