10. Chapter Ten

“Left wing!” I yelled at my team, eager to let them know that our left winger was open and ahead of the puck carrier. One of our defensemen heard me, moved over, and made a smooth breakout that took the action back to the Gladiators end of the ice.

I stood up to watch what was taking place down there. Baskoro was having a hell of a time tonight but was somehow fighting back to keep his team in the game. We’d gone through three periods tied 1–1 in a game that was incredibly scrappy. So scrappy, in fact, that it looked like a simple shot on goal that Baskoro had easily blocked was now turning into a shoving match.

Greco—wonders of wonders—was flapping his mouth at Crispy, who had reached the end of his rope with the mouthy little shit. Crispy shoved Greco. Greco slashed Crispy. And that was all it took. The players on the ice fell on each other. The players on the benches began shouting, and that led to a brawl that flowed over the boards like rainwater over the edge of a clogged gutter. The fans were ecstatic to say the least. Everyone was on their feet. I sighed. This was not what I had wanted. Shit, I’d not even wanted the overtime. Basky and I were going to sneak off after the game to my place, eat some Thanksgiving leftovers, and hopefully touch dicks again. Time was of the essence because his team was leaving at the ass crack of dawn tomorrow to continue their road trip south, so this nonsense was stealing time from the secret rendezvous that I’d been fantasizing about for weeks now.

The refs were outnumbered. Fists and gloves were flying, and the fans, always ready to incite more blood and violence ala the gladiator on the front of the visiting teams jersey, began chanting my name and Baskoro’s.

HUDA NEWLEY HUDA NEWLEY HUDA NEWLEY

The chants filled the rink. It suddenly seemed like a good idea. Maybe the other goofballs would stop the bullshit if we had a good, old-fashioned goalie fight. So, I pulled off my mask, threw my blocker and catcher aside, and with a roar skated down the ice. The fans went wild. Baskoro saw me coming. He threw aside his gear and met me at center ice. I took a loose swing that missed, obviously. Basky thumped me on the shoulder. And we went down, him on top of me, his long hair coming loose from its holder. The play fight turned into something incredibly sensual as we rolled this way and that, both of us battling to get on top and not for the reason that the fans were hollering for. Oh no, there was no wish to wallop the other man. My sole desire was to pin him to the ice, press my hard cock into his tight hole, and fuck him.

Given the fire in his dark eyes, he had the same thought. Sadly, the refs showed up. Maybe that was for the best because if they’d not pulled me off, I might have smashed my mouth over his right atop the big golden comet painted on the ice. That would have had the color man and play-by-play dude scrambling for explanations. I could hear the commentary in my head…

“Holy cow, Sarge, looks like Huda is having breathing trouble and Newley is giving him mouth-to-mouth!”

“And that’s why everyone should take a course in basic lifesaving skills, Buggy.”

Once I was on my skates, prick aching inside the two cups that were pressing on it tightly, I skated to my net to the cheers of the Comets’ fans. I picked up my mask, bowed, and skated off the ice to let Ooni take my place. I knew there would be penalties for fighting as well as an instigator call on me for crossing the red line to fight. We’d both removed our masks so penalties for that would be heaped onto the tally as well. I was escorted off the ice to the rabid calls of praise from the Comets’ backers at the same time that Baskoro was led off.

The refs were all done with our stupidity, it seemed. By the time calm was restored, the penalty boxes were stuffed to overflowing. Smiling at the encounter that had served to rile up Baskoro—his gaze during our encounter had been hot with lust—and given the fans some red meat to masticate, I made my way to the locker room. That should keep the team and the press off my back for a few weeks. The crush to create new media for this stupid rivalry was wearing me down. I was tired of the videos, the snipes online, the reels, and the blogs. It had gotten totally out of hand, and while the fans and teams were thriving on the chum, those involved were feeling the strain of living a lie. Or at least I was. I’d not spoken to Baskoro about it, other than a few comments that I’d dropped over the past week that could have been taken in a dozen ways.

As I peeled off my sweater and dropped it into a laundry cart in the corner of our dressing room, I felt the jubilation of the faux fight ebbing away. Now all I wanted was a shower and a hasty exit stage left. I wanted to go home, see my girls, and introduce them to the man who had occupied my thoughts for weeks now. I wanted Zada to meet Baskoro, and Kyleen too, and then I wanted to take him to my room and love on him. Was that asking so much?

The dressing room suddenly filled with Comets, the sounds of the team exiting the ice not registering. And that was nothing new. I’d been slipping off into fantasy moments like that all the time of late. Focus was hard to find on the ice, and I’d been called on my wandering thoughts by the coaching staff.

“Amazing shit! Holy hell you took Huda down!” Crispy bellowed then thumped me on the shoulders, his fists hitting thick padding to block any impact. “Shame you missed the goal by Templeton at the end. Polkman didn’t have a chance! That’s two points for us, men!”

The team—and Templeton, who was a rookie and shy as a fawn—shouted in glee. I played along, cheery for the guys then the press, talking big about how I’d wanted to show Huda just who the top dog was in this league. The reporters packed around my cubicle, gobbling it up like Kyleen does ice cream. After I gave them what they wanted, I slipped off to shower. I lingered under the water, letting the hot spray wash away the sweat and the lies. Sadly, all the soap in the world was not able to scour away the deceit.

I dressed quickly, tossing out smiles and jibes against the Gladiators to my teammates, and then slipped off with the excuse that Kyleen had the sniffles. The guys all sent her hugs and get well wishes. Lying about that made me feel crummy too, but in order to cover one lie you generally had to spin another one. That was how a lone untruth soon became a growing ball of deceit.

It was nearly dark when I exited the arena. Ugh, short winter days were the pits. Tiny snowflakes were flitting downward to pepper the cars parked in the players’ lot. I rushed to leave, eager to get home and spend some time with people who didn’t expect me to be what the world had molded me into.

My car was cold. I cranked the engine over, flipped the heater on high, and scrolled through my texts. After about three minutes, the one I was waiting for rolled in and my stupid heart sped up.

Leaving in five. Text me directions to your house again. Can’t wait to eat pie. ~ B

I replied far too quickly. It wasn’t at all cool to be this cranked up to see a guy. Yet, here I was, sending my address to the man, my thumbs shaking. There was a lot riding on this post-Thanksgiving meeting.

Unable to wait out the heater, I scrubbed at the thin sheen of condensation on the windshield and backed out of my parking slot. Assuming the impatient winter driver position—head pulled in like a turtle as I tried to see through a clear spot the size of an envelope—I made my way home, amused that by the time I pulled into my drive the windshield had cleared off. Typical.

“Daddy, you won big!” Kyleen shouted as she met me at the door with hugs and loud kisses on my cheeks. She was in white leggings—or they had started their life as white and were now an off-white with magic marker scribbles—pink slippers, and one of my old jerseys. The sweater hung to her tiny feet, but she always wore it when they watched our games.

“We did,” I agreed, kissing her back as I toted her into the kitchen. Aunt Zada was removing containers of holiday leftovers from the fridge. Today was hot turkey—tofu turkey obvs—sandwiches with all the leftover trimmings.

“Daddy, can I eat all the creamy corn?” my baby asked as she sat on my hip, light as a dove feather.

“That child does not need to eat all the creamed corn,” my aunt replied. “All she has done is run to the bathroom today.”

“Aunty Zada says corn makes me poop like a goose,” Kyleen proudly announced.

“How about just a little corn and some other stuff as well?” I suggested and got a nod of agreement from my baby. “Speaking of dinner, do you think there’s enough for a guest?”

Aunt Zada looked up from one of the containers in her hand, the one with wibbly-wobbly gravy, in surprise.

“Of course, that turkey breast would feed your whole team for a week,” she answered. That was an exaggeration, of course. The tofu turkey roll had been a big one, though. “Is Ooni still on that low-carb diet?”

“No, it’s not Ooni. Or Crispy.” I placed Kyleen on the floor, then hunkered down to speak to her face to face. “Can you tidy up your toys in the living room? We’re having company.”

“Okay, Daddy!” Off she went, surprisingly agreeable to picking up her stuff.

I rose to find my aunt studying me over the top of her bifocals, the cold gravy container still in her hand. When Kyleen was busy—she always sang when she was cleaning—I turned to face her, face hopefully blank.

“I’ve invited one of the Gladiators over to eat,” I confessed. Her white eyebrows flew up to her hairline. “We’ve kind of become friends over the past couple of months, and I wanted him to meet you and Kyleen.”

She regained her composure, placing the cold gravy on the counter so she could focus all her energy on her evasive nephew. I could sense that she had read through my poor lie. Those new glasses of hers aided her already keen insight.

“You always bring friends from other teams home to meet your family?”

I blew out a breath. “No, obviously, but this friend is…” That delay was all she needed. The woman was sharp as a Ginsu knife.

“Marcus, are you dating one of the enemies?” she asked in a whisper.

“He’s not an enemy,” I was quick to counter. “They’re just men playing a game. These sports rivalries get out of control.”

“Okay, baby, you don’t have to get defensive about it. I’m just surprised is all,” she softly responded, which made me feel like a six-foot-two-inch pile of dung.

“No, I’m sorry for being snippy. It’s been hard since we became friends, is all.”

“Sure, baby, sure, I can see that it’s taken a toll.” She gave my arm a pat. “Your new friend is welcome at this table. Of course he is. The good book says to love your enemies, do good by them, and pray over your fake turkey and gravy with them.”

“Thank you.” I bent down to kiss her wrinkled cheek. The doorbell rang. Kyleen squealed about our guest being here. “Also, just one more thing. He’s Baskoro Huda, the goalie I sort of had a fight with a few hours ago.”

My aunt’s dark eyes grew as round as her beloved turkey platter that she’d found at a thrift shop for a quarter way back in 1968. Lord, she did love that dopey plate with the big-eyed turkey baked into the ceramic.

I ran off to allow her time to wrap her head around all of that, took note that none of the dolls, coloring books, or crayons had been picked up, and hurried to the front door where my daughter bounced up and down in glee. The child loved company as it gave her someone new to chatter with endlessly.

Smiling down at Kyleen, I opened the door. Baskoro stood on the short stoop, random green toque pulled down to his eyebrows, the hood of his jacket tugged up over his head, and his shoulders up to his ears. He looked like a cold turtle. I spied his Uber pulling from the curb and chastised myself for not giving him a ride, but then realized how would that have worked? This subterfuge spy shit was getting old. Really quick.

“Come in,” I said, my gut churning with nerves. He hurried in and out of the cold, bringing the smell of winter wind and his fruity shampoo. I took quick note that the tips of his hair that peeked out of the hoodie/toque super stealth costume were icy. “Mama Huda’s wet hair alarm must be going berserk.”

He smiled. I smiled back. Kyleen took his hand and tugged him inside. “My daddy is rude. Come in, please. My name is Kyleen Newley. I’m six and in Mrs. Lamp’s kindergarten class. My favorite animal is an otter. I want to be an otter trainer when I grow up. Did you know that baby otters are called pups? They are. I asked Dad for a pup last week and he said no because we don’t have a river in our backyard for the pup to play in but someday when I’m older I am going to make friends with wild otter pups and invite them into my house by their river. Please take off your shoes. Aunty Zada just mopped. Do you like creamy corn? If so, I will share what is left with you, but be careful because it makes you poop like a goose.”

Baskoro blinked at me as Kyleen led him into my home, his face breaking into a wide grin as my daughter held out her hands for his coat. Where she had learned how to be a valet, I had no clue. Shame she didn’t take care of her own clothes as well as she was toting Baskoro’s coat to the hall closet. He toed off his shoes without a moment’s hesitation, which many people did when the shoes off at the door was announced.

“Thank you,” Kyleen said as he placed his huge sneakers beside mine on the rubber shoe mat beside the front door.

“My pleasure. My name is Baskoro Huda,” he replied. “In my house, we always take off our shoes at the door. Then we wear slippers or warm socks.”

“Daddy forgets. Oh you need slippers! Daddy, can he have your slippers?”

“Of course, he’s our guest.”

Kyleen beamed at me, then ran off to find my slippers beside the sofa.

“She is amazing,” Basky said as our eyes met and held. My hands fisted at my sides. All I wanted to do was card them into his cold, damp hair and then yank his mouth to mine. Sadly, with the girls up and about, that was not going to happen. “And she looks just like you.”

“Poor kid,” I replied and got an eye roll from my guest.

“Nah, she’s lucky. You’re a beautiful human being.”

Okay, that kind of talk right there was not helping my restraint. Knowing I had to say something, I drew in a breath to make some inane comment when Kyleen bulled in between us with my well-worn slippers. Once his feet were dressed—my toes could just be cold, I suppose—she grabbed two of Baskoro’s long fingers.

“We eat in the kitchen when we have company. Come on. I will show you to your seat, but you must wash your hands first. Aunty Zada is corrosive about that.”

“Compulsive,” I corrected gently as Basky softly chuckled while allowing himself to be led about like a toddler’s pull toy. I followed along behind, grinning like a damn loon, as she jabbered steadily into our cozy kitchen. The sound of gravy bubbling nicely in a pot greeted us as did the smell of sage while a dish of stuffing rotated slowly in the microwave in the corner.

“Aunty Zada, this is Baskoro Huda who wears slippers in his house,” Kyleen called while tugging at Baskoro, intent on getting him seated. He paused when my aunt turned to face him, gently wiggled free of my daughter’s grip, and placed his hands in a prayer position. He bowed slightly to my aunt who, and this didn’t happen often, looked stunned.

“It’s a pleasure, ma’am,” he said and straightened. All eyes were glued to him as my aunt nodded her silver head. “I got you a small gift.” He rummaged in his hoodie pocket and drew out four colorfully wrapped soaps—all the size of a half dollar but fat and round—which he placed in my aunt’s hands. “I hope you enjoy these. Thank you for having me over for dinner.”

“Oh well, thank you,” Zada said, her face relaxing, her cheeks blossoming into a fine pink as she smiled up at Baskoro. “How polite.”

“Do you have something in your pocket for me?” Kyleen asked.

“Kyleen, that’s not polite,” I chided, but then I saw Baskoro rooting around in his hoodie pocket once more. He gave me a wink and dropped four chocolate coins into Kyleen’s outstretched hands, the gold foil winking in the bright lights. “But you have to save them for dessert so you don’t ruin your dinner.”

“Thank you!” Kyleen gushed, placing her coins beside her seat and then directing Baskoro to sit. He did and was immediately besieged with questions from my daughter and a hot cup of coffee from my aunt. He gave a short, seated bow to Zada for the drink. “Why do you do that?” Kyleen asked after climbing into her chair. She pulled her coins closer to her and placed her glass over them, upside-down, to protect the candy from roaming candy thieves. Or maybe me.

“Kyleen, honestly,” I said, but Baskoro waved it off.

“It’s okay. She will never learn unless she asks questions. The reason I bow, or make wai, is a sign of respect. My family is from Thailand, which is on the other side of the world,” Kyleen’s eyes went as round as a manhole cover, “and we wai for most things it seems. But not to people younger, so sorry that I didn’t wai to you.”

“Oh, okay.” She stood up in her chair, bowed to all of us, and sat back down. “I respected you all.”

“But you didn’t wash your hands,” Zada reminded her as she placed cream and sugar on the table in front of Baskoro. I looked around for my cup of coffee but couldn’t see one brewing. Yep, okay, I see how this was going. He’d charmed my girls much like he had charmed me. Could not fault them for being swept up by him.

After we all washed up, we were served leftovers. Now to be fair, I had eaten much fancier fare but never had I eaten something that tasted so good or warmed me so well. Perhaps that was due to the fact that comfort food always made a soul feel contented, or, and this was probably at least half the reason if not more, it was due to the man wolfing down hot turkey sandwiches and warmed-up lumpy taters like they were filet mignon. Kyleen did share her creamy corn with Basky, but not the last buttermilk biscuit which she smeared with strawberry jam and soft butter.

We ate, we talked, we ate some more, we talked some more, and then we somehow managed to find room for pumpkin pie with whipped topping. Kyleen opted out of pie to eat her candy, which she pronounced the best candy in the whole world.

“I hope the candy was okay,” he whispered into my ear as my girls made eyes at my…yeah, what was he exactly? Not my boyfriend, but not a mere friend either. My lover sounded perfect but did one hookup in the back seat of a trashy car make for a true lover? “I had no clue what to get for them, so I asked my sister.”

I choked on my pie crust. Everyone startled as I hacked. “Okay…I’m okay…dry crust,” I coughed out.

“My pie crust is not dry,” Zada scolded, then reached over to thump me on the back far harder than was actually needed, but the message was received.

“Sorry, I meant my throat was dry,” I said, cleared my throat, and leaned closer to Baskoro. “Your sister knows you were coming here?”

“Yeah, she kind of knows all about us,” he confessed, his smooth cheeks going rosy.

“Oh, I didn’t realize we were telling people about us,” I whispered.

“Well, we know, and his sister knows. So maybe it’s time you two stop fibbing to the world and just be honest with everyone,” Zada tossed out and hefted herself up and began gathering plates.

“No, please, ma’am, let us clean up.” Baskoro leapt to his feet to gently take the dirty pie dish from my aunt. I was sitting at the table gaping at my aunt as if she had just suggested that we try braiding seaweed into our hair to wear for the next team picture day. “Thank you.”

“Daddy, fibbing is bad,” Kyleen stated, chocolate finger pointing at me. “You should take a timeout after doing dishes to think about what you done.”

Aunt Zada chuckled softly, patted my child on the head, and then toddled off to watch something on TV while the three younger ones tidied up. Kyleen jabbered throughout the stacking of dishes in the dishwasher and wiping down of the counters. By the time the kitchen was up to my aunt’s standard of clean, my little girl was fading fast. It was after eight now, the sun had set hours ago.

“Why don’t we get you ready for bed?” I asked, scooping her up off the counter where she had decided to stretch out using the toaster to lay her little head on. I brushed off the crumbs as she curled into my arms, her droopy gaze moving to Baskoro, who was making himself another cup of coffee. “Say good night.”

“G’night, thanks for the candy,” she murmured, gave Basky a one-handed wai—her other hand rested on the back of my neck—and then thumped her brow back to my neck.

“You are very welcome,” he replied with a genuine smile that did funny things to my already tender tummy.

“I’ll be back down before you finish that,” I softly said, jerking my chin at his mug of coffee.

He nodded, his expression a little guarded. I left him to his caffeine, wondering a hundred thousand things as I moved through the bedtime routine. Kyleen was out as soon as her head touched her pillow. With a kiss to her cheek and a re-tuck of her blankets under her chin, I turned off the light and slipped out into the hall. My thoughts were still scattered like dandelion blows on a summer day when I padded downstairs to find my aunt pulling on her good winter coat.

“Where are you going?” I asked as I glanced pointedly at my fitness tracker sitting on my left wrist. “It’s after eight. I thought you turned into a pumpkin at seven p.m.”

“Don’t be wise, Marcus. It’s Black Friday bingo at the Lutheran Church.” She toddled to the front door and then slid her feet into her slip-on winter boots, her hand-knitted scarf wrapped around her neck. “I’ll be home after midnight,” she whispered as she stamped her foot down into her boot. “That gives you two three hours to be friendly.”

My mouth fell open. She giggled like the minx she was. A horn sounded out front. No doubt Ms. Nona Miller from the next block was in on this bingo run. Ms. Nona and my aunt were close friends, both being widows of a certain age with a child to help raise. Ms. Nona was the sole guardian of one of her grandchildren, a teenager of fifteen named Lyle, who delivered the papers in our neighborhood to help pay for a car when he turned sixteen.

Off they went into the light snow, uncaring that the roads may be slippery. No wonder I was finding gray hairs in private places.

Baskoro glanced up from brewing yet another cup of coffee. “This one is for you. Your aunt stuck her head in to tell me, quite pointedly, that she was leaving to play bingo with a Ms. Nona and they would be late so help myself to more pie. Is that what her codename is for you? Pie?”

I stammered over a reply. “Are you saying that you plan to help yourself to me?”

“Is Kyleen asleep?” I nodded. He smiled a sinful smile that warmed me from head to toe. “Cool. I have something for you as well.”

He moved from the Keurig to me like a sleek jungle cat, all sinew and muscle, eyes locked on his prey. His hand went to the magic front pocket of his hoodie. My mind was leaping ahead as I imagined him whipping out a string of condoms and some lube packets. Sadly, the porn prologue didn’t come to fruition. As the Keurig sputtered and the room filled with the sinful aroma of fresh coffee and Baskoro, he removed a crinkled slip of paper from the front of his hoodie, his gaze locked on his fingers as he carefully opened the wrinkled lined shopping list.

Okay, this was about as far from porn as possible. Was he going to take me grocery shopping?

I leaned on the counter, befuddled but curious as hell. He cleared his throat, darted a shy look at me, and then began reading.

“We walk along a stony path bound tight with willow and rose,” he started, paused, blew out a breath, and then wadded the paper into a tight ball and chucked it over his shoulder. “This is not me. These aren’t my words. They’re Citra’s words, her prose, and I feel like a giant butthole reading you this Jane Austen stuff when what I want to say is much simpler.” His eyes met mine. “I told my sister about us because I needed someone to talk to. I know we started out hating each other, and that was on me, but we moved past that. Into friendship. Then into something deeper. At least for me it has gotten deeper, and that’s also on me because we were like just goalie bros, but then I got horny in the car and things moved into feelings. For me. Totally for me. I just want you to know that I like you more than a goalie friend. And if you’re not ready for that or if you just want to be guys who get off together, then I respect that, but I will have to decline because I already have strong—”

I put my mouth to his, gently, just enough to quiet his ramble. His lashes fluttered downward as he leaned into the soft pressure. I broke the moment, removing my lips from his to stare into lakes of brown so deep I’d only seen the same color on a pine marten way up in Newfoundland several years ago.

“My feelings are the same,” I whispered. His sight moved over my face.

“I’m so glad.” He moved into my arms, his mouth slanting over mine. The stroke of his tongue over my lower lip cross-wired my synapses. “We have a lot to talk about, but I don’t feel like talking right now.”

I groaned at the implication of that statement and tugged him closer, tight, so tight he could feel my erection grinding into his pelvis. He rolled his hips. Fireworks ignited along my spine.

“We have three hours,” I hoarsely ground out and let my hands move to his tight ass, cinching him even tighter.

“Then let’s not waste a second.” He kissed me hard, vying for control that I didn’t plan to give up too soon or too easily. “Take me to your bed.”

And I did just that with all due haste.