7. Chapter Seven

“Embellishment?!” I glided back into my crease while the ref and Greck had a small discussion in front of me. “Please explain to me how that mook,” Greck jerked his head in the direction of Timmy Dram, one of the Comets defenseman who was yelling at the ref at the same time, “pokes his stick into my skate making me fall down due to the centrifugal force of mass and space revolving about a body in motion, but I get called for embellishment for falling on my face. How does that work? Am I not supposed to fall down when this rhino-faced moron trips me? What am I supposed to do? Just hover in the air like a hummingbird?”

“If you would shut your mouth for five seconds, Greco, I’d explain the call.” Oliver Layne one of the best and most experienced zebras in the AHL sighed. “And as for you, Tim, get to the box before I add another two minutes for talking to an official in a tone unbecoming of an officer.”

Timmy blinked. “What the hell does that even mean?” the towering D-man asked, then, after a dark look from Oliver, skated to the sin bin mouthing off to himself.

I loved when this kind of shit went down where I could listen in. Most of the time I was at the other end of the ice trying to guess what was being said. Anytime Greck was conversating with the officials, it was worth the price of admission.

“Now, for you,” the ref said, turning his attention to Greck. Bean was standing behind Greck, his captain face on, listening to the explanation that was forthcoming. I gave DJ and Fossie a wink as they lingered nearby as well. “The call was not for tripping, it was interference.”

“I felt his stick in my skate. That was why I fell down,” Greck argued, his face soaked with sweat, his dark eyes glistening with enjoyment. If there was one thing that Phil Greco lived for, it was talking. To anyone. About anything. “I know you guys are sometimes looking at things from a difficult angle which may lead to missed calls or penalties that are assigned incorrectly, so being a nice guy who understands that mistakes are made, I suggest you ask for the replay to be shown on the scoreboard so that you can recalculate the call. My cousin Angus the fourth had to make a public retraction once about some guy he bought a used car from. Seems the Impala had a bucket of ball bearings and a shovel in the trunk that was linked by some gross misconstruction to the disappearance of Big Jimmy Lambino, who ran the whole dry cleaning establishment organization from Broadway-Flushing down to—”

“Two minutes for embellishment. If you don’t get in the box now, I will add another two minutes for trying to talk my damn ear off.” Oliver cut into the dialog that flowed from Greck like water over a dam.

“Okay, he’s going.” Bean skated around Greck, gave him the look, and then watched as Greck made his way to the penalty box, his mouth going steadily just as Timmy’s had.

I relished the chance for some four-on-four hockey. It would only add to the enjoyment of our trouncing of the Comets. If the team from Pennsylvania had thought that their little video was going to throw me off my game, they were sadly mistaken. Sure, it had been cute and poppy and yeah Marcus had looked fucking sexy as shit singing and dancing to the K-Pop band’s song “Fighting” in funky modern street clothes. Credit to Marcus, Crispy, and Ooni for learning the Korean version and all those dance moves. And double credit to the likes the video had gotten in less than an hour. Clever, sure, and I knew our PR department was already scoping out something for us to retaliate with. Honestly, the best payback was the fact that we had four minutes left in the game and were up by five goals. Marcus had been total shit tonight. He’d taken a seat on the bench during the first period to be replaced by Ooni, who had done his best but the five goal lead had held throughout the rest of the game. It was hard to dig your way out of a hole like that. So yeah, I was feeling pretty damn good. And man was I hungry.

Glancing at the Comets’ bench, I spied Marcus hunched up in the corner, with his Comets ball cap down over his brow, and his plump lips tight and curved downward at the corners. I had no idea what had thrown him so badly tonight. It wasn’t like him at all to be so sloppy. Two of the goals that had gotten past him were soft, and I knew he would be chewing on those for some time.

I exited the game after the final buzzer, high on my win and ready to eat myself into a coma. An hour later, after the usual pressers and a shower, I pulled on a hoodie, hair still wet, and went out the players’ entrance to find the dude buying my dinner. Several groups of fans had waited for us, so I took some time to sign programs and hats and take some selfies. The rest of the Gladiators were moving to their rides. Liam paused halfway across the parking lot, his breath fogging in front of him, and turned to look at me.

“You coming?” I shook my head and got the most bizarre look from my roommate. “Oh.” He shuffled his duffel higher on his shoulder. “The team is meeting up for some ramen at that new place that opened over in Ithaca. Are you feeling okay?”

I nodded. “Yeah, just tired. I think I might be coming down with a cold or something.” Ugh, lying to my fellow tendie and bestie was not cool, but how could I possibly say I was meeting Marcus for a meal? I mean, we hated each other, right? Or had. The world still thought we did though, which meant we had to keep up the charade even though we’d become friends. “I’m going to go home and chill.”

“Oh that sucks. Sure, go get some rest. I can bring something home for you.” He walked over and thumped me softly on the shoulder. “Or do you want me to come home with you?”

“No, nope, you go. I know you love your ramen.” Liam chuckled. The man did eat a lot of noodles. “I’m going to take a few Advil and make some coffee, you know, the Mama Huda recipe for an incoming cold.”

“Mama Huda would tell you off for stepping outside in the cold with wet hair,” he pointed out with a warm smile. Yeah, she would. “I’ll send you a pic of the menu when we get there so you can let me know what you want. I’ll leave you the keys to my car.” He tossed them over. I nodded and thanked him. “No prob. We’ll take your car when the inspection is done.”

“Great! Awesome. Thanks.” I glanced this way and that. Liam had to have noted my shifty mood but said nothing. My phone pinged in the pocket of my hoodie. “Probably my mother texting to ask me why I’m outside with wet hair.”

Liam laughed, said goodbye, and jumped into Greck’s car. Off they went into the night to celebrate a big win that had added two fat points to the standings. I lingered around in the parking lot for a few minutes to ensure no one on the team would see me heading west to Hornell when I had said I was going home. There was something edgy about this clandestine meal that made me feel like a double agent in some old 60s spy film.

The drive out to Hornell only served to make me feel more out of sorts. Why that was I couldn’t pin down, I mean, other than the fact that I’d recommended this swanky place to Marcus for our hidden meal. This whole hatred thing was growing out of proportion quickly. Most of that was on me, I realized that now, because I’d been the one to carry a stupid grudge for years. Which meant that others picked up on the toxic vibes and now…well, now it was out of hand. Videos and fan chats devoted to Marcus and me disliking each other just felt icky. And wrong. Marcus was cool, had an amazing daughter, and had eyes that a dude could get lost in.

I had to hit the brakes to avoid driving past The Leaping Buck Restaurant. That was how foggy my thoughts were. Pulling into a space near an overhead lamp, I took note of the lack of cars in the lot. Marcus was standing just outside the door, shoulders up to his ears, his sight locked on me as I exited Liam’s car to jog to where he waited.

“Dude, you could have waited inside,” I said as I neared. “It’s super cold out here.”

“I noticed. They were cleaning up the main dining room, so I waited out here to stay out of their way.”

“Shit.” I peeked around him. The inside of the eatery was dimly lit. “Are we too late to eat?”

“Maybe?” He shrugged wide shoulders.

“Shit,” I said again. “Okay, so you totally get out of surf and turf costs. We can go to this little bar in Corning. Nice place, gay friendly, good bar food.”

“Yeah, that sounds good. Will people know who we are?”

“I doubt it,” I replied with confidence. We weren’t famous hockey stars. Yet. “Come on. I’m not letting you off the hook.” I bumped his elbow with mine. His gaze met mine and a fissure of something warm sparked in my lower belly. Something sexual. Something that was whispering to me to lean in and kiss him so his perfectly beautiful lips would warm up under mine.

The door behind us opened, warming us with a rush of heated air. I spun to find an older man, maybe mid-fifties, with thick, dark, curly hair wearing a tired but welcoming smile. He was in dress slacks with a wrinkled blue dress shirt, no tie or jacket.

“Did you two want food?” he enquired with an accent thickened with Slavic flavoring.

“I think we missed the serving hours,” I replied, and the older man shrugged.

“We have some things left. You would like?”

I shot Marcus a look. The poor guy looked half frozen. “Please and thank you. We’ll eat quickly.”

“No rush. I have books. Come in, please.” He held the door open for us, then followed in our wake after locking it behind us. “There is table here by the bar is perfect for intimate late night date.”

Marcus and I both ran over each other verbally to reply.

“Oh no, this is not a date,” we both said in tandem. The older gent studied us in confusion.

“My bad mistake. I saw you two through the door, staring at each other like lovers and thought…” He lifted a hand and rolled it around. “Apologies. Still good table by fireplace.”

Marcus and I exchanged nervous looks as our host led us to a round table by a low fire, the flames licking upward in the giant hearth lazily. The eatery was quiet, no noise other than our footfalls followed by the sound of chair legs scraping over the floor.

“Thank you. This is most gracious,” Marcus said as we sat down.

“My pleasure. Let me go warm up dishes. Do you wish for some wine from the bar?” he asked, motioning to the long bar along one wall.

“Just water for me,” I answered. Marcus nodded. “Sir, please, what is your name?”

“Jasha, I own this place.” He bowed and hurried off through a set of swinging doors.

“Jasha is aces.” Marcus sighed as he removed his toque. “Funny that he thought we were on a date.”

“Yeah, that’s super weird. Probably he didn’t have the glasses in his shirt pocket on his face when he looked out the door at us. Still, it was cool of him to reopen just for us, even if we’re not dating.”

“For sure,” Marcus replied, tossing his coat and toque to one of the empty chairs. The firelight played on his face, casting alluring shadows under his cheekbones as it warmed his lips. He wore his hair short, closely cropped, but just long enough for the flames to toss bright red and yellow highlights to his curls.

“Funny what people think. Dude was totally projecting or something.” My sight roamed down his neck to rest on the width of his shoulders as they melted smoothly into thick biceps. His long-sleeved top, Comets XXL emblazoned on the front, clung to his arms.

“Some bread. And some oil and vinegar.” Jasha arrived out of nowhere with a basket of bread, a carrier tote of two bottles, and some small plates. “We have salads coming and some chicken and dill. Two. Is all that remains. I think to take home for late dinner but would rather see you two lovers enjoy.”

Off he went to the kitchen, his step light, almost as if he enjoyed waiting on two chilly goalies. We both went to correct him, but he was gone. I shot a glance at Marcus as soft, traditional Slavic music filled the empty eatery.

I tore into the bread, ripping the thick coarse slice in two as Marcus stared at the bottles of oil and balsamic vinegar in silence.

“This isn’t a date,” Marcus finally said, his sight locked on the table settings.

“Dude, I know,” I replied around a mouthful of hearty rye bread. His eyes lifted from the breadbasket to my face and I struggled to decipher what I was seeing in his dark gaze. “Why would this be a date?”

“I just…” His jaw worked slightly. A log cracked in the hearth, sending sparks flying up the flue like a thousand winged underlings of Thotsakan, the Thai king of demons. I chewed as he struggled to say whatever was eating at him. “I didn’t want you to get the wrong impression or develop feelings for me that—”

“Okay, just whoa.” I lowered the other half of my bread, ready to shred his massive ego, when Jasha flitted back to the table, two glass bottles of cold water, twin water glasses, and a couple of small bowls of salad on a tray. Once he delivered the salads and poured the water, he moved back into the kitchen. Songs filled with tambourines and lutes floated past. “Trust me, I am not going to develop feelings for you.” I poked my fork at him before stabbing a small chunk of cucumber doused with sour cream and olive oil. “Man, you have the biggest head ever.”

“No, I mean…I just didn’t want you to think I asked you to dinner because I wanted to get into your pants or anything.” He stared at me, his hands on the table, fingertips pulling at his napkin.

“Seriously, that was the last thing I thought. I mean, two guys on opposing teams can eat a meal without it being more than camaraderie.” I shoved the cuke into my mouth as he heaved a huge sigh of relief.

“Exactly. Fuck, I’m glad you’re with me on things. Like, not that I wouldn’t ask you out if you weren’t my arch nemesis,” he tossed out with a snort. I stopped chewing. He’d ask me out? Huh? “You’re really cute. And that hair of yours is begging to be fisted, but we’re not able to do anything like that.” Wait. Fisting my hair? Holy shit. I had to attempt to swallow my cucumber twice while my dick got all kinds of chubby in my pants. “It’s fine to be two acquaintances having dinner and not get into anything after the meal.”

Lust swirled around inside my brain. Fisting my hair while I sucked his cock was now all I could think about and man was the image in my head flammable.

“Not like we’re touching dicks after the food,” I mumbled. His eyes flared.

“Touching dicks? No, no, no, of course not. I mean, we’re just guys with a thing in common.” His sight grabbed mine. The tambourine tempo increased while the fire grew hotter suddenly. “Touching dicks would imply all kinds of things that we are not.”

“Totally.” I laid my fork down beside my bowl of romaine, tomatoes, olives, and cukes. “Not that someone couldn’t touch dicks after a meal and things not get emotional. I’ve touched dicks with guys, and it never went past dick touching.”

His lips parted. The urge to lean over the bottles of balsamic and imported olive oil and lick into his mouth made my head swim. So, for some asinine reason, I did it. I pushed up, leaned over the breadcrumbs on the tablecloth, and put my mouth on his. I had no clue why. Maybe those old demons that my grandfather told all us kids about had taken control of my common sense. Something sure as hell had a grip on my cock, and it wasn’t Marcus. Which was a shame, but maybe we could fix that after this incredible kiss. There was a brief power struggle as his mouth met mine. Both of us wanting to be the top dog but also needing more, so someone had to give in first. It should have been him, but it was me, licking at the seam of his juicy lips until he lapped into my mouth. Something on the table fell over. Not sure what. His hands came up to capture my face, long strong fingers cradling my jaw. He tasted of sweet olive oil—a dash of pineapple and mushroom, a mix that should not have been as delicious as it was—as his tongue swept over mine.

A crash in the kitchen took place. Jasha cursed in his native tongue. I pulled back as if I had just French kissed an electric fence to see Marcus, one knee on the table—ah that was what had sent the oil and vinegar to its side—pupils blown, lips slick, staring at me like I was some alien life form.

“Is okay! Just empty pot. Food coming soon!” Jasha bellowed as we both fell back into our seats, panting, stunned into stilted silence. God but he had tasted good.

“What was that?” Marcus breathlessly asked, hurrying to right the vinegar and oil that were seeping onto the tablecloth.

“It was…” I ran my tongue over my lower lip to get a bit more of his taste. He moaned. The sound went directly to my balls. “We, uhm…yeah, so yeah. I’m seriously confused.”

“Are you turned on?” he enquired in a whisper. I nodded vigorously, my cock throbbing with want. “Okay, yeah, me too. I guess…when you said…did you mean that you’d be down with touching dicks after we paid the bill?” His voice was ragged and breathy.

“Just as friends who love hockey. Not anything more than that.”

“Right. Friends who touch dicks.”

“Yep, friends who touch dicks. No anal or anything. Maybe lips.”

He shifted in his seat. My cock was so stiff now I feared the table would start to list upward and spill more salad dressing/bread dips to the table.

“Lips. Lips on dicks,” he replied on an exhale that rushed over the table to tickle my flushed face.

Lips. Lips. Lips on dicks. Fuck yeah. I would love to part his lips with the head of my—

“Two chickens in dill sauce,” Jasha announced as he exploded from the food prep area. I jumped a foot and sat back, not realizing that I’d leaned into the table, closer to Marcus, as our conversation had taken a fucked as hell left turn. “Oh, sorry for the interrupting of moment.” Jasha winked at us knowingly, placed our meals before us, and left us alone to be so awkward it hurt.

Neither of us dared to look at the other. I cut into the boneless chicken breast, uncaring this was not the surf and turf I’d been so set on. Other things were now taking up space in my head. Like dick touching and lips on cocks and…shit. I wanted Marcus Newley. Bad.

Five minutes of the worst, mentally stifling, painful quiet passed while we chewed and drank and looked everywhere but at each other.

“Someone said you were Sauron,” Marcus finally said. The comment was so insanely out in left field I gawked at him for ten solid seconds. “Truth. Some guy said we were arch nemesis which made me think of Sauron. Did you know Frodo went to the Undying Lands instead of back to the Shire like Sam did?”

“No, I, uhm…” I dabbed at my mouth with my napkin. Flutes and tiny finger symbols drifted around us as I gaped at my dinner date. No not a date. Just a new friend. That I wanted to touch dicks with. As one does with someone they’ve hated for years, then recently made up with. Yep, dick touching happened all the time in that scenario.

Marcus opened his mouth, closed it, and then breathed out through his nostrils. “How obvious was that dip into LOTR lore to avoid a really uncomfortable conversation?”

We sat there for a moment. I wet my lips. His nostrils flared. “I’m not totally in opposition of maybe touching dicks in a friendly manner after dinner.”

“Who wants some coffee and bird’s milk cake?!” Jasha called after sticking his head between the swinging doors.

“Sure, yeah, after dinner dick touching is…sure. Yeah. Totally,” Marcus softly muttered.

“Totally.” All the air in the room felt steamy. “And kisses. Maybe more kissing?”

“Kissing is…” his eyes darted to my mouth then rose back up, “yeah, kissing is okay for friendly manner friends. Yeah?”

“Yeah? I mean, yeah.”

“Is not really bird milk in case you worry!” Jasha shouted as we sat there enraptured with each other’s faces and not replying to his query.

Well, lost in faces and the prospect of touching dicks. And kissing. Way more kissing.