Page 51 of Home Ice Advantage

“Sully,” Eric said, “surprise me.”

Eric woke up on January 1 in Ryan Sullivan’s hotel room, with the man himself draped over Eric’s back like a barnacle and a mild hangover.

“Ow,” Eric said, fumbling one hand over the side table to reach for his glasses.

“Mmf,” Sully mumbled into his shoulder. For someone who was always at the rink early and insisted on everyone else getting there early too, he sure as hell hated mornings.

Eric tried to shift around so that he could look at Sully head-on, but it was difficult, because Sully was still stubbornly asleep, his face pressed against Eric’s shoulder.

“We gotta make it down to breakfast, mon chum,” Eric said, before he could stop himself.

Fuck, he had to be more careful about that. It was the kind of phrase that had two meanings, and he definitely didn’t think that Sully knew either of them, but there was no need to complicate things when they hadn’t discussed expectations or their relationship. No need except for the fact that waking up on New Year’s Day in a forcible embracedidthings to his stupid head.

Sully didn’t seem to notice or realize, so Eric was safe to skate by on another day of refusing to define what was going on here beyondI’m sleeping with my coworker and also spending most of my spare time with him outside of work, but that’s fine, because we’re both very busy and also don’t have any interests besides hockey.

He watched Sully demolishing a plate of hotel buffet breakfast with amusement, watched the boys drift down from their bedrooms, in varying degrees of exhausted or hungover or chipper, with amusement. His own headache subsided gradually after he chugged three cups of coffee in quick succession. It wasn’t very good coffee, but it did the trick.

By the time they were all packed up and headed back to the airport, Petey had made his mysterious return and Eric was feeling much more like himself. Better than himself. The last few New Year’s Eves he could remember, he had spent alone, and woke up in the morning with the knowledge that he was getting older, and opportunities of all kinds were slipping through his fingers. This year just having Sully’s solid body in the bed with him had been grounding in a way he had never expected.

The good mood only lasted as long as the wait to get on the plane. Jesse Keen stood next to him on the tarmac, scowling.

“What’s up, Keener?” Eric asked, a little wary. He knew the problem, of course. No veteran was happy about being healthy scratched or about the media digging in for quotes about how the coach was disappointed in him. Sully had been working with him extra, the way he always did with the scratches, but the sting wouldn’t be easily wiped away.

“Am I gonna be able to play the next game or is it all gonna be the affirmative action line again?”

Eric could feel the cold fury that he’d always felt when he’d heard shit like that on the ice settle in. “Excuse me, what did you say to me?”

“I said am I gonna be able to play the next game or is it all gonna be the affirmative action line again?”

“Keen, beyond the fact that Williams and Sinclair are important parts of our top lineandthe only line that’s regularly scoring any points? You can’tsaythings like that. Not to me. I won’t stand for it.”

“What the hell, Aronson? You’re old-school; you of all people should understand.”

“I of all—do you have any idea who the hell I am and where I come from?” He was speaking quietly, so the rest of the team wouldn’t hear him, but he felt like he was screaming it. He felt like he wanted to be screaming it, wanted to do all of the shit he would have done as a young man. All of those options would have ended in violence.

Keen must have realized his mistake as the words were coming out of Eric’s mouth, but it was too late to take it back. His whole face shuttered, and for a second, it seemed like he was going to double down. “You’re from Montreal.”

“I’m a middle-aged retired fuck,” Eric said shortly, “and I was one of the few Jewish players in the league. What kind of shit do you think I heard from opponents? On the ice?”

Keen stared at him, wordless.

“Yeah, you forgot that, eh? Well, don’t fucking forget it again, Keen. Sully might be preaching patience and understanding, but I’m not that kind of a guy.”

“Right,” Keen said. He turned away.

On the plane back to Boston, Sully looked at Petey, already passed out in the chair across from them, and back at Eric. He frowned and reached forward, his fingers resting against Eric’s wrist for a second. “What’s wrong?”

“What kind of a guy do you think I am?” Eric asked.

“What?” Sully’s broad, handsome face looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“You knew me as a player. You knew me on the ice, the kind of reputation I had. What kind of a guy do you think I am?”

The plane was always a little chaotic; guys chattering loudly in the back, other guys with their headphones on, the tinny music audible over it. Some of them snoring. Petey was, the noise like a buzz saw. Even so, Eric kept his voice down, and Sully echoed his volume. “I’m not entirely following. As a player? I thought you were kind of an asshole, I guess. You weren’tdirty, not like some of those guys were. But you sure as hell had that temper.”

“Okay,” Eric said, leaning back in his chair.

“That wasn’t the answer you wanted, huh?”

---