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Laurent spent the night after his impromptu dinner with his coaches fighting the urge to throw up. He wanted to. He felt sick and there was too much going on in his head, crowding him and making him want to scream. In the end he decided to read his comics and draw.
Oddly by the time he got into bed he felt... not good—he hardly ever felt good—but at least not miserable. The sick feeling had abated. That wouldn’t last, but it was nice.
He put his hands behind his head and thought about what Isaac had asked him earlier in his bedroom—if Laurent was gay or straight—and how he didn’t know the answer.
Getting off was as enjoyable as hockey drills for Laurent. It was a brief respite and the relief of a physical need. That was about it. He didn’t look at porn when he did it, he didn’t read erotica or whatever, and he didn’t think about anyone in particular. He just touched himself until the pressure and friction did what it was supposed to, and then he went to sleep.
But people did that, and they liked it. They let other people do it to them, and they liked that too. Isaac wanted other guys to do it to him. The thought made Laurent too warm, and he kicked at the covers in sudden restlessness.
Laurent didn’t like to be touched, and he couldn’t imagine that ever changing. But as he lay in bed with the crooked fan blades whirring above him and the sound of the occasional car passing by on the road outside, he thought about how it had felt to be silent.
Silent because someone told him to. Someone who called him Saint.
And he was hard.
He slid his hand over his stomach and shivered a little, despite the flush on his skin. Usually when he did that, it was in the shower, to get rid of the inevitable mess, and he made sure to turn his brain off as much as possible during the whole thing. But this time, he let his fingers drift over his stomach, down the front of his boxers. And he kept thinking about how it had been earlier, when he hadn’t needed to talk.
Was he gay? Laurent didn’t know, but he tentatively thought about Isaac touching him, and immediately stopped what he was doing. It didn’t feel wrong or bad. It just frightened him, because he didn’t want Isaac to touch him. But not for the reason he usually didn’t want other people to touch him.
Isaac had done something nice for him. And Laurent didn’t want Isaac to be someone who touched him, because that was never nice.
Isaac, who touched other people. Men. Like Coach Samarin and Coach Ashford touched one another, and like guys on the teams he’d been on touched girls. Or other guys, like Xavier Matthews. Men his father hated and reviled, like he would hate Laurent—
Laurent’s erection softened immediately and killed the slow, tingling beginnings of desire.
He exhaled, made himself go through breathing exercises, and stopped trying to think about anyone touching him. Instead he thought about being quiet, being told not to talk and having that burden removed from him. How it had felt to have Isaac, standing in front of him, standing up for him.
Isaac, sucking on that lip ring of his.
The image stuck in Laurent’s mind when nothing else would. The way Isaac flicked his tongue over it, pulled it between his teeth, and clicked at it. He did it when he was on his phone, when he was putting dishes away, when he was driving.
Laurent’s hand was on himself then, moving faster. He shifted on the bed and felt hot and restless and... something else. He didn’t stop.
Does this mean I’m gay?
The thought crept in and reminded him of Hux’s and Murph’s hands on him—how it felt to have men touching him. And instead of the slow burn when he pictured Isaac and his lip ring, Laurent just felt frustrated and still restlessly turned on in a way he didn’t like.
He tried two or three more times, and the last time, he stroked himself brutally. He tried to make himself get off and wanted so badly for it to be normal like it was for other people.
You’re a bully. Just like your father.
You can fuck when you’re famous.
Finally Laurent got up and went to the bathroom. He ran the water, washed his hands, got out a towel and a glass of water, and sat on the bathroom floor. He made himself sick, and then, when there was nothing left inside him, he got in the shower, and came silently when he was thinking about nothing at all.
When he crawled back into his bed, he pulled the covers up around himself and wondered if he could ask Isaac, maybe, to order him to be quiet when he was at home by himself, and if that might work next time. He would never do it—could never do it—but the thought of it was the only thing that lulled him to sleep.
––––––––
The next day before practice, Laurent felt cold and clammy when he went into the locker room, like he had a fever.
He had no idea what was going to happen. Isaac, for all he knew, might have been pulling some elaborate hoax on him. Maybe the whole “let’s be friends” thing was just a trick, and Laurent would walk in and expect something nice and only get something painful in return.
Like you’re not used to that by now?
But Isaac came up to him immediately. The locker room fell silent, and everyone was unabashedly watching. Laurent couldn’t blame them as he and Isaac usually went out of their way to ignore one another.
All the things he could say felt sharp and barbed like wire. But he didn’t say them because Isaac gave him an easy smile and said, “Hey, Saint. What’s up?”
Everyone stared at them. Laurent swallowed. Get away from me, you disgusting fag.
No, no, no. Laurent didn’t think that, didn’t want to think that, and he did not want to say it to Isaac. “Hi, Isaac.” He realized he hadn’t called his captain Drake and flushed scarlet. A mistake. He slid into that cold place and the core of meanness he cultivated so easily.
Isaac sucked on his lip ring. In and out. In and out. He was clearly nervous and wanted it to work out.
Laurent was nervous too. He tried to relax a little. They didn’t say anything else, but the team immediately noticed their lack of antagonism.
“Is it Opposite Day?” Drew Crowder looked between the two of them. “Huh.”
“Look. We’re all tired of having a negative attitude in the locker room,” said Isaac.
“Drake, you sound like a motivational poster,” Hux muttered. He looked askance at Laurent, as if he were waiting for him to fuck up.
Laurent remembered the thing he’d grabbed and put in his gear bag that morning, and wondered if he should even bother. Hux hated him, and he should, because Laurent was—
Stop.
“Good. Get motivated to get over it. We have. Haven’t we, Saint?”
Saint again. Laurent nodded. “Yes.”
“This is so touching,” said Griffin Miller. “It’s like a Nicholas Sparks movie.” Everyone stared at him, and he shrugged. “I got a little sister. Fuck off.”
“I do too,” said Crowder. “She likes horror movies, though. Which is what I think we’re in right now.”
“This isn’t helping,” Isaac said darkly.
“You’re starting to sound way too serious, Drake,” someone else pointed out from behind Laurent. “Is this what happens when you live with the coach?”
Every pair of eyes went back to Laurent, like his teammates were just waiting for him to say something insulting and hateful. Laurent didn’t like knowing that, but it was true, and that’s what made him want to say it in the first place. At least he could live up to everyone’s expectations if they were only that he’d be an asshole.
“Saint,” Isaac said, as if he knew. “Saint here is sorry for being an ass. And you guys are going to give him another chance.”
“Why?”
The rest of the team voiced that sentiment. Hux and Murph were quiet and slouched against the lockers.
He should say something. Laurent knew that. Something not awful. Something like he was trying or he’d try hard. But he couldn’t say it. There were too many people staring, with too many expectations, and he’d just fuck it up anyway.
“Because I’m the captain, and I said so,” Isaac finished. “Happy?”
“I think we should revote on the captain thing,” someone muttered and the team chimed in.
“Yeah. Goalies are never captains.”
“Especially dumb ones who forget when people are dicks.”
“I call for a revote.”
“No!” Laurent shouted, not understanding until it was too late that he was interrupting the kind of banter that he was never included in, because his presence usually made everyone too uncomfortable to engage in it around him. “Isaac’s a good captain.”
“This is the weirdest day of my life,” Griffin said. He peered at Laurent, shrugged, and went to tie his skates.
The banter went back to other people, and Laurent’s awkward outburst was forgotten. But the mood in the locker room was the easiest it had been since Laurent showed up, and that was something.
While everyone got ready, Laurent found the thing he’d put in his bag and took it out with trembling hands. He walked over to Isaac and sat next to him. “I, um... brought this for Huxley. I saw him reading this comic, and I get them every week.”
“Yeah?” Isaac looked over Laurent’s shoulder. His breath was warm against Laurent’s neck, which made him jump. Isaac casually moved away a bit, as if he knew his proximity was bothering Laurent.
Laurent was torn between being grateful and wanting him to come back. “Yeah.”
“Right now everyone is dying of curiosity. Like seriously, they’re staring at us like we have three heads.” Isaac laughed. “This is mean of me, but it’s kind of funny.” He cleared his throat. “Not that you should get any ideas.”
Laurent looked down. He was so tense he thought his entire body was going to crack into pieces. “I know.”
“No. Hey, Saint, look. Go give that to Hux,” Isaac said. “He’ll be surprised, but he probably won’t punch you.”
Laurent stood up, gave Isaac a doubtful look, and then quietly made his way over to where Hux was talking to Murphy.
“No. I mean, I’m just saying, if we rented like, a van and shit, we could get more people. And that’d be more gas money.”
“I know, Murph, but the van takes more gas than Drake’s Jeep.”
Murph scowled. “I hate this. It’s like those math problems about trains and apples and shit.... What do you want?”
Laurent felt them both staring at him, and he held out the comics with a hand that was visibly shaking. “Huxley—you read this comic. I, uh... saw you. These are new issues. You can borrow them. If you want.”
Hux took the comics, clearly out of surprise more than anything. “What the fuck?”
“Say thank you,” Isaac’s voice said threateningly, from over Laurent’s shoulder.
“Thank you,” Hux said flatly, without looking at Laurent. He did glance down at the stack of comics, Demon Detective, and there was a glimmer of pleasure in his expression.
Laurent nodded wildly and then looked at Isaac. He didn’t move, because he couldn’t. Not until he knew it was okay.
“Hey, Saint. Get your shit, and let’s go.”
Laurent practically tripped over his own feet on his way back to his locker. Everyone was staring at him, but luckily Coach Ashford came in with his whistle and his ingratiatingly pleasant smile, and that was that.
Usually the guys said shit to him on the ice during practice, but that wasn’t necessarily because they hated him. Suddenly they were a little less vicious during drills, though a lot of them just didn’t say anything at all.
Cold shoulders were better than insults, weren’t they?
After practice Isaac was going to give him a ride home. Laurent had not had a say in that, as Isaac had simply stated it as a fact. Laurent usually didn’t mind walking, and sometimes he took the bus and listened to his headphones and zoned out, but he didn’t argue with Isaac.
After practice, though, Coach Samarin called him into his office. If that happened a few days earlier, he might have been hoping to be traded or kicked off the team. But he realized he didn’t necessarily want that anymore. And that wasn’t a good feeling. When Laurent wanted something, it was usually taken away to teach him a lesson—like the puppy he had as a child.
Coach Samarin was as formidable as ever, but Laurent thought there was a hint of warmth in his dark eyes as he indicated Laurent should take a seat in front of his desk.
He didn’t mince his words and got right to the point. No chit-chat with Coach Samarin, not like Coach Ashford. “We play the Ravens on Saturday in Asheville,” Coach Samarin said, and even though he knew that, Laurent wished he could forget.
“Yes, sir,” Laurent said, and there was a flash of surprise on Coach Samarin’s face. Laurent flushed as he realized he’d called him sir.
“You need to start a few more games,” Coach said, but he gave no hint of what he thought about that or if he thought it should happen in front of Laurent’s old team. “Is it going to be a problem if I start you in goal on Saturday?”
“Does it matter?” Laurent closed his eyes. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t mean to have an attitude problem with Samarin, but his default reaction to male authority figures was jackass. He slowly breathed out and rubbed his palms down his thighs. “I’ll play if you want me to, Coach.”
“Yes,” Coach Samarin said. “You will. But that is not what I’m asking you.”
Laurent felt like he had earlier when he gave those comics to Huxley—like he was a glass figurine trapped beneath a shower of stones. “Do you care?”
Coach Samarin had a remarkable ability to not blink when he stared at you. “That’s why I’m asking you.”
Laurent finally lowered his gaze. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Coach. I’m a problem. So it will be, probably. Yeah.”
Laurent heard a soft noise that might have been a laugh, and he scowled at the idea of Coach laughing at him. “You don’t have—”
“St. Savoy, whatever it is you’re going to say, don’t,” Coach Samarin interrupted. “Do you want to be in goal for this game or not?”
It took Laurent a moment to realize he was being asked, not told. He was utterly thrown by the question. “What?”
“The game against the Ravens,” Samarin said, his voice perfectly even. “I am asking you if you want to start in goal.”
“Why?” Laurent knew how that sounded, like a challenge he didn’t necessarily mean, but he couldn’t help it.
It seemed as if Coach Samarin understood Laurent’s instinctive reaction, because some of his cold formality seemed to melt a little. “You are making an effort. I am doing the same. All right?”
Laurent stared warily at him. He hated everything about being subjected to Coach Samarin’s unexpected kindness.
“If you don’t want to play, you’ll start the next game in Orlando,” Coach Samarin continued. “Whether or not you are in Asheville, this is your choice. So make it. Now.” Despite the harshness of that, Coach Samarin didn’t sound mean. Only resolute.
It made Laurent relax in much the same way Isaac’s calling him Saint and telling him not to talk did. “I don’t—I don’t know,” he said, hating that he was showing any vulnerability at all. He looked at Samarin and breathed a little faster. “I don’t know.” Laurent’s shoulders slumped, and he looked down at his hands. They were clenched into fists.
“Would you like my advice?”
The urge to tell the coach to fuck himself was overwhelming. But Laurent thought about Isaac, waiting for him outside the office, and the promise he made. He pulled his fingers apart and smoothed them over his thighs again. “Yes.”
“I think you should play,” Samarin said. “I think you should do your best in front of your net—our net—and treat it like any other game.” He paused. “He’s not your coach anymore. I am.”
Laurent’s head snapped up, and he couldn’t breathe. Had Isaac told him anything? Laurent knew he shouldn’t have trusted him. He knew it. “Whatever Isaac told you—”
“He didn’t tell me anything,” Samarin interrupted. “He doesn’t need to. I hated my father too.”
Shame made Laurent’s eyes fill up with hot, angry tears. He couldn’t do that. He was going to lose it right there in the coach’s office, and the only thing he could think to do was say something awful enough for Samarin to kick him out. Or off the team. Or beat him up until Laurent didn’t feel anything at all.
Be quiet, Saint. He heard Isaac’s voice and his words, even though Isaac wasn’t there. And it helped him to breathe.
“So it’s up to you,” Samarin continued. “This time, and only this time. So. What is your decision?”
Laurent raised his head and thought about it. He wanted to be worth whatever was making Coach Samarin give him a concession—or whatever made Isaac Drake turn around and come back when he heard Laurent sobbing in the showers. He hated playing hockey, but he didn’t hate Isaac.
He raised his head and met Samarin’s dark stare with his own. “I’ll play,” he said, his voice as even as he could make it. “And I’ll get a shutout.”
Coach Samarin’s mouth quirked into the smallest of smiles. “I’ll hold you to that.” Laurent thought he looked pleased. Then his expression smoothed, and he waved Laurent out of his office.