Chapter Two
Adler
I crawled behind the wheel of my car, the seat of the BMW 540i cradling my stupid, sorry ass like a finely crafted Italian leather driving glove, of which I had a pair floating around in there somewhere. Maybe in the trunk? Who knew. And more importantly, who cared? I looked at myself in the rearview.
“You are literally the biggest bag of dicks ever to suck air, Adler,” I told my reflection. The dude in the mirror totally agreed.
I slammed the driver’s side door shut. My forehead met the steering wheel. What the hell was my issue? Why did I always do this? Meet a hot guy, make some crack about his bladder control, feel like an ass, then compound my asshole status by making an even worse joke when I saw the incredibly hot man a second time.
“Massive bag of dicks,” I murmured as I bounced my brow off the wheel a few times.
When the pain started to set in, I stopped with the head-banging. It didn’t feel right without music anyway. I cranked up the Poison CD in the top-of-the-line stereo system, then proceeded to blow my eardrums up. Nothing like Bret Michaels and C.C. Deville to jam your blues away. Pity even C.C. wasn’t working this time. That was when you knew it was bad. 80s hair bands cured every ill ever.
I cranked over the engine and threw the Beemer into gear. Time to go home. Eat. Grab a nap. Drown myself in the shower.
“Note to self. Check best way to drown in shower without actually dying, because Santa is coming soon and yay, Christmas.” Pfft.
Driving to my condo, I ran over the day and groaned yet again. I was trying too hard. I knew it. That was Adler, though. Sing, dance, and toss out stupid jokes like a jester because of that one time Dad thought your knock-knock joke was clever.
Knock knock!
Adler, please, I’m trying to work. Go find Apollo and pester him.
Knock knock!
Fine, okay, who’s there?
Oswald.
Oswald who?
Oswald my bubble gum!
Oswald what?
Not Oswald. I swallowed—it sounds like Oswald.
That’s clever, son, now go find Apollo.
I jumped when the guy behind me laid on his horn. Shit, how had I gotten down by the capitol building already? Lost in the past would get me wrapped around a telephone pole in the present.
Bret and C.C. were now talking about what the cat had dragged in. Great song. Fuck my life. Shit. I’d need to find a way to make that poor stiff stud smile tomorrow. Maybe I could lay that great Oswald knock-knock joke on him, because it had worked so many wonders with Dad. Not.
Home came into view. I swung into the parking lot and sat in my designated spot after cutting the engine.
The Executives. Twenty elite condominiums for those with executive tastes. And executive-sized trust funds, one of which I possessed. Money was not an issue for the Lockhart family. Dad was a legend in the field of corporate takeovers. Mom was a legend in the field of traveling and having affairs to counteract how lonely she was because Dad was always taking over corporations. But hey, I had lots of zeroes in my bank account, and that was what mattered. Money. Spending it and making more of it.
The ride up to my penthouse was agony. Why? Why did they pipe in such shitty elevator music? Why not something from RATT, or maybe a little Winger? Why had that guy at the stadium looked so fucking edgy, and not the avant-garde kind of edgy? Why was his mouth so lush? Why had I asked about his bladder? Fucksticks. I was a butt plug of epic size and girth.
As soon as the doors opened, I stalked across the small lobby that visitors to my prestigious home saw first. It was all decorated and shit. Some guy with pink hair and a tight ass had done it for me when I’d been traded to the Railers. He and I had hooked up once after the condo and lobby had been revamped to his specs. He’d been really picky and totally not my type, but I’d been feeling alone and vulnerable. Also, he’d laughed at my jokes, so that had earned him a good fuck.
I threw my duffel down the moment I stepped into my apartment.
“Lucy, I’m home!” I shouted, then grabbed the bills from the side table. Utilities, mostly. Apollo would handle those. I’d been hoping for maybe a postcard from my parents. Where were they at the moment? France? No. Greece? No. Shit, I couldn’t keep track. “Apollo, dude, where are Cole and Karrie Anne?” I never called them mom and dad, they’d demanded I call them Cole and Karrie Anne and I was cool with that. You get used to things after a while.
“They’re down in Florida playing golf with the orange troll man until Friday, then they’re off to Capri for the holidays.”
“Oh yeah.” Great. More hand-crafted leather sandals I would never wear.
I padded through my living room. It was all glass and chrome, white and blue. I inhaled deeply and picked up the scent of something celeryish and that coconut-and-melon shampoo Apollo used. Over in the corner were boxes that could only be Christmas decorations. Why did Apollo insist on putting shit up when no one aside from me and him would see the tinsel and tiny little wooden reindeer statues was beyond me. I looked out at the city and sighed at the snow lightly falling. I hadn’t had a family holiday since… forever ago.
Stepping into the kitchen, I found Apollo at the stove. He looked over his shoulder and immediately frowned.
“You look like shit. What happened?”
“The bills are here.” I whipped them onto the marble counter, then draped a leg over one of three stools at the island.
“Yeah, I know, I brought them up.”
Apollo tossed some fresh parsley into his creation with flair. He did everything with flair and a bit of flamboyance. Apollo Vasquez was my oldest and dearest friend. His mother was head of domestic affairs for my mother’s home in Maine, where I’d grown up. Mom owned the four homes in the States, Dad owned the six overseas.
Apollo was my age, twenty-four, and had grown up with me. We were like brothers, even though he’d gone to public school at six and I’d been shipped off to the Northwood Academy for Boys. He’d been the first boy I’d ever kissed. He was the only person who had listened to me crying because my parents never came to any of my games when I was a young teen and was so fucking confused about life, me, and my need to kiss handsome boys like Apollo. After a few kisses and cuddles, I’d come to the realization that Apollo and I weren’t meant to be more than best friends. He’d quickly agreed, and we’d grown that much closer. He was my friend, soul brother, cook, personal assistant, and ass-kicker when it was needed, which was pretty much on a daily basis—the ass-kicking, that is.
“So what’s wrong?”
I plucked a wedge of carrot from the salad he’d tossed together. The man had serious cooking skills and a wicked-keen way of seeing into me. He spun from his pot, folded his arms over his lean chest, and pinned me to the wall with deep brown eyes.
“I met this guy…”
That brought some light into his eyes. “Oh? Good!” He was always after me to date more and come out. Embrace my inner gay man. Stop trying to impress my parents. Dress better and learn to use the toilet brush, for God’s sake.
“Oh, not good.” I tossed the carrot into my mouth and chewed. Apollo rolled his eyes. “No, do not do that,” I said around the carrot. He turned back to his pot and stirred with a vengeance. “See, when we first ran into each other he was obviously having some sort of episode. Is that soup?”
“Yes, it’s celery soup.” He threw me a dark look. “And of course, you being Adler, you said something that you thought would be funny but was the exact opposite.”
I stared at the wiry man with the undercut and eyebrow piercing. “Maybe.”
“You’re such a twat,” he said as he ladled out two bowls of soup then carried them over to the island. “Here—be careful, it’s hot.” I cocked an eyebrow at him. “I feel like I have to explain these things to you, because you naturally slip into four-year-old Adler-mode even though you’re now six feet two.”
“Four,” I corrected gently.
“Anything over six feet doesn’t matter.”
“Not when you’re five feet nothing,” I commented, then spooned up some creamy soup and blew on it.
“I’m five seven, thank you very much. So, back to you, because you’re the one who’s the mayor of Fuck-Up-My-Life Land.”
“Right, yeah, so I said something stupid to the man and—”
“Is he a hockey player?” Apollo handed me a cloth napkin, then shook his out and placed it over his lap to protect his tight, black skinny jeans.
“No, I think he’s a social media guy. Like to help with the whole ‘Tennant Rowe and Jared Madsen are butt-sexing each other and want to tell the world about it’ situation.”
“Mmm, I see. He’s a spin doctor?”
“I don’t know. ‘Social media dude’ works. But yeah, he’s got these eyes and a mouth…”
“Good to know. Makes seeing and speaking easier.”
“Quit being so Apollo, okay? Tell me what to do. How do I make things right with him?” I slurped my soup, made a yummy sound, then chanced a peek at my best and only friend.
“Well, what I’d suggest is not to be a wise-cracking ass-trout when you run into him next. You don’t have to entertain people for them to like you, Adler.”
“I know.” I grabbed some oyster crackers from a small bowl and sprinkled them on top of my soup. “Did I ever mention how glad I am that you decided to come work for me when my mother suggested I get a PA who wears an apron?”
“It was the apron that clinched the deal.”
I nudged his shoulder with mine and finished my soup. Maybe the celery would make me less inclined to be an ass-trout.
* * * * *
I should have known that celery wouldn’t make me less stupid. I mean, if it did have that kind of magical capability, everyone on Earth would be incredibly smart and tinted green from all the celery they consumed.
The next day I rolled through the players’ entrance like a man on a mission. I had two goals for morning skate. Show the coach that my being traded there was a good thing, and find the social media guy and apologize for making that bladder and cock crack. Cracks. Two cracks to make amends for.
The Railers dressing room was buzzing with masculine conversation. A sock hit me in the side of the face the moment I stepped foot inside. I threw a dark look at Stan, the Russian goalie who spoke little English but wore Hulk and Pokémon tattoos like prefect badges.
“Ha!” Stan roared, then went back to talking to his equipment like it was completely normal. Goalies are beyond odd.
I made eye contact with Tennant, who might be one of the prettiest men I’d ever met, right after Media Man with the lush mouth and haunted eyes. He nodded, and I did the same.
I’d keep a close eye on his and Madsen coming out. Not that I was crossing that flaming bridge anytime soon. Telling my parents had been bad enough. They hadn’t gotten mad. Getting angry would have required caring enough to feel such a powerful emotion. Nope. They’d just mumbled something as they went out the door to work or for cocktails at the country club. It might have been “Okay” or “Great, he’s a fag now as well as a hockey player. When will the shame end?” or maybe “When did the Montclairs say they were joining us for skiing in Vale this year?”
After I peeled my suit off and was in compression shorts and an old Skid Row shirt from their ’89 tour, I pulled my cell out of my bag, found my ear buds, and went off in search of a treadmill. I found one next to Arvy. He gave me an easy smile. I decided to tell him a joke about a rabbi and a priest who were buying a car together.
“They decide to store the car at the priest’s house. So one day, the rabbi goes over to see the car and finds the priest sprinkling water on it. The rabbi asks, ‘What are you doing?’ The priest replies, ‘I’m blessing the car.’ So the rabbi says, ‘Okay, since we’re doing that…’ and takes out a hacksaw and cuts two inches off the tailpipe.”
Arvy laughed so hard he fell off his treadmill and had to get the new bruise on his leg iced down. See now, humor did work to make people like you, despite what Apollo always said. Feeling pretty good about myself, I plugged my ear buds into my cell and slid the phone into the band on my right bicep. I found my jogging playlist. Lots of Cinderella, Guns N’ Roses, some Lita Ford, and a fat dollop of Bon Jovi.
I raised the speed and incline, and ran. There was something about the steady pounding of my feet hitting the belt that worked like a natural high. The stresses of life melted away and I could forget for a minute that I was facing another Christmas with Apollo, while the family—and I use that term loosely, because what I knew about real family could fit on the head of a pin—were off doing anything but seeing me.
“Ah, fuck that crap,” I grumbled. I cranked up the tunes and ran until someone slapped my slick back. I threw a look to the left, eyes burning as sweat ran into them. Coach Madsen was standing beside me. I pulled my ear buds out.
“Layton Foxx is looking for you,” he said as I slowed my pace and dropped the incline. I took the towel he held up to me.
“Thanks.” I scrubbed at my face. “Uh, who’s Layton Foxx?” I asked, then peeled my wet T-shirt off so I could run the towel over my chest and stomach.
“He’s the crisis management guy, and he wants to talk to you before morning skate. He’s in the press room right now.”
Oh shit, the media guy with the kissable mouth? He wanted to talk to me? Fuuuuuuck.
“Okay, thanks, Coach.” I tossed my shirt around my shoulders and jumped off the treadmill, pulling the cord from my cell phone as I thundered off to find Layton Foxx.
Foxx? Yes, he certainly was. I bet he heard that a lot. Maybe I could make up something funny to say about him being foxy. Or maybe I’d better not.
I almost missed the press room, and skidded to a halt right in front of the open door as Bob Seger blared out of my cell. Layton Foxx lifted those gorgeous dark gray eyes from the iPad in his hands, and my heartbeat tripled.