“Hey, can I talk at you for a minute?” Victor asked as we filed back to the dressing room after morning skate the next day.
I gave him a nod, and we ambled off to his cramped little space by the soda machines. Vic motioned for me to go in while he fed a couple dollars into the machine. I slid into his office feeling a little vulnerable. Vic came in and closed the door, a can of Coke in his hand and a tense look on his face.
“Sit,” he said.
“There’s only one chair,” I pointed out, my gaze on that red can in his hand.
“Then use it,” he replied while pulling his arm out of his blue suit jacket.
I sat as he stripped off his jacket and tie. And while he tapped the top of the soda can and popped the tab, I waited. He drank greedily and then, when his craving was slaked, he lowered the can and settled resolute hazel eyes on me. I was edgy. He had always made me so nervous. He placed his can on the desk, then leaned on the far wall, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Dan and I think you’re a fucking warrior for sticking with Sal.”
That wasn’t what I’d been expecting to hear. I wiggled around in his squeaky chair behind his cluttered desk, trying to think of what to say. I stared at a discarded Coke can lying under his desk.
“They say good goalies are sticky goalies,” I replied, balancing my mask on my leg.
“True, but we’re not talking about rebound control here.” My gaze moved from the empty can to Victor. “I pulled you in here because I wanted you to know that me and Dan are behind you two. Also, I think it’s important for you to know that the team cannot force you to divulge your man’s HIV status.”
“Have you heard that they’re going to?” I could hear the anxiety in my own voice.
Victor shook his head. “No, and even if they wanted to, they can’t. Medical records are confidential. I did some reading last night.” He shifted his weight left to right. “A player who’s HIV positive cannot be barred from playing. They also can’t be forced into mandatory testing. There are laws protecting HIV patients from discrimination. So don’t be worrying over having to reveal that to higher-ups. As long as Sal wishes to keep his status private, he can.”
Relief flooded me, and it must have showed, because he plowed on without missing a beat. “He seems to be pretty open about it, though. But telling friends is different than announcing it to the world. That being said, professional athletes have no secrets—you want to trust me on that one. Some people in the media are soulless sharks. Be prepared for the eventuality of some nosy asshole reporter digging through your trash or hacking hospital computer records if they suspect you’re hiding something.”
“You really don’t like the press, do you?”
The look of disgust on his face was a big clue. “I can count the people I like on ten fingers, Opie. Be happy you’re one of them.”
With that, he opened the door to his office. I stood up, gave him a brisk nod, and stepped into the hall. “Do you have any idea what’s up with Mario?”
“I have no clue what crawled up under McGarrity’s kilt when it comes to Sal.”
“Thanks for telling me all of that.” I met his hazel eyes.
“Yeah, well, I know how mental shit can drag down a goalie. Now you can lift that bundle of shit from your back and hopefully focus on hockey.” He closed the door in my face.
I guessed my bonding moment with the Venomous Pole was over.
The puck. It was all about the puck. Even though I heard the bass drums banging a steady boom, boom, boom boom boom cadence that was followed by every fan in the Rader roaring like a cougar, my attention was locked on the puck dropping to the ice to my left. We were behind by two goals late in the third. Two dirty goals that I should have had. Soft goals. Sloppy goals. Stupid goals.
Toronto had won the faceoff. They were hungry. Starved was more like it. They’d hit the ice fast and hard and hadn’t slowed down through three periods. The air in the barn had a bad tint to it. A loss was coming. I could feel it, sense it, see it in the way the team had simply stopped trying. Then, right after the faceoff, Dan Arou stripped the puck away from one of the Toronto forwards and streaked into the Toronto zone. The fan noise grew to amazing levels. There was still time. We’d all seen teams score a couple of goals, bing-bang-boom, and turn a game around.
Every Cougar followed Dan to the opposite end of the ice. I glanced up at the scoreboard, checked out the time remaining, and prayed the team would grab a goal. Just one goal would pump up the team.
They didn’t. Arou was knocked off the puck, and his skates, by one of the hulking Toronto defensemen. Claude Williams, a zippy Toronto winger, and John Detzler, a center for the Canadian team, broke out. My eyes tracked the puck moving back and forth between them as the two on zero raced at me. There was not one Cougar in our end. I was screwed.
Williams passed to Detzler, pulling me left. Detzler shuttled the puck to Williams. There was no way I could get back to the right side of the net in time, but I gave it my best shot. The puck flew cleanly over my left shoulder, and the goal light came to life behind me. The barn grew silent, and the final couple of minutes ticked off without any kind of tangible attempt at a comeback. The 3-0 loss tasted really foul. Worse than banana-flavored condoms. Far, far worse.
The after-game stuff was on autopilot. I gave the media the expected answers to the usual, mundane questions. Then one guy, a rather cute fellow with big, brown eyes and lots of curly red hair, tossed up the question I’d hoped would not be asked.
“August, what can you tell us about your new boyfriend? The guy you kissed at the ballgame in Buffalo?”
It was an innocent question. There wasn’t any evil glow or malevolent gleam in the guy’s eyes. But a thousand bells and whistles sounded off in my head. If they were growing curious about Sal, they’d dig. And then they’d discover he was positive. The press could unravel an athlete’s career with one internet search. I had to handle this now, though, and firmly.
“I’m not going to discuss him with the press.”
There. That shut them up. The media finally filed out, and I was left to fret over someone outing Sal. It would be as simple as an internet search, or some curious newshound trailing him to his Poz Men support group every Wednesday night. I felt terrible about bringing this kind of possible shit into Sal’s life. He hadn’t asked for media coverage about his health. If he broke up with me to save himself the heartache that might come, I wouldn’t blame him.
I couldn’t leave the arena fast enough. Getting home to Sal was a primal need clawing at my innards. He met me at his door, his dark eyes hooded. Gazing at him, I found myself at a loss for what to say. So I just went with honesty. My folks had drummed that into me for a reason, right?
“I love you. I’m worried the press may dig around and discover you’re positive. I’m sorry your life is being made into a tabloid story because of me. If I could change things, I would, but I don’t think I’m man enough to walk away from you even if I wanted to.” I reached out to trace his lower lip with my thumb. Then I touched his whole mouth and face. His beard was soft under my fingertips. “If you told me to leave, though, I would, because it would be you asking to make yourself happy. I’d do anything to make you happy.”
“I don’t want you to go. Ever. Come inside.”
He gently tugged me in, my hand sliding down his neck as we danced around the door. I was pulling his mouth to mine as the door closed with a soft click. Then I had him against the door, his back flat to it, my hand tight to the nape of his neck.
“Let me love you,” I breathed into his open mouth.
He lapped at my tongue while pulling at his zipper. A jolt raced through me. I kissed him deep and fast, then yanked his pants and underwear down to his ankles.
“Turn around,” I growled when his cock sprang free of his clothing.
Sal wet his lips, kicked off the material hobbling him, then plastered his chest to the back of the front door. I fell to my knees, hands biting deeply into his ass cheeks. I bit and sucked, licked and rubbed my face against his tight buttocks. Then I nibbled my way back up until I had the nape of his neck between my teeth.
“God, August,” Sal groaned.
Hungry sounds rumbled up out of me. He bucked and shuddered, moaned and pleaded, and pounded on the door when I ground my cock against his ass.
“Fuck that is hot,” he panted, rotating his hips in big circles.
I put love bites all over his neck and shoulders. Watching him crank himself up with hot, quick movements was the most erotic thing I had ever witnessed. Sal wiggled downward to find his wallet. A lubricated condom was pressed into my hand. A minute later I was unzipped, sheathed in latex, and ready to breach him. Seeing the head of my cock pressing into his body? That was the hottest thing ever in the history of ever. A little more spit was needed. The condom wrapper had barely fluttered to the floor, and I was buried in him. Sal shouted my name. I leaned in to him, pushing my chest against his back, and took his dick in my hand. He slapped his hands against the door and braced himself.
“Do me hard. Right now.”
“Hard, yeah,” I said through clenched teeth, then pulled out and slammed home.
He took it all with a low groan that made my balls pull up tight to my body. I tried to gentle the strokes, but Sal demanded that I go harder, faster, deeper. His brow bounced off the door a time or two. He pushed my hand off his cock as the pace grew manic. When I rose up to my toes for the final stroke, he came loudly, just as I did. Holding his hips in place, I ground against him, striving to get just a fraction of an inch further into the heat and tightness.
“Oh fuck, I almost shot a load right on the mail slot.” Sal coughed, then shuddered.
I kept him in place, fingers deep in the flesh of his waist, and pressed my mouth to his neck, taking time to suck on his shoulder. “Mailman wouldn’t have liked that,” I said, then returned to tonguing his shoulder and neck.
“Probably not.” He turned his head. I fell ravenously on his open mouth. “I love your cock resting inside me.”
“God, me too,” I said, pressing one last kiss to his mouth before we separated. “Shit, that sucks,” I complained, fingers tight to the purple condom. “I’d love to stay inside you.”
Sal turned to face me, his hands coming up to cup my face. “Want to tell me what that was all about? It’s kind of out of character for you to be so aggressive.”
“I have to take care of this. I need to straighten my head.”
I hustled to the bathroom, flushed the condom, washed myself up, zipped, then made my way back to Sal. He’d wiggled back into his pants and taken a seat on the sofa, his bare feet on the edge of the coffee table. His knees peeked through the holes in his jeans. He looked as sexy as hell flushed and marked from having sex.
“So, you got your head straight?” he asked, lounging back on the couch.
I sat down next to him, my left hand drawn to the flash of kneecap bared to my eyes. I slipped a couple of fingers into the hole, my attention solely on the feel of his skin on the backs of my fingers.
“Your skin is amazing,” I murmured as I rotated my fingers around and around. “Things are just upside down inside my head.” I looked right at him. “The damage I’ve brought to your life saddens me.”
“Aug, I’m here living this life, with you, because I want to be.” He put his hand on my wrist. “You didn’t force me into flirting with you at Heather’s party. Or inviting you to dinner, or dreaming about making love to you, or taking you to my bed. All of that was me. I choose the way my life goes, or most of it. I didn’t choose to get HIV, but sometimes shit just happens, you know?” He paused for a moment, his expression reflective. “I guess I chose to get drunk and be irresponsible that night. Maybe I need to address that, huh?”
“I’ll be right here as you do.” His fingers tightened on my wrist. I got lost in his eyes for a moment or two. “I’m planning on being with you forever.”
Sal smiled, then stole a kiss. It was soft, sweet, and super sentimental.
“Forever is a long time,” he reminded me before releasing my wrist to slide his fingers into my hair. Cupping my head, he laid my cheek on his shoulder.
“I know, and I’m planning on spending it with you.”
Sal nuzzled my hair lovingly. “So what was the caveman act about?” He massaged my skull, his touch tender and calming.
“Don’t you like to be fucked?” My eyes drifted shut. Sal shifted a bit, just enough to allow me to fall more closely against his side.
“I love being fucked. Anytime you want to toss me onto my back, feel free.”
“Good. I really liked that.” He smelled good, like the soap he’d used. I ran my tongue over his neck. Then I breathed out the taste of him lingering on my tastebuds. “It was just a shit day. The game, the media after. I guess maybe I just needed to feel in charge of something, or blow off some unresolved steam?”
He studied me for a moment. “Okay, you need something to do that in no way has anything to do with hockey.”
He slithered away from me and hit the floor. I sat up and watched him in confusion as he crawled to the TV and gaming systems, then pulled out a couple of Wii dance mats from behind the stand. He met my dubious look with a killer smile.
“Trust me. This always cheers my sisters up.”
“I do trust you,” I said.
He leaned down to give me a light kiss. Then the first song came up.
“Um, really?”
Sal laughed and nudged me in the ribs.
“This is going to be terrible.”
“Oh yeah, without a doubt. Now stop making excuses and dance.”
So we started dancing, in just our pants, to Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Call Me Maybe”. Sal danced as badly as I did, but man, did the lyrics feel right. We rolled right into some One Direction, then some Bieber, never once getting a perfect rating on any of our moves. We did laugh, though, and stumble around, and then laugh some more. By the time “Gangnam Style” by PSY came on, the volume was loud enough to rouse Sal’s neighbor. It took us a minute or two to realize the thumping on the wall was coming from next door. Sal sprinted to the stereo his game system fed through and turned the sound down, snickering like a kid caught skipping class.
I pulled on his arm and we tumbled onto the couch, giggling and breathless. His skin was slick with sweat, just as mine was. I gave him a loud kiss between snorts of amusement. He kissed me back. Lying on my side, wedged between Sal and the back of the couch, I let my right hand roam over his damp chest.
“This is just about perfect,” Sal sleepily mumbled.
I had to agree, and quickly drifted off.