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Isaac was pleased with his fuck-you speech in the locker room, even if he was so furious at his stupid friends that he was going to possibly murder them.
And Laurent. First of all no one should be that hot when naked and being manhandled—and Isaac should in no way be thinking that—and second of all—
Shit. Wait. Where were his keys?
Scowling, Isaac reached his Jeep and dug around in his pockets and his gear bag and then remembered he’d hung them on the little hook in his locker that was specifically designed for keys. Goddammit.
Isaac shouldered his bag and went back into the locker room, not looking forward to returning after that excellent exit he’d made. The shower was still on, and there was no sign of Laurent, so Isaac grabbed his keys from where they were so helpfully hanging in his locker—and heard Laurent St. Savoy sobbing like his life was over.
Isaac stopped, his eyes wide, and wondered what the fuck he was supposed to do. Laurent’s sobbing sounded wretched. And familiar. In fact it reminded Isaac of how he’d cried the first night he had to sleep in the alley behind the grocery store where his mom shopped on Sundays. Until that moment Isaac hadn’t understood how vulnerable it would feel to sleep outside in the elements with nothing but his convictions to keep him warm. He remembered how he wanted his mom to find him and tell him it was all right and bring him home. And how it had felt as the hours crawled by and no one came.
It didn’t feel very good to know someone else was feeling that way because of what he’d said. Even if Isaac hated the guy, he couldn’t just walk away.
Isaac turned and went back into the showers, where Laurent was leaning face-first against the tiles and shaking with the force of his tears, one hand clenched into a fist as he hit the wall.
The first thing Isaac noticed were the scars and welts on Laurent’s back. Isaac’s stomach turned when he thought about Laurent saying please and the look of fear on his usually disdainful features while Hux and Murph manhandled him. Those scars... they looked like someone had whipped him. More than once. Recently, and a long time ago, and many times in between.
“Hey,” Isaac said cautiously. He dropped his gear and his keys and walked into the shower fully dressed. “Laurent?” Careful not to get too close in case it freaked him out, Isaac reached in and turned the water off. Laurent’s harsh, guttural sobs echoed in the quiet of the shower.
“Laurent,” Isaac tried again to get his attention. “St. Savoy?”
The last name got his attention, but not in a good way. Laurent turned and looked at him over his shoulder. His eyes were red and even with the tears and shit, he was still gorgeous. His mouth was open, and he struggled to breathe. “I hate that name.”
Was there anything Mr. Ray of Sunshine didn’t hate? “Okay. So. I’ll, uh... call you....” What kind of nickname could you come up with for Laurent, for fuck’s sake? The ones the team had made up were definitely not appropriate. Nothing came immediately to mind. And Savoy.... Savvy? But Isaac seemed to recall that had been Denis St. Savoy’s nickname—hockey players are not original—and that was definitely out.
“Anyone ever call you Saint?”
“No one calls me anything.”
Isaac rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to add “because you’re kind of a brat.” “Can I ask you one question?”
Laurent just looked at him, clearly miserable, his arms huddled around himself as he turned away from the wall and hid his back again.
Do not look anywhere but his eyes, Drake.
“Do you give a shit that I’m gay?”
Laurent shook his head. “No.”
“I didn’t think so. Come on.” Isaac motioned to him. “No. Seriously, come on. We can’t stay in here, and....” You are so naked, hot, and vulnerable, it’s like a wet dream. Literally. “Just, c’mon.”
To his surprise, Laurent followed him, and the two of them walked, dripping into the locker room. Isaac found a towel, handed it to Laurent, and made sure to keep a good distance between them. Not because of gay panic, but because it suddenly made so much goddamn sense why Laurent was the way he was.
Isaac pulled his shirt and jeans off, rummaged through his locker, and found a pair of track pants and a T-shirt stuffed in the back. The shirt was a little crunchy and probably didn’t smell great, but it was better than driving home drenched.
“You have clothes. Right?” Isaac said, worried, because Laurent was standing and shivering with a towel around his shoulders, like he had no idea where the hell he was.
Laurent nodded and methodically started pulling things out of his locker. He kept his head bowed and reminded Isaac of a kicked dog that was finally tired of trying to defend itself.
Jesus. What is with him?
While Laurent got dressed like he was submersed in pudding, Isaac tried wildly to think of what to do. He had to do something, and logically it was “call Misha,” but that probably wasn’t the best idea right then. Laurent—it was easier to think of him as Saint—would bolt. Isaac was sure of it. He had one chance to get through to the guy, and he had to take it.
“Look, Saint. You and I, we have to get some shit straight.” He winced. “Figured out. Because I’ve got my two best friends acting like junior high bullies, and I hate that, but I also think things don’t need to be like this. Come with me. Okay? I’m not going to hurt you.” It felt kind of stupid to say that, since Laurent was at least four inches taller than he was and far broader across the shoulders than Isaac. But he didn’t think he’d ever really been in physical danger from Laurent. He’d made it clear he didn’t want anyone to touch him.
Laurent followed him to the Jeep without a word, climbed in, and rested his head against the window. He showed no interest in where Isaac was taking him, didn’t say anything, and looked so exhausted that Isaac nearly fell asleep looking at him.
In the end Isaac took him back to Misha’s. Home.
When he first moved in, Misha had gone out of his way to make sure Isaac knew he was “welcome to have guests over.” But Isaac wasn’t sure if Misha meant “you can fuck in your room if you want” or if he meant “Murph and Hux can come over as long as they don’t spill shit or drink my good vodka.”
Murph and Hux came over sometimes, and maybe once they’d each had a sip of the good vodka, but Isaac had never brought anyone over for the purpose of hooking up. Now that his days of selling blowjobs for cash were far behind him, he was picky about his hook-ups, and while he had a Grindr account thanks to Murph, he didn’t use it all that often. But even when he did, he wouldn’t bring anyone back to Misha’s.
It felt like he had a home—a real home—not just a place to stay. And it had been so long since he’d had that, Isaac guarded it jealously, even though no one was trying to take it away from him.
But he couldn’t think of anywhere else to go, he had no idea where Laurent lived, and he was supposed to empty the dishwasher before dinner. So, home it was. But he remembered those barbed comments Laurent had made about their coaches, and they still made Isaac mad. One glance over at Laurent extinguished his anger completely, though. The thought of those welts on Laurent’s back made Isaac sick to his stomach.
Speaking of stomach... “You want me to stop anywhere for food?”
Laurent looked over at him, hollow-eyed. “Don’t do this.”
“Feed you?” Isaac cleared his throat. “I mean, get you food?”
“Don’t feel sorry for me.”
Man. The guy was just determined to be difficult at every step of the way, wasn’t he? “Don’t be a jackass and then have an epic breakdown in the locker room, and I won’t.”
“You really are a dick,” Laurent said, showing a little spirit.
“Yeah. Well. Takes one to know one.” Isaac found himself giving Laurent a tentative smile. “Can we stop and pretend that all this shit didn’t happen up until now?”
“No,” Laurent said flatly.
Isaac’s smile vanished, and he pulled onto the side of the road, ignored the irate honking of annoyed drivers, and slammed on the brakes. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I’m trying to help you, you know. I’m trying to get past this shit. Why can’t you do the same and just let it go?”
“I don’t want you to forget it. I don’t deserve that.”
“This isn’t about you,” Isaac said, and suddenly he had an idea. “You know what your problem is? You never just shut the fuck up and listen. So how about this. You just keep your mouth shut until I tell you that you can talk again. That’s it. You can say whatever you want after that, but can you just do that one thing. Please?”
Laurent nodded.
“Hallefuckinglujah,” Isaac muttered, and he pulled the car back onto the road.
No one was home when Isaac parked the Jeep in front of the house, and he quickly said to Laurent, “Yes, I live with Coach Samarin and Coach Ashford. No. I’m not screwing either of them. Yes. I’d bang Coach Ashford into next week if I thought Coach Samarin wouldn’t impale me with a vodka bottle. Yes. Everyone thinks I’m a twink because of the eyeliner and my hair and the fact I’m not like, six feet tall and a bear. People have stupid ideas about being gay, and even if you didn’t mean any of that shit you were saying, you probably do too.”
Laurent almost said something, but he clearly remembered his promise and pressed his lips shut.
Bossing Laurent around was turning out to be more enjoyable than he thought. And even though he was still taciturn and didn’t look anything close to happy, something about not having to talk seemed to relax Laurent.
They went up to Isaac’s room. It was a dormer room with its own bath and had three windows and a pitched roof. His bed fit in a little alcove, so it was nice and snug. Isaac even had a dresser for his clothes, a closet, a desk, a chair that he knew Misha bought for him and pretended he’d just had lying around, and a television/stereo set that had belonged to Coach Ashford.
When he’d first moved in, Isaac made it a point to make the bed every morning and put everything away neatly before he left the house. Not anymore. His shoes were strewn about, his clothes were heaped in the laundry basket, his bed hadn’t been made since before the playoffs last season, and on the desk were no fewer than three Coke cans, ranging from empty to almost full.
He’d put up a poster of last year’s team and some pictures of him with Hux and Murph at Myrtle Beach from one of those photo booths. A ton of old goalie pads and gear were shoved in one corner.
Laurent dropped his gear and, in the way of goalies everywhere, immediately sank on the floor and started stretching.
Isaac and his old backup, Anthony Lathrop, used to stretch together. But Anthony was not as hot as Laurent, and it was never quite so distracting.
“Okay. So look. You don’t mean all that dumb gay shit, which means you’re saying it because... why? I don’t know, and you can’t talk yet, so let’s move on.” Isaac paused. “Wait a minute. We need food. Stay here.”
Isaac bounded down the stairs, grabbed a few cans of Coke and some snacks, and went back to his room.
“You actually eat these?” Laurent said as he picked up the box of Twinkies.
“Hey. I didn’t say you could talk.”
Laurent rolled his eyes, but he took a Coke, and opened a bag of pretzels. He watched Isaac with an expression of well?
“Okay,” Isaac said. He took a breath. Laurent was there and being quiet. It was weird to see someone he’d loathed up until about an hour before sitting on his floor and unwrapping a Twinkie. Isaac wasn’t sure what to say.
Laurent didn’t look any friendlier than usual, but it was hard to find a guy threatening when he was eating a Twinkie. And he shouldn’t be looking at Laurent’s mouth wrapped around that anyway.
“So here’s the thing. My parents kicked me out when I was seventeen. And it wasn’t because I told them I was gay. I told them that when I was thirteen, and they pretended not to hear me. It was because I’d told them I was going to come out at school. So they told me I could either go to one of those conversion camps or get out. So I left.
“And there’s a lot of shit I’m not going to get into because honestly, I don’t like you enough to tell you yet. But I stayed with friends until their parents made me leave, and then I ran out of friends. I had nowhere to go, and I tried to be this cool, defiant street kid, but I was just scared. I went behind the Kroger’s—the one where my mom always shopped—and it was cold, and I cried when I realized I had to sleep there because I couldn’t go home. I know how that feels, to have nowhere safe. To think no one cares about you.
“I still remember being that kid, Laurent, and how it felt. So I didn’t walk out when I heard you in the shower, and that’s why I brought you to my safe place. Because when you say that shit to me? I don’t care what you think about what I do with my dick. But when you spit on me and call me a fag, it’s like you’re trying to make me feel like that kid again. And no matter what you do, I won’t let you.”
Laurent looked down, but not before Isaac could see he’d touched some kind of nerve. He didn’t want to say Laurent looked ashamed, but he sort of hoped he felt that way.
“I won’t let you do it to anyone else on the team either. I don’t know if there’s someone on our team who’s still in the closet—and honestly, our team is so gay, I don’t know why we don’t fly a rainbow banner behind the Spitfire on our logo and call it good. But I won’t let you make them feel like that either. So I don’t know what shit happened to you or what had you upset, but unless you’re the worst person in the world—and for a while I thought you totally were—I don’t think you mean to make other people feel bad.” Isaac narrowed his eyes. “Do you? You can talk now. But if you use one gay slur—one—I will punch you so hard you’ll wish you hadn’t eaten that Twinkie.”
“I already wish that,” Laurent said. He bowed his head again and stared at the floor.
Isaac resisted the urge to start throwing pretzels at him. “Is that all you have to say?”
Laurent looked up at him, his eyes wary. “I don’t even know why you’re bothering with me. I’m not worth it.”
“I didn’t think you were. But maybe now I do.”
“Why? Because you saw me crying?” Laurent’s face flushed, and he looked away again.
“Because you’re my teammate.” Isaac wanted to hit him. “And you’re a goalie—a good one too. I’d like to play with you as a friend, instead of hate you for being a homophobe. And yeah. Okay. Maybe because I saw you crying. Because it means you might not be the asshole we all think you are.”
“I threw those games in Asheville.”
Isaac blinked. Of all the things he expected to hear.... “What?”
Laurent’s cool, dark gaze was unreadable. “My father said if the Storm swept us, he’d make sure I was traded. So I made sure we lost.”
Isaac stared at Laurent as he tried to process that someone hated their father enough to deliberately cause his entire team to lose in the playoffs. “Oh my God. That’s the—that’s the most awful thing I’ve ever heard.”
Laurent’s face managed to look even more closed down and remote, and then he gave Isaac that mean little smirk that meant he was going to revert back to dickhead mode. “Still want me as your teammate, Drake?”
“Of course. Wait. You thought I meant the fact you threw the games was awful? No, you asshole. I meant the fact your father is so terrible that you had to do that in the first place.” Isaac pushed the pretzels over at him, which he thought was an improvement over chucking them. “I thought—you know, I watched you play those games, and it was weird. You let in a few goals that I was surprised you didn’t stop. But we all fuck up, and goddamn, I hated you so much I was just happy to see you lose.”
“Thanks,” Laurent said. He hesitantly reached for the pretzels. “It’s all right. I wanted to see us lose too. So I made sure we did. If it helps, even my teammates were mad at me for what I said to you.”
“You think they weren’t saying the same thing?” Isaac popped a few pretzels in his mouth. “If I had a dollar for every time I got called a gay slur on the ice, I’d have a brand-new Jeep and a penthouse. If they have those in Spartanburg. Which I don’t think they do.”
Laurent raised his eyes again. He looked wary and uncertain. “I never meant to make you feel like that.”
That was good to hear. It meant Laurent wasn’t hopeless. “We could try and be friends. I’m pretty cool. I yell a lot in goal, but that’s because my playing style is aggressive.”
“You remind me of Tim Thomas.” Laurent had the first honest-to-God hint of a smile that Isaac had ever seen on him. “Only you probably don’t have terrible political views.”
“Wasn’t your dad a Hab? Like, a legendary one? And you’re saying I remind you of a Bruin goalie?”
That small hint of a smile vanished like it had never been. “I hate my father, Drake. I thought you’d figured that out.”
“So you’re a Bruins fan? Oh my God. Well, that’ll make Coach Samarin like you a lot more.”
“My father played for the Nordiques and the Rangers. But I’m not a fan of any team. I hate hockey. Hate it.”
Isaac was at a loss. “Uh.”
Laurent ate another pretzel. His gaze was watchful, and he said nothing.
“Why are you playing at all if you hate it?”
Laurent scoffed. “Why do you think? There was no way to escape it. I hate hockey, I hate playing goalie, and I hate my father.”
Hockey had been the one thing that kept Isaac going, even before he joined the Spitfires. He couldn’t imagine how it could make someone miserable. “Not that I’m trying to get rid of you, but can’t you just quit?”
Laurent laughed. It was a horrible, aching sound. “Drake, your story. Do you want to know what I felt when you were telling me that?”
“Dunno. Is it gonna make me want to punch you in the throat?”
Laurent shrugged. “Probably. I was jealous.”
“Jealous? Did you miss the part where I was crying behind a grocery store in the suburbs? Seriously?”
“Jealous because you ran away, and your parents let you go.”
Isaac felt so far out of his league, it wasn’t even funny. “I think maybe you need to talk to Coach,” Isaac said. “He’ll be home soon, and—”
“No.” Laurent jumped up, graceful even in the midst of what appeared to be a panic attack. “No. I can’t. Don’t. Please.”
Isaac stood up, eyes wide. “Dude, calm down. Look. I’m just saying he might be able to help you.”
Laurent made the horrible faux-laugh noise again. “No. He can’t. No one can. My father—you have no idea. Trust me. You want me far away from you and Coach and everyone else, Drake.”
“Saint,” Isaac said and held his hands up. He was way out of his comfort zone. Laurent looked like a cornered animal, and Isaac could see the whites of his eyes. “Okay, man. Come on. Just... I have to say something. You’re miserable.” And terrified.
“Then I’m going to be a jackass,” Laurent snapped, and there he was again—the sneering, cold-eyed asshole Isaac despised. “I’ll go tell the ECHL board that Coach Samarin and Coach Ashford came on to me.”
“Oh the hell you will,” Isaac snarled. Then he realized he was reacting exactly the way Laurent wanted him to, and he scowled. “Stop talking, Saint. Just shut up again.”
Laurent probably expected Isaac to hit him, so maybe it was just surprise that motivated him to follow that directive, but he did.
“I’m not going to let you ruin someone’s life just so you—” Isaac stopped before he said, “just so you don’t have to deal with your dad.” He took a deep breath. “Stop doing that. Stop making me mad. If you don’t want help, that’s fine. But don’t say shit like that anymore. Okay?”
Laurent’s expression was stony, but he didn’t say anything.
“Just nod or something,” Isaac said, flushing a bit. It was doing weird things to Isaac to have that sort of power over Laurent. But it was also freaking him out. Why was Laurent letting him have it?
Laurent didn’t nod and kept staring at Isaac, unblinking, his fists clenched at his sides.
“How about this,” Isaac said, casting about for something that might help. The team needed the constant stress and Laurent’s infectious bad attitude to be over and done with. “You don’t act like such an asshole, you stop the gay slurs and try and get along with the guys. And I won’t tell Coach about what... what you just told me.”
Laurent’s expression gentled for a moment, and he looked confused—like he didn’t understand why Isaac gave a shit about any of it. But he nodded, and Isaac expelled a breath he hadn’t known he was holding and offered a tentative smile. “So. Friends?” He held out his hand.
Laurent took a step away from him. His cold mask was back in place, and he eyed Isaac’s outstretched hand with mistrust.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Isaac snapped. “What?”
Even though Isaac told him to speak, Laurent didn’t say anything. But he reached out and shook Isaac’s hand, and as cold as Laurent was, his skin was just as warm as anyone else’s.