Seduced by the Game (46 page)

I had new sheets to put on
the rented bed. It crossed my mind to go ask Pete just how many players had
lived here, and thusly had fucked a wide contingency of people, on the mattress
I was to slumber upon. I opted to have faith that the new sheets purchased on
the way from the stadium would repel any sex cooties. As I stretched the end of
the fitted sheet over the bottom right corner of the mattress, it occurred to me
that I had to start searching for a place. Tomorrow, I vowed. Right after
practice I would sit down with the newspaper.

It took me close to an
hour to get the bed made, my clothes out of the suitcases and duffels then into
the dresser, and to grab a shower in the small bathroom. At least that was one
blessing. No sharing a bath. I turned off the light, slid into bed naked,
rolled to my back then spied the moon glowing brightly outside. I would also
have to purchase some drapes or blinds or a burlap bag. You know how hard it is
to fall asleep in a strange place? I had the new surroundings insomnia pretty
badly, so I was awake an hour later when Brad scratched on my door.

If I were to say that I
was shocked or surprised, that would be a bald-faced lie. In a way I was hoping
he would come searching for some. I was eager to erase the previous sixty
minutes spent thinking about Cameron Evans. My body was ready for action, but
the hard-on I was fondling under the covers was not a result of fantasizing
about making love to Brad. Nope. The monster in my palm was stiff because of
the restless cravings about Cam that were clogging up my thoughts. I lay there,
knowing a certain blow job, if not more, was just on the other side of the
door, yet I remained quiet until Brad stopped angling for admittance. Then I
yanked off to a vision of Cam and me intertwined on some mystery bed. A session
with the team shrink was just another hand job away I began to fear.

* * * *

A week later we had slid
to third place in our division. The Pumas had lost two crucial games, thus
giving up much needed points. Cam was under tremendous heat from the press and
fans. And to top it all off, we were starting a road trip tomorrow. Traveling
was always hard, but add in the fact that our team was struggling to score, and
it added up to a hive that had just been stirred with a nasty stick.

The Milwaukee Marauders
were, at the moment, swarming around Cam like a mob of Africanized bees. And
man, was our star twine-tender getting stung big time. Three goals had flown
into the net in the first eleven minutes of the first period. The fans were
furious.

"Neal, you’re going
in!" Coach Webern shouted over the din of the fans. There was no joy in
Pittsburgh. People were pounding on the glass behind us, taunting the players,
holding up signs while flipping us off. I coughed to clear the sudden
tightening in my throat.

"Right, Coach,"
I said as I stood then looked down the ice. Cam was skating to the bench under
a deafening roar of ridicule. He never looked at me as we passed. I didn’t
expect him to. The net looked wider then it had before. I heard my name being
called over the loudspeakers. The nineteen thousand Puma fans began chanting my
name. I’ll admit it felt pretty good. My mask sat atop my head. I worked the
crease a bit, moving some of the ice Cam had plowed up. I took a drink, rolled
my head twice, pulled down my mask, and crouched in position.

"Two times two is
four," I murmured as the face-off took place at center ice. The recitation
helped me focus. The fans drifted away into white noise static. I locked onto
the puck, my mind shifting from multiplication tables to reading the plays as
they happened. It’s really hard to describe how my mind moves from the shit
going on all around me to the game. I do know it’s something that is automatic
now. The focus, the concentration, it all revolves around a frozen chunk of
vulcanized rubber.

Odd as this may sound to
those who don’t participate in hockey, my team began to tighten up. The odd man
rushes diminished. Our D-men began using their bodies to help block shots. In
short, they were doing for me, the backup, what they hadn’t done for the
starting goalie. If asked to explain it, and I would be later in the postgame
interviews, I would say that they knew I was scared scatless. That was no lie.
The first shot I had to block sent my heart into triple-time, but I tucked the
puck into my chest then held it there until the linesman tapped my shoulder
with a knowing smile. It was a long-ass forty-four minutes after I left my
seat, but I managed to hold the Marauders to only those first three goals. Our
guys netted two, so the final score wasn’t terrible. It was still a loss
though.

Maybe, most importantly,
Cam had been pulled for the first time in his illustrious career. He had been
forced to sit on the bench, towel around his neck, on home ice, and see me save
the team’s ass. Some cruelly wicked Puma tradition put the goalies side-by-side
in the dressing room. Maybe someone thought all tendies were bonded blood brothers
or some righteous bullshit. Whatever the reason, I had to sit beside the man as
accolades were dropped onto my head right along with the pats, rubs, smooches,
and noogies. He was eerily silent as we prepared to face the press.

Brad found me staring at
my feet, clad in my compression shirt and leggings. I had shed the three cups
this goalie wears. Yeah, three. I wear two goalie cups over a regular cup. You
may think I’m being overprotective of the Neal family jewels, but you catch a
slap shot moving at over a hundred miles per in the nuts just once. I guarantee
you’ll be triple protecting the old gonads as well. My elbows were on my knees.
Brad clapped my shoulder before sitting down beside me. Cam glanced at us, his
gaze hard to read.

"You okay?" Brad
asked, his gear shed in favor of his DRI shirt and leggings as well.

"Yeah, I’m cool. Just
kind of shell-shocked or something." It didn’t feel right to be pumped up
while Cam was sitting a foot away from me. "When do we have to do the
press thing?"

"Don’t sweat
it," Brad said with that charming smile. "They’ll gobble you
up." He ruffled my hair then went off to find some pants. I felt Cam
looking at me. When our eyes met, his were guarded.

"Are you and Cooper
an item?" he asked, his hands dangling down between his knees.

"No, not
really," I responded softly, turning on the bench to face him. I had to
elbow my leg pads back into my cubicle. "We just, you know, hang
out."

Cam studied me so closely
I wanted to squirm. What the hell was his sudden interest in the world of
man-love?

"Hang out like
buddies or hang out like lovers?" Someone walked by talking about the
score in one of the other games. We were clinging to our position in the
rankings by the skin of our teeth. If all the other teams in the Eastern Division
lost tonight, we would stay in third. But if they won, things would shift. We
could possibly slip out of third, and that would take us out of Cup contention.

"Why are you asking
me these questions?" I inquired after Pat Meehan ambled away. Cam shifted
on the bench. An inch closer. The vibe was very conspiratorial. He ran his hand
over his face. I waited. He exhaled slowly. Whatever was up was obviously
difficult for him to say. I leaned to the left slightly. Being this close I
could smell his sweat. The aroma did bizarre things to my body.

"Are you
homophobic?" I inquired. He looked at me as if I had stabbed his dog. I
was at a loss, so I just started grasping at straws. "Are you thinking of
experimenting sexually?" I asked, my voice gruff with desire. I would
so
sign up to be his test subject.

Cam’s brown eyes went as
wide as dinner plates. He threw a terrified look around the subdued locker
room. As soon as I saw that deer in the headlights reaction, I felt the pieces
fall into place.

"Are you gay,
Cam?" I whispered, moving closer to him. He left the bench like someone
had shoved a hot poker up his rectum. My eyes followed his ascent then they
puzzled over his departure. I was on my feet, determined to follow the man when
the press corps came loping in like wolves on the scent of a wounded elk.
Seeing the predatory gleam in some of the reporter’s eyes, I sat back down
soundly to answer a slew of questions with as much tact as I could. Even when
some of the inquiries pissed me off, I replied as if my mother would be
listening, because she would be.

I was learning which guys
were cool, and which were shit-stirrers. I especially liked a gal from the
Pittsburgh
Intelligencer
, Lydia Bacon. She was sharp, knew the game, and always asked
thought-provoking questions. And she never tried to get a player to talk dirt
on another player. Lydia also looked like one of Santa’s elves. She was about
four foot eight, weighed maybe eighty pounds, had a round face that housed
bright blue eyes. Even her dark hair was cut in a pixie cut. The girl was too
cute. If I were straight I would ask her out.

"Do you think, given
Cam Evans’s performance so far this season, that there will be a changing of
the guard?" Some guy with a severe overbite and acne asked.

"No," I replied
immediately, the soft-covering of the various microphones coming closer to my
face when I spoke. "Cam Evans is the starting goalie for the Pumas. I’m
only here to step in when he needs a break."

They weren’t buying my
story. Somewhere inside, I really wasn’t either. I would never admit it, but
those forty-some minutes playing professional hockey were the fucking best
forty-some minutes in all my twenty-two years. Did I want more? Oh,
hell
yes. Would I be a dick about it? Hell no. One game does not a legend make, as
my father always told me. I tried to look around the glut of reporters in my
space, but couldn’t see if Cam had returned or not. I assumed not, or the
voracious horde would have leaped on him, fangs bared, eyes glistening with
feral hunger. Man, that English minor crept up at the most bizarre times. Lydia
wiggled through the mob of men. I smiled up at her. She winked at me.

"So, Jacobi Neal, you
just appeared in your first pro game. What are you going to do now?" she
asked with a squeaky voice that made me chuckle whenever I heard it.

"Call my dad."
Brad was right. They gobbled it up. Sad thing was, it wasn’t a put-on. I
was
going to call Dad, just as soon as I found Cam Evans.

Four

There are moments that
really define a person’s life. Your first romance, graduating college, finding
your soul mate, getting married, your first child, buying your dream house,
and, if you’re a hockey player, skating onto the ice wearing a pro uniform. As
I was tugging my jeans over my damp ass after a shower, the call came in that
would lead me to the next monumental happening in my life. I had already
experienced the first romance, Joey Alterman in my junior year of high school,
as well as the college graduation and the virgin skate on league ice.

 Standing in the Puma
locker room, barefoot with my pants zipped but not snapped, I glanced at the
caller ID on my phone. There I saw the path to my future opening up like some
Elvin trail though a forest of evil. Time for me to stop rereading
The
Hobbit,
I guess. Of course, I didn’t know that the incoming call from Cam
Evans was in any way, shape, or form my trail to a soul mate. At that time I
only knew two things. One, that Cam was hiding something massive which was
killing him, and two, that he was in desperate need of a friend. Placing the
cell to my ear, I felt a rivulet of water from my wet hair skip down my spine.
Or maybe that was the finger of destiny.

"Hey," I said
into the phone, turning from the rest of the guys as they dressed. I placed my
shoulder to the edge of my cubicle, my head lowered, my stance definitely
closed off. "You okay?" I asked Cam. My stomach tied itself back into
knots.

"Sorry to leave you
to field all that shit alone, kid."

"No problem," I
said rolling, my shoulder upward to heighten the “Don’t Bother Me” vibe.

"Some mentor I’m
turning out to be."

"It’s cool. Sometimes
RL turns into a real assgoblin, you know?"

"Are you even
speaking English at the moment?" I smiled to myself as I leaned an inch
farther into my cubicle.

"Mostly," I replied,
inhaling the tang of my sweaty skates hanging a foot away from my face.

"Listen, I think…if
you’re willing to talk…about things that we started to talk about in the locker
room?"

"Sure, absolutely,
man. When and where?" His sigh of relief nearly brought tears to my eyes.
I was familiar with the strangulation of being closeted, if only for a few
years until I found the fortitude to come out. I could not imagine having spent
twenty-five years living such a deadly lie. Maybe I was putting the horse way before
the buggy, but I suspected not.

"Can you meet me
under the Kaufmann`s clock?" After getting some quick directions, I
finished dressing at warp speed. I didn’t even take time to tie my sneakers.
Phone containing those all-too-important directions in hand, I ran out the door
and into Brad. Not literally but close enough. He was lounging around in the
hallway, waiting for me, I have to assume. He was obviously glad to see me, if
his warm smile was any indication. I, on the other hand, was already planning
the lie I would feed him. Shit.