Empty Net (2 page)

St. Savoy met his eyes and didn’t say a word. His eyes resembled dark, delicious chocolate, and his lashes were full and thick. The universe was seriously a bitch.

Belsey laughed. “That’s exactly what I wanted to see out of you, Drake. You’re the captain of this team, so you’ve gotta have more fire than anybody. We done here, Coach Samarin? Where’s that boyfriend of yours, anyway? Thought he might want to show up for meetings, seeing as how he’s the assistant coach and all.”

Before Misha could say anything, Laurent spoke for the first time.

“How many fucking fags are on this team?”

Unlike their little incident in the playoffs, Isaac didn’t have to wait for St. Savoy to take his mask off before he punched him in the face. He knew he’d get in trouble, but goddamn,
did it feel good.

LAURENT
HATED
Isaac Drake. Hated him.

He hated his stupid blue hair, his cocky grin, and the way he swaggered even though he was way too short and slender to be a goalie. Hated his stupid lip piercing and his easy camaraderie with his teammates. When Laurent saw Misha Samarin stalking across the ice during the playoffs the year before, he expected the coach to take a swing at him. His father wanted that. Laurent knew he did. They’d been told to win, and that meant doing whatever they could to knock the Spitfires off their game—like talking trash to piss them off until they lost their tempers. Denis St. Savoy also wanted Misha Samarin disgraced, for some reason. Laurent had learned not to ask questions.

And pissing off Samarin by attacking Drake had worked like a charm. Isaac Drake’s sexuality wasn’t a secret, although no one cared all that much. But it was a weapon to be wielded, and that’s what Laurent did. No matter that it made him sick to his stomach.

That was one of the few times Laurent’s father had been proud of him, even if it hadn’t lasted longer than a nod and a pat on the shoulder. And his father’s approval was proof that what he’d done was wrong. But some part of Laurent—the part that longed for childhood memories of days on the ice with a man who could hug instead of hit—wanted that pride and the validation he could never seem to earn. That pat on the shoulder was the gentlest touch he’d had from his father in years.

His teammates were disgusted with him, but they never liked Laurent anyway. His father had seen to that. But at least for a brief, elusive moment Laurent had been good enough for Denis St. Savoy. And the moment was over by the time the buzzer sounded.

Laurent left the Bon Secours arena and headed back on foot to the hotel where he was staying while he looked for a place to live. He didn’t have a car. His father was extremely wealthy but would never allow Laurent that kind of independence. So, despite the heat of the day and the throbbing headache brought on by that punch to the face, Laurent was at least pleased that he wouldn’t have to see his father when he got to the hotel.

That might have made it all worthwhile.

Laurent ducked his head and avoided looking at anyone as he caught the elevator up to his room. As he examined himself in the bathroom mirror, he gently skirted the bruising around his eye and thought about Drake.

He didn’t care that Drake was gay any more than he cared that other people were straight. He didn’t care that the coaches for his new team were in a relationship. But he couldn’t help himself. The instant dislike aimed at him from both Drake and Coach Samarin made Laurent resort to his usual horrible behavior when he felt threatened.

What the fuck did you expect? They weren’t going to like you. No one does.

Laurent closed his eyes, breathed, and told himself there was nothing left in his stomach to expel and he didn’t need to make himself sick. He was just tired, and he should do something about the black eye from Drake’s right hook and take a nap. And he didn’t need to eat anything. That thought made him relax slightly, even as his stomach growled with hunger.

He drank a few glasses of water and took two Excedrin. He told himself they were for the pain and not because he wanted the caffeine to stop him from feeling hungry. He hated being at the mercy of his body. Half the time Laurent just wanted to pretend he didn’t exist.

Then he lay in his bed, hands behind his head, closed his eyes, and tried counting his breaths. He tried everything he could think of, but the caffeine kept him up. So he ran through the meeting over and over and remembered the looks of hatred aimed at him from Isaac Drake and Misha Samarin and the utter disinterest on behalf of the Spitfires’ general manager. He thought he might finally escape that kind of scorn by getting traded from his father’s team, but all he’d managed to do was find yet another place where no one wanted him.

Laurent got out of bed and went to the bathroom, where he knelt at the toilet like some penitent and made himself throw up anything in his stomach. It was mostly water, and when he was finished, he sat on the bathroom floor and pressed his face into the cold tile.

And then he got up off the floor and went to bed.

“I CAN’T
believe you hit him in the face.” Coach Ashford took a seat next to Isaac at the kitchen island. It was the day after the meeting with Belsey, and Max had returned from visiting his brother and very pregnant sister-in-law in Minneapolis. “I guess better late than never, huh?”

“I want to make this clear, Isaac,” Misha said. “You are not going to hit him again.”

“Especially if I’m not there to see it,” muttered Coach Ashford.

“Max.” Misha sighed and aimed a warning glance at Coach Ashford. “Don’t encourage him.” He pointed his fork at Isaac. “I mean it, Isaac. Like him or not, he’s your teammate.”

“You heard what he said. He started it.” Isaac scowled and pushed his food around on his plate. He had no idea what it was, but he was on his third helping of it. He ate way better there than he had living with Hux, that was for sure.

“Yes. I heard him. I was there.” Misha sighed. “I don’t know what Belsey is thinking. I know we needed a backup since Lathrop retired, but surely there was someone else. Anyone else.”

“Really? Considering why he hired us, you’re confused why Jack Belsey went for the most dramatic answer he could think of to our need for a goalie?” Coach Ashford snorted and took a drink of his iced tea—Isaac’s only contribution to their meals besides his charming company.

“Belsey should be a boxing promoter,” Isaac said. “Or a Marvel-comics villain.”

Misha gave him a pointed look. “I’m still waiting for you to tell me you won’t hit him anymore.”

Isaac made a face and took a bite of his dinner. “I don’t think I can promise that, Misha. You heard that guy. The first thing out of his mouth was a gay slur. Seems maybe I should punch him harder.”

Coach Ashford made a choked, suspiciously like-a-laugh sound and hurriedly forked up a bite of his own as Misha turned his formidable glare on him. “Promise me, Isaac.”

Isaac sighed as dramatically as possible, but finally gave a sullen “I promise” that seemed to placate his coach. Probably because, as he well knew, Isaac would keep his word. Even as enjoyable as punching Laurent St. Savoy had been, it wasn’t worth Misha’s disapproval. And he was probably right. Hitting your own teammates was generally frowned upon.

After dinner Isaac did the dishes like he usually did. He liked doing them, even if he’d never admit it, because it made him feel like part of the household. Like part of the family.

Back when he’d lived at home, he’d always been responsible for emptying the dishwasher. And sometimes, as he put the dishes away in Misha’s neat, orderly kitchen, he remembered the comfortable, suburban home he grew up in and the sound of his parents watching television in the living room as he went about his chores.

Guess they had learned to do it themselves. Isaac was their only child, unless they’d adopted another one after he left. A better one. A straight one. Goddammit. Isaac was sick of people making a big deal about him being gay.

After he was finished, Isaac took himself over to his best friend’s house. Matt Huxley, who had been Isaac’s roommate until last season, lived in Coach Ashford’s old apartment. He roomed with another teammate and friend, Shawn Murphy. Isaac also drove Coach Ashford’s old Jeep, which he was planning to buy. Coach Ashford let him drive it, and Isaac paid insurance and gas money, just like he would have done at home if he’d been allowed to live there long enough to have his own car. It probably should have bothered him that he was essentially being treated like he was seventeen, even though he was twenty-five. But considering what he’d been doing at seventeen, he couldn’t complain.

“So,” Murph said immediately as Isaac grabbed a beer and flopped down on the sofa next to him. “Where are we going to hide the body?”

Isaac tried not to make a face at Hux’s beverage of choice, Natural Light. Ugh. That was another good thing about living with Coach Samarin. Isaac ate better food
and
drank better alcohol. “Dunno. But I can’t hit him. Promised Coach.”

“I told you nothing good would come from you living there,” Hux said. He was six foot-two and all muscles, and he got in a lot of fights on Isaac’s behalf on the ice. Off of it he was a sweetheart of a guy who liked to drink beer and read comic books. At the same time. There was a graphic novel on his lap. “Stupid asshole, St. Savoy. I can’t believe that jerk is a Spitfire.”

“What kind of a name is that, anyway?” Murph asked. Murph was a defenseman—and a good one—but if he’d ever read a book in his life that wasn’t about hockey, Isaac hadn’t seen it. He looked about as Irish as you’d expect from a guy named Shawn Murphy. He was as tall and broad as Hux, but without any tattoos. He said he was keeping his body a temple, but he was really just afraid of needles.

Sometimes Isaac wondered if Shawn and Matt were secretly having sex every time Isaac left their apartment. They probably weren’t. Neither of them had a problem with Isaac being gay, and Shawn had even kissed him once at a party to impress a girl, but they both seemed about as straight as they came. The kiss was the opposite of impressive, at least to Isaac, but the girl had liked it and was now Murph’s steady girlfriend.

Being gay had never bothered Isaac as much as it seemed to bother everyone else on his behalf. One of his favorite things about Hux and Murph was how they simply adjusted their chick talk to dick talk in order to make him feel involved in conversations. It was endearing, even if it was offensive to both genders.

“I think he’s French-Canadian,” Isaac said. “That’s why his name’s French… ish.”

“Fuck him,” Hux said gruffly. He pointed at Isaac with his beer. “Not literally, Drake. Got that?”

“Isaac wouldn’t fuck that guy,” Murph started, then stopped and scowled at Isaac. “I guess he’s probably your type, though, huh? ’Cause he’s pretty.”

Isaac couldn’t argue with that one, but he did take exception to the idea that he’d mess around with St. Dickhead. “Uh, no thanks. Remember how mad I got about the spitting?”

“Right. You want ’em to swallow.” Murph winked.

“Who doesn’t?” said Hux, and they all raised their cans of beer.

The banter was juvenile. But seeing as how Isaac’s parents had tossed him out of his house and thrown him to the proverbial wolves without any apparent remorse when he was seventeen, he couldn’t help but feel grateful that he’d ended up on a team with guys who wanted him to feel like he belonged.

“Wonder why he’s so pissed off about it?” Isaac said, catching a controller that Hux threw to him. It was always a toss-up between Grand Theft Auto and NHL video games, and they had picked the former.

“About spitting?”

Isaac leaned over and hit Murph in the head with the controller. “No, moron. I meant why does St. Savoy care that I’m gay? Why does that bother straight guys so much, anyway?”

Murph and Hux exchanged a look. “We don’t know, man. We don’t care,” Hux said, shrugging.

“Maybe he’s gay and hates himself,” Murph piped up. “I mean. That’s like, classic. Isn’t it?”

Isaac and Hux stared at Murph. “Is it?” Hux asked as if he’d never seen his roommate before.

“Well, I mean. When I found out Drake was gay, I looked online about how to, y’know, be friends with a gay guy, and—”

“You
what
?” Isaac fell back against the cushions, not sure if he wanted to laugh or punch Murph. Misha hadn’t said anything about not hitting
him
. “Jesus. You’re friends with me like you’re friends with Hux.”

“I know that, but….” Murph looked embarrassed. “I just wanted to make sure I didn’t make you mad or anything.”

Isaac shook his head and gave a rueful laugh. “So wait. What did this website say? How are you supposed to be friends with me, straight boy?”

“He’s not that straight if he kissed you,” Hux pointed out.

“I just did it ’cause Erin was into it, and I wanted her to go out with me.” Murph shot Isaac an apologetic glance. “No offense.”

Isaac lifted his beer. “None taken. You weren’t that good at it, and you’re not pretty enough for me anyway.”

“Whatever. I’m a stud, and you know it. Anyway, I read a thing. About how people who are bullies about that shit, maybe it’s because they’re gay too, and they hate themselves.”

“I hate to point this out, but a lot of people call me a fag on the ice.” Isaac rolled his eyes. “Hockey players are not that original, and it’s not like it’s a secret.”

“You just make sure you tell me who they are, bro,” Hux said, slamming a fist into his palm. “Hard to talk without any teeth.”

Isaac had lucked out in the friend department.

“Yeah. But they don’t spit on you,” Murph said and then scowled darkly. “I wish I could have hit him for that. Hard.”

Hux scowled. “You and me both, Murph. Coach Ashford wouldn’t let me on the ice. ’Course, we all thought Coach was gonna hit that asshole himself.”

The guys usually called Coach Ashford by his last name, but Misha was usually just
Coach.

“I wonder what Penis St. Dickhead—”

Isaac immediately choked on his beer at Hux’s inventive nickname for Denis St. Savoy.