Empty Net (21 page)

While the linesmen broke up the fight, Isaac found his gaze sliding over to the bench. Laurent was there, dressed and wearing his Spitfires cap and staring at the ice with his usual unfriendly expression. But he glanced over at Isaac, and Isaac thought he saw Laurent smile a little, or give his expression that counted for a smile, since expressing happiness was still a foreign concept to Laurent.

Laurent was doing much better and was having sessions with Liz every two weeks. He’d cooled off on the throwing up—if he felt like he needed to, he just came over to Isaac and asked if Isaac would bite him—and he was markedly better about eating, as long as Isaac was the only person there. He explained in his usual, vaguely defensive Laurent way, that Isaac was safe enough for Laurent to eat in front of. But Liz was making headway in untangling the knots of Laurent’s issues, and Isaac was forever grateful for that.

The fight was over and the teams were each down a man, so he switched his attention, hit his fist into his glove twice, skated side-to-side once, and settled in to play.

The Spitfires scored twice in the third, giving them a comfortable 3-1 lead. Isaac was on top of his game. He was in that zone where he felt the ice beneath him, where his body moved as though he were an extension of the pipes, and where he anticipated the puck and trusted his body to do what it needed to do to stop the puck from crossing the goal line.

What he did not anticipate was Tyler Simon crashing into him with the fury of an incensed freight train.

Simon and Hux had each been given a penalty for fighting in the second, but both men were back on the ice for the third. Hux, who was a graceless oaf with his stick sometimes, had been hauled off for a high-sticking penalty. But for some reason known only to Denis St. Savoy and the devil, Tyler Simon had been placed on the Ravens’ power-play unit.

Isaac actually laughed when he saw the players line up on the ice to start the power play. Tyler Simon was not a power-play guy. He was the sort of guy you put in when you wanted a fight, not when you had a chance to get back in the game, late in the third period. In the playoffs, for fuck’s sake.

But Isaac wasn’t laughing when, two seconds after the faceoff, Simon came racing toward the crease—without the puck—and didn’t stop.

Isaac felt Simon’s stick hook under his left ankle as Simon wrenched it back brutally, and he went sailing backward as the net crashed off its moorings.

Simon hissed, “I hope I broke your fucking leg, Drake,” and then climbed up and off him as the linesmen immediately arrived to escort him off the ice—and hopefully out of the building.

Isaac tried to stand up, but the pain in his ankle made him want to throw up, and he couldn’t. He lay on the ice with tears on his face as the pain radiated up from what was either a break or a bad sprain, and he couldn’t believe it was happening.

The team trainer was there in a hurry, along with Misha, who looked so pissed off that the first thing Isaac said was, “I didn’t let in a goal, did I? Because no way can they count that.”

Misha’s answer wasn’t in English, but a warm hand on Isaac’s shoulder got his attention. Coach Ashford. “You didn’t let in a goal, Drake. Simon didn’t even have the puck.”

Misha made an angry sound and looked like he wanted to tear someone’s throat out. “Can you stand,” Misha snapped, making it more of a demand than a question.

Isaac shook his head. “I think it’s broken.” When he sat up, a wave of dizziness assailed him, and he clutched quickly at Misha to get his bearings. The trainer and Max helped Isaac to his feet, and Isaac immediately lifted his foot so there was no weight on his ankle. It still hurt like fuck, and he tried very hard not to whimper at the pain, but he probably failed.

“It’s okay,” Max said over and over as they made their way toward the tunnel.

The crowd’s applause was thunderous, and there was an undercurrent of angry muttering as Isaac left the ice, because that had been the literal definition of a dirty hit.

Laurent was suiting up in the tunnel, and his eyes met Isaac’s. Isaac had never seen Laurent look so furious. Max somehow knew that, in pain or not, Isaac would want to say something to Laurent, so he nodded at the trainer, and they came to a brief stop.

Isaac tried to offer some encouragement, though the pain made him woozy enough that it was hard to speak. “Avenge me, Saint.”

“This game is over.” Laurent smiled as he pulled his mask down. It was not a nice smile, but if Isaac weren’t in severe pain, it probably would have gotten him hard. He gave Laurent a weak head bump, and he could hear the crowd cheering as Laurent skated out on the ice.

They took Isaac to the hospital, which he thought was overkill. But the trainer said they needed an X-ray to make sure his ankle wasn’t broken. It felt broken, although admittedly a lot less so when they gave him some morphine. Then it felt great
.

Sometime during the pleasant drug haze, after he had the X-ray and they wrapped his ankle and elevated it, Laurent showed up. He was showered and dressed and holding a stuffed animal in his hand.

“Tell me,” Isaac said.

“Five to one.” Laurent answered the question Isaac didn’t even have to finish. Which was good, because Isaac had discovered it’s hard to speak when you’re stoned out of your mind on opiates. Laurent shoved the stuffed animal at Isaac. “Here.”

Isaac took it and tried not to laugh when he saw what it was. “A stuffed duck?”

Laurent mumbled something, and Isaac had to make him repeat it, because it all came out a pleasant garble of words spoken in Laurent’s warm, low voice as he addressed the floor.

“I said, it reminded me of the lake. Okay?” Laurent slumped down in his seat and crossed his arms. “It scared the shit out of me when you didn’t get up after that hit.”

Before Isaac could say anything, the door to his room opened, and Misha came in with the doctor. Misha put his hand on Isaac’s shoulder for a moment. Then he patted it twice.

“The good news is your ankle isn’t broken,” the doctor said. She was a serious-looking woman who didn’t even raise an eyebrow at Laurent’s scowl or the fact that Isaac was holding a stuffed duck. “The bad news is, you’re going to have to be off it for a few weeks. You’ll be on crutches for the first few days. I’m sorry. I know you’re in the middle of playoffs.” She smiled briefly. “Go Spitfires. I hate the Ravens.”

“So there’s no chance I’ll be able to play any more this season?” Isaac asked, trying not to sound as devastated as he felt.

“I’m sorry, but it’s extremely unlikely.” The doctor gave him a sympathetic look. “You’ll be healed up fine by next season, but unless you want to risk permanent injury, I’d say no. Even if it feels better, you need to give it time.”

Well, fuck. Isaac groaned. “Tell me they suspended Simon.”

“It was two hours ago,” Laurent reminded him. “But I’m sure they will. He wasn’t even carrying the puck.”

“He’ll have a hearing, or I will personally see that he does not play again,” Misha said, grimly. His fingers tightened briefly on Isaac’s shoulder, and then he pulled his hand away.

“Misha, don’t kill anyone,” Isaac murmured as he looked up at his coach.

“You don’t even sound like you mean that,” said Laurent.

“You’ll need to do physical therapy a few days a week after the initial swelling goes down.” Misha gave his shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “I’m sorry, Isaac. I know how much you wanted to win this series.”

Apparently uncaring of his audience, Laurent leaned in and took Isaac’s face in his hands. They were trembling, but Laurent’s voice was firm. “They’re not scoring a goal. Not for the rest of the series. I promise, Isaac.”

Isaac kissed him and practically swooned like a heroine in a gothic romance, and when he stopped, he and Laurent were alone in the room once more.

They didn’t speak, but Laurent stayed with him until it was time to go home.

IF ANYTHING
gave Laurent the courage to face his old team and the determination to win, it was the knowledge that it should be Isaac in goal instead of him.

He knew his father had put Simon up to the little stunt that had resulted in Isaac’s badly sprained ankle. It wouldn’t have been the first time his father gave “incentives” to his players to take out someone on the opposition. Last year he’d tried to do the same thing to Riley Hunter during the conference finals and offered a bonus to whoever would make it happen. Laurent tried not to feel guilty because he should have spoken up and said something. But to whom? The general manager was in his father’s pocket, and the team’s owner was content to let the staff manage the team.

Tyler Simon was not on the bench for the Ravens, as he’d been suspended indefinitely for his hit on Drake. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. The only thing that mattered to Laurent was keeping his promise to Isaac. And Laurent intended to make sure not a single goal was scored for the duration of their series with the Ravens.

For the first time in his whole life, Laurent played the game out of love instead of hate. But it wasn’t his love of hockey that kept him focused in net.

Every time a puck came toward him and he made a save, he thought, “This is for Isaac
.
” Every time one of his dickhead former teammates snarled something insulting or called him names, he ignored them and thought about Isaac calling him Saint
.
He thought about Isaac’s dumb blue hair dye that had left a stain in Laurent’s shower and that lip ring that drove Laurent crazy. He thought about the lake and eating a Twinkie on Isaac’s floor. He thought about Isaac saying he loved him.

Laurent played the best two games of hockey he’d ever played in his life, and the Asheville Ravens didn’t score a single goal.

In the fifth game of their series, the buzzer sounded, and the Ravens’ home crowd booed their bewildered team, who finally saw just how good a goalie Laurent St. Savoy was. After mobbing Laurent at his end of the ice, the triumphant Spitfires skated out to center ice for the handshake. But the Ravens went down the tunnel and didn’t come back. Denis St. Savoy was as graceless in defeat as he was in victory.

The Ravens might not have raised their sticks and saluted their fans, but Laurent raised his own—to his team, and to the blue-haired goalie sitting behind the visitor’s bench who wore a Spitfires jersey and tried to stand up and cheer while on crutches.

His team gave him stick taps, and Isaac nearly fell over trying to bang his crutch like a hockey stick up in the stands.

“LET’S WATCH
that save you made on Matthews again,” Isaac said from his spot on Laurent’s bed as he messed around on his laptop. His ankle was healing, and he didn’t need the crutches anymore, but he hated that Laurent still had to help him up the stairs. “I like how much attitude you gloved that puck with. It got me hard.”

Laurent still blushed when Isaac said stuff like that. But unlike before, his immediate response wasn’t to get angry or say something mean. “You’re a horny bastard,” he offered. “So there’s that.”

Isaac grinned at him and winked. “Are you done drawing cartoons yet?” He patted the bed next to him. “We should celebrate.”

“Your ankle—”

“Isn’t the part of me that wants to celebrate,” Isaac said.

Laurent looked down at the paper on which he was drawing and smiled. It was a fairly good approximation of Isaac wobbling on crutches and yelling his head off.

“Fine. I’ll just keep watching more game highlights and getting hot for you until you’re ready to stop being Picasso.” All of a sudden, Isaac’s voice sounded suspiciously choked—less like he was getting hot and more like he was upset. Laurent immediately looked up.

Isaac was watching the screen with the same smile on his face that Laurent probably had when he was looking down at the paper a moment before. “Someone filmed your little stick salute. Jesus, Laurent.”

Laurent’s face heated, but he was still glad he’d done that—even if the team made fun of him the whole way back to Spartanburg because of it. “Great.”

“You know how bad I wanted to blow you when you did that?”

“Bad enough to kneel even though you have a broken ankle?”

“It’s not broken. Stop trying to say something mean, so I’ll stop telling you how romantic that was.”

Laurent put his pencil down, stood up, stretched, and rolled his neck. “It wasn’t romantic. I was flipping you off under my glove.”

Isaac burst out laughing. “Get over here, Saint. I can blow you on the bed with my sprained ankle. You can do the kneeling, right over my face. How’s that?”

“Probably easier than when you tried it on the bus,” Laurent agreed and moved to where Isaac lay propped up on his bed. He moved the laptop and climbed on top of Isaac. Then he leaned down and bit him on the mouth. “I want you to fuck me.”

Isaac went still, and his voice turned husky with want. “Okay. That might be a little tricky with the ankle. Goddammit.”

Laurent stayed where he was, his mouth only slightly touching Isaac’s. “I’ve looked some stuff up. Since you gave me your Cockyboys login and all.”

“I’m so glad we have the kind of relationship where we can talk about porn.” Isaac’s mouth against Laurent’s curved up into a smile. “What’d you look up?”

“How to ride you,” Laurent said. He was proud of himself when he heard Isaac’s answering groan. “If you keep still, it should be fine.”

“It should be fine, he says.” Isaac reached out to pull at Laurent’s shirt. “You know I’m fine with blowjobs.”

“You’re more than fine with blowjobs. Remember? You’re an expert.” When Isaac went tense, Laurent read the body language and wondered if he’d been missing that all along whenever he made idle references to Isaac’s sex-worker past. “Hey. Does it bother you when I say that?”

“No,” Isaac said, too quickly for Laurent to believe him. “Not really.”

Laurent stared down at him and waited. He held the hem of his shirt in his fingers and paused, as if promising to continue only when Isaac started to talk.

“It’s weird. It never used to bother me. I mean, I’m not… I’m not proud of it. Right? Because I wish I would’ve had a better introduction to sex that wasn’t being scared and kneeling in an alley. But I don’t hate myself or anything. You can take your shirt off now.” Isaac looked at him hopefully.