Him

Maybe it makes me a pussy, but I take Pat up on his offer to sit this scrimmage out. I’m not afraid of Killfeather’s dad. And I’m not afraid to have people whisper about me.

But what I am is sad. And I don’t want it to show.

Before today I didn’t really understand what Wes was up against. I’d never heard anyone give a homophobic rant except in movies. I didn’t know that one man in a hundred-thousand-dollar car could wreak so much havoc.

Since everyone is supposed to be at the rink, the second floor of the dormitory sounds deserted as I turn my key in our lock. Inside, I stretch out on my bed.

Sad as I am, I can at least take one heart-lifting thing from this experience. One piece of insight I’ve been reluctant to give a label to.

I’m…bisexual.

Yep, I know, not exactly a mind-blowing M. Night Shyamalan plot twist over here, but it’s the first time I’ve allowed the word to take root in my consciousness. I’m bisexual, and it’s not just a physical connection I feel with Wes.

I can also see myself in a relationship with him. I can see myself being happy with him and never feeling like things were lacking.

I’d had this idea I could find a job near Toronto. That Wes and I could keep up… whatever it is we are to each other. But that isn’t going to happen. Wes all but told me to go to Detroit. He needs me to stay four hours away.

We only have the summer, he’d said the night we argued. He was right. That’s all we’re going to get.

Some time later I hear a commotion out in the hallway. The place echoes, so even though Killfeather’s room is on the opposite end of the building it’s easy to hear him. “I don’t want to leave!” he yells after a door bangs open.

“You will get your ass in my car right now.”

“You can’t make me!” The kid is putting his best effort into the resistance. But I know very well who always wins these fights.

The voice that answers him is low and steely. “If you’re not in that car in sixty seconds, you’re not playing in the Labor Day tournament this year.”

Ouch. Hit the kid where it hurts, why don’t you?

I hear the inevitable—the sound of a suitcase rolling across the tile and feet on the stairs. When I look out the window a minute later, I see my goalie slouching toward the passenger seat, and his father heaving suitcases into the trunk. That asshole didn’t even get a ticket for parking in the fire lane.

They peel off a minute later, and that’s the end of the Killfeathers, both junior and senior.

I blow off the barbecue, too.

Since I’ve missed the scrimmage, Pat doesn’t really need me, and I use the time to regroup. I need to face the fact that summer will end soon.

So I call my mom on her business phone—the one that’s always smudged with clay. “Hi baby!” she chirps when she answers. “Are you calling to tell me that you’re coming home?” The woman always cuts to the chase. With six kids, she’s always had to. There just aren’t enough hours in the day for small talk.

“I am, as a matter of fact. Coach Pat hasn’t replaced me yet, but I’m going to tell him I need that week off.”

“Excellent,” she says in the same tone of voice she’d always reserved for good report cards. “We need to see you before you join the NHL. While you still have all your teeth.”

“That’s uplifting,” I complain.

“I don’t know why my boys choose dangerous careers,” she says. “I always tell your brother to make sure he visits while he still has all his vital organs.”

My brother is a cop. “Gross, mom. And Scott has never drawn his weapon in the line of duty.”

“Truthfully, bullets aren’t his biggest problem right now.” She fills me in on the fact my brother has moved back home for a little while. He’s the one whose girlfriend recently dumped him. And since they lived together, he needed a temporary place to land.

“So he’s in his old room?” I ask, trying to picture it. Scott is twenty-eight years old.

“He is, but rarely. He’s picked up a lot of extra shifts lately. I think he’s just trying to stay busy.”

“Ouch,” I mumble.

“James,” my mother says sharply. “Why are you blue?”

“I’m not,” I try. But bullshitting my mother is impossible. You don’t raise six kids without having laser-sharp perceptive abilities.

She clucks her tongue. “If you say so. But I’ll be taking a good look at you later this month, young man. I’m going to make lasagna and hold it under your nose while I grill you with questions.”

Mom’s lasagna is damn good. I’ll probably confess everything if she does that. “Can’t wait,” I say truthfully. Home sounds pretty good right now.

“Love you, Jamie boy,” she says. “Buy your plane ticket.”

“I will.”

Talking to Mom has improved my mood. So I go out and treat myself to a bacon cheeseburger in a bar on Main Street. While I eat it, I watch the Red Sox lose, and think of Wes. He’s at the barbecue right now, where parents are probably grilling him about the NHL recruitment process. And he’s the best man to answer their questions.

That’s not me brooding—that’s just a fact. Wes has always wanted to play in the NHL. It’s the first thing he told me about himself when we met as teenagers.

Me? I chose hockey because my brothers had already broken every football record our high school had ever recorded. I love hockey. But you can’t ever say I love it more than Wes does. Because nobody loves hockey more.

When I get back to the dorm, the place is still empty. I brush my teeth and dig out a military thriller I’d brought with me to camp and haven’t had time to read. I slide into bed in my underwear. Maybe Wes will come home in the mood to burn off some tension.

I fall asleep with the book on my chest.

Some time later I wake to the sound of the key turning in the lock. Bleary, I blink at Wes as he walks over to my bed.

“How was it?” I ask, my voice rough from sleep.

Wes doesn’t answer me. But he removes the book and sets it on the floor.

“You okay?”

He’s still silent, but it doesn’t seem weird. Because he’s perched on the side of my bed now, just admiring me. Lifting one hand, he pushes my overgrown hair off my forehead. Then he bends down and kisses the cheek that had caused all the trouble earlier. In the exact same spot.

The brush of his lips makes me shiver and lean in for more.

Soft lips continue to press kisses on my face. On my neck. Their gentleness feels unfamiliar to me now. And the contrast between the size and strength of this man and the softness of his touch makes goosebumps rise on my chest.

A warm hand lands on the juncture between my legs, settling over the thin fabric of my underwear. The gentle pressure encourages me to roll my hips into his hand. A little friction would feel terrific right now. But all I get is the soft sweep of his thumb across my groin.

Apparently Wes is in the mood to torture me with kindness. And I’m in the mood to let him. Sinking into the bed, I close my eyes while he bathes me with soft kisses and even softer touches. When I reach up to put my hands on his chest, he corrects me, gently moving my hands back down onto the mattress.

“Fine. Be that way,” I grumble.

He doesn’t even chuckle. Instead, he clicks off my lamp and begins to shed his clothing. Every scrap. I lie there on my back while my eyes grow accustomed to the dark, admiring each newly exposed inch of smooth skin and hard muscle. An impressive erection bobs against his stomach. I want to sit up and take him in my mouth, but I wait lazily instead. Whatever Wes has planned, I’m pretty sure I’m going to enjoy it.

Then he’s bending over me, kissing the strip of exposed skin between my T-shirt and my briefs. “Mmm,” I sigh. I’m so hard, and he hasn’t really even touched me yet. His hands slide into the elastic of my shorts and I lift my hips. Whoosh, they’re gone. The next second, he puts a hand across my mouth and then deep-throats my cock in one gulp.

The heat and pressure are so swift and shocking it’s a miracle I don’t bite his hand. Wes works me over with his eager mouth, while my stomach quivers and my hips roll. Jesus Christ. I know we have to be absolutely silent, but I may not survive it.

By the time he releases me with a pop, I’m trembling everywhere. Wes disappears from my line of vision for a moment. When he returns with a condom and a bottle of lube, I sigh with relief.

He offers me a hand, and I take it, allowing him to pull me into a sitting position so he can remove my T-shirt. Then he straddles my thighs, crouching there on his knees. For the first time since he walked into the room, we’re kissing for real. And I’m so hungry for it. All the softness from a few minutes ago burns off like steam, leaving a brush fire in its wake. These kisses are hard and molten. I capture Wes’s tongue in my mouth and suck hard.

He moans—the first real sound I’ve heard from him tonight—and I swallow the sound down my eager throat. On his knees, he ruts slowly against my body, our chests bumping, our cocks aching. Wanting him hurts so good.

Eventually he sits back a bit, breaking our kiss. I reach for the condom, hoping to move things along. But he takes it out of my hand, tearing the package.

Instead of sheathing himself, he reaches down and rolls it onto my cock.

The breath halts in my chest. “Really?”

Wes kisses me instead of answering. Another tongue-tangling scorcher. Then he pops open the lube and applies some to his own hand. He reaches back, a serious expression on his face. I can tell when he penetrates himself, because he bites his lip.

“Let me do that for you,” I whisper. I lube up my hand and reach between his legs. Wes puts both fists on the bed and leans into my body, kissing my jaw.

I caress his taint, and he sighs into my ear. When I finger his crease, he lays his head on my shoulder. “That’s it,” I breathe. When I penetrate him, he freezes for a second. Then I hear him take a deep breath, and I feel him relax.

He’s hot and tight and like nothing I’ve ever felt. I ease inside. He alternately fights me and then relaxes. I stop to apply a ridiculous amount of lube to my hand. And now I’m able to reach his spot. I move my finger in a beckoning motion, and he shivers against my body.

Wes’s face is still buried in my neck. I like it there. I wish he’d never leave.