Page 52 of These Wicked Games
I’ve never fucked like that before, and I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t think I can go back to how it was before, though, which is terrifying. It’s not that he’s a man or that the sex is better in that way—I still find women beautiful; I’m still sexually attracted to them—it’s just, I don’t even know. I love the way my fingers fit around his throat. The way my teeth sink into his skin. The way he groans and begs for everything I have to give. It’s nuclear. I love that I don’t have to be gentle. I love even it more that he doesn’t want me to be.
Then I think about us growing up . . . Games. That night he was drunk. The mottled bruises up his sides. When my mind drifts back to our past I feel that same ache I always have. I’ve missed him, and inside the tentative truce we have I’m realizing I don’t want tolet him go again. Have I forgiven him? I don’t know. I don’t know anything right now but how good it is to have him beside me again.
“How about we get a little father and son demo for the team?” I barely catch the end of that and I look back at Andre.
“Uh, what, Coach?”
“Why don’t you show everyone how to block the shots of one of the greatest centers of all time. I mean I’m sure you’re used to it by now. Unless you don’t want to?” Coach asks Tripp.
“Oh no, I’m sure Andre wouldn’t mind. He’s used to it. It’s why he’s one of the best goaltenders of all time.” The words are positive, but there’s this tension that flows between their eyes. Is this the first time Andre’s seen him since moving? There’s something so wooden about his demeanor now that wasn’t there when he was talking about the real housewives of the goal posts.
“Uh, sure thing, Tripp.”
Not Dad, though Tripp doesn’t seem to mind. Andre’s eyes land on me for a moment before he skates slowly to Tiffany, putting on his helmet. He gets into position and I nearly smile watching him. Tripp grabs a hockey stick. There are pucks littered everywhere right now. He chooses one behind the center line, then skates forward. He gets close to the blue line, then drives it toward Andre. The speed of the puck is insane. Tripp has always had one of the fastest shots in hockey.
Andre catches it, stumbling back a little with the impact. Tripp tries again, then again. Shot after shot after shot. Each one more aggressive than the last. Nearly a quarter of them make it through. I catch myself skating forward a bit. I’m not sure why, but something is off.
Tripp shoots the last puck, and it sails toward Andre, and he lets it go through. After the puck hits the net Andre takes off his helmet, throwing it aside and taking a deep breath before squirting water into his mouth.
All the guys cheer, but I look at Tripp watching Andre.
It’s like watching a tiger hunt.
Observing and calculating.
My unease hasn’t let up any once we’re back in the locker room. Tripp disappeared with Coach and Andre disappeared into the showers. I sit on the bench waiting for him to come out, and I play over watching Tripp’s shots to Andre. There’s something there, some sort of feeling deep in my gut I can’t shake. “Hey, we’re going down to Murray’s, you coming?” Atlas asks. Andre comes out dressed in a black T-shirt that’s stretched across his broad chest and a pair of jeans hugging the most delicious ass I’ve ever had the pleasure of putting my mouth on. “Oli! Hello!”
“He’s coming,” Grey answers for me.
“I’m beat.” I’m not, but I want to talk to Andre alone.
“Andre, why don’t you come too?” Grey says, ignoring me.
“What’s Murray’s?”
“It’s a sports bar downtown. They have darts, pool, air hockey . . .” Atlas says. “We usually always go, but Oli’s been ditching us.” I have not! I’ve just been busy. Exhausted really.
“Sure, I’ll go.” Andre looks to me. I just want to get him alone. Maybe after. I don’t think I can calm until I ask him if he’s alright.
Maybe I can even get Andre to come over to my house after.
Walking into Murray’s is a completely different vibe than going to Ruby’s. It’s a sports bar catering to a lot of athletes who share this city. It’s noisy but not too packed as we walk in. The decor is pretty basic, a lot of black on gray, but it’s comfortable. Andre is behind me, and I just want to pull him aside and ask him about practice and see if he’s alright. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet since then. “If you like piña coladas . . .” I roll my eyes. “And getting caught in the rain. . .” Atlas sings.
I smother his singing with my hand. “I’ll buy you two if you shut up right now.”
He pries my fingers off. “Daddy Grey!” Atlas whines. “Oli’s being mean to me.”
Grey shakes his head, sick of both of us by now. “What do you want to drink?” I ask Andre. “Anything you want.”
“Oh Oli, are you trying to have your way with me?”
“I’d need a lot less to get my way with you.”
“Dick,” Andre murmurs. “Get me something sweet, and strong.”
“Can I get two Long Island ice teas?” I put money on the bar. Atlas and Grey have left us alone, probably to play darts. Atlas lovesplaying darts. We wait for our drinks and I let the silence settle between us.
“What is it, Oli?”
