My gods, it was Jonah all over again.

I flew past the cameraman lounging by the locker rooms. I knew he was supposed to follow me around that afternoon. I was scheduled to visit my favorite spa, which I really couldn’t afford but, show business… and get my usual tidy up below the belt as well as a facial and a mani-pedi. That was not happening now. No way in hell could I flounce around spreading my rays of sunshine in this mood. I was frantic and manic and on the verge of a breakdown of biblical proportions.

“Hey, wait up,” Chet said. Was his name Chet? Rhett? Gomez? Who the fuck cared? I was growing to despise the cameras and the people associated with them. “I’m supposed to go with you. Ginger said we were doing the spa and then you were supposed to go to this gay fundraiser over at the Rittenhouse Manor Hotel.”

I spun around and held up one finger. Just one. Damn, I really did need a manicure. “Do not follow me. I mean it, Gomez.”

“Chet,” mumbled the portly man in the Flyers cap.

“What. Ever. Do not follow me. I’m not in a good place.”

“But the show…”

“Fuck the show.”

With that, I twirled around and stormed out of my rink, the soft blue scarf I’d tied artfully around my throat wafting out behind me. My exit would have made Cher proud had my fucking scarf not gotten caught in the fucking door. The tug when I reached the end nearly garroted me. Chet stood on the other side of the glass doors, staring, camera in hand, wearing his orange ball cap as the door and I battled over my scarf.

“You’re a miserable sow-faced bitch!” I screamed at the door as I pulled and tugged.

Chet tentatively reached out and pushed the door open. I whipped my scarf free, twirled on my saucy booted heel, and stalked off, tears forming and blurring my departure. I could make out the shape of my yellow Yamaha scooter through the haze of unshed tears.

“Dammit to hell,” I coughed, then unlocked my helmet and shoved it down onto my head.

I probably shouldn’t be driving at all in this mental state, but I had to get away from Dieter and the pills and the whole addiction thing. I just could not do that again. Swiping at tears as I rode through city traffic, I purposefully blocked out all memories of Jonah, his struggles with prescription pills, and the agony of being part of that cycle.

“I barely know the man,” I told myself as I scooted to Liberty Nails & Manicures, the shop where my mother worked.

She and Lola knew all about Jonah. They’d gone through that with me. They’d seen the agony, gone through the t911 calls numerous times. They’d lived with the calls and the pleading, the fights, the weeping, the promises of going straight and the broken vows that had always followed.

I was so desperate to see her and talk to her that I didn’t even take off my yellow helmet to fluff up my hair. Gina, the owner, looked up from a customer’s soaking fingers when I blew into the busy shop. I gave the place a quick once-over and didn’t see my mother.

“Hello, Trent,” she called. All the women in the shop greeted me. “If you’re looking for your mother, she didn’t come in today.”

I hurried over to the petite blonde and dropped into a crouch. Her customer smiled warmly.

“What do you mean, she didn’t come in?”

“She went up to Mercer to see Clay.”

I simply crouched there, blinking, like an idiot.

“Thanks, Gina.”

I eventually pushed out, stood up, and exited the shop filled with curious women. My head was a complete wreck. I sat on my scooter parked by the curb and stared at the street. Shimmering heat waves were already rising from the blacktop. She’d gone to see him. Taken a day off to see the man who’d fucked us all over. Why? Why would she do that? Why would she skip work to see Clay – that fucktard – but not take a day to be on my show? Why? It made no sense. We hated Clay. My stepfather was a shitty man who had ruined us. Why was she there visiting him?

I started my scooter and went home. Not to my place. To Lola. As soon as my grandmother saw me, hair flat, eyeliner smudged across my cheeks, and hiccupping as I tried not to cry, she pulled me into a huge hug. And there we stood, in that tiny kitchen with the smells of soy, garlic and curry in the air. Me weeping like a tiny wee baby boy and her whispering soothing words in Pilipino.

“Come sit down, babes,” Lola murmured, leading me to a chair that creaked when I dropped into it. She pit-pattered around as I cried into my hands. “Here, here. Stop crying. What has you so bad upset?”

She lifted my face upward, then pressed a wet, cold dishcloth to my cheek.

“Everything. Just – everything.”

I grabbed the towel and shoved my face into it. The coolness felt good on my cheeks. It helped me calm down a bit. She was seated across from me when I emerged from the wet dishtowel. In front of me was a huge mug of ginger tea.

“Lola, I’m not sick. I don’t need salabat tea,” I coughed as I peeked at her.

“You sick at heart. Drink tea.” She folded her arms over her Flyers T-shirt. Different day, different Flyers shirt. This one had a 16 on it and the name CLARKE across the back. She’d had one like it since the mid-seventies.

The ginger tea was so strong I gagged, but the taste made me feel somewhat better even if it was killing me slowly. It brought back simpler days when I was a kid and had a cold. Anytime you sneezed, you got a mug of salabat tea.

“I feel like my whole life is upside-down,” I sniffled into my tea. The mug was warm and soothing between my palms.

“What makes it upside-down? Man trouble?”

Lola pushed a plate of store-bought cookies toward me. I shook my head but took one anyway. What difference did it make if I gained weight? Not like I’d ever be skating again. That last show in Harrisburg had been the finale of my contracted appearances. Guessed that dream of doing an eighties ice extravaganza show would die now along with all my other hopes and dreams.

“I barely know the man. I mean, we shared one blow— intimate moment, and a few kisses. Why should I go there again?”

“Go where?”

“Into the hell that is a drug-addict boyfriend.”

I dunked my cookie in my tea, then shoved it whole into my face. The sugar tasted amazing. So I grabbed another cookie and did the same. It melted on my tongue. Hot, yes, but so incredible and forbidden for so many years that I didn’t care if I scalded all my taste buds.

“You have a new boyfriend?” She pouted.

I hurried to explain – or try to explain – before her heart broke in two. “No, we’re not that. At all. We’re attracted and we kissed once or twice.”

“And made blowjobs.”

“Lola!”

“What? You think I don’t know two gay boys suck dick?”

I grabbed two more cookies and ate them as my grandmother patiently waited.

“No, I know you know what gay boys do. It’s just…” I sighed and told her the story of Dieter and me, sparing no detail aside from sexual ones. “And then I left. No, please, don’t give me bad looks.”

“You leave man who needs help? You okay to suck his dick but not be his friend when he needs you?” Her silver eyebrows were tangled. I lowered my head, then ate another cookie. “Trenton, we raise you better.”

“I know, but I can’t do that again. I can’t suffer with another addict. Jonah nearly killed me.”

“Jonah nearly kill himself. Four times I know.”

I peeked up through my flat bangs. She was showing me four fingers.

“So you run off from Dieter because he makes you scared? When does being scared make you run?”

“Since my world is in tatters. I don’t think I can fight anymore, Lola.” I ate another cookie.

“Shit balls. You fight since you were eight and Clay tell you only sissy boys sew skating clothes.” She leaned over the table, her substantial breasts resting on her age-spotted forearms. I met her gaze. “You remember what you tell asshole Clay when he tell you boys no sew?”

I did recall that moment. I just didn’t want to admit that I did. I shook my head.

“You tell Clay that boys can sew if they want. You stood up to him and you been fighting bigot people ever since. You want to tell skater kids to no fight?”

“Lola, that’s different,” I whined. And ate another cookie.

She leaned back in her chair, her mouth pulled into a tight pucker. Damn. She was upset with me now. I knew that face.

“I never think I see the day that my famous gay grandson would stop fighting. All the kids will be sad.” She shook her head, and shame swept over me.

“It scares me,” I whispered. “I look at this man and I think I could care about him. People who care do stupid things. Look at Mom!” I waved a finger at her. “She went to see Clay; did you know that?”

“I know. I tell her not to, but she loves him.”

“How? How can she love a man who did that to her? How can she go see the man who robbed us and left us teetering on the verge of financial ruin? It makes no sense!” I ate two more cookies, chewing angrily.

Lola shrugged. “People in love do stupid things.” She took a sip of her ginger tea and sighed as if in bliss. Her eyes met mine over my mug. “Do you love this man?”

“No, no, it’s nothing near that yet.” I reached for a cookie and was shocked to find the plate empty. Well, hell. Right to my ass was where all of those would go. “It could be something, though. I’m incredibly attracted to him. We’re just sort of friends. Yes, friends. We’re just friends. Mostly. He has lovely eyes, Lola. Green with bursts of amber around the pupils. Such a stunning man.” I could see Dieter in my mind’s eye, a smile playing on his usually brooding face. A shiver of something primal and powerful traveled over me. There could be something there. Oh yes. “But then there’s the pills…”

“Maybe he needs help from a friend who gives blowjobs.”

“Maybe,” I conceded as my cheeks reddened a bit. “What about Mom? What are we going to do about her?”

“We’re going to let her make her own mistakes, babes. Same as we do for you. Want more cookies?”

“Will you sit and talk with me while I eat them?”

She smiled so widely her wrinkled cheeks nearly hid her deep brown eyes. “You know Lola always here for my babes.”

“Yeah, I know.” I reached over the empty cookie plate and threaded my fingers into hers. “I know.”

* * *

I tracked him down at his hotel. It was easy. I just called Adler Lockhart, the man I’d seen kissing Layton Foxx. He was happy to tell me what room Dieter was in, as well as some story about a goat followed by a joke about a lima bean going to confession. This would be stop one on the Tough Talk Tours. After I was done setting Dieter straight, it was back home to lie in wait for my mother and confront her as well. Yep. Watch Trent fight back.

A couple of hours ago, fueled up by Lola’s tea, cookies, and motivational talk, this had seemed like a grand idea. Go see Dieter with food in hand – that was Lola’s idea – and tell him that I would help him as much as I could but that I could not get more involved with him. Friends. We would just be friends. Maybe with a few benefits. Sucking his dick had been incredible. I’d bet he’d be lively as a bottom or a top. I was happy with either.

Imagine that long, fat cock being slowly pushed into—

“Trent, for the love of all the gods, stop it,” I hissed at myself, and knocked sharply on the door of room 22-B.

Friends. Just friends. No dick sucking. No kissing. Absolutely no cocks in anyone’s ass. Nope. No. None of that. Friends. A man helping a man who was struggling. Me being a good soul. Someone fetch me a freaking merit badge.

The door opened. I looked up and saw Dieter’s expression shift from morose to ecstatic in the span of a heartbeat. There was that smile again. The one that showed off a small dimple on his right cheek. The one that cut through the dark fog of fear and unease like a beacon from a lighthouse. The smile that made me stammer and look stupid.

“Food.” I lifted the insulated tote that Lola had filled with home-cooked goodness, and offered it to him. “I mean my grandmother made us food. For a picnic. Inside. Where no one can see us talking. We need to talk.”

“Oh, wow, this is great.” He flung the door wide open.

I sucked in a deep breath, smelled Dieter and dark sandalwood, and knew my boat was headed for rocky shores, to keep with the whole lighthouse/maritime motif my mind was stuck in.

“I’m really glad to see you.”

I turned, purple tote from the local market in hand, as the door closed. “I was rude to you and I need to apologize.”

Dieter shook his head. “No, you don’t need to do that. I shouldn’t have laid all that on you.”

“No,” I argued. “I need to sit down and explain why I acted like I did. I also want to offer you my friendship to help you get through your problems with pills.”

“It’s all good.” He smiled widely.

My aft hit the rocks. Aft. Was that the front of a boat? Who knew? Sailors, I’d wager. Pity I’d never piloted a ship before. Which explained why mine was already taking on water.

“I dumped them all down the drain. I’m done with them. I’m clean.”

I heard what he was saying, I just couldn’t make myself believe I was hearing it. I looked around, found the dresser, and placed the tote carefully on top of it. Then I unwrapped my scarf – the one I’d torn slightly in the tussle with the doors of my rink – and threw it beside the tote.

“Dieter, honey, you can’t just go cold turkey. You know that, right?”

“No, I can. I kicked them before. And this time? I got off them early. So it’s good.”

My sweet lord, he truly believed what he was saying. Oh my…

“Why don’t we sit down at that little table on the patio and talk?”

“Sure, yeah, that would be great.” He rushed around the bed to the sliding glass doors. Then he threw it open with such eagerness it rattled dangerously when it hit the end of the track. The sounds of Philadelphia floated in. “I’m so glad to see you, Trent. I like you.”

“I like you too,” I admitted.

I took the tote in hand again, and walked past him and out onto the cramped patio. The city lay spread out below us, skyscrapers reaching up to touch the setting sun. The table and chairs were dusty. Dieter ran inside when I wrinkled my nose, and returned with a T-shirt to wipe the seats and table with. Then he pulled out my chair as if I were a duchess being seated at a grand ball.

“Thank you,” I murmured as I took my seat.

He tossed the dirty shirt into his room then sat down across from me. He looked peaked and tired. I predicted he would look much worse over the next few days if he’d truly dumped all the painkillers. I said nothing, though, just reached into the tote and set small plastic Tupperware dishes on the round glass table. Down below on the street a car alarm pealed, but only for a moment.

“This smells good. What is it?” He’d lifted the lid on the container holding a mountain of pork kaldereta.

“It’s a dish made with pork and tomatoes. Kind of like pork stew, I guess. My grandmother made it yesterday, but it’s better the next day.”

“Is your grandmother Japanese or Chinese?” He took the silverware I handed him. “Is that too nosy? I’m just…I want to know about you; your family and stuff.”

“No, she’s Pilipino. She married my grandfather, an American serviceman, when he was stationed in Manila at Subic Bay during the Vietnam Conflict. She came back with him, had my mother here in the States, and became a citizen back in the seventies.”

“Oh, okay, so you’re like a quarter Pilipino then.”

“Something like that.” I opened a smaller dish with some pandesal bread left over from breakfast. “And you’re German, right? Dieter Lehmann – that sounds really German.”

“Mmm, yeah, half. My mom’s Canadian. She used to figure skate.”

“Oh?” I handed him a bit of bread. He grinned and thanked me, then dipped the round roll into his stew.

“Yeah, she’s a huge fan of yours. She said she was going to see if my father and her could come down from Canada while we’re here filming to maybe meet you.”

“That would be nice.”

I ripped off a small bit of bread, then reached over to dunk it in his massive container of stew. He nodded and shoved his roll into his mouth. It seemed like the perfect time to push into the addiction talk, but…

If I did, then he’d get upset and this nice moment would be gone. So I let it go for now. We ate and made small talk instead, his eyes never leaving me. I knew I wasn’t doing myself or Dieter any favors by backpedaling. I just wanted this peaceful time before I confronted him with the cold, hard facts.

When the food was gone, Dieter sprang up, ran inside, and came out with two bottles of beer. I took mine to be polite.

“Don’t you like beer?”

“I do, but it’s really fattening.” I read the label, rolled my eyes, and took a long pull. Might as well. I’d already eaten two dozen cookies. My ass would be ginormous by the end of the year.

“You’re really lean. I don’t think a beer now and then is going to hurt you much.”

“Well, as you know, empty calories are the devil’s playthings for athletes. We could be putting good fuel into our bodies, but this is delicious.” I kissed the neck of the dark brown bottle.

Dieter snorted and walked over to the railing. He leaned down to rest his forearms on the wrought-iron rail. He had nice forearms. Thick, lightly haired, powerful. Like the rest of him. I laughed lightly at myself sitting there drinking beer while eye-fucking a hockey player. My, how Trent Hanson’s world had changed.

Dieter looked over his shoulder at me. “Something funny?”

I shook my head and stood up to join him at the railing, leaving my beer on the table with the dirty Tupperware containers. He watched me come at him, like a man too stunned to move out of the way of an oncoming steel girder. If truth be told, it was me being pulled to him. Like a mound of metal shavings to a magnet. I placed my hand on his forearm, the one I’d been admiring from the table. The skin under my palm twitched. His gold-green eyes closed for a second and then reopened, snaring my sight, holding it. I ran my fingers upward, trailing them over the sensitive inner fold of his arm, then sliding them under the sleeve of his dusky blue Railers T-shirt.

“There’s nothing funny about this at all, is there?” I asked as my fingers bit into the huge muscle of his biceps.

His head moved back and forth.

My gaze lingered on his mouth. He would taste like beer and spicy pork. It was too much for a man as weak as me. My left hand rose from my side to cup his face. His cheek was thick with new whiskers. The abrasion on my tender palm fired off a jolt of want that raced to my crotch. His eyes were beautiful, entrancing. It was like gazing into the heart of a jungle thick with jade-green plants and brilliant shafts of golden sun.

“You want to go inside? I do. I want to take you to bed.”

There was only one way to answer that. I led his mouth to mine with gentle pressure to his jaw. The kiss went from delicate to demanding in the span of a millisecond. His teeth bounced off mine. I slid my hand around his head, dug my fingers deeply into the back of his skull, and speared his mouth with my tongue.

Dieter moaned low and long, meeting me stroke for stroke. Then, as if I’d scripted it from the deep recesses of my favorite fantasies, he straightened, towering over me now, his mouth sealed over mine, and dropped his bottle of beer to the table. It missed. We didn’t care. As malt and hops poured over the table and onto the patio, Dieter and I stumbled back inside, pulling at clothing while sucking on each other’s mouths. You know, like the “just friends” that we were supposed to be.