Page 23 of Poetry On Ice
“W-why?” exclaims McGuire, dragging the word out like a child. A whiny, spoiled child.
For once, McGuire and I are in total agreement. This plan is fucking madness. I’m fuming the second I hear it, but unlike McGuire, I know Santos and Warren. I know how they work. If they’ve taken it into their heads that this is what we need, there isn’t a goddamn thing we can do to talk them out of it.
Warren scarcely reacts. “I believe he said something along the lines of ’til they sort their shit out.’”
Disbelief all but vibrates off McGuire. Not just disbelief. Outrage too. “But, but—”
Warren has already moved on to the next player and the one after that. Handing out keys and congratulations like confetti, and if I’m not mistaken, trying his best not to show how deeply he supports Coach’s treatment of us.
McGuire isn’t having it. He puts his nose in the air and uses all the energy he can muster to keep his expression serene as he beats a path to Coach Santos.
I can’t hear what either of them says. They’re too far away for that and there are a lot of people in the lobby, but it’s a short conversation, and I can tell McGuire isn’t happy with the outcome.
Naturally, I’m not happy about the arrangement either. Quite the opposite. It’s a fucking nightmare and then some. It’s just that I know Coach a lot better than McGuire does, and if he says this is what’s happening, nothing on Earth will get him to change his mind. The only thing complaining will do is make him double down.
We’ve obviously pushed him as far as we can, and now we have no option but to live with the consequences.I’ve been a shit enough in my life that I have plenty of experience dealing with consequences. Coach has clearly taken the stance that if we’re going to act like kids, he’s going to treat us like kids. I don’t like it, but I understand nothing will be done about it tonight. The only thing to do is lie low, play better, and hope he forgets about our bullshit before our next away game.
McGuire punches the elevator button a little harder than strictly required as soon as he’s finished talking to Coach and glares at me. “You coming, or what?”
I sidle into the elevator and take up as much room as possible, crowding him into the corner.
McGuire smiles thinly, trying to hide his fury, unaware it’s written all over his face. There’s something so ridiculous about his little charade that I have a hard time keeping control of my face.
I’ll bet it’s a first for him, not getting his way about something like this. I’ll bet he’s unraveling. I’ll bet he’s seconds away from calling his agent and lodging a formal complaint. He’d have a case too—technically, players not on entry-level contracts are supposed to have their own rooms when they travel.
Maybe McGuire will complain. God, wouldn’t that be something? Coach would lose his mind. It would be so perfect. It would be the most perfectgolden boy-slash-babygirl fall from grace I could ever imagine. Oh man, I’d love it.
Bodie gives McGuire a supportive pat on the shoulder and throws a worried glance at him when the elevator stops at his floor. He leaves without making eye contact with me.
Fuck him. See if I care if he thinks I’m an asshole.
The elevator rides up and comes to a stop two floors up.
It’s a decent-sized room with two full-sized beds and enough space to move around them easily. The bedside lamps are dimmed and the drapes are open to show off a seemingly endless cityscape. A black velvet curtain with lights glittering through it. A million tiny stars cut into luxe fabric. Some people like mountain or sea views, and sure, I get the appeal. But for me, a night sky will always be where it’s at. I take a moment to appreciate it and try to ignore the fact that I just heard the door shut. Timber connects solidly with timber. A well-oiled latch slips through the strike plate with a softsnickthat sucks the air out of the room.
McGuire and I are alone.
His reflection looks at me, huffs once, and falls onto the bed farthest from me. He stretches out, one arm under tucked his head, long legs crossed at the ankles.I turn slightly, back still to him, to give myself a better vantage of his likeness in the pane of glass before me. I let my gaze travel across his chest, up his throat, his chin, and settle on his lips. They’re parted slightly, the bottom one slightly fuller than the top.
That’s the one I bit. The bottom one. That’s the one I had between my teeth. Soft, warm flesh. Dusty pink when I found it. Dark red when I left it.
Stop it!I tell myself.Stop it right now. Stop looking at him. Stop thinking about his mouth. Don’t talk to him, don’t antagonize him, and for the love of all that is holy, don’t touch him again.
11
Robbie McGuire
One of the mostawkward things that ever happened to me was the time I went to the doctor to have a swollen gland in my groin checked on a day I happened to be going commando. I’m not sure what I was thinking when I decided not to wear underwear that day. I was nineteen at the time, so you’d think I’d have had at least a modicum of awareness that the doctor would need to examine me, but nah. Totally didn’t think of it. It didn’t occur to me that it would be a problem until I was on his table.
I can still feel the hot, sticky humiliation that washed over me as I unzipped. It was hard to say who was more surprised, the doctor or me, as I lay there with my limp dick lolling on my thigh when there was a clear and reasonable expectation that it would be clad in boxers or briefs.
For years, the memory of that appointment has flitted in and out of my mind at inopportune times. When Idrift off to sleep after a day in the sun. When I’m at formal events that require me to wear a suit or tux. Once, it even happened mid-sentence when I was at brunch meeting my then-girlfriend’s parents. That’s how bad it was.
Still, that’s nothing compared to this.
Decker is sitting in the armchair in the far corner of the room, near the window. He’s showered and brushed his teeth, something I know because the fresh gust of wild mint and citrus was hard to miss when he sailed past me on his way out of the bathroom. He hasn’t looked at me or said a word since we entered the room, which was almost an hour ago. I haven’t said anything to him either.
The silence is palpable.