Empty Net (23 page)

“Murph’s more my type.” That wasn’t true—Laurent’s exploration of his sexuality had led him to identify as demisexual, meaning he only felt attraction to someone he’d formed a strong emotional connection to. Still, the comment made Hux grin and pound him on the shoulder with his customary rough camaraderie. The rest of the guys treated him the same way now. Just another teammate.

Laurent couldn’t say if he liked that or not. Having so many people not hate him was new and therefore stressful, and he was constantly worried about what would happen when they figured out he didn’t deserve their good intentions.

Negative self-talk. Right. Time to rethink that with something more positive. He was a part of the team, people liked him because he wasn’t being a horrible asshole and they were playing in the Kelly Cup finals.

It might not be two hours of calling himself awesome in a mirror, but it was close enough for the moment.

“I’m nervous,” Hux told him. It was an unusual sentiment from their hardass enforcer. He said it completely reasonably too. Hux was a strange guy, and Laurent liked him, but that could just be because they’d agreed to go halvsies on a pull box at the comic shop. “I don’t like that.”

Laurent had no idea what Hux was trying to accomplish by telling him. Did he need some reframed negative self-talk? Because he’d have to do that himself. Laurent had enough trouble doing it on his own behalf. “We beat the Wichita Twisters in the regular season,” he said, referring to their opponents.

“But not for the Cup,” Hux said, his eyes wide. “I just had a beer with a few of their players and then scored with this hot chick I met doing karaoke at the bar.”

Laurent had no idea what to say. He wished Isaac were there, but Isaac was wearing a suit and hanging out behind the bench since he wasn’t playing. Laurent’s backup was a kid named Ace—either his name or a nickname—who was called up from the SPHL affiliate team in Louisiana.

The kid spent the entirety of the conference finals, in which the Spitfires had played the Athens Ice Dogs, looking terrified that he might have to play. But Laurent was in the zone and a force to be reckoned with in front of the net. And even with some offensive issues, the Spitfires emerged victorious in game six.

“Maybe you’ll meet another girl,” Laurent said. “We’ll be here for another game before we go back home.”

“Oh. I’m meeting the same girl again,” Hux said cheerfully. He didn’t sound or look nervous at all. “Chicks love dudes who play hockey and fight, so we probably don’t even need to win. For me to get laid, I mean.”

“Hux, what is it you want?” Laurent asked, finally exasperated. “Not trying to be a dick, man, but you know I fail at small talk like, all the time.”

Hux grinned at him. “Yeah. But I dunno. You don’t look nervous, and you’re handling pucks like you’re Marty Brodeur out there.”

“I have a lot of experience looking dead inside.” Laurent was mostly joking. Mostly.

Hux laughed loudly and clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re all right. Weird, but all right.”

Murph appeared at his usual bookend place at Hux’s side. “Erin likes you,” he said. “And I mean, so does Isaac. And I do too. I guess.”

“You inspire awesome team bonding, Saint.” Drew Crowder came over to bump his helmet on Laurent’s, which Laurent had pulled on in hopes it meant he could stop talking to Hux and Murph.

Griff Miller walked by and did the same thing, knocking into Laurent’s helmet with his own. “You’re way cooler now that you’re on a better team,” he said as he went toward the tunnel.

Laurent stood still as every one of his teammates—guys who had hated and reviled him—filed by and said the hockey-player version of good luck and gave him a head-bump on the way to the tunnel. They always did it to Isaac before a game, but never for him unless it was afterward and he’d won.

Everyone was out of the room when he heard Coach Samarin’s low, deep, slightly accented voice. It still made Laurent nervous.

“I’m proud of you,” he said. “And it has nothing to do with your performance on the ice, though I’m happy to see you are playing to your potential now. I know you don’t trust their friendship and don’t necessarily want it, but I’m proud of you for finding your way to become a part of this team.”

Coach Samarin stepped forward, took Laurent’s mask in his hands and gave him the same customary head bump as his teammates had. Without another word, he headed toward the arena.

Laurent walked to the mirror and took in his reflection—a tall, broad-shouldered man in his gear, helmet showing nothing but the dark of his eyes. He looked at himself for a long moment, and then said, “I’m awesome,” out loud.

He sounded ridiculous, and he wasn’t sure he believed it, but they won 2-1. So maybe there was something to that positive self-talk after all.

ISAAC HAD
never both hated and loved watching hockey like he did watching the finals between the Spartanburg Spitfires and the Wichita Twisters. He wanted to be on the ice so badly he ached with it, but his heart swelled with pride every time he saw Laurent standing tall in goal. And every time Laurent made a spectacular save, Isaac’s dick got hard. He spent a lot of the finals uncomfortable and in emotional turmoil. So pretty much like he would feel if he were actually playing. And the emotions ran just as high in the fans who were watching alongside Isaac.

Isaac didn’t envy either of his coaches when he heard all the muttering about this-or-that line combination, and what play they needed to run. He definitely didn’t envy the refs, but he’d watched enough hockey to know that every fan was an expert when it came to critiquing what should or shouldn’t be a penalty.

Isaac had known the Spitfires were going to win the Cup on the morning of the fifth game, when the Spitfires were up 3-1 in the series. Isaac told Laurent that he didn’t want to endure another bus ride to Wichita. Laurent, who’d had the sated, sleepy look he got after a blowjob—getting or giving, it didn’t matter, which made Isaac feel pretty goddamn awesome—promised that he’d make sure of it.

As Isaac watched Laurent be an unstoppable force of nature in goal, he had to wonder why Laurent was never recruited to play in a higher league. And the simple truth of it hit him as he sat and watched one of the Twisters fly down the ice with the puck only to be denied by Laurent yet again. Laurent wasn’t in a higher league because his father didn’t want him to be.

Because Laurent was a better goalie.

Laurent’s father wasn’t trying to mold his son into a younger version of himself. He was trying to ensure that Laurent never became a better goalie than him
.
It wasn’t fucked up and misguided coaching. It was the opposite of that.

Sabotage.

Of course. That’s what Denis St. Savoy excelled at, wasn’t it? He didn’t make his team better, he took the other team’s best players out of the equation. He didn’t want his son to be a better goalie, so he kept him under his thumb and ridiculed and belittled him until he hated hockey too much to care if he won or lost—so that the only thing of any importance was Laurent’s desperation to please a man who hated him for being better at hockey than he was, more attractive than he was…. God. It made Isaac sick to his stomach.

As he watched Laurent make a stick save that had the crowd up on their feet and cheering, he knew Laurent wasn’t playing like that for the Cup, or even the team. And he definitely wasn’t motivated by pure love for the sport.

He was just doing it for Isaac. And while Isaac loved him for it, he hated the idea that Laurent was doing the same thing as his father. He knew what Laurent was thinking.
My father wants the Kelly Cup, so I’ll hurt him for what he did to Isaac by taking it away.
Laurent’s relationship with the sport was as abusive as his relationship with his father. And neither of those things were Laurent’s fault, but that didn’t make Isaac’s heart break any less for him.

Crowder scored a goal, and Isaac jumped up with the crowd to cheer. He was careful, because his ankle was still twingey and a little bruised. As the clock began to slowly wind down and the Spitfires were up 2-0, what was a potentially surmountable lead in the first and even second period became a roadblock for the Twisters as time slipped by in the third.

The final horn sounded, and Isaac watched his teammates scramble over the bench to celebrate at center ice. He couldn’t help the stab of disappointment that he wasn’t out there celebrating too. Which… wait. He should be, and he was going to be.

“Fuck my ankle,” he muttered and headed down to the ice.

He got there without tripping and was immediately enveloped by his sweaty, triumphant teammates. He wanted to find Laurent, but Misha spotted him and gestured him over. He looked as reserved as ever. In comparison Max was grinning so widely that Isaac was afraid his face might split.

“Good job, Coach,” Isaac said and held out his fist.

Misha fist bumped him back. “Good job, Captain. Five games does not win a trophy. A team does. And you are the heart of this team. This is your trophy as much as anyone’s.”

Isaac scowled and wiped surreptitiously at his eyes. “Do you think this stuff up ahead of time or something? Jesus, Misha.”

Misha’s face remained impassive, but then he winked. Isaac grinned and then moved in and threw his arms around his coach. Misha was startled, but hugged him back. “You say shit that makes me cry, I’ll hug you. It’s the rule.”

Misha’s laugh rumbled through his tall frame.

“If I’m the heart, then you’re the… uh, what makes hearts beat? Blood? Wait.” Isaac scowled. “I was trying to come up with some way to say thank-you for everything you’ve done for me. I hope you and Max have kids someday. You’d be a great father.” Isaac pulled away and smiled at his coach. “Believe me. I know.”

Misha’s dark eyes went suspiciously bright, and he blinked rapidly. He mumbled something in Russian and then ducked away.

Isaac laughed out loud.
Take that, Misha.
He absolutely meant what he’d said, but it was nice to have a zinger of his own.

Laurent was standing in a group of their teammates, who all skated off—making kissy noises, the assholes—when Isaac finally made his way to him.

“Hey, Saint.” Isaac pulled him into a hug. Fuck it. “Thanks for setting a standard I’ll never be able to meet.”

Laurent didn’t laugh, but he did hug Isaac back. “It was your standard I was playing to, Isaac.”

Oh, Jesus Christ. Was everyone trying to make him cry? Sure. It was a well-known rule that you were allowed to cry when winning or losing sporting events, be you a player or a fan. But sheesh.

“You were amazing,” Isaac said. He smiled and reached up—because Laurent was even taller on skates—to push Laurent’s sweaty hair out of his face. “I’m so proud of you. I wanted to blow you, like, eighteen times.”

“I made thirty-four saves. Weren’t you paying attention?”

Isaac threw his head back and laughed. “Oh my God. You made a joke.”

“Who said I was joking?” Laurent did have a small, contained smile on his face, though.

“Fine. I wanted to do something else for those. Happy?”

“Yes,” Laurent said, and for once Isaac believed him.

When the Kelly Cup was presented to the Spartanburg Spitfires, it was given to Griff Miller, who wore the A on his uniform for alternate captain.

Griff turned right around and handed it to Isaac. Isaac shifted his weight, prayed he didn’t slip and fall, since he was wearing dress shoes on ice, and lifted the Cup high in the air. It wasn’t exactly how he’d imagined the moment might go, but he couldn’t care less.

THE PROBLEM
with getting drunk, Laurent realized, was that when you woke up the next day, you wanted to die and remain perfectly still. But the only things that would make you feel better involved getting up and moving.

He sat up, somewhat aware he was naked, in bed, in his apartment. Isaac was sprawled next to him and taking up most of the room. There was evidence of their activities of the night before strewn all over Laurent’s bedroom—clothing, a bag of hockey gear, and a few empty condom wrappers and a bottle of lube on the floor next to the bed. Isaac’s stupid Doc Martens were right in front of the bed,
again
. He was so messy.

Laurent was a little sore when he went to move too. Isaac had been as excited about the Spitfires’ Kelly Cup victory as if he’d been in goal himself.

As for Laurent, he was just relieved it was over.

When he stood in goal and watched the clock tick down to zero, it meant more to him than the Spitfires winning the Kelly Cup. It meant the end of playing a sport he loathed because of a man who would never love him. Isaac would be back in goal next season and do what he always did—in goal or out—defend and protect, and love the game while doing it. And Laurent would be the one watching with pride as Isaac excelled. That’s what he wanted.

But despite his relief in the end of the season and his smug satisfaction at knowing his father’s plan hadn’t worked like he’d wanted, Laurent had to admit a certain pride in his accomplishment. He had played well, even if he hadn’t done it for a trophy. He’d done it for a blue-haired goalie who couldn’t put his shoes somewhere Laurent wouldn’t trip over them. Laurent couldn’t even remember who dropped them off the night before. Someone must have followed them home in the Jeep, because the keys were on the small kitchen table.

And Laurent maybe told Isaac to “fuck me like a goddamn champion, Drake.” And Isaac had done just that, a little rough in his excitement in a way that Laurent didn’t mind at all, because it was out of love, not jealousy or anger.

Laurent managed to stumble into the kitchen to get a glass of water and drank it thirstily while standing naked and covered in sweat and other fluids—and magic marker, because his teammates were morons. Laurent waited for the panic to set in, the sick twist of his stomach to send him to the bathroom. Then he stood in the warm, bright room and marveled at how it never came.

Well, not exactly. He might have to take himself off to the bathroom in a minute, but that was just because of his hangover. He stood in the sunlight, drank his water, and thought about never putting that mask on again. Being Laurent St. Savoy, or rather, finding out who Laurent St. Savoy was. He wanted to be an artist. He wanted to own a comics store. He wanted to be Isaac Drake’s boyfriend. He wanted to be Saint.