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“How did you let Catherine know you were interested in her?”
Sid kept his eyes trained on his thumbs as they flashed over the X-Box controller, disarming nuclear weapons waiting to be deployed toward the United States.
Tanger dropped his controller into his lap and spit out some words in Quebecois.
“Cut it out. It’s not a big deal,” Sid hissed, knowing his voice could carry in the small plane.
They’d set up the X-Box One at the back, away from the card game where Horny and Hags were loudly attempting to fleece Olli of most of his playoff bonus. Besides, the food was back here.
“It is a big deal,” Tanger grinned as he paused the game. “It’s just that, our Sid is growing up.”
“Shut up,” Sid said, flipping him off, already regretting his decision to ask for advice . “I don’t want anyone else to hear.”
“Hear what? Besides, we’re your best friends. We’ll keep your secret.” Flower sat on the arm of Sid’s chair and leaned down. “What don’t you want anyone to hear.”
“Sid’s looking for relationship advice,” Tanger said, leaning across Sid to shove Flower off the chair. “He came to me.”
“Why would he go to you?” Flower grabbed Tanger’s toque from his head and tossed it behind them, leaving Tanger’s hair rumpled. “This isn’t one of those movies you always drag Catherine to.”
He’d gone to Tanger because he knew things besides hockey, like people. Tanger knew how to read them and that what they said wasn’t always what they meant. He knew how to charm people so they willingly did what he wanted and believed it was their brilliant idea. Sid had seen Tanger do it a hundred times, and each time Sid was impressed and confused, because why couldn’t people just say what they meant.
Then he thought about saying three words to Geno. Three words. It was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. But mostly, terrifying like two minutes left and one goal down in Game 7.
Tanger and Flower devolved into name-calling; he’d been looking for advice, not some WWE Smackdown. “Stop it. Both of you.” Sid leaned forward between them, knowing they were smart enough not to hit their captain.
Except.
Faster than Sid had ever seen Tanger move on ice, he reached across Sid and shoved Flower, launching him to the floor. Eyes wide, lips pursed, Tanger sat back in his chair. “Oops.”
“Flower is okay. His ass is cushion his fall.” Geno offered a hand to help Flower stand.
Geno.
Sid held his breath, feeling giddy around Geno. Every damn time he was around G off ice, this happened. His thoughts jumbled; his sentences were some stupid mix up of words. Usually, he just giggled at Geno’s jokes in the hope that he’d keep talking. Because his voice just did things to Sid.
But right now, he didn’t want Geno here because he needed to talk to Tanger. Sid had decided, well—thought. Wondered maybe if it were time to let G know that he had feelings for him. That he liked him. No. That he loved G. That he’d probably loved him from the first day they’d met, when the only common language they’d had was the whisper of skate blades and the clank of pucks when they hit the posts.
At Shattuck, Sid had ignored everything except hockey and classes (but only because his scholarship depended on his grades or he would have ignored them, too). Everything else distracted him from his goal of playing in the NHL. Teammates always talked about getting their hands on a big pair of titties or pounding some girl into the mattress. Plenty of girls liked him or would’ve been fine with a casual fuck, but Sid wasn’t interested; he never had been. Girls were okay; some even played hockey. But they just didn’t do anything for him. How were girls better than skating on fresh ice, the spark of excitement he felt as the first one to mark it?
Jack understood that. He was the best roommate Sid could have ever asked for. He smelled like locker-room soap and the shampoo their equipment manager saved from hotels. And he’d talk hockey all day, anywhere. At night, he and Jack would sit shoulder to shoulder on Sid’s bed and draw out new plays in their math notebooks, arguing about which way would be best to send the d-men instead of finishing their Algebra.
And if one night on Sid’s bed, Jack leaned across him to grab another pencil and his arm grazed Sid’s cock (that was already so hard it fucking ached). And if Sid shuddered at the contact and whispered yes when Jack’s mouth hovered over his; if they spent the rest of that night naked, sharing their secrets as they touched each other in ways Sid never expected; if Sid dared to hope that they’d be drafted by the same team, start their first pro game together, start a life together, well, that’s just what bros do.
Then he learned that’s just what bros don’t. They don’t admit the quick, dirty bro-jobs in empty locker rooms. They don’t talk about getting down on their knees in a filthy toilet stall. And they never, ever talk about love or relationships.
By the time he rose to the NHL, he knew it was don’t ask, don’t tell, but he didn’t ask and didn’t tell because it was no one’s business. He was there to play hockey, not police anyone’s life. Although he was meticulous with his privacy outside the rink, he never hid who he was. He’d proven himself as a hockey player; he didn’t really give a shit what anyone knew, what they didn’t know. Even then, he knew there weren’t many stories to hear. As for G, Sid had heard plenty of locker room stories about Geno and women, but there’d been a few now and then about G with other men. And that gave Sid a ray of hope.
He’d never said anything to Geno about the way he felt. That his heart skipped through its beats when G looked across the dressing room and caught his eye. Gave him a slow, sly smile, like it was a secret between the two of them. It was too much and not nearly enough. He thought he’d been pretty good most of the time about hiding his feelings,
But maybe it was time to stop thinking for Geno. Time to be open and allow Geno to make his own decisions.
Sid had watched Flower and Vero get married and begin a family. Then Tanger and Catherine. He’d thrown birdseed at their weddings and held their newborns, each time trying to convince himself that hockey was enough.
But it really wasn’t anymore. After living elbow to elbow with these guys for nine months, his life was too empty when hockey was done. Too quiet without any terrible Russian chirping him about his routines. Wayne Gretzky said, You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take. So, yeah. He was going to take this shot, or at least he would, once he could actually talk to Tanger.
But first, he’d have to separate him from Flower and Geno.
Flower scrambled to his feet and grabbed Tanger’s knitted cap out of Geno’s hand. He wadded it into a tight ball before hurling it to the front of the plane. A stream of curses thick with Boston floated back toward them.
“Tanger. Your toque is in Sully’s coffee,” Flower snickered, looking self-satisfied.
They started again, arguing about hats and coffee, with Geno feeding the fight with quiet chirps about lazy d-men and high-strung goalies.
Sid closed his eyes and massaged his forehead, knowing that this headache wouldn’t subside until he got away from this conversation and off this goddamn plane with its stale air heavy with the mixed scents of men’s cologne. When he was finally home, he could skate a few laps to wind down; in the silence of his rink, the soft sound of the blades cutting into the ice would soothe him, better than any drink or prescription ever could.
“Fuck all of you,” Tanger yelled over his shoulder, flipping Flower off as he went to retrieve his hat. “Let Flower give you relationship advice.”
Shit.
Geno shook his head in mock sadness. “Sid, Sid. You go to Flower and Tanger, not me?”
Oh, God. No. Sid felt the flush race up his cheeks, mortified as he struggled to find a believable lie. This wasn’t the time to talk to Geno; he didn’t even know what he’d say. Because when Sid had finally stumbled through his admission, when G looked at him with awkward pity and shattered Sid’s dreams, it couldn’t be in front of anyone else. He didn’t think he could ever recover from that pain, and worse, relive it each time he saw one of his teammates.
“Oh, you know.” Sid tried to sound casual, hoping Geno and Flower couldn’t hear his voice waver as he scrabbled for a convincing lie. “Tanger was here. And, y’know, he and Cath—”
Flower angled his head and watched Sid, as if he were assessing him, trying to put pieces together to predict a result. He glanced from Sid to Geno and back, but before he could say anything the flight attendant’s announcement to prepare for landing interrupted their conversation.
Flower headed to the front of the plane, grabbing Tanger and whispering fiercely about something. Geno followed Sid and dropped into the seat next to him, stretching his legs into the aisle. As the wheels hit the runway, Geno leaned his head on Sid’s shoulder.
“Hard game, tough loss. I hate New York. Happy tomorrow is rest day.”
G’s voice drifted away, and Sid lost himself in the heat of Geno’s side pressing against his as they waited for everyone else to file out of the team’s jet. He collected moments like this and held them close, moments he could pretend that Geno loved him, too. Pretend they were always this close to each other—that Geno would turn to him, caress his face, linger at the wrinkles at Sid’s eyes, the curl of his ear, until Sid shivered with his need.
He closed his eyes and lived in those thoughts as their teammates shuffled off the plane, some laughing and joking about the night’s win; some exhausted and ready to head home, to slip into a bed next to someone who’d missed them.
Tanger and Flower stopped at the doorway to thank their attendant, teasing her as they always did at the end of their flights. As they chatted, Tanger grabbed an apple from her fruit basket and polished it on his lapel. With a grin, Flower stole the apple and sank his teeth into it.
Tanger cursed him loudly in Quebecois and took several bananas. “Hey, Sid. See you at optional skate?” he called from the doorway with a smile.
“I’ll be skating when your sorry ass is still snoring. Not sure you could even skate with all the shit you ate today. That banana is the healthiest thing you put in your mouth,” Sid said, his voice stirring Geno. He turned his head slowly, careful not to disturb Geno, who still leaned against his shoulder. For a second, Sid allowed himself to brush his nose through Geno’s hair, to breathe in the scent of the rosemary and sage shampoo. He drew back before he did something stupid, like press a kiss to Geno’s head.
“Can’t sleep here, G. Time to go home.”
Sid’s voice stirred Geno, who righted himself, and Sid already missed the warmth of Geno’s head on his shoulder. “Can take the day off, Sid. World won’t end,” Geno said with a yawn.
It didn’t seem worth the effort of explaining again that he had to be sharp. They had to be sharp to stay in the Cup race. He picked up his suit jacket and walked down the stairs to the parking lot, with Geno the last one out, as it should be.
Sid shivered in the crisp, late-night air. He probably should have put his coat on instead of carrying it, but right now he wanted to get away from here. He walked to his Tahoe, listening to his friends chirp each other, call good-byes as they left the parking lot. Geno’s car was next to Sid’s, right where it belonged.
Sid placed his suitcase on the back seat, positioned so it wouldn’t move on the winding road to Sewickley, and then slid behind the wheel. He looked out the side window; Geno was wrestling his overnight case into the Carrera’s overfilled trunk. Flower and Tanger were leaning against Flower’s SUV, staring at Sid’s car and talking intently instead of going home to their wives and babies.
As he started the car, Sid shook his head; if he had someone to go home to--or with--he wouldn’t waste time hanging out on the tarmac. Before he could shift into first gear, the Tahoe coughed and died. Sid ran through possible reasons for the failure as he tried again. The engine turned over, and again, it sputtered and cut out.
Sid dropped his head to the steering wheel, resisting the impulse to bang his forehead. He did not need this right now. He was exhausted into his soul from the game and the season. His head ached, a remnant of a nasty check that the refs ignored. He wanted to be home, where he could take off the mantle of Captain. Just be Sid. Maybe grab a sandwich and skate until the stress bled out. A soft tap on the glass yanked Sid from his thoughts.
Geno motioned for him to drop the passenger window. “You okay?” He looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes accentuating it. His cheeks were hollow, like he desperately needed a decent meal or three. To Sid, he was beautiful.
“No matter,” Geno said before Sid could answer. “Get your bag. I drive you.” Sid didn’t have the energy to argue. He nodded thanks before rolling the window up and grabbing his things.
Sid tucked his suitcase in the Porsche’s ridiculous, unusable rear seat and eased himself into the small front seat. How Geno fit into this car, Sid had no idea. They’d had this argument a hundred times—Geno mocking Sid’s workhorse Tahoe, and Sid teasing Geno about his obviously phallic car.
Sid watched Geno as he headed out of the airport and onto the deserted road, his speed at least double the 40mph limit. G looked sexy as fuck driving the sports car, casually shifting gears. His legs were thick in the too-tight trousers; Sid bit his lip too hard to stop himself from moaning as Geno’s powerful thigh muscles moved with each new gear.
“You need relationship advice?” Geno asked, his eyes still trained on the road. “Why ask Flower and Tanger? Too old. Too married. Ask me.”
Sid cringed, mortified at having this conversation with Geno about Geno. He wondered if he should wait for the seat to swallow him whole, or just dive out of the car. The way G flew along Pittsburgh roads, no one would question that it was an accident. With any luck, he’d be dead or maybe just mangled, and could crawl away and hide in the far north, cobble together a shelter from broken branches and moss.
Except he couldn’t build anything worth shit, and with his luck, Geno would find him anyway. He always did, somehow knowing where Sid was and what he needed. With each concussion or injury, G was the one who brought him homemade soup, or a season of Friends to entertain them. Once, when Sid had trouble sleeping, Geno came over and let himself in. He’d wedged himself between Sid’s feet and the arm of the couch, and coaxed Sid to stretch out his legs. He’d rubbed Sid’s feet and whispered to him in Russian about life in Magnitogorsk, careful not to raise his voice. Eventually, Sid fell asleep, lulled by Geno’s voice, and when he’d woken up, Geno was still there, his large hands wrapped around Sid’s feet even though G was sound asleep, his head resting at an awkward angle.
Yeah. G always knew what Sid needed, even when Sid didn’t.
“Is okay to be embarrass. I’m help you.” Geno turned to him for a second, his grin wide and encouraging. God help Sid, Geno seemed to want to help. “What you already do?”
Sid wrestled with the question, his stomach roiling. In no way was this how he ever pictured telling Geno. Maybe, if Sid dropped tiny specifics, Geno would figure it out without Sid saying, You are everything to me. I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you. Geno patted Sid’s thigh, encouraging him, and in the darkness of the car with a classical station playing quietly in the background, he almost thought he could tell Geno the truth. “I found an article online. It gave four ways to get a—a person interested in you. Step one was to impress their friends."
"And?"
In March, Sid had banked the puck off Lundqvist’s helmet to score. Off. His. Helmet. And Geno, who’d been out with his shoulder injury, never mentioned it in any of his texts to Sid. “I—I don’t know. I did try something, but I don't think they were impressed.”
“Silly,” Geno sighed and shook his head. “What else you do?"
“The article said to give them small gifts that say I'm thinking of you.”
Geno laughed then mumbled something about Sid’s ass and small gifts, but it was hard to tell. "What you give?"
"Y'know. Normal stuff. Candy and stuff." At first, Sid had thought that the newest Stanley Cup was a great gift for Geno, but when he remembered he had to share it with the other guys, it didn’t seem so good. Instead, he’d bought an extra-large Hershey's bar and offered half of it to G on the plane after a particularly bad loss to the Capitals.
Sid made sure he smiled his prettiest, most alluring smile. Batted his long dark lashes, and wet his lips slowly. To be fair, the licking the lips part wasn't in the article, but it worked in all those stories he found online—the ones where Geno's hands were the perfect size for Sid’s generous ass, and then, in the story, Sid would lick his lips and Zhenya would stare, and capture Sidney's lips in a struggle of love, demanding a winner.
“Fuck you. I’m not eat Capitals’ food!” Geno angrily shoved the chocolate back at Sid and mock-spit in the aisle of the plane. “Goddamn Hershey bars.”
Sid struggled to understand what Geno meant, thinking it might be a language barrier, however unlikely after all these years, until—“They’re Hershey Bears!”
It made no difference to Geno, who spent the remainder of the flight to Pittsburgh ranting about inferior American chocolate. Sid ate the bar himself, ignoring Tanger and Flower who were sniggering at them from across the aisle.
"Did it work?"
Geno drove the car up to Sid’s security gate and turned to look at Sid, who shook his head and stared out the passenger window, afraid that his embarrassment still would be obvious in the dark. “No. They—uh—don’t care for chocolate.”
Geno clucked his tongue and patted Sid’s shoulder. “I don’t think this website gives best advice,” he said, punching in the 8-digit code. The gate swung wide, allowing them access to Sid’s property. “Not ask number four. Probably something stupid like make jealous.”
Sid squirmed in the passenger seat, definitely not answering that statement. “I don’t think they’re the jealous type,” Sid said, and Geno laughed long and rich. He couldn’t make G jealous. For Christ’s sake, Horny had kissed him. On the lips. On the ice. In front of millions of people. When he’d searched Tumblr, they’d said it was a pic that launched 1000 fics. And he’d read probably half of them. But Geno hadn’t even cared. He’d joined the scrum and hugged Sid tight. And Sid pretended for a fleeting moment that it was Geno he’d kissed.
Sid cleared his throat to change the subject. “How’d you remember my gate code?”
Geno laughed again, and Sid knew about the tiny wrinkles in the corner of Geno’s eyes, and how his front teeth would push against the bottom lip. And Sid realized in that moment that, when Geno let him down easy (“Not gay, Sid,” he’d say with sad eyes and a gentle rub of the shoulder), it would break Sid like too-thin ice on the lake. Deceptive, because although it looked strong enough to handle weight, underneath it was distressed and unsteady.
He’d been reckless tonight, and very nearly stupid in a way he could never take back. He’d worn his emotions too clearly written on his face, and if someone had seen—He wouldn’t tell Geno, and tomorrow, he’d begin erasing those feelings, one by one. They would be teammates, partners only on the ice. It was best for the team. And for Sid.
But tonight, maybe he’d dream of G and the future they might have had.
Geno had barely stopped the Porsche on the semi-circular driveway when Sidney hopped out, grabbed his suitcase, and slammed the door. He hoped his brief wave would be thank you enough. He needed to be alone now, let the darkness nip at the edges of his mood where Geno couldn’t see.
He punched in the house’s keycode and unlocked the front door, aware that the Porsche still idled on his driveway. Sid turned to Geno and waved half-heartedly, wishing he would drive away and leave Sid to mourn in private. Geno watched him through the car’s open window, and Sid thought Geno seemed concerned, his lips pursed as if Sid had done something idiotic on the ice.
But G was wrong, Sid thought as he closed the door. Sid had walked away, and that was the smartest thing he could have done. No matter how ill he felt.
_X_
The well-worn Rimouski sweat pants and hood jacket kept Sid warm enough as he skated aimless laps around his rink, losing himself in the soft, lyrical music and the mindless push-extend-switch of each stride.
Occasionally, he cracked his eyelids enough to be sure he wouldn’t skate into either goal’s steel posts. Not that he would—the shape of rinks, their dimensions and intricacies were part of him now, woven into his DNA. If he’d thought about it, he could visualize where he was—Now I’m at the visitor’s net. Now the benches. The home net, the penalty box— without ever looking. But mostly, Sid thought about how foolish he’d been to believe he could erase his feelings for Geno. Because the thought of losing G made him feel ill and shaken. Afraid, more than the thought that one day, he might suffer an injury that would take hockey away.
He’d wasted the opportunity in the car, the two of them alone, without interfering (but well-meaning) teammates. If he could do it over, he’d say to Geno, “I really like you. I like the way you laugh. The way you mangle English and pretend you don’t understand, so you can avoid the media. I like your arms, and the way they would hold me down when you fuck me, the strength in your legs. How you could be so powerful, but i know that you would be careful with me--”
Abruptly the music cut off, the last notes echoing around him.
Sid opened his eyes and shook off his thoughts as he stopped, planting his back foot and digging in. He’d find the problem with the sound system and then go to bed. End this damn, long day.
Sid turned to leave the ice.
Geno.
In his game-day suit, rumpled from the flight. His hair unruly, as if he’d been running his fingers through it. He should already be home, relaxing, not back here. Sid’s heart clenched as he raced to the boards, breath raspy from fear.
“Geno, what’s wrong? What happened? That car—you drive too fast and the roads are wet—” Sid wanted to search Geno for injuries, trace the lines of his face, drag his fingers through G’s hair looking for proof that he was in one piece.
Geno slid Sid’s cold hand between his own palms, still warm from the car. “Sid. You old бабушка. Grandma. Roads good. I’m good.”
Sid sighed in relief. “Then why are you here?” He didn’t stare at Geno’s fingers atop his. Tried not to. “How do you even know my gate code?”
Geno’s laugh rang in the empty building. “It not rocket surgery. 08071987.” Geno rolled his eyes as he shook his head. “Whole world could guess.”
Sid bit back the urge to tell Geno to fuck off. Instead, he didn’t tell him it was rocket science or brain surgery. But only because Geno had irritated him, and definitely not because it was charming.
“I’m thinking about your problem on drive home.” Geno looked at their hands as he spoke; his thumb rubbed small circles against Sid’s. “More I’m think, more I’m know it stupid.”
“It made sense—”
“No, it stupid,” Geno interrupted, holding Sid’s hand tight. “Tricking. Not way to tell someone you interested.”
“What do I do then, Geno? How do I tell someone—”
“You just do, you not make him jealous by kissing teammate or giving nasty chocolate.”
Sid opened his mouth to argue, because Geno didn’t understand Sid or the article or— He replayed Geno’s words. “What the fuck. You knew?”
Sid tried to pull his hand away from Geno’s, all thoughts of what he’d do if he had a second chance swallowed up in the death-level mortification he felt.
Geno knew. He’d known all along.
Sid’s thoughts spiraled toward panic, but he could do this. Hold himself together until Geno said what he had to say and left.
“Sid. Look at me.” Geno pressed his palm to Sid’s cheek, and Sid leaned into the touch. “First, when we meet, I’m not know you gay. Then, when I know, I’m not know how to tell you I’m interested. But I’m know this: I’m not game to play.”
The world shrank down to this. Geno’s words, his hand on Sid’s face. The way he’d closed the distance between them without Sid even realizing. This was all there was.
Geno leaned forward slowly, as if he thought Sid might bolt from the building and into the night. Sid held his breath, hoping Geno would kiss him.
The brush of G’s lips against Sid’s was feather-light and over too soon. It was nothing and everything Sid had ever needed. He cupped Geno’s jaw and kissed him back and wasn’t ready for Geno to whimper against his lips. The sound heated Sid, and he wished his sweat pants were looser.
They broke apart, smiling stupidly at each other. Their breath made smoky puffs in the frigid air.
“Mama gave best advice. Don’t look for love, because you lose. Look for friend. Then fall in love.”
Sid’s heart stuttered at the advice, and he filed the word love away. “She’s a very smart woman,” Sid managed to say. His lips tingled, and he desperately wanted to kiss G again.
“Smarter than dumb hockey captain. Trick me into driving you.” Geno grinned, and Sid’s breath came easier, back on familiar ground.
Sid pushed through the half-door to the team’s bench, tugging Geno to sit down with him. “I did not. It wouldn’t start.” Methodically, he unlaced and removed each skate, tucking the laces inside the boot and securing the blade guards.
“I’m not know, Sid. Car worked this morning. Think you want to be with me.”
Sid kissed him to shut him up, but it was hard to kiss G when they were both grinning.
“Much better than your weak chirps,” Geno said, but his voice was breathy and the words came slowly.
Sid’s phone chirruped from inside his hoodie pocket. “Flower sent a bunch of pictures.” He was confused, and rather than be polite and wait, he opened the photos.
Geno’s phone dinged, and he brought it out from his suit jacket. “Tanger send me pictures.”
Flower, on the plane, holding several bananas.
Flower, jamming the bananas into a cylinder.
Sid’s Tahoe, a banana jammed into the exhaust pipe. With Tanger crouched down next to it, grinning.
“The fuck?” Geno asked, scrolling back up through the message.
The final text to them both was a clip from a movie. Sid and Geno watched Eddie Murphy push bananas into a car’s tailpipe, which made the car stall out.
“Tanger and Flower did that? To my car?” Sid gritted his teeth, his anger rising.
“Assholes,” Geno agreed fondly. “But I’m drive you home, and then—” He kissed Sid again.
This time, it wasn’t a soft brush of lips, as if G were unsure of the response. It was hard and insistent, an occasional scrape of teeth. Sid flicking his tongue against Geno’s lips. Fire and need mingled with overwhelming tenderness. Through the kiss, Sid told Geno the depth of his feelings, the future he’d wished for, the long nights that he wouldn’t spend alone. He nipped Geno’s neck, just above his shirt collar and worried the skin with his teeth. That, he hoped, would let G know what he planned to do later.
Geno’s voice vibrated under Sid’s lips. “Me, too, Sid,” he whispered. “I’m want, too.”
Sid drew back from Geno; if they didn’t stop kissing now, they might never get inside Sid’s house, and that would be a shame. Because Sid had some good ideas.
Really good ideas.
“Know what, G?” Sid asked as he stood up and offered Geno a hand. “I think we can skip tomorrow morning’s skate. It is optional…”
“Sid’s ideas best.” Geno took Sid’s hand and stood up with a creaky groan. “I’m have a good idea. Show me your house.”
Sid cocked his head, confused at the request. “You’ve been in my house before, G. Lots of times.”
Geno raised one eyebrow and leered. “Never see your bedroom.”
Oh, we’ll fix that, Sid thought. We’ll fix that right now. And later--much later--he might even send a thank you text to certain interfering teammates.