Seduced by the Game (44 page)

Bright lights flickered
on. The gum lady tugged the paper from my collar then sashayed off. Hunkers
watched the sway of her hips then winked at me.

“Nice tits, huh?” Hunkers
asked as he shrugged into a blue jacket that was covered with bright yellow
catamounts. My gay status was a non-fact in my opinion. I didn’t hide it or
promote it. I refused to make it something to discuss. All that should matter
is if I can play. And I can.

Looking at Hunkers’ jacket
made my stomach feel even less stable. The sound guy hurried out to mike me up.
There were three cameras all trained on the two of us. Behind us was a green
screen. I wanted to glance back to see the famous introductory segment playing.
I had seen that segue a thousand times as a kid.

“Good Sunday morning,
Pittsburgh! Welcome to
Puma Talk
,” Hunkers said into the camera. I
stared at the prompter as his lines rolled past. “Today we’ll be getting a
behind the scenes peek at the fourteenth annual Puma Parade through the
Pittsburgh Municipal Children’s Hospital. Then we’ll hear from Dave Dawson, who
will go in depth with Coach Webern in the ‘Coaches Corner’ segment. First,
though, we’re going to have a chat with Cam Evans’s new relief man, Jacobi
Neal. Welcome to Pittsburgh, and to
Puma Talk
, Jacobi.”

I mumbled a nervous
thanks.

“Word has it you’re the
reason the Puma minor league club over in Jersey, the Dawson Dragons, won the
Calder Cup last year.”

I blinked at the man and
his nose stupidly.

“No, it wasn’t me who won
it. I just stood there and blocked a few shots. It was the team that rallied in
that final game. Christenson’s goal with four seconds left to tie, and then the
OT goal from Brooks Timor, as well as the defense keeping the snipers
contained, that’s what won us the Calder.”

“Ha!” Hunkers laughed
loudly. “Blocked a
few
goals, he says!” The old D-man jerked a thick
thumb at me. “For those of you who don’t know, Jacobi here blocked an amazing
forty-three shots in the rubber game of the championship. The only goal scored
by the other team was a deflection off two players! Forty-three shots blocked!
That stat beat Cam Evans’s long held forty-two SOG from eight years ago. I bet
Cam has to be watching you. Do you think he’s wondering if he’s seeing himself
twenty years ago. I’m sure you’ve heard the comparisons?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard them. I
don’t agree with them. Cam Evans is a legend. I’m just a kid from Trenton who
still plays street hockey with the guys when I go back home, you know? It’s the
guys playing with me who make me look so good.”

“Humble and talented,
that’s our new backup tender, Jacobi Neal! Next on
Puma Talk,
we’re off
to the races for charity! Good luck and welcome to the Pumas!” Clark said. I
shook the extended hand strongly once again.

“Thanks, Hunker.” I sighed
in relief when the cameraman waved us out.

“Good going, kid, you
nailed that in one take!” Hunkers beamed then patted my shoulder before I was
led out of the press room by gum lady. I meandered around, just drinking it all
in. Finally I found the weight room, then the locker room. I hurried inside to
gather up my stuff. I had two hours before I had to be back. Time enough to
find a hotel room to rent, grab a meal, then get back to suit up. I ran into
Brad Cooper, the King of Deke, as I was exiting the stadium. Cold wind
blustered across the empty parking lot. I located my dad sitting in my green
Range Rover, reading the paper to pass the time. He was famous for car-waiting.

"Nice saves,” Brad
said as a gust whipped around the stadium. I jogged over to him. Cooper was a
nice-looking guy with dirty blond hair, green eyes, a great cleft in his chin,
and a winning smile. He was probably a couple years my senior, if that. We
sized each other up. It was hard to tell what a man’s body was like in uniform.
Heavy winter coats didn’t help either, but I could see his legs were long,
strong, and his thighs muscular inside his jeans. Yeah, this could work. The
vibe was there. I smiled at him, glad to see he stood close to my height. The
wind kept flipping his hair into his face. “I don’t know if anyone told you,
but Pete Dunlop has a huge-ass place across the Monongahela. Seriously, the
place is massive. He always has spare bedrooms. If you want, you can follow me
over. I’m crashing there for a few weeks." He began bouncing up and down
to stay warm. “I just split with my partner, and yeah, you know . . .”

“He got the apartment?” I
asked. Brad nodded. Oh yeah, this could work well. My father chose that moment
to blow the horn. Both Brad and I startled. “Listen, my dad’s here, so I’m
going to go with him to find a hotel. Can we maybe hook up after the game? I
mean, to go check out Dunlop’s place?”

“Sure, no problem.” Brad
smiled then ducked his head into the next punishing cold blast. He ran to a
frosty blue Durango. I hustled over to the toasty warm Rover.

“Seems a smart man like
you would flirt inside where it’s warmer.” Dad peeked over at me.

“You’d think, huh?” I
laughed then placed my hands over the hot air vents.

“Jacobi, be careful,” he
said as I dropped the Rover into drive. “I’m not sure exactly how this dating
thing works between players. Back in my day, athletes hid being gay. I don’t
want to see you break rules or something. Is that considered fraternizing?”

“Dad, it’s cool,” I said
as my fingertips slowly warmed. “I’m not planning on falling madly in love with
anyone. I need to put all my effort and concentration on securing this chance
to make the team.”

“Oh, well, all right, as
long as you have your priorities straight.”

We sat at a red light
waiting to leave the stadium. I looked over at my father. “I’m all about
priorities, Dad." I would not let them down by letting my romantic heart
lead me off the path. “So, what chain is your favorite?”

“I’m kind of partial to
the people who leave a light on for you."

“Then let’s see if we can
find a room and grub close by.”

“Your first professional
game starts at seven,” he said wistfully.

“Yep, game starts at
seven.” I reached over to pat his knee. I wasn’t sure who was more awed, me or
him.

* * * *

On reflection, my awe
probably overpowered my father’s. As the team lingered just outside the cattle
chute that led from the locker room to the ice, I couldn’t seem to remember my
multiplication tables. Ever since I was a kid heading into my first midget game
as netminder I went over the times tables mentally. It helped me focus as well
as combat the nerves. I was stuck on three times seven. I mean,
Hello
?
Who the fuck can’t remember what three times seven is!

“Dude, inhale before you
pass out,” Brad said. I glanced over at him in panic. His green eyes were full
of mirth. He reminded me a leprechaun that threw body checks that separated
fillings from teeth.

“Man, I cannot remember
what three times seven is."

 He rubbed my head.
“Twenty-one."

“Thanks,” I murmured, kneading
the muscle over my thumping heart anxiously. I didn’t object to the head pat.
For some reason everyone on the team seems to think goalies are like gnomes, in
that if you rub their head, you get good luck. It’s real common to see each
player line up to pat – or even kiss – the goalie’s helmet after a win. Some
teams, like the Puma’s, like to get a pregame rub or smooch in as well.

“You excited?” he asked,
bouncing his well-taped stick off the rug. You could taste the anticipation in
the air. We were facing our division rivals, the New York Empires. Cam was
famous for the hard-on he got when he went up against the Empires’ goalie,
Dustin Abernathy. Nodding in reply to Brad, I glanced over at Cameron. He was
standing by himself, mentally gnawing at something. His eyes were heavy-lidded.
His lips parted slightly. His stubble-covered jaw relaxed. It was damned sexual
to be honest. I imagined he would look that way when I was sucking him off.

“Whoa!” I coughed, ripping
my sight from Evans. Cooper clapped my shoulder, squeezed, then got in line. I
fumbled along after him, my mind stuck on that erotic image. I refused to look
up. The stadium announcer shouted out, “Make some noise for your Pittsburgh
Pumas!” and the concrete holding the stadium together vibrated. My feet moved
by themselves. Once I hit the ice, my mind let go of the sinful picture of Cam
and me. I stood among the revolving Puma emblems rotating on the ice. The
stands were dark. “Click Click Boom” by Saliva was playing. Shit, but I love
Saliva. I love hockey. I
seriously
love hockey. This right here is
almost as good as sex.

My eyes roamed the ebony
velvet that blanketed the stands. If only I could be in Cam’s spot right now.
Plowing up ice with my skates, slapping the pipes with my stick, adjusting my
water bottles on the back of the net . . .

Someday.

I made a complete circle
of our end of the ice, inhaling the frozen air mingled with the aroma of
athletics and excitement. I was such a junkie for this sport, it was pitiful.
Smiling like a fucking loon, I ambled off the ice to the bench. I eyed the
little spot in the corner. The bench area in Pittsburgh is old and doesn’t have
enough room for us goalies with all our pads, so we’re given a special seat in
the corner. I stood as the national anthem was sung. After the crowd settled
down, I wiggled around on my seat until I was comfortable. Shoulder to the
glass, eyes locked on the face-off occurring, I felt the butterflies inside
lessening. I lost myself in the game, amazed to be sitting here, dressed,
watching the team and the man I had grown up idolizing while being a part of
it.

The first period didn’t go
well for us. Right off I sensed that Cam was having troubles. The Empires were
struggling to maintain .500. The Pumas were second in the Atlantic Division,
with only a point separating us from the much hated Boston Badgers. We should
be hanging these guys out to dry like wash. Ten minutes in and the Empires had
socked two soft goals past Cam. I studied each move the goaltending legend
made. His stick work was sloppy. He was slow to respond. He didn’t seem to be
reading the plays as they happened. And, the curse of all professional
athletes, he seemed to be lacking self-confidence.

Of course, not all the
blame could be put on Cam. The defense
had
fallen apart a few times.
Still, the fans expected to see Cam Evans make routine, as well as stellar
saves. When he didn’t, the natives got restless, as did the press, the GM, the
coaching staff, the team, and the whole organization right down to the dude who
washes the dirty towels.

During intermission, Coach
Webern preached about tightening up, not letting ourselves get pinched, and
working to maintain steady pressure in front of the Empire net. I heard all of
this, yet I was visually intrigued by the quiet conversation Ivan and Cam were
engaged in. Since it didn’t concern me, I tried not to appear as if I were
trying to eavesdrop. The two men were deeply engrossed with Cam silently
nodding at whatever it was the goalie coach was telling him. Cam’s short brown
hair was plastered to his skull, accentuating the perfection of his cranium.
His hair was thick still, and plentiful. Worry lines were chiseled around his
downcast eyes. It was after we were on the bench for the second period that I
heard the first murmur of discontent from one of the Pumas.

“Man, I don’t know why
they don’t let him sit. We got you now.”

I gaped at Stew Dickson, a
tall, dark, trolling goon who had come over in a mid-season trade in hopes of
beefing up the fourth line.

“He’s Cam Evans,” I said,
tugging at the cups digging into my groin. “He’ll bounce back; you watch. He
always dips a bit in performance during December and January.”

“Jesus, why don’t you just
drop down and suck his dick,” Stew said, turning from me to bitch to Grant Preston.
I had the strongest urge to punch them both witless. Then I realized they were
already witless. Brad took the end of the bench beside me.

“Hey,” I said, leaning
forward to ensure our conversation was as private as possible on a bench packed
full of hockey players. Brad lowered the towel from his face. “Is Dickson
always such an assgoblin?”

“Oh yeah,” Cooper said,
returning to scrubbing his face as well as the inside of his visor. I sat back,
pushed the brim of my Puma ball cap back a little, then watched Cam struggling
to make simple saves. The bobble of a shot to the chest made me grimace, as did
the rebound off a Tinkerbell shot from the blue line. Evans should have had
that puck trapped on the ice with ease. Instead the Empires fell on the rebound
like hungry hyenas, jabbing at the puck and our frazzled goalie until someone
slugged the first Empire he could find. The scrum was nothing exceptional, but
it did get the heat off Cam. The buzzer signaling the end of the second period
was a blessed relief.

Miraculously we managed to
pull a win out of our asses. We were all assigned video to watch. I grabbed a
fast shower. As I dressed, my sight kept dodging to Cam as he sat in his
cubicle, still in his gear, his shoulders collapsing inward. The press had been
in to poke at the team before we showered. I tried to stay in the corner,
melding into the shadows kind of thing to try to avoid being asked about Cam.
As I was sliding my arm into my coat, I padded over to Evans. There was this
huge, uncomfortable moment when he raised his head to look at me, his brown
eyes shuttering quickly to mask the melancholy.