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I must've stood outside Vance's hotel door for 15 minutes before I actually knocked.
Of course he's my roommate. That's all I could think as I stood there with my fist balled up, ready to knock on that door. But I just couldn't find the willpower to follow through.
I guess it's better that Vance is my roommate rather than, say, Donovan. Actually, if it was Donovan? I'd probably walk through that door, and he'd jump up and rush at me, and we'd get into a fist-fight. Call it unfinished business from the last time we played.
Maybe that wouldn't be so bad, actually. Because then it'd at least be over. Once guys fight, all that pressure that's been building up finally blows off.
Usually.
Instead, my roommate is Vance. The calm, collected captain. The one guy on that team who doesn't hate me. The center I practically idolized as a kid.
Hell. I remember watching Vance play during his rookie year. I was just 11 when he broke into the league as a 19 year old, right after his freshman year in college. That surprised the hell out of the hockey world – because Vance wasn't a highly-touted draft pick. He wasn't even a first rounder. He was a third rounder, a guy who was considered a long shot to ever make the jump to the big league. He only had a chance if he absolutely worked his ass off in the NCAA hockey league to improve his game.
And so seventy guys got taken in the draft before Vance. And of those seventy? More than half have never even sniffed the NHL. And today, Vance has more points than all of 'em.
How does a guy slip that far down the draft? How do so many scouts, how did so many teams, not see what they had right before them?
Shrug. Sometimes hockey is weird like that. Some guys have an x-factor that other guys don't and it's not always apparent when you watch them play. Whatever the mystery ingredient is, Vance has got it in spades. He's smart and hard working. It's why I respect the hell out of him. It's why I watched him play and studied his game – so I could play like him. With my own twist, of course.
My fist is still balled up, ready to knock on his door. Do it, I tell myself. Meet your new captain. Meet the guy you grew up watching.
I also remember seeing his heart break on TV four years ago ... that sucked. I watched the game with my Junior teammates. I was so afraid they'd see my eyes were a little misty.
And now this guy is my teammate. My captain. My roommate.
Weird.
At last my fist hits the door. Knock knock. I wait a few moments for him to answer. A few moments stretches into what feels like a few minutes. I don't know how long I've been standing outside this door, waiting for Vance to answer, but I start to feel like an idiot.
Maybe he's not even in there?
I pull out my key-card and slide it into the lock. It unlatches and I open the door. I walk in only to see Vance himself. He's lying in bed, stretched out on top of his bedsheets with the TV on.
He turns and looks at me and I can see the sleep in his eyes. Poor guy. I must've woken him.
And oh, by the way, he's only wearing boxers. But I'm not gonna get excited about that. Because I'm really gonna make an effort here. To fly under the radar. To avoid any suspicion. Because if the news comes out, and the guys feel like I've been giving them looks? Well, it's not gonna do me any favors, I'll say that much.
Of course, the gods tempt me – because Vance's body is mouth-watering, I mean delicious – the total package. His pecs are just stacked. Washboard abs. Thighs like freakin' tree trunks. And his white pinstripe boxers are so fucking cute. And thin, apparently. Because even from across the room I can see the long and thick shaft, bulging out of his crotch and snaking down his thigh ...
Fuck, Callan! I said don't look! Way to get off to a great start!
I shake my head, resetting myself mentally. “Hey, Vance. It's uh, good to meet you.”
Good thing I didn't say: So good to meet you! I've had a crush on you since before I even realized I liked men!
Vance has a lot to say, and he lets me have it. Deservedly so. I'm not sure what else I can really say – except that I want to apologize immediately so I can serve my punishment and we can all get on with our lives.
But Vance seems kinda surprised by my attitude. Maybe he was expecting me to snivel and shift blame? But I can't do that. I know this is all my fault. He's right. I made my bed. Now I gotta lay in it.
Vance wants to go to bed. I'm not sure how much I'll be able to sleep, but I know I gotta try. God only knows how bad it'd look if I left the room and went down to the hotel bar or something ...
Before he turns off the light, I'm hoping to steal one more glance at his sexy boxer situation. I mean is he already half-hard? Or is his cock naturally that thick?
I'm so fucked, I think to myself. My inner-slut. It's gonna get me in trouble. It always does. I can't even help myself.
But I don't take that last look at Vance. Not because my willpower is finally strong enough – because I can't. I see him staring at me out of my peripheral vision and I never have the chance to steal a peek.
What the hell is he looking at? I wonder, a hot flash sweeping over me. And it actually makes me mad. I don't know what he wants, but thanks to him staring, I don't get what I want.
Oh well.
“G'night, Jones,” he says when the room goes dark.
“Night captain.”
My new captain, I think. The guy I grew up watching. Well, at least the next few weeks of my life will be interesting, to say the least ...
***
I WAKE UP IN THE MORNING to the low drone of news on the television and another noise – huffs, puffs and groans.
“Thiry-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine ...”
With a sleepy moan, I turn over on my side and open my eyes. Vance is between our beds, on the floor, belting out one push-up after another without slowing down.
He doesn't hear me stir. I watch him for a little. His body is like a piston, just methodically pumping up and down and never tiring. He hasn't dressed yet, and he's still only wearing his boxers. A light dew glistens on his back and shoulders.
Vance is looking up, though, and his eyes are trained on the television. I glance up to see what he's watching.
Oh. A dull ache sets in my heart. He's watching SportsNet, the volume barely above a whisper. And I'm the topic of conversation. I listen in.
“... after mysteriously missing his debut in last night's game, team officials confirm that winger Callan Jones has joined the Hawks on the road, and will be traveling with the team back to Chicago. Team officials responded to calls late last night, saying that a travel mix-up led to the young and sometimes controversial star's absence ...”
A travel mix-up? I repeat the words in my head, my eyes narrowing. Who the hell told them that?
Vance doesn't show any sign of slowing down. “Fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one ...” I can feel his body heat radiating off him in waves. Feels nice. Hot and humid.
The TV report continues.
“... Speculation about why Jones was traded – and if it might have had something to do with his 'travel mix-up' – continues to run rampant around the league. We caught up with Jones' former teammate and captain, Dimitri Burkhardt, after they won their first game without the second-year winger in convincing fashion – a 5-1 victory over the Kings.”
What?! I feel like screaming. They're interviewing Burky about the trade? My heart drops like I just jumped off a building. I'm fucked.
The video cuts to Burky's face in the dressing room. He's sweaty, but glowing in the aftermath of the Jets first victory without me. I've never seen him look like that. A joyous smile just bubbling underneath that grizzled, tough exterior.
The reporter mumbles out a question that we can't quite hear on the TV. But we do hear Burky's response just fine.
“No, I'm not surprised by that at all.” Wearing a huge grin, he chuckles. “If I were him, I wouldn't show up either.”
Another mumbled question from the reporter.
“Travel mix-up?” Burky laughs with a snort. “There was a mix-up alright ... but no, I don't buy that one at all.”
Another mumbled question.
“Why he got traded?” Burky shoots a snide smirk over his side at a teammate off-camera. “Look. I can't answer that. You'll have to ask him yourself.” He wipes the sweat off his face with a towel. “I think you'll find out soon enough, though. OK, that's all. No more questions.”
“Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred.” Vance pops off the floor and walks over to the TV. He shuts it off and stares at the blank screen for a few moments. Then he turns around and looks at me.
“Oh, you're awake,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Sorry,” he says softly. “I normally don't pay it any mind. It's toxic as hell.”
“Yeah,” I agree, but I feel like the world's worst liar. For once, it's not the media – it's me. I'm the toxic one.
“But, in this case,” he sighs, “it's probably better to know what's being said than to appear clueless. This is the hottest story in hockey right now and we're right at the center of it, whether we like it or not.”
Oh god, I think. What a great feeling – being a huge pain in the ass and distraction for your new team. I feel like smashing my skull into the headboard until it all goes away.
“There's no use ignoring it. We're gonna get bombarded with questions,” he continues.
And I know he can't possibly be intentionally trying to make me feel like shit all over again, but that's exactly what's happening anyway. Everything he says feels like a shovel-full of dirt thrown over my body, and I'm being buried alive. Until it's all too heavy and I can't move or breathe anymore.
“We just have to keep a low profile until it all blows over. Until some other story grabs the media's attention. It's just a matter of time 'til that happens.”
“Sorry I made it so much worse,” I say after a silence. “Missing the game, I mean.”
“What's done is done,” he says as he puts on his trousers. “Just don't do it again.”
“But what's this about a travel mix-up?” I ask. “I didn't have any mix-up.”
Vance pauses. “Doug thought it might help squash the rumors. He thought it'd be better than telling the media you ran off because you didn't wanna join your new team.”
“Maybe so, but ...”
“And don't worry. Only me and Doug know the truth. Not even Coach knows. The rest of the boys, too. Everyone's been told that it was a travel mix-up. For all they know, that's the truth.”
I laugh bitterly and shake my head. “Great.”
“What?”
“So the first thing I do is lie to my new teammates, Vance? I can't do that. I don't care what the media thinks, I care about what my teammates think. And if I'm gonna earn their trust, I gotta tell them the whole truth.”
Well. Almost the whole truth.
Vance huffs at me, and I can tell he's losing patience with me. “So what – after all you've done, now you wanna tell the boys that Dougie lied to them? You wanna make your GM look bad in front of everybody? You wanna cause a rift between him and Coach?”
“No, I just ...” I croak, but the words escape me. Truth is, I dunno what to do now. I'm caught in a bad situation, one that seems to be getting getting worse, and I don't know how to make it stop.
Part of me wishes that Burky had just come out and said it when he was being interviewed. That way I wouldn't have to run or lie anymore. And I could finally be put out of all this hell.
“C'mon, Jones, get yourself dressed. We got a flight to catch.”
“Alright,” I mumble and pull myself out of bed.