Page 119 of Slew Foot
Mickey had no problem getting hard or wanting to fuck Rafe. But the dizziness and ringing in his ears made it almost impossible to focus on anything, no matter how badly he wanted it.
One night at their hotel in Ottawa, he’d coaxed Rafe into making out for a bit. Making out had turned into stripping down to their underwear and touching each other all over.
It was just getting good, with Rafe grinding against his thigh, breathing heavily against Mickey’s mouth as Mickey told him what a good boy he was and how he couldn’t wait to lick his ass open to prep him to take his cock.
Since Mickey still needed to get testing done and neither of them had found the time to grab condoms, Mickey had rolled Rafe onto his back, intending to slide down his body and suck him off.
As he sat up to remove Rafe’s underwear, the sudden change in position made his head spin. He braced his arm against the bed, his left ear flooding with the strange ringing sound again. There was a low roaring whoosh under it too, a strange harmony that kept coming and going.
It wasn’t there all of the time, but it happened often enough Mickey felt like it would drive him crazy.
And it was getting worse.
By the time they finally reached Boston, Rafe had to help support him as he got off the plane.
Mickey was genuinely surprised when they arrived at the apartment and Rafe immediately moved his stuff into Mickey’s room. It wasn’t all of it, just what he’d need for the next few days,but Mickey had almost expected him to change his mind about their plan.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Mickey mumbled tiredly as he sat on the closed toilet seat lid, trying not to sway as he brushed his teeth.
The ringing wasn’t there at the moment, but the whooshing ocean noise was.
Rafe froze in the middle of patting his face dry. “Want to do what? Wash my face?”
“No,” Mickey said around the toothbrush. “Be with me.”
Rafe scowled and threw the towel onto the bathroom counter. He walked over to Mickey and cupped his cheeks.
Mickey felt vaguely stupid with the toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, but he still leaned into the touch.
“Listen to me,” Rafe said, his tone gentle and full of affection. “I love you, Mickey Krause. And you’re not going to get rid of me that easily.”
Exhausted tears pricked Mickey’s eyes because hewantedto believe that, but he also knew Rafe deserved better.
He pulled the toothbrush out and grabbed a tissue, spitting toothpaste into it, because he couldn’t have this type of conversation with something in his mouth.
“I just feel so …” He shrugged. He didn’t even have a word for it. Not in any language.
Helpless didn’t cover it. Neither did lost.
Since he had no light sensitivity and other than the weird, sharp headache on the plane, he wasn’t in pain, Dr. Pope had cleared him to use his phone and laptop. Unfortunately, sitting out of the games and practice for now had left him with way too much time on his hands.
He’d spent a lot of time looking up information on concussions. And it was all disturbing. There was an entire website that had been created by the initiative set up by Gabriel Theriault and his father, Alain, in partnership with the gear brand, Prescott.
All of the queer players, and many of the non-queer ones, had switched to the Prescott brand, both because of Prescott’s outspoken support of LGBTQ+ players and because of their commitment to reducing head trauma.
The website had great resources for everyone, with a special section for current and former players and their families. What signs to look for, when to worry, what steps to take, and who to reach out to for help.
But it was also terrifying stuff.
Mickey had suddenly realized he’d been a little cavalier about this injury initially.
He probablyshouldhave been more concerned about the way his head had smacked into the boards. Especially after reading an interview with a former player who talked about what it was like living with chronic tinnitus following a concussion.
That was the name for the weird noises in Mickey’s ear.
Reading about the guy’s difficulty concentrating was bad enough. But hearing about his early retirement from pro hockey, insomnia, and the way tinnitus had negatively impacted hisrelationship with his wife and led to depression and anxiety made Mickey’s stomach churn.
Tinnitus wasn’t considered chronic until it had lasted for three months, but Mickey had barely made it a week and he already felt like he was losing his mind.
