Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Craig

"Hé! Hé! Hé! I am on your team, yes?!" Pierre shouted from the net. I lowered my stick as the irritated yell cut through the fog in my head. "What are you doing?! Trying to take off my head from my shoulders?" Our morning practice on Calgary ice fell into a stilted silence. I blinked at my teammate in the net and felt my face flame. "You head, eez vinegar there!"

I had no idea what that meant, but then Pierre had an interesting turn of phrase that not everyone followed.

"Sorry, I was… I don't know what you said there at the end," I replied, shamefaced, as Pierre whipped his mask off to glower at me. His face was so pretty that even a dark look seemed less of a glare and more of a pout, but those eyes of his were intense.

He skated out of his crease to get sweaty nose to sweaty nose with me. Not a soul on skates said a word but I could feel every eye on the two of us. Man, this Canadian road trip was not going well at all for me.

"Your head fills with pickle juice. Whatever eez inside your skull making you fuck up is needing to be dumped into the sink. I am done!"

With that he stormed off the ice, leaving his mask, paddle, and blocker lying at his net. I shrunk into my jersey, wishing I could pull all the way in to hide like a turtle. Pierre was right. I'd been off for a solid week now, scattered and unable to focus, my play sloppy. My plus/minus had taken a nose dive over the past three games. I'd been solely responsible for a turnover that had led to a goal in our last game in Edmonton. If not for a squeaker goal from Cam in overtime we would have lost that game, and the tightness in our division meant every point counted.

"He'll cool off. You know his temper flares hot then dies off just as fast," Oli said from my right.

I bobbed my head, unable to speak, and worked up enough dignity to finish practice. Coach pretty much just sent us to the showers, his gaze on me as I slunk off like a dog caught with the Easter ham in his mouth. I picked up Pierre's equipment before heading to the locker room. I found our goalie standing in the corridor in only his hockey pants. He'd been staring at a mural on the wall while holding a can of grape soda. His dark eyes narrowed as I lumbered to him, goalie gear held out in front of me like a gift from a visiting dignitary trying to appease an upset king.

"Why is this coming to me from you?" He popped the tab on his soda, sending fizz and purple foam over his fingers. "Putain!"

"I wanted to bring them in and apologize."

He glanced up, thick lashes framing dark chocolate eyes, as he licked grape soda from his fingers. "And why is this?" He lowered his hand from his lips as his sharp stare sliced into me. "Is there a bomb inside my blocker that will BOOM to take off my head since your practice shooting failed to decapitate me?"

"What? No, of course not. I felt bad for being distracted and wanted to bring you your paddle and stuff." I shoved the mound of gear at his chest. He sipped his soda, a standard refueling drink for him after every practice or game. The man had a thing for grape soda. Not that I was judging. Cheesy doodles called to me from my hotel room. I had purchased the party-size bag at a Safeway five minutes from where we were staying. "Look, I know I've been a putz of late."

"Explains what is this ‘putz'." He let me stand there, stinky goalie gear in my arms, while he sipped soda like some sort of hockey emperor looking down upon a poor subject begging for forgiveness for a heinous crime.

"Oh, uhm, a putz is a Yiddish term for someone who's stupid."

His eyebrows knitted. "Non, you are not stupid." He knew all about my dyslexia. I'd never hidden it from the team. "Usually. Hmm, no, that is not what I meant. I mean your brain is not stupid because of the learning disability."

"Thanks."

"You are welcome. Give me my gear. Do not shoot fiery slapshots at me with intent to kill on your face again or I will soak your cup in grape soda and place it into the sun for drawing ants."

I shuddered at the mere thought. "Damn, is that a Quebecois punishment?"

"Non, we are sweet and gentle peoples. I just made it up." He handed me his empty can. "Go sort your head." He tugged his stuff from my arms and then disappeared into the dressing room, leaving me to find a recycle bin. Seemed I had some head-sorting to do if I wanted to avoid ants in my cup. That was easier said than done since I had no clue what was wrong.

Liar. You know what's wrong. You bailed on Jamie for something that was an innocent misunderstanding. What you're feeling is guilt, sparky.

Sadly, I couldn't argue with myself. I was right. I did feel bad for leaving Jamie high and dry over something that he could have no way known about me. I was a heel. I schlepped into the dressing room to peel off my sodden gear and shower. Somehow, I had to wheedle my way back into Jamie's good graces. I wanted him as a friend.

You want him for more than a friend.

"Okay, enough from me today," I grumbled to myself.

Charlie tossed me a worried look I waved off before dashing into the showers. I pretended not to see the other guys soaping and shampooing when they grunted hello as I passed.

Head down, eyes on your feet. That was queer kid rule number one in any locker room/community shower. I'd learned that lesson early. It had only taken one older kid hitting me to ensure I never glanced at a guy's junk in the showers ever again. Funny how assumptions had been made about me as a child. I'd never really presented as femme in any way, but because I was a figure skater, that made me gay. The bullshit stereotypes had clung hard until I'd made the switch to hockey. Then, because I was now playing a " manly" sport, I was no longer gay. Ha, ha. Guess what, haters. I was still just as queer if I were wearing skates with toe picks or without.

I found an empty stall. Oli stood on my left, focused on me while I placed my soap and shampoo on the tiled shelf and then cranked on the taps.

"Want to grab something to eat before we rest?" Oli asked all matter-of-fact. I was grateful for that. I didn't want to rehash the dressing down I'd recently gotten from our tendie.

"I could eat," I replied before shoving my head into a blast of hot water.

"Cool."

That was the entire conversation until we were seated at a smoky steakhouse with views of the Bow River. The steakhouse was hopping, every table filled with hungry patrons. I sat idly staring out at the river flowing through Calgary, a cold glass of water in front of me, my salad mostly untouched.

"People say that I'm a good listener if you'd like to talk about what's bothering you," Oli said as a server rushed by with two platters holding plump, rare steaks. My stomach growled at the sight. An early lunch filled with protein and veggies. Probably a better choice than a six-pack of soda and a party-size bag of cheesy doodles. "Well, Jackson says it, and so do the girls, if that matters."

I gave him a sad smile then speared a chunk of red pepper dripping with Italian dressing from my salad bowl.

"Yeah, it totally counts." I chewed and swallowed, using the brief pause to " sort my head ," to quote Pierre. "Okay, so you probably know what happened at the college with the study that Jamie is heading."

"I've heard a little bit, yes," he replied cautiously.

"Did he tell you that I acted like a jerk?" Our steaks arrived, two huge T-bones, medium rare, with seasoned potato wedges and broccoli florets. Our server left us with some steak sauce and a fresh basket of wheat rolls. Once the cheery young lady in a bright blue apron scurried off, Oli plucked a bun from the basket and tore it in half.

"He said nothing about anyone being a jerk other than himself," he answered, then dipped his bun into the meaty juices leaking from his T-bone.

"Oh shit, I was hoping he wouldn't blame himself." I sighed over my steaming broccoli.

"He's British. They always blame themselves for everything," he tossed out with a knowing little smile. "Look, I know things kind of got off on a bad foot…"

"It was all me. Both feet, terribly bad. I overreacted to something unintentional. I thought I was old enough to not get hurt when I felt slow or dumb?—"

"Craig, you are not dumb."

"I know, thank you, though. It's just a knee-jerk reaction. It's like if you're a chubby kid or a kid with crooked teeth or whatever sets you apart from the so-called norm as a child, then as an adult, you lose weight or get crowns or learn how to navigate the written word well enough to graduate college." I forked a floret and lifted it into the air to stare at it. "In your head, you know you've overcome whatever adversity you may have faced and have triumphed, but in your heart, in the tiny space left over from childhood where the mean words hurt, you just have this flash of pain that makes you flinch. I flinched way too hard. Jamie didn't know. How could he have? And I reacted as little Craig crying to his mom that the kids called him retarded."

"Craig, speaking as a parent, I fully understand how hard it can be on kids. My girls have gone through some pretty nasty things, snide and hurtful comments, and not always from other children. Adults can be callous. Hell, as queer men we know all too well the nasty that flows down over us on the daily."

"Amen," I sighed, then dipped my floret into a small cup of melted butter. "But Jamie wasn't mean, callous, or hateful. He was just doing what most people did. He assumed."

"Yes, and he feels awful."

I knew he did. He'd texted and called a dozen times over the past several days. I'd ignored them all because I was at first too hurt, then too embarrassed to answer him. "If you would reply to him, it might help with your inability to focus."

I nodded, unsure of how to go about opening up a conversation with the man after my bratty display. I picked up my steak knife and began cutting the charbroiled meat into small cubes. A few moments of quietude fell over our table while we dove into our food. The meat was tender and juicy, the potatoes coated with a garlic sauce that paired perfectly with the beef, and the broccoli was steamed to perfection.

I took a break to wipe my chin with a blue fabric napkin. Oli was chewing away merrily, his gaze meeting mine over the salt and pepper shakers in the center of our square table.

"If I were to try to apologize, what would be the best way?" I dared to ask and got a confused look. "Does he like flowers? Candy?"

"Oh." He placed his fork on the edge of his plate as he swallowed then took a drink of ice water. "Well, honestly, I don't think you need to buy him anything. And I don't think either of you owe each other an apology. Misunderstandings happen. Maybe you could call him and say you'd like to start over? That is if you're still interested in being in the study."

"I feel I need to give it another go. I ran out on it, and that's not me. I don't just bolt when something unpleasant happens. I fight harder."

"I know; I've seen that in you every time you're on the ice."

"Thanks." I'd not said that for praise, although his words made me feel good. "It's just odd," I confessed, using my fork to move a fatty chunk of steak through the garlic sauce that had run off the potatoes. I peeked at Oli. His gaze met mine. I saw nothing judgmental or accusatory in his eyes. He could have been really pissy about me and his best friend. I'd ghosted Jamie after sleeping with him and then I had bolted on an important research study that his bestie was running. Not exactly batting a thousand with either man, to be honest.

"Why odd?" He pushed another half a buttered bun through the juices on his plate. A woman's laugh carried over to us.

"I don't know." I shrugged. "I think maybe we shouldn't have had drunken sex that night."

"Do you regret it?"

"No, no, not at all! It was the best sex…" He cocked an eyebrow. "Well, you don't need to hear the graphic details. It was great, and I really wanted to be with him. I've been attracted to him for a while. But I have this past, and it's all tangled up with Jamie and his brain and Leon and his brain and me and my brain."

"That's a lot of brains," he commented dryly.

I snorted in amusement. "Yeah, a lot of brains. And mine is… mine is trying to sort itself."

"If I can ask, this Leon, is that the man you were seeing a few years ago? Big, strapping German fellow?"

"Yeah, that's him. He's incredibly smart and incredibly controlling. I'm not sure why he keeps trying to win me back because when he had me all he did was tell me how useless and stupid I was. Shit, okay, that wasn't supposed to come out over lunch. I'm sorry."

"Nope, don't be sorry." He placed a hand on my arm and gave it a fatherly squeeze. "It explains a lot. I'm so sorry that man was so cruel to you. He sounds as though he needs a good shoulder check into the boards. Several times. With intent to injure." That made me chuckle. "I don't want to push too far into your friendship with Jamie. What I will do is say this. Jamie would never knowingly berate you or strive to make himself feel like the bigger man just to feed a massive ego. He's far too kind."

"I know, I do, I just…" I blew out a breath that billowed my cheeks. "It's hard to trust again, you know? Every put-down Leon hurled at me is carved into my flesh, into my soul, and I'm trying to heal the wounds, but the scars are still tender."

"Sounds like you and Jamie both have some rotten exes. That's at least one thing you have in common. I wager if you two sat down and could keep your hands to yourselves for ten minutes, you'd discover you have more in common than you think. My friend may be incredibly smart but he's also incredibly loving. Not many people would uproot their lives to come live with a buddy and his two kids. He's just that special of a man." He shook his head. "I'm also incredibly biased, so move at your own speed. Just know that Jamie would do anything to clear up this misunderstanding."

I gave him a nod. We left that topic to wither for now, talking instead about hockey, and his kids. Nothing heavy. We'd already done the dense talk, and it had left me feeling lighter, and with some clarity of action.

It took me a few hours to work up the nerve to send out a simple text. With the memory of Jamie's hot skin next to mine in a rumpled bed, I dictated a message, had the phone read it over for mistakes, found five— OMG, focus Craig —fixed it, and then sent it out into the world. Right to Jamie's phone.

Hey, sorry about the study incident. Totes on me. If you'd like to have me back, I'd like to try again. ~ Craig