Ray stood second-to-last in the lineup by jersey numbers, listening to the roar of the crowd. Cheli got the same wild roar he always did--hometown boy and captain and great defenseman. Fraser got good volume, and Ray pounded the butt of his stick against the wall with added force, joining in the general din of the team. JR and Denny got the standard big cheers, and then the announcer said Hue's name, and Ray's ears hurt with the white-out sound. Eddie got his goalie props. Hack had his fans too; the cheer wasn't as loud as for Eddie, but Ray could pick out a fair number of high-pitched adoring screams.
The line in front of Ray got steadily shorter, the cheers louder as Ray got closer to being on the ice. His shoulder was aching with pounding his stick, his face hurt with the grin of pride he couldn't shake, and then he was at the top of the tunnel, and a booming voice was calling out, "Number sixty-seven, Ray Kowalski!" It sounded far away to his numbed ears. Ray turned his head, scrubbing his face against his shoulder. When he looked up he had his game face on, serious little smile, because he played a game for a living, but he was a professional about it. He skated out past the camera, three strides down the blue line, and made a sharp left turn, stopping shoulder to shoulder with Daz.
On the ice now, and the cheers were deafening as he stood still under them, shifting slightly from foot to foot, looking up at the packed seats, the fans on their feet. He knew it wasn't really that loud--he was no Chris Chelios--but it was loud enough; the crowd was into it, the start of another season with their team. They might not know Ray from Johnny Draftee, but he wore a Chicago jersey with his name on the back, so they were still screaming their throats out for him. Ray kept still, feeling the crowd, and he let his smile widen just a little, lifting his chin. The announcer called out Bernie, and he skated up to Ray's side, and the cheers went up again. Ray knew they weren't really quieter, but it sounded that way when they weren't aimed at him. Then it was another wild, deafening round of cheers for, "Ladies and Gentlemen, your Nineteen Ninety-Five Ninety-Six Chicago Blackhawks!" Ray's heart pounded fast, swept up in the home opener rush, like they'd already won the game, and he knew he could ride this tide all night, playing for a team of twenty thousand, and six on the ice.
When the crowd settled a little, the announcer started up again. "We would now ask you to join the Blackhawks in a moment of silence for number eleven, Louis Gardino."
The hush after the roar was eerie, and silence beat at him almost as hard as the cheers. Ray bowed his head, and raised his left hand to his right shoulder, cupping his palm over the black patch with Gardie's number. The moment was barely long enough for the echoes of cheering to die from his ears, no time to wrench his brain from the go go go of the pre-game hype in a home opener against the Detroit Fucking Red Wings to think anything in particular for Gardie. The booming voice said, "Thank you," and the cheers started up again, only slightly subdued.
Ray squeezed his own shoulder and said, "Bye," quietly, toward the shining ice. Then he shook off the last shred of silence with another look up at the crowd and skated over to join the pileup waiting to take their places on the bench. They sat down for the Wings' entrance, grinning at the vicious boos from the stands, and then stood up again for the anthem. Ray leaned past Dewey to ask Hue, "Hey, so who all's she slept with?"
Hue snorted. "Everybody with the balls to take on the Ice Queen, man."
Ray glanced across the ice toward Meg. Figured. She hadn't gotten this job on talent. "Bitch, huh?"
Hue leaned closer, and enunciated clearly. "Cast. Iron."
Dewey snickered. "Yeah, but I hear she's got a molten core."
Ray elbowed Dewey hard as he straightened up, grinning across at Huey doing the same thing on his other side. Wingers had to look out for their center, after all. Then the anthem was starting and the cameras were headed their way, and Ray put on the usual vaguely bored expression and waited for the song to end.
During the inevitable TV timeout before puck drop--Wings-Hawks meant national TV, even in October--Ray leaned out and looked down the bench toward Fraser, who was looking out at the empty ice, nodding slightly to whatever Bully was saying to him. The way Bully's hands were waving around, it could be yesterday's special teams practice or a dissertation on modern dance. Ray liked the patient look on Fraser's face, liked knowing that Fraser was listening, even to a whacked-out mook like Ren Turnbull. Fraser looked down just then, right at him, like he knew Ray would be watching him. They exchanged smiles--the crowd was too loud to try to say anything, with seven guys between them--and then the timeout was done and they were getting set for puck drop.
The game was fast from the first minute, both teams going at each other full force because after all the getting ready, this was a real game, and a rivalry was still a rivalry, even in October. Ray's first two shifts went by in blurs of bright ice and white and red jerseys, occasional shouts from guy to guy and the sing of skates, the slap of the puck and the rattle of the glass as people got hit who weren't him. Every now and then the crowd got loud enough to register as more than white noise in the background, but mostly his attention was all on the ice.
By his third shift, the game had settled down from the crackling white-hot flashiness of a Big Game, into another good night on the job. He and Hue and Deuce were clicking, making plays, and it was just a matter of time before they put something in.
Late in the first, Ray was rushing down into Detroit's end, Dewey carrying the puck a little ahead of him, his legs a blur as he raced down the ice. Cheli and Daz changed out for Fraser and Bully, and Ray grinned as he pushed into the zone. Deuce got tied up just past the line and swung out to one side, fighting along the boards to keep control of the puck. Ray took over his usual spot just outside the crease, absorbing a few whacks from a Russkie in a red jersey, dodging the worst shoves and elbows. Deuce--small, Ray thought, regretfully, he really is too fucking small--lost the fight for the puck, and another red jersey shot it up ice.
Except Fraser was there, holding the line, white jersey bright, drawing back his stick for the one-timer. Before the puck had even connected with his stick, Ray was calculating the angle. When he heard the crack of rubber on tape and saw the black blur flying toward him, Ray dodged backward, getting clear of his opponent just far enough to get his stick out. He felt the puck hit, the reverb of the impact riding up his arm, and Ray already knew he'd nailed it, perfect deflection, even before the flashing light and the jumping crowd and the cursing Russian behind him.
He was jumping, screaming though he couldn't hear himself over the fans going wild, his stick waving in the air. Hue and Deuce were rushing toward him with open arms, but Ray was running up ice toward Fraser skating down to him. "Buddy!" Ray screamed, as Fraser's arm closed around his back, crushing them together. He pounded Fraser's helmet with his free hand. "You hear that, Fraser?" The screams were slacking off from the first burst, enough that Ray could at least hear himself, but it still sounded great. "You and me, we're a fucking duet! You set 'em up, I knock 'em in!"
Fraser was laughing at him, his teammates were crashing up against him, the crowd loved him, all of Chicago loved him. He was a hero, he was a god, he was a Blackhawk. Bully smacked him on the ass as they broke up and got set for the faceoff, and Ray fought down his smile and settled into a ready steady stance, stick blade on the ice. Even if it was the first goal of his resurrected career, it was just one goal, and there was a whole game ahead of them yet.
Still, when his eyes met Fraser's, shining bright as the arena lights, Ray winked, and Fraser winked right back. This was good. This was fucking greatness.
Ben felt a short cold rush of horror, his pulse jumping, when he realized he'd followed his man completely out of position. He was only a few meters short of the blue line in his own zone, and the Red Wings were rocketing the puck about, keeping up intense pressure. Ben whirled to start back down the ice to guard the goal, and spotted Ray standing at the crease beside Eddie, having slotted himself into Ben's position. He smiled down the ice at his friend--and Ray, watching up ice, met his gaze and smiled back.
Ben was skating toward Ray to switch into their correct positions when he heard the crack of a powerful slapshot behind him. He couldn't see the puck, moving at more than ninety miles an hour, but Ben saw Ray pivoting sideways, moving instinctively toward the sound, saw Ray's eyes startled-wide, saw the impact expressed in Ray's flying limbs.
Ray went down heavily and hard, like a caribou shot squarely in the heart. Ben's momentum was already carrying him in Ray's direction, and he hit his knees, digging in with his toes to stop his slide at Ray's side.
His eyes were closed, and he was lying perfectly still, head turned slightly to one side. Ben noticed that his own hand was bare when he extended it to touch Ray's face, and then his throat. He could detect no movement from Ray, nothing at all. Ben was reaching with his other hand to tilt Ray's head back when he was pulled away. He watched, still on his knees, as Mort and a few other men in trainer's clothes converged on Ray, one of them carrying an enormous medical box.
Ben was dragged up to his feet, almost entirely by force of the hands under his arms, though he tried to cooperate enough to get his skates down and steady. He lifted his gaze from Ray's closed eyes and blue-tinged lips to see Chris's face bare inches from his. It was Chris who was holding him up and propelling them away from Ray. "Get your game face on, Fraser," his captain whispered, harshly, "You're on national fucking television."
"He's not breathing," Ben said, feeling small and helpless as a child. "He's not breathing."
Chris shook him a little, showing no fear to mirror Ben's. "Pull it together, Mort's got him, he's going to be fine. Fraser, he's fine."
Ben nodded, composing his face to an acceptable blankness, and looked around the bright ice, the silent arena, the crowd all on their feet, hands at their sides. He remembered the crushing stillness of the crowd outside Louis's funeral, their open hands and empty faces. He had to look away from them, down at the other men on the ice. Lidstrom stood among his teammates at the Detroit bench, his hands holding his stick slightly away from his body as though he could divorce himself from what it had done, staring toward the spot where Ray had fallen. Ben watched him, the man who had taken that slapshot, fighting the foreign impulse to rush across the ice and strike him down to the ice as he'd stricken Ray. It was an accident, he reminded himself, a freak accident, a hazard of the game. Ray had gotten in the way of a shot. It could happen to anyone.
Ben shifted against Chris's lingering grip on his arm, pivoting to look back toward Ray, though all he could see of his friend were his legs, lying still, skate blades straight up and down. The rest was hidden by the cluster of medical personnel working over him. Ray's shoulder pads were lying on the ice along with his helmet, and Ben wondered if that were a good sign or a bad one. It wasn't a neck injury, after all.
"Breathe, Fraser," Chris said, close to his ear, and Ben obediently breathed, in and out, the silence of the arena filling his mouth and throat and lungs, heavy and smothering and cold. The unnatural brightness of fluorescent lights reflecting on ice and glass throbbed in his vision, dark on its periphery. Shock, he thought, and remembered Ray's wide eyes, bright and blue, alive and full of expression, falling backward. Shocked. He hadn't seen it coming. No one could have seen it coming, a puck moving faster than the eye could track, striking just so, taking him down like a bullet. Whenever Ben looked away, he saw Ray falling to the ice, over and over, so he kept his eyes on Ray's feet. At least he wasn't falling any further now.
Ray's skates twitched, and then he drew up one leg, setting the skate blade almost flat to the ice, and Ben drew in a gasping harsh breath. His eyes stung, and he turned toward Chris, trusting his captain to hide him from the cameras as he wiped his face against his arm, leaving his jersey wet. When Ben dared to look up, they'd lifted Ray onto a stretcher. Mort shifted to stand at Ray's head, and Ben could see Ray's chest rising and falling, looking strangely small and fragile in a jersey with no pads beneath.
Ben skated across the ice in the wake of the stretcher, catching a dim distant glimpse of Ray's face as he was taken down the tunnel. It was only when he saw Ray's lips moving that he heard the cheering of the crowd and realized his own heart was beating in his chest.
Ben looked around the bench, trying to return himself to the reality of the game, his job, a national television audience and a sixty-nine-year-old rivalry. Coach and his assistants had their heads together over a clipboard, speaking quickly. Most of the men looked relieved, now, though Jack seemed to be reassuring a pale and shaken Tom. Jeff had disappeared from his seat, presumably using his position at the top of the tunnel to sneak down to the locker room and keep watch over Ray. Ben looked around for Ren to find him standing quietly at his side, holding Ben's gloves and stick. When Ben met his eyes, Ren laid a hand on his shoulder and said solemnly, "We'll finish it for Ray, Benton. We will prevail."
Ben nodded, and closed his eyes, pulling himself together, extending the false calm of his expression further, deeper. When he opened his eyes, Coach was gesturing them into a huddle, and Jeff was coming over from the tunnel.
Jeff moved toward the center of the group, and said quickly, "Ray's fine, he's talking, he's pissed they're not letting him come back and play. Doc says he has to go to the hospital for tests, even if his heart was only stopped for a minute. Probably be there overnight for observation."
Coach nodded. "Thank you, that's good news." Coach looked around, focusing on Ben, and Ben straightened up under the scrutiny. "You good to play?"
Ben nodded quickly, cleared his throat and said, "I'm fine, I'm ready to go." Coach held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded, looking around at the others, assessing them silently. "All right," he said, finally, "JR, your line up front, Chelios, you and Daze on D. Fraser, sit down before you fall down."
Ben winced, but swung himself over the half-wall and onto the bench, accepting the Gatorade someone pressed into his hand and rinsing his mouth before he pulled on his gloves. The game started up again after a few more delays and an announcement of Ray's basic state of health, which was greeted with another standing ovation. Even for Ray's sake, Ben could barely bring himself to focus on the game. He played when his name was called, but on autopilot, the way he could do anything he'd learned at the age of three, without really thinking about it.
Mercifully soon, the game was over. Ben blinked at the numbers on the scoreboard, but could not attach meaning to them. He stopped trying as his teammates began to file toward the locker room, falling into line.
An assistant coach caught him as soon as he was off the bench, looking worried, and said, "You wanna go see Kowalski?"
Ben's heart jumped, but he said, quite calmly, "You're not sending Chris?"
"He's gotta stay and talk to the press, you don't. Come on, you can shower and change in the therapy room."
Ben went, docilely, but stopped short at the sight of Ray's jersey and t-shirt lying discarded on the floor. The coach mistook his hesitation and said, "We put your clothes on the bench there, go ahead and get cleaned up. I'll go check that there's somebody to drive you."
Ben removed his gloves and helmet, and then boosted himself onto a table to untie his skates, his eyes fixed, all the time, on the small heap of Ray's shirts on the floor. Throughout the game, Jeff's words--Ray's fine, he's talking, he's pissed, his heart was only stopped for a minute--had been replaying in his mind. Ray's fine, he's pissed, his heart stopped. Ray's heart stopped. Ben undressed quickly, mechanically, laying out his gear neatly on the table, his jersey and shirt and socks and shorts and other socks in a small pile. He turned his back on everything, crossing quickly to the shower, washing fast with the strongly antiseptic-smelling soap laid out in this shower. Ray's fine, his heart stopped. He dried off and dressed quickly, uncertain of when someone might return for him. Only when he was ready to go did he let himself pick up Ray's things from the floor. They were damp with sweat, and cold to the touch. Ben folded the t-shirt and jersey, and set them neatly on a table, smoothing the cloth with one hand. They would smell like Ray, but cold, and stale, and he was going to see Ray in a moment, because Ray was fine. His heart had stopped.
The door opened, and Ben turned toward it before he was called, leaving Ray's things where they were and stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He walked quickly down the corridor, staring straight ahead, not acknowledging the calls of the handful of reporters gathered there, not flinching from the bright lights of their cameras. Soon he was climbing into the backseat of a very nice car.
Ben closed his eyes, and watched Ray falling to the ice over and over, blue eyes wide, until the car stopped. The driver guided him to a nurse, who had apparently been told who he was here to see. She led him down brightly lit corridors full of quiet bustle. They rode an elevator to the fourth floor, and then walked down a row of private rooms. "Here you are, Mr. Fraser," she said, stopping outside a door identical to all the other doors, "ten minutes, all right? He's supposed to be resting."
Ben nodded, and stepped inside.
Ray was lying still in the hospital bed with his eyes closed. The lowered lights cast odd shadows on his face, but the motion of his breathing was readily apparent. Ben found his own breaths matching the rhythm of Ray's as he moved closer to the bed. Ray was wearing a pale green hospital gown that made his skin look sickly. The neck gapped enough to show the top edge of a purple-black bruise creeping toward his collarbone. Ben knew he should let him rest, but said softly, "Ray."
Blue eyes fluttered open, blinking sleepily, and Ray's smile spread across his face in slow motion. "Hey, Fraser, buddy buddy, calamari."
Ben blinked. "Ray?"
"M'good. Just they gave me a," Ray waved one hand in a loosely circular motion, "dunno, something." Ray tapped his own chest lightly. "Don't want the ticker getting up to any tricks for a little while."
"Ah. Well, I just wanted to see that you were all right. I'll let you sleep." Ben made to take a step back, but Ray's hand flew out, uncoordinated but quick, and landed on his wrist, holding him fast with just a touch.
"S'all right, Fraser," Ray muttered, "I don't sleep good when they give me medicine. Stay a little. Ten minutes, right?"
"Ah." Ben moved closer, covering Ray's hand with his own. "Yes."
"M'good," Ray repeated drowsily. He shifted in the bed, winced, and settled on his back again. "This was a good night, eh, Fraser? You hear that crowd?" In the quiet after Ray's slow slurred words, Ben remembered the thunderous silence of the arena and pressed his hand harder against the warmth of Ray's fingers. "They can't get enough of us, huh? Some kind of karmic chi love thing going on there."
Karma? What had Ray done to deserve ending up here? Perhaps it was Ben's karma at work--after all, Ray had been standing in his place when the puck hit him. "That's a distinct possibility, Ray."
Ray snorted, and then winced again. "Don't make me laugh, Frase. Hurts." Ray opened his eyes properly wide, looking up at Ben, the expression of surprise he remembered replaced with a glassy calm. "Tonight was--tonight--I love you, Fraser."
Ben was telling himself he knew better even as he said it. "And I you, Ray."
Ray smiled, his eyes sinking nearly closed. "Told you, Fraser, don't make me laugh. I mean--you know what I mean."
Ben nodded. Of course he did; Ray was euphoric with sedatives and the good night he'd been having before it happened, the good night that was all he was likely to remember of this. Of course his sleepy-voiced declaration didn't mean any of the things it might, theoretically, have meant under other circumstances. "Of course I do, Ray."
Ray's fingers tightened around his wrist without real force, and then released as Ray slipped again into sleep. Ben laid his hand carefully at his side, and slipped back out to the hallway.
He was returned easily enough to the car that had brought him, and Ben rode home with a marginally less disturbing set of mental images--Ray lying in a hospital bed, Ray saying...
He found himself at the front door of his apartment with no real recollection of how he'd gotten there, and let himself in. Ben glanced at the television, and for a moment considered turning on Sports Center, but then realized that he'd be certain to see it all again from a whole new angle--Ray's injury would be highlight reel material for at least the next twenty-four hours, endlessly repeating on the television as it was at the back of his mind.
Ben left the television off, and sat down on the sofa in the dark. "He died," Ben said quietly to the empty room, and the words shook him. He squeezed his eyes shut against the repeating vision of a body falling down in a field of white, blond hair flashing bright. "Everyone dies."
He heard a small sound then, a familiar metallic jingle, and laughed as he lowered his face into his hands. "Everyone I love dies, and I go out of my mind. It's nicely literary, at least."
He didn't take his hands from his face until the licking had gone on for a count of sixty, and when he did, Dief was sitting at his feet, looking sympathetic. Perhaps dying had taught him some patience with human foibles; he'd never had any before. Ben swallowed against the tightness in his throat, and said, "Hello," just to see if he could.
Dief barked, or appeared to bark; no sound reached Ben's ears, though he'd heard his own voice clearly enough a moment before. He reached down and clicked Dief's tags together, and heard that as well. Dief spoke again, silently, and Ben nodded. "That's true, it is only fair. You haven't been able to hear me for years, so why should I hear you?"
Dief pulled away from Ben's hand, drawing the tags from his grip. The movement briefly revealed a dark spot on Dief's white chest fur, hidden once the tags fell back into place. Dief jumped, soundless except for the jingle of tags, onto the couch, and when Ben sat back, the wolf--ghost--wolf wormed his way into Ben's lap. The soft compact weight of his old friend was familiar, absent only the life-warmth that had formerly made it uncomfortable or, on occasion, desperately necessary, to sit this way. Ben buried his hands in white fur, and leaned his head against the back of the couch, determined not to wonder how or why Dief had returned to him.
"Maybe there's hope," he said softly, working his hands through Dief's fur, at last not entirely alone. "Ray's all right, and you're here, so maybe there's a chance."
Dief was still dead, of course. And even in perfect health, Ray was still the sort of man Ray was. Any guy in a jersey, Jeff had said, but then, Ben had a jersey. If he could only learn to be happy with the things he could have, he could be all right.
Dief shifted on Ben's lap, sitting up with a paw on his shoulder, and licked his face clean. Ben didn't push him away.
Ray sat in the little room Mort was using in the visitor's dressing room, wearing shorts and a t-shirt while he got his hands taped. Mort had inspected the bruise on his chest, and his ribs, back in Chicago before they left for the road trip, and again after morning skate, before declaring that he was definitely allowed to play tonight. Still, as soon as he'd finished wrapping Ray's hands, Mort poked his chest, just hard enough to hurt. Ray winced. "I'm good, Mort," he said, firmly.
Mort nodded. "Extra padding?"
Ray grimaced, thinking about it. The defensemen he'd be up against tonight would be more than happy to aim every elbow and stick and shove at his chest, knowing it'd hurt extra--but unfamiliar chest padding would throw him off a little, and he'd already gone four days since playing. He didn't need the least bit of help being off his game tonight. "Nah," Ray said, finally, "I'm good." Mort just frowned and nodded. He knew how it was.
Ray got up and headed into the locker room proper, shadowboxing as he went. He put some bounce into his steps even as the motion of his arms made his chest twinge, showing no weakness even here in his own locker room, acknowledging no pain in front of his teammates.
No fighting, he reminded himself, throwing textbook jabs at the air. No matter how much they whaled on him tonight, no matter how much it hurt and how bad it pissed him off to have a weak spot everybody knew about, he couldn't go after anyone. His fists tightened hard, tape pulling at the skin of his hands, as he thought about it.
It had been months since he'd been in a fight. He'd kept enough of a rep as an NHL fighter that most of the players in the beer leagues hadn't wanted to take him on, but every time a season started up, it seemed like there was one new guy in the mix who wanted to go. The second Friday of July, Ray had gotten into it with a twenty-five-year-old kid who'd never made it past college hockey, but not because he didn't have the right arm for it. Ray knew for a fact he was top-shelf there.
He headed over to his locker and closed his eyes, remembering the ritual exchanges of insults leading up to the big moment when the words ended and the fun began. Gloves off, helmets off, they'd faced each other, and then--wham. Ray'd gotten in a few good blows, bloodied the kid's nose in between getting his lip split and his head hammered. He'd had a good fistful of the kid's jersey, anchoring himself against the backslide of his skates every time either of them landed a blow, and the kid's fist wrapped in his jersey was a constant pressure against Ray's right side. When the fight first started he'd been aware, as he always was, of who was watching, how it looked, how much penalty time he was about to take, but once the first few punches connected, it was like the whole arena was gone, his team, the other guy's team, the refs. There was nothing in the world but him and the guy he was fighting with, just pounding fists and bloodied faces. The pain of getting hit just fed the fire, pushing the rush of fighting higher until that moment when the kid got Ray's jersey pulled over his head and he had to decide if he'd had enough. Ray had never in his life failed to slip free and come out swinging.
Ray's fists clenched and he bounced on his feet, grinning like a mad dog at the memory, and then he opened his eyes and sighed, looking at the fresh clean bandages on his knuckles.
No fighting. Right.
He started getting dressed, looking around for someone to distract him. Right on cue, there was Fraser, sitting on the bench already fully dressed. He had his head propped on one gloved fist, but Ray could see his mouth moving. Talking to himself, and not saying anything too cheerful, from the looks of him.
Ray stayed where he was, but went on watching Fraser as he taped his socks in place and pulled on his pants. As he was fastening his suspenders, Fraser made a little hand motion down by his knee that Ray recognized, even muffled by a hockey glove; he'd felt his own hand make the same gesture often enough. Ray picked up his skates and moved over to Fraser's bench, plopping down beside him. Fraser straightened up, startled; he must have been completely out of it. "Ray?"
Ray bent down to put his skates on and said, "So tell me about your wolf, Fraser." He gave Fraser the time it took him to get both feet into his unlaced skates before he looked up, and when he did, Fraser was staring at him, mouth hanging slightly open. "You--" Ray raised his left hand and made the same ear-scritching move he'd seen Fraser do a few minutes before, then looked back down, lacing his left skate. "And you were talking to yourself. And you told me you knew a wolf once, right? So tell me about him."
Whole lot of nothing from Fraser, and then he said quietly, "He died, Ray. There's nothing to tell."
Okay, so Ray was going to have to do the heavy lifting, here. Fair enough. He nodded, enough that Fraser could see, and went on yanking his laces tighter, inch by inch. "I get that, not wanting to talk about it. I had this dog once, this crazy little mutt. He was a stray. I thought I hit him with my car, see, driving home from practice one night. I got out to look for him, didn't want some poor dog lying on the side of the road with busted guts because of me, although I didn't know what the hell I was going to do if I found him. This is when I was playing in Quebec, right? I'd been there maybe a month." Fraser made an understanding sound, and Ray went on, forgetting which one of them he was trying to distract from what. "I mean, where did I think I was going to find a vet in Quebec in the middle of the night? So I'm looking, calling out, and then there he is, this little mutt standing in the weeds, just holding up one paw. Turns out I almost missed him completely, except this cut on his leg. I still didn't know what to do with him, so I wrapped him up in my practice jersey and took him back to the rink and got our trainer to have a look at him before I took him home."
Ray tied off his left skate and moved on to the right. "Stella about busted something. Hated that dog. He pissed all over me the first time he saw her, because she was speaking English. Didn't even realize it, but I'd been speaking French all that time, carryover from practice. I guess some Anglais beat him or something; he couldn't handle it. Even after I got him so he was okay with that, he didn't really like anybody but me. And then I--" Ray grimaced, hauling on his laces till his fingers turned red and throbbed. "I got traded to Boston, and Stella got a job offer back here. I couldn't take care of a dog--y'know, road trips--"
Fraser didn't make a sound, but one of his hands clenched suddenly. Ray just kept talking, remembering all the hours he'd spent lying on the floor talking to the dog, petting him, slipping in a word of English when he thought he could get away with it, calming him down over and over when he spooked.
"And he was too nuts for Stella or anybody else to take care of, forget boarding him or anything. So finally Stella said she'd take care of it, y'know? Find him somewhere to go, like I was a little kid and my old dog was going to go live on--what do parents always say? A farm?--and I just let her tell me that. Later on, when we were splitting up, she tried to bring up the dog and I just--I wouldn't even let her talk about it, I didn't want to even hear."
Ray sat up, and realized that he'd miscalculated somewhere in his little plan to stop Fraser from feeling sorry for himself, because now he was pretty obviously feeling sorry for Ray--but then he was a pretty sorry bastard, wasn't he? Couldn't even put down his own crazy scared little dog. Ray looked away, fiddling with his suspenders as he talked. "But, uh, y'know, who knows, right? Maybe he really is frolicking on a farm full of French-speaking children or something. Chasing squirrels, having a good time."
They sat there for a minute in silence, and then Fraser knocked his fist lightly against Ray's knee. "His name was Diefenbaker."
Ray looked up, squinting as he tried to remember. That name--"Like the lake?"
Fraser looked startled and then pleased. "Yes, Ray, like the lake."
Ray nodded. "Fran篩s."
Fraser blinked and then said, "Because he was French," but he didn't laugh or anything.
Ray looked down again, blinking and fighting a grin, flexing his hands against the tape. "Um. Anyway, I should finish--"
"--Yes, getting dressed. Of course." Ray nodded and got up and Fraser stood too, beside him, and said, "Thank you, Ray," like he really meant it.
Ray tapped his knuckles against Fraser's chin. "What are friends for, eh, Fraser?"
He nearly told Dief to get off the bed, but there wasn't a good way to do it without drawing Ray's attention, and in any case it wasn't as if he had to worry about Dief getting soft and over-civilized. There was no longer any danger of the wolf growing up and deciding to return to the wild. Ben shifted closer to Dief, instead, running his knuckles along Dief's side in the guise of rubbing the muscle of his thigh. When he set his hand on his knee, Dief rested his head on top of it. Ben smiled, content, and went back to what he'd been doing for the past several minutes: watching Ray.
His roommate had been in a palpable good mood since before the game, his first since the slapshot incident. Ray had played his usual role with gusto, fighting for position in front of the net. Though to Ben's critical eye it had seemed that Ray was being knocked around more than usual, Ray had kept his good humor all night, appearing quite unfazed. He'd seemed to generate more energy as the night went on and his teammates--and linemates--grew weary. Though they'd only pulled out a tie, Ray had been all but dancing through the locker room, bouncing in his seat on the bus as they rode back to the hotel, humming in the elevator. Once in their room, Ray had immediately unearthed a portable CD player from his bag, and flung himself down on the bed to listen to his music. Judging by the beat--visible in the rhythmic and constant motion of Ray on and across the bed--it was the same song he'd been humming earlier.
He had his eyes closed, quite wrapped up in the music, so Ben felt safe looking his fill at Ray. The movements of his long, lean body, which after weeks of practicing and playing together in full gear seemed almost naked in blue jeans and a t-shirt, were unbearably suggestive; he appeared to be dancing lying down, his arms flung over his head, hips and legs in constant motion. Ben had given up on trying not to look, and tried instead to reduce the disquieting effects by focusing on small parts of the view.
Ray's hands, loosely curled, opening and closing in time to some element of the unheard music, were looking well. The skin over his knuckles was pink but whole, showing only slight lines of irritation from the near-constant presence of adhesive tape.
Ray's feet were still clad in white socks, arching and flexing in a steady rhythm. The tip of one toe, startlingly pink and soft-looking, protruded through a ragged hole that widened by one unraveling stitch even as Ben watched.
Ray's face was intent, eyes pressed tightly shut, his lips pursed, cheeks slightly flushed. He nodded, or made slight side-to-side motions; when he threw his head back entirely, exposing his throat, taut beneath the light caress of black headphone wires, Ben had to look away.
His eyes lighted on Ray's jeans, the thrust and roll of narrow hips and parted thighs only emphasizing the not-at-all-insubstantial bulge distorting the faded fabric. Ben's eyes lingered a shameful instant too long, before jerking away, first to Ray's still-closed eyes, fearful of detection, and then down, to his own hands and Dief's highly amused grin. He felt himself blushing brightly under Dief's scrutiny; his friend's wolfish impatience with the complications of human mating rituals had obviously survived intact. It's complicated, he mouthed.
Dief gave him a disbelieving look, and then, lightning-quick, ducked his head and snapped at Ben's thigh. Ben made a disconcerted noise, Dief dematerialized, and Ray rolled onto his side, tugging his headphones off his ears by the wires, his eyes searching Ben's face. "Fraser?"
He blinked stupidly at Ray, spread out before him, suddenly still and as intently focused on Ben as he had been on the music. "Ah," Ben said, rubbing the spot where Dief's teeth had made the barest possible contact with his thigh. "Leg cramp."
Ray smiled knowingly, almost smugly, and as Ben watched, Ray's eyes darted down to his lap, then back up to his face. Ray's smile widened further, and he rolled smoothly to a sitting position, pulling his headphones off and setting the player aside. "Gotta watch out for those leg cramps," Ray said, his voice low and warm. The heat in it went straight to Ben's groin, his incipient erection becoming suddenly actual, and he bit his lip to keep from groaning.
Ray slid off the bed, going to his knees at Ben's feet in the space between their beds, settling a hand high on Ben's thigh and kneading at the muscle. Ben bit down harder on his lip--Ray's touch felt better than good on the aching muscle, and sent shivers of arousal outward from the spot--but a low sound slipped past his lips, sparking a pleased light in Ray's eyes. "Y'know," Ray said, his hand creeping higher, "I do think I owe you one, if you don't mind humoring me."
Ben licked his lips, "Well," he said, more steadily than he expected to, "if it will make you feel better, Ray, of course."
Ray's left hand cupped him then, firm and confident, while his right hand went to the button of his jeans, but Ray never looked away from Ben's eyes. "See, now," Ray said, sounding a little breathless himself as he smiled up at Ben, "that's buddies. You're a real friend, Fraser."
Ben breathed carefully, in and out, as Ray bent his head, his smile eclipsed as his nimble hands opened the fly of Ben's jeans. Buddies, yes. That was what Ray would see, and as long as he saw nothing else in Ben's actions, everything would be all right between them. Looking down at Ray's bent head, bright hair irrepressibly spiked, as those hands slid into his opened jeans, Ben reminded himself of what they were doing here. Buddies.
Ben planted his hands behind him and leaned back on that support as he lifted his hips, allowing Ray to pull down his jeans and boxers down far enough to free his erection. Ray shifted closer, placing himself between Ben's knees, and Ben closed his eyes to hide what he felt as Ray's hand closed around him.
He felt the motion of air, cool against the blood-hot skin at the head of his cock, and shivered all the way down to his balls. In the next instant he was engulfed in the melting heat of Ray's mouth, and Ben gasped aloud and opened his eyes. Ray's lips were stretched obscenely around his flesh, his eyes closed, forehead furrowed with concentration. As Ben watched, Ray's wet soft mouth moved down his cock till it met his hand, roughly stroking. Ray's cheeks hollowed as he sucked, and Ben's hands fisted in the bedspread, his legs tensing from hip to toe and his stomach clenching as he forced himself not to thrust into the welcome of Ray's mouth.
He couldn't keep himself from a slight jerk of hips as Ray drew back, and the glancing scrape of Ray's teeth drew an actual moan from him, half-choked back, but enough to make Ray's eyes flick up to meet his. Ben had to turn his head away from that look, lewd and full of promise already being fulfilled. Staring at the blank wall, he could feel the rapid motion of Ray's ribs against the insides of his knees, Ray's sucking mouth and jerking hand. The electric sensation of gathering pleasure rushed through him, heating his belly, tightening his balls. Ben raised his hand, meaning to push Ray away, to back off, to make it last a moment longer, but Ray's teeth traced a line of pressure, leashed potential-pain, against the underside of his cock, and Ben pressed his open hand into Ray's hair, cradling the hard curve of skull as he came, gasping for breath.
He slumped back on the bed, staring dazed and uncomprehending at the ceiling as his heart raced, then looked down when he felt Ray move away. Ray was standing at the night table between the beds, balling up a tissue in one hand and wiping his mouth on the shoulder of his shirt. He smiled at Ben as he tossed the tissue into the wastebasket, and Ben gathered the strength to sit up as Ray walked over to stand in front of him again, putting his strained jeans directly at eye level.
Ben swallowed hard, and said, "You know, Ray--if you'd be so kind as to permit--"
Ben dragged his eyes up to Ray's face when he chuckled, and hooked his fingers through the belt loops of Ray's jeans. He yanked sideways and down, pulling Ray onto the bed beside him, so roughly that he bounced on impact. Ray's eyes went briefly wide, startled, and Ben kicked off the hindrance of his jeans and boxers and then, feeling a bit ridiculous in just a t-shirt, pulled that off as well. Ray was still lying as he'd landed, on his side, propped on one elbow. His eyes skimmed over Ben and his little smile returned, and Ben smiled back, moving to kneel beside Ray, reaching for the hem of his shirt.
Ray flinched, just barely, as Ben got his hands under Ray's shirt, and he abruptly remembered the bruises that must still mark him, and the beating he'd taken in the course of the game. Ben leaned closer, shifting one hand down to Ray's hip and stilling the other on his side, only pressing slightly against the quick motion of Ray's ribs to steady him. Moving quickly, hoping to hide the tenderness he felt, Ben pressed his mouth to Ray's.
Ray pulled back from that contact, too, but Ben made a low soothing wordless noise, wondering distantly if there were some rule about oral sex and kissing that he was violating. He needed to reassure Ray too much to care about such niceties, however, and sealed his lips to Ray's, licking into Ray's mouth as soon as his lips parted. Ray shifted away again--moving onto his back, propped on both arms--and Ben followed him down. He could taste himself in Ray's mouth, mingled with the taste and smell of Ray--remembered from that hot summer day, familiar from the locker room--and couldn't help moaning. He felt Ray's lips twitch toward a smile under his own, and then Ray was sucking at his tongue, kissing him back, and Ben resumed slowly pushing up his shirt, enjoying the soft hot slide of Ray's skin under his palm, the hard play of rib and muscle behind it. When his fingertips reached Ray's armpit, Ray pulled away again, this time with a high-pitched ticklish noise. Ben grinned, taking the opportunity to push Ray's shirt off altogether, and Ray quickly tossed it aside once Ben got it over his head.
Ben hesitated then, looking down at Ray. Flat on his back, Ray said, quietly, "It's not as bad as it looks."
Ben nodded, pretending to believe him. He'd heard men say the same about broken bones, and wondered if Ray had any cracked ribs under the mass of bruising that covered his skin from his collarbone to the base of his breastbone. It was purple-black at the center--where the puck had hit, where Mort had done chest compressions--fading to lurid green and yellow on the edges. There were two new-looking black marks visible in the otherwise healing periphery; Ben realized Ray must have incurred those during the game, and was suddenly savagely glad for every hit he'd laid on an opponent that night.
Ben traced the faded edge of the bruise with his thumb, drawing a gasp from Ray. Ben looked up to his face, but Ray had his eyes closed, his mouth open, his head tilted back, and the look on his face was anything but pained. Ben shifted himself over Ray, one knee between Ray's thighs, his hands braced on either side of Ray's chest, and slowly lowered his head, licking the hot silky skin at the edge of the bruises, moving up the ladder of Ray's ribs, heaving suddenly harder beneath his mouth. Ben was distracted in his progress by Ray's nipple, drawn up tight, and licked experimentally at the pebbled skin.
Ray responded with a desperate noise, abruptly cut off, and a sudden scrabbling at his jeans. Ben slapped Ray's frantic hands aside, and unbuttoned him quickly, one-handed, as he shifted up over Ray to kiss him again. His moment of surprise at the discovery that Ray wasn't wearing anything under his jeans was quickly interrupted by the frantic motion of Ray's legs, thrashing his jeans down and off, breaking the kiss to gasp needy half-words that Ben understood perfectly.
Ben closed a hand around Ray's cock, already wet at the head, and stroked quickly as Ray arched up beneath him, head pressed back into the pillow. Ben looked down their bodies, watching Ray move. He was thrusting up into Ben's grip as soon as he got a hand on him, and Ben wondered if Ray would have the patience for anything more complex.
He shifted up to kiss Ray again, but his lips had barely touched Ray's when Ray groaned and pushed forcefully up against him, rolling them onto their sides. Ben slid his hand down Ray's back as he threw one leg over Ben's. Ray kept his head down, panting, as he pressed himself close to Ben, anchoring himself with a bruising-tight grip on Ben's hip, thrusting against Ben's stomach. Ben leaned his forehead against Ray's and rested a hand on Ray's wildly moving hip, and watched as Ray came.
They were both motionless for a moment, and Ben stroked his thumb back and forth across the sweat-damp skin of Ray's hip until Ray rolled onto his back, shifting away. Ben looked around for something to clean up with, but the tissues were on Ray's side, and Ray was at rest for the first time all night, his eyes closed. Ben kept still, enjoying the quiet, the rare sated feeling of a game well-played and sex on top of it.
Still, it was cool in the room, and he needed to clean up before he fell asleep. Ben reached out and laid a hand on Ray's shoulder.
It was immediately shrugged away, a reflexive, defensive twitch, and before Ben's eyes Ray went tense, the frenetic energy of the past hours returning as though it had found no release. Ben's stomach turned cold and queasy with anticipation, though he had no idea what Ray might be about to do, and all other concerns faded to insignificance as Ray pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, his back to Ben, and reached for his pants.
Ben swallowed, steadying his voice to something like neutrality, and said, "Ray?"
Ray went still, his jeans in his hands, and said, "I'm good, Fraser. Just, lay off the kissing thing, okay? It's kind of... queer."
Ben stared, dumbfounded, at Ray's motionless back. "I beg your pardon?" he said, finally, rote words coming more easily than any others when his mind was blasted utterly blank.
Ray's shoulders twitched and tensed, and Ben stared at the play of muscle under skin, so much more comprehensible than Ray saying, "Kissing, Fraser. It's queer."
This could not possibly be happening. Ray could not possibly be asserting what he seemed to be, so it didn't matter what Ben said to him; this was all some sort of psychotic episode he was having. "And everything else we just did isn't?"
Ray looked back at Ben over his shoulder with an expression of pure fury. He turned just far enough to reveal his right hand, clenching white-knuckled on his jeans, and some part of Ben, not so long buried after all, knew enough to lower his eyes, to keep quiet and still as Ray turned away again, moving to pull his pants on. But without those eyes on him, without that fist in sight, Ben's disbelief reasserted itself over his good sense. "Ray?" he said, "Do you honestly mean to tell me you think you're straight?"
Ray stood up, jerking his jeans into place and yanking up the zip before he turned halfway toward the bed again. The fury in his eyes had turned cold while Ben wasn't watching, and his hands hung open at his sides. He said, "Fuck you, Fraser," in a low, fierce voice and then turned away, looking for his shirt. It had slipped underneath the other bed, but Ben didn't point that out. It would only speed Ray, silent and frigid in his incomprehensible anger, on his way out of the room. Ben moved across the bed, sat up and pulled on his boxers, using his own t-shirt to wipe himself clean and dropping it back on the floor when he was done.
"Not if you're going to be like this about it," he said, giddy with his own daring, his own small anger warming him, and Ray turned away from his duffel bag to glare at Ben. Ben watched Ray's hands, one fist clenching and releasing, and his face, the anger in his eyes sparking bright again. Ben stood up and stepped toward Ray, holding his eyes as he spoke. He felt no fear now, only his reckless anger, as light as if he were in free fall, in the moment between the leap and the impact. "I suppose I should have seen this coming, if you'll pardon the pun--"
He could see the instant Ray's control over his anger snapped; he started to vibrate visibly, shaking his head. "Fraser--"
Ben pushed on, words unstoppable as gravity welling out of him. "I just didn't realize you were flexible enough to be a slut--"
Ray's hands closed into fists and did not open again, his feet widening into a fighting stance. "Fraser, fucking stop--"
"And a closet case--"
Ray's right fist drew back slightly, and somewhere inside Ben trembled, the ground looming close. "I'm gonna pop you one, Fraser, I swear to--"
"You know, Ray, kissing boys isn't queer unless you like it--"
Ray's right fist flew back at the same time he shoved forward with his left hand, knocking the chair with his duffle bag over into the wall. After the crash there was silence, and Ben stared at Ray, bouncing on his toes with his fist cocked. "Get your hands up, Fraser," Ray snarled.
Ben just stood, motionless, waiting for the blow to fall, which only seemed to make Ray angrier.
"Get your hands up, you fucking--" and Ray stopped, biting off his words with an audible click of teeth.
Ben raised his eyebrows, and spoke in a calm voice that covered his own sick dumb shock at what Ray had not quite said. "Fucking what, Ray?"
The words were barely out of his mouth before Ray's fist was flying out, and Ben did raise his hands then, blocking the blow before it could connect, knocking Ray's fist harmlessly aside. His own hands kept moving forward, instinctively, getting hold of Ray's bare shoulders and swinging him around, up against the wall. For a bare instant, he held Ray pinned there--he had the advantage of leverage and weight, and for a second he was able to imagine keeping Ray still until he could apologize, speak reason. They didn't have to fight, no one needed to get hit or hurt, they were adults, they could sort this out rationally.
But an animal fury, wild and desperate, flared in Ray's eyes, and Ray kicked and shoved his way free of restraint, pushing Ben back one stumbling stride and then another. Ben turned away, automatically, presenting a hunched back, turned shoulder, and waited for the inevitable blow to fall.
There was only silence, and the rapid sound of Ray's breathing, and Ben realized what he had forgotten in his moment of instinctive fear: Ray was a hockey player. His honor would not allow him to hit a man from behind. Ben ducked his head for a moment, clenching his teeth and blinking rapidly, his anger and fear both decimated by simple gratitude for the trust he could place in Ray to be wholly honest in his violence.
Ben turned back, straightening up, lowering his hands, and said, softly to Ray's still-furious face, his clenched fists still in need of release, "Aim low, Ray, you'll hurt your hands less."
Ray snarled and swung, and Ben shut his eyes, turning his head aside, but once again, the blow failed to fall. When he opened his eyes, Ray had already grabbed a t-shirt out of the mess on the floor and was striding to the door, pulling it on as he went. Ben swallowed down the sick feeling of having made a terrible mistake, and said, "Ray?"
Ray paused, hand on the doorknob, and said, in a voice so low and tightly controlled that it hurt to hear, "I'm going for a smoke, Fraser. Don't wait up." He closed the door quietly behind him, leaving Ben alone in the quiet of the hotel room.
He looked around, taking in the scene. The two beds, each with the covers only slightly rumpled, the overturned chair and Ray's duffel bag, its contents scattered across the floor, their clothes in little heaps between the beds. Ray's shoes lay where he'd kicked them when he first came in, near the foot of the bed, and Ben hoped he wasn't going far for his cigarette.
He felt an impulse to set everything to rights, to erase all evidence of what had just happened, but after a moment Ben went to the foot of Ray's bed and sat down gingerly on the edge, his bare feet bracketing Ray's abandoned shoes. He thought about saying Dief's name, but he didn't want to hear himself say it, unanswered. He could feel Dief's absence, profound and inarguable, and he understood it. Before his death, Dief had often disappeared when they fought, staying away from the house for hours, even days, depending on the severity of the conflict. He'd grown more sensitive to it, as time wore on and his fears were reinforced; after this, Ben wouldn't be surprised to be left on his own for a week, perhaps forever.
Ben lowered his head into his hands, preparing himself to wait.
Ray didn't start running until he got into the stairwell. He made it down the first half-flight and stopped on the next landing to yank off his socks, leaving them where they fell, and then ran on, steadier in his bare feet. Two steps at a time, three, four, he ran down and down and down, slapping the handrails as they passed, bouncing hard off the concrete walls when he spun out on the turns.
He was running headlong on the stairs, the way his mom always told him not to, and in his mind he could see himself falling, breaking an arm, bashing in some teeth, cracking his skull, snapping some of those ribs he'd only managed to bruise so far--
Fraser had licked him there, he could still feel--
Ray ran faster, wishing he would fall, wishing for anything that would let him stop hearing Fraser's taunting voice. Do you honestly mean to tell me you think you're--
Ray burst through the fire door and into the lobby, dim and quiet, plush and posh. The desk clerk was staring at him, and a suited guy who had to be security started moving in his direction. Ray realized how he had to look, and realized as he was doing it that he was sizing up the guard, ready to pick a fight--the guy was probably carrying a gun and right then Ray didn't care, he could get a punch in, maybe, he could--
Fraser had just stood there, turned his head away and just waited--
Ray wrapped his arms around himself and headed for the door with his head down, walking fast, and nobody stopped him.
The sidewalk outside was cold on his bare feet, the air cool enough to be bracing, but he didn't need to sober up. He could stand a drink, even a fucking cigarette, but it was after last call and his wallet was back in that room with his shoes--
Fraser, behind him, saying his name--
Ray started to run again, remembering by long habit to keep his head up as he moved so he wouldn't get run into, and running, running, away from Fraser--
So fucking calm, always, Ray had never been able to get a rise out of the guy in a game, could never get him to just snap and take a swing, and tonight he'd just stood there, just stood there, just turned away--
You like it, that's what Fraser said, You're not queer unless you like it--you like it--
His chest hurt, he'd been getting hit all night, and Fraser might be a mile away now but he wouldn't quit.
Not if you're going to be like this about it, he'd said, slut and closet case, and you're queer, you like it and Ray couldn't hold it in anymore, skidded to a stop, stumbling, stubbing his toes on concrete and taking a swing at the first thing he saw, a telephone pole covered in fliers, and finally, finally, his fist connected.
Another right, and then he had to use that hand to steady himself, and swung hard, left, left, left, until the lightning-crack pain hit, rocketing up his hand to his shoulder and he was on his knees, trying to breathe.
When he could look again, Ray saw his hands, curled in his lap like dead things, bloodied and bruised and already starting to swell. He leaned back, dizzy, and the streetlight overhead glinted on something that might have been bone, and Ray shut his eyes.
It's over, he thought, wondering if he could stand up without passing out, if he could walk, wondering how he'd get back into the hotel and how he'd keep from being arrested as a vagrant when he got there. It's over for real this time, you're done and you lose, Stanley Raymond Kowalski, you stupid fucking queer.
Ben jumped when he heard it, and was at the door before he had time to try to work out what the dull thudding sound down the hall could be. He opened his door and leaned out, and his heart leaped to see Ray, and then his breath caught as he realized that Ray was kicking at Jeff's door, his hands cradled at his chest and his shoulders hunched. His head was bowed, the back of his neck looking pale and soft and defenseless under the fluorescent hallway light. He'd lost his socks somewhere. Ray was fifteen feet away, but Ben's stomach shook with his nearness.
The door opened, and Jeff said, "Ray? Jesus, what did you--" Jeff looked up immediately, straight at Ben, and his sleepy confused expression shifted into a glare. Ben remembered that dark parking lot, remembered promising Ray's friend that there wouldn't be a problem, remembered spitting the words slut and closet case in his fury. He quailed inside, and looked away from Jeff's gaze, but stayed where he was.
"S'nothing, Hack, it looks worse than it is." Ben winced, from the patently false words, from the dead toneless sound of Ray's voice. What on earth had happened to him out there? "I just wanted to sleep in your room."
Jeff's voice was soft, and kind, and soothing. Even Ben was a little calmed by it, though he knew it wasn't remotely for his benefit. "Yeah, Ray-Kay, course you can, just lemme see--"
"No! No. I just need some ice, I can sleep on the floor--"
Ben dared to look up then, at the panicky spark of life in Ray's voice, just in time to see Jeff drawing Ray inside with an arm around his shoulders. He shut the door behind them without looking up again, his attention wholly focused on Ray. When the door closed, Ben noticed the small dark smear of blood or dirt that Ray's foot had left on its surface, and had to put his head down, steadying himself with one hand on the doorframe.
When the dizziness passed, he turned back inside, set the chain on the door, and picked up Ray's shoes, placing them neatly side-by-side against the wall. He knew he wouldn't sleep, and cleaning the room he would no longer be sharing with Ray would kill a little time.
It didn't take long; no matter how carefully he folded and repacked Ray's clothes, zipping his bag again, straightening the chair with microscopic exactitude, he was left facing two rumpled beds within half an hour. Ben stood between them for a moment, deliberating, before he realized he couldn't bear to sleep on either. He peeled back the bedspread from his own bed, and extracted the sheet and thermal blanket. Leaving the pillow where it lay, shoved up against the headboard with the impression of Ray's head still visible, Ben made himself a thin pallet on the floor and lay down.
He stood up again after a moment and turned out the lamps, and the sudden furious pounding on the door startled him so badly he burned his fingers on a just-darkened lightbulb.
Ben was at the door in three running strides, fumbling the chain off and pulling it open even before the pounding had stopped. His hand was still on the knob as Jeff grabbed him by the chin and the shoulder, dragging him out into the brightness of the corridor. Jeff looked furious, his eyes steely, his hands hard, as he turned Ben's face this way and that, running a quick probing hand across Ben's chest and belly before he could pull away.
Ben stumbled back, across the threshold of his own room, when Jeff let go of him, and looked from the goalie to the door of his room, which stood slightly open.
"What the fuck happened, Fraser? If he didn't hit you, who did he?"
Ben shook his head, trying to catch his breath, heart hammering from the sudden assault that--wasn't, apparently. "I have no idea."
Jeff made an exasperated noise, and turned away, striding across the hall nearly at a run, looking over his shoulder to say, "Well, do you at least know where his goddamn shoes are?"
Ben turned and went back inside, picked up Ray's shoes from their place by the wall, and then hesitated. Quickly, he pulled on a shirt and his jeans, checked that he had his keycard, and then headed across the hall. Jeff's room was dark, but Ben could see the covers of the single large bed thrown back in the light from the open door to the bathroom. He could hear Jeff inside, speaking rapidly in a low voice, and then he reappeared, still looking furious, and went to the phone. "I have to call Coach," he said as he passed Ben, who stood still just inside the hotel room, shoes in hand.
Jeff turned his back as he dialed, and Ben summoned up his courage and went to the bathroom door.
The harsh light of the bathroom, dazzlingly magnified as it reflected off mirrors and white tiling, showed him Ray huddled on the floor beside the bathtub. His bare feet were dirty. His hands were thickly wrapped in white hotel towels, cradled between his chest and his updrawn thighs. A hand towel and a washcloth, both luridly bloodstained, were crumpled in the sink, under the running tap, and the ice bucket sat half-empty on the counter.
Ben stood in the doorway, unable to move closer, or risk drawing Ray's attention, or even to look at Ray in more than glimpses. His blond head was bowed, shoulders heaving up and down with carefully regular breaths, arms and towel-muffled hands shaking continuously in small shivers. His faded black t-shirt was soaked dark with sweat under his arms and all down his back. It wasn't until after Jeff had slammed down the phone and begun to pace that Ben managed to look at Ray's face, and saw his lips moving.
The sound was nearly lost across the small distance between them and the falling water in the sink, but now that Ben was listening for it, he managed to catch a few intermittent words, rote cadences that made Ben think of prayers. "Mère de Dieu ... pauvres pécheurs ... notre mort, Amen. Je vous salue, Marie...18"
The door opened, spilling hallway light into the dark room, and Ben turned to see Coach and Mort entering, looking grim in a way that made him suddenly aware that the hour was nearing four in the morning. Mort was carrying a medical box, and Ben, forced to make a quick decision, stepped into the bathroom rather than out. He stationed himself in front of the sink, still as far from Ray as he had been before, shoes still clutched in his hand.
Ben saw the moment when Ray realized he wasn't alone and went still, bit his lips to silence and bowed his head further, making himself small, his whole body curled protectively around his hands. Ben remembered Dief cringing that way, and had to turn his head from the sight. He looked out the bathroom door at Jeff, standing in the bedroom with his back to them, his head turned, listening. For a moment the bathroom was silent except for the cloth-muffled running of the faucet, and then Coach said, "Would somebody like to tell me what the hell happened, here?"
Ben watched Jeff turn, opening his mouth and closing it, and bit his own lip on incomplete explanations. Ray, in the process of coiling tighter, still managed to speak loudly enough to be heard through his knees. "Phone pole."
Mort set down his medical box on the toilet, shaking his head. He opened it up, pulling out a pair of latex gloves as Coach stared down at Ray, apparently at a momentary loss for words. "Did this telephone pole offend you in some way, Kowalski?"
Ray hunched his shoulders in something that might have been a shrug if it had ever released. Mort knelt down beside him, gently prying his upper body back. Ray kept his chin on his chest, his eyes tightly closed. Even his toes were curled, tensing, inching back. He was sickly pale, his lips drained white with pressure. Ben looked away again, and found Jeff had moved into the doorway, though he was still looking out into the dark bedroom, jaw clenched. Ben felt momentarily trapped, and told himself he was being ridiculous; Ray likely didn't even know he was there. Still, his vision felt sharp and hard-edged, his blood racing just slightly fast.
Mort said, quietly, "Benton," and he turned, to see Mort holding out one of the towels from Ray's hand, ice-filled, already dripping with melt and bloodied on one side. Mort nodded toward the sink, and Ben edged just near enough to reach out and take it from him. Mort turned away immediately, bending over Ray's bared hand. Ben caught a glimpse, past Mort's shoulder, of grossly swollen flesh capped by a bloody mess that was barely recognizable as Ray's knuckles. He turned away quickly, dropping the ice and towel into the sink, swallowing hard against nausea. When he let go of the edge of the sink, he found he'd left a watery smear of blood. He turned his hand palm up and found it reddened, wiped it hastily on his jeans and glanced up at the mirror. Jeff was watching him in it, from the doorway, and Ben felt himself flush, his heart tripping faster, but stood his ground, turning his back on the mirror and stealing another glance at Ray.
Mort was clucking over Ray's hand and shaking his head; Ray had managed to get his head back down onto his knees, his shoulders moving with faster, deeper breaths now as Mort probed the injuries. Ben glanced at Coach, and found him staring down at Ray with an expression of deep disappointment. "Kowalski," he said, as Mort unwrapped Ray's other hand and began to examine it as well. "Kowalski." Ray went still again, seeming to hold his breath; Mort set both of Ray's hands down and turned away, pulling antiseptic and gauze and cold packs from his kit. "Ray," Coach said, and Ray's head shot up. Whatever little color he'd had drained from his face in the moment of that motion, and tears were running freely from his eyes, but Ray met Coach's gaze, unblinking. His courage made Ben's breath come short.
Coach's voice was gentle but implacable when he spoke again, holding Ray's gaze steadily, speaking to him as if they were alone. "You promised me, personally, that this would not be a problem, Kowalski. Before you even came to camp--before you even put on skates in my building--you swore to me this would not happen, and now here we are." Ray flinched, his eyes narrowing, squeezing a fresh rush of tears onto his cheeks, but he did not look away from Coach. "You are in violation of your contract, section 2(b)19." Mort sprayed something on the back of Ray's hand, and Ray dug his teeth into his lower lip, drawing in a quick breath through his nose. Coach sighed and turned away, and Jeff stepped back to make way as he left the bathroom.
Ben stayed put as Jeff stepped back into place, one foot across the threshold now, and Ray said, in an unsteady voice, "Mort, can't you?"
"No, Raymond. Hospital. X-Rays. You don't need me to tell you that."
Ray closed his eyes, then, and his lips moved soundlessly as Mort wrapped his hands and strapped cold packs around them. "Give me a hand getting him up," Mort said, glancing back at Ben, "And put his shoes on him."
Ben froze, looking at the scant two meters that separated him from Ray, and then Jeff huffed a curse and snatched the shoes from Ben's hand, going to kneel in front of Ray and slipping the battered runners onto Ray's feet like some Prince Charming. Ben looked to the door, saw the clear path and took it.
He stepped out in the hallway, and found that Coach was standing there, tipping antacids into his hand and frowning deeply. He glanced up at Ben, and said, "Would you care to enlighten me about what's going on here, Fraser?"
Ben took a breath, and moved closer to Coach, remembering Ray's bravely lifted face, the blows that had not fallen, and said, "It was my fault."
Coach's eyes narrowed, and for a moment Ben expected him to do as Jeff had done, and physically check him for injuries. "He hit you?" Ben shook his head.
"You hit him?" Ben frowned, and Coach pushed on. "Did you pay a telephone pole to attack him?"
Ben looked away, frustrated, and then back. "No, sir. We fought--argued. I was annoyed with him, I goaded him. I made him angry, it's not his fault."
Coach blinked, and then tossed his handful of antacids into his mouth and crunched them audibly. Finally, he raised a hand to his forehead, rubbing it wearily. "Look, Fraser, he's thirty-five years old. He makes his own promises, and it's his responsibility to keep them, not yours."
Ben took a step toward Coach, desperate. "Did you see him in there? It won't happen again, he--"
"Fraser." Coach's voice was sharp, and Ben fell silent, abruptly aware of his transgression. "Look, he's your roommate, he's your buddy, you want to stick up for him, I get that." Coach glanced toward the door to Jeff's room, and added, "You wanna do something for Kowalski, you can ride with him to the hospital. Otherwise, get back to bed. We got a plane to catch in a few hours." Coach turned away, heading down the hall toward his own room, and Ben heard, through the half-open door to Jeff's room, the sound of Jeff and Mort guiding Ray toward the door.
Ben thought for a moment, about putting one arm around Ray's heaving back, about helping him out to the inevitable very nice car and being crammed into the back seat with him for the length of a ride to the nearest hospital. The door of Jeff's room started to swing inward, and Ben bolted.
Ray woke up--sort of, woolly-brained and dry-mouthed, his arms and legs and chest and eyelids all too heavy for him to lift--with a pretty girl in a dark blue suit leaning over him. "Mr. Kowalski?"
He tried to smile, but smiling was difficult and strange, and her bright eyes faded, like he'd done it wrong. "Yh?"
"Mr. Kowalski, it's time to get off the plane, now." She tugged his blanket off him, and Ray shivered in the cool recycled plane-air, and looked down at himself. He was wearing a plain gray t-shirt and soft green-blue pants with some letters stenciled on the thigh. Scrubs, he realized after a moment. Hospital. His left hand was in an air cast with gauze underneath, his right heavily bandaged. There was a bandage around his left elbow, where the IV had been, and he flashed on a memory of sitting on a bed while a nurse worked on him, the moment of sudden dizzying relief of pain. Ray hoped he hadn't actually puked on Mort, but why should that have gone any better than anything else? He could still feel the leftovers of whatever they'd given him, slowing him down, cotton around his brain, his hands, keeping the pain away and making his stomach float sickly. He was buckled into his seat, but he wasn't sure he could work his fingers even if he could manage to lift them from his lap. Then there were pretty little manicured hands with dark blue cuffs and a gold watch, unbuckling him, and Ray thought he would usually have said something about that, felt something about that. Now he just closed his eyes and had a short, confusing dream about other hands, undoing his pants.
"Mr. Kowalski." Hand on his shoulder, small, soft, strange. Ray opened his eyes, and there was another stewardess there, beside the first one. "Come on, now, it's time to get off the plane."
Road trip, but he was the only one on this flight, no team, no Fraser sitting beside him and waking him up before final descent with a word in his ear. Nobody at all on the plane, but then who would want to ride with him, sent home in disgrace, straight from the hospital? Some strange hospital in some strange city, he couldn't even remember where. Road trips, first thing you forget is where you are. "What city?" he asked.
The stewardess didn't even blink, just said, "Chicago, Mr. Kowalski, you'll be home soon, come on now." They each took one of his arms and pulled him up, and Ray didn't have any trouble ducking, doubling over with dizziness and nausea, and had to lean his forehead against the next seat because he couldn't raise his throbbing hands. He could only feel pressure, so far, but the pain was on the horizon and moving in fast. He tried to remember if he still had T3 in the medicine cabinet from last time, or if it had gotten flushed in a move somewhere along the line.
Stella had probably tossed it when it expired, and Ray realized, suddenly, that she wasn't going to be waiting for him, at the airport or at home. She wasn't going to feed him ice cream and soup and pills till his hands healed, or take a sick day to watch daytime television with him and run her hands through his hair till he fell asleep on the couch. She wasn't going to sit beside him in the press box when he had to go to home games in a suit, or watch away games with him on TV and listen to him rant about the call-up filling in for him. She was gone, and he was going back to an empty apartment just as soon as these nice stewardesses got him off their plane. Ray closed his eyes and thought about that, and had another little dream, as he was walking, about Fraser standing by his bed, checking that he was okay and talking softly to him until he fell asleep, holding his hand.
When Ray came around again, Sandor was standing in front of him. He had Ray's duffle bag in one hand, and when the stewardesses let go of Ray's arms, Sandor grabbed his elbow. Ray blinked, and leaned on his supporting hand. "Sandor?"
Sandor smiled, looking nervous, and started pulling Ray along. "Hey, Ray. Heard you needed a ride."
Ray nodded, but didn't say anything. He focused on putting one foot in front of another, breathing in time to the throb in his hands. The way they swung at his sides seemed to make it worse, so he pulled them up to his chest and kept them still. It helped a little. They only throbbed with the beat of his heart, then, and the pulsing pressure was less.
Things got hazy for a while--Ray's eyes slid shut on acres of plastic seats and opened on a parking lot--and then Sandor was pushing him into the backseat of a car, buckling him in with his duffle bag on the seat beside him. Ray slouched in the seat so that his arms rested against his chest and closed his eyes even before Sandor got them on the road.
He was trying to think of how to tell Sandor to get to the drugstore, to ask him to pick up some pain pills--did he have prescriptions somewhere? He thought Mort had told him, but his brain was all slippery with exhaustion and drugs and nothing had stuck. His mind kept sliding away, street corners and sidewalks, Fraser in a suit through the back window of a cab. He could feel his heart beating in his hands, tried to squeeze it slower, and the half-curl of his fingers woke spikes of sharp sudden pain from his knuckles to his wrists.
Ray opened his eyes with a gasp, and then shut them tight again as his stomach turned. Sandor was saying something in the front seat, and Ray shook his head the half-inch he could manage, breathing deep and relaxing his fingers and holding as still as he could. The pain didn't go away, but it receded a little, or he got used to it. Either way, he hadn't screamed or puked by the time Sandor stopped the car.
The door opened and Ray breathed the cool outside air cautiously and then opened his eyes and nodded, and Sandor helped him out of the car and into the building. In the elevator, Ray leaned in the corner, shoulder and forehead against the walls. He was definitely awake now, and the feeling in his hands was definitely pain, and he was not going to cry in front of the security guy they'd sent to pick him up, and he was not going to puke in the elevator.
Sandor somehow knew where Ray's keys were in his duffle bag, because he pulled them out and unlocked the door, and Ray nearly ran into a wall before he realized that this wasn't that apartment--too many moves, too many homes, too much thinking involved in just getting to his goddamn bedroom. Sandor steered him right, got him to bed and let him curl up fetal around his hands, and then walked off. Ray waited for the sound of the door closing, but there was a zip, the sounds of cupboards and running water, and then Sandor was back, a squeeze bottle in one hand and the other cupped up carefully. "Here," he said, "It's Tylenol 3, with codeine, do you need to eat something with it?"
Ray felt a hot drop run down his cheek as he squeezed his eyes shut, and his whole face went hot with shame on top of the pain. "No," he managed, "um. Where'd you get that?"
"Your prescriptions are in your bag. Doc said there'd be a nurse coming around to help you with those and check your bandages. He said by the time you got home you could have more painkillers. You sure you don't hafta eat anything?"
"Yeah," Ray said, wanting to reach for the pill and the bottle except for the part where that would involve moving his hands. "Please, Sandor."
"Sorry! Right." Sandor awkwardly, nervously, stuck the pill in Ray's mouth, fingertips flinching from Ray's lips and tongue, and Ray wondered why they'd sent this poor bastard to deal with him. Fucking humiliating for all concerned. He opened his mouth for the stream of water from the bottle, swallowed and laid his head down on the pillow.
Sandor set down the bottle in easy reach--pointless, Ray thought, because he couldn't fucking bend his fingers, but also pointless to tell him that. "Thanks, Sandor," he muttered, and Sandor nodded, looking worried. Ray closed his eyes. He was a decent guy, not his fault somebody tagged him to go get the team's newest ex-member from the airport.
Sandor said something about having to leave, but all Ray heard was Coach saying You promised me, Kowalski--you promised me--you are in violation of your contract. "Sorry," he whispered, stupidly, too late, "I'm sorry," but Sandor was already gone, the lock clicking shut behind him. Ray kept his eyes closed, and waited for the drugs to do him some good.
Ben would have tried to tell himself that his teammates weren't all really staring at him, except that it would have been a patent falsehood. Jeff, for instance, was watching him with a nearly predatory intensity. The empty seat beside Ben was glaringly obvious, and the bus filled with the low buzz of gossip. Ben leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes, wishing his exhaustion would overtake him.
He was beyond sleep now, though, and shutting his eyes only seemed to sharpen his hearing; over the sounds of the engine and the road and the shuffling of two dozen bodies, he caught stray words. Kowalski and hospital featured prominently, but even game and fight and the ubiquitous fuck sounded accusatory this morning. Denny's mutter of Mere de Dieu made him shiver, and Ben opened his eyes and kept them open the rest of the way to the airport.
Once there, Ben stood a little apart from the team. No one spoke to him, which was no more than he expected; six months ago, it wouldn't even have been unusual. He tried not to look at the others, but couldn't help noticing that Ray's linemates and several of the younger players had picked up Jeff's irritation and shot him sullen looks whenever they looked up from their low-voiced conversations.
Ben expected the seat beside him to remain empty when they boarded the plane, as it had on the bus; that seat had, however briefly, belonged to Ray by right as his roommate, and no one else seemed eager to usurp it. Just before takeoff, however, a body thumped into the space beside him. Ben went on staring out the window, trying to decide who he'd bet on it being, if he were a betting man and if there were anyone inside a mile who'd be interested in sharing a friendly wager with him. Chris interrupted this mental exercise by saying, "Fraser, hey."
Ben looked over at his captain, who was intent on buckling his seatbelt. "Chris," he said, as neutrally as he knew how. He couldn't quite manage good morning, so he turned his face back to the window, and watched the ground roll by and then drop away as they took off.
He watched the ground through the first banking turns of takeoff, and then was distracted by Chris's hand on his shoulder. When Ben looked over, Chris was still looking down, but he didn't drop his hand. Ben looked around, and found the rest of the team studiously not looking toward them. He sighed. "I don't know what happened," Ben said, softly.
Chris looked up, searching his face, and Ben held his gaze as long as he could bear to, and then looked away. Chris squeezed his shoulder and then let go, and Ben leaned closer to the window. After a beat, Chris leaned closer to him, so that Ben could feel body heat all down his side. "I'm not going to ask," Chris said quietly. "You're on my team, Fraser. You wanna tell me something, I'll listen. Kowalski gets his ass back on the roster and wants to tell me something, I'll listen to that, too. Hackett gives up on stomping around like he's just out of peewee20, I might even listen to him. But you don't have to say a word. You're on my team."
Ben nodded his gratitude, and kept his face to the window. He'd always been a wretched liar, but keeping silent was second nature. He expected Chris to leave once the gesture was made, but his captain didn't move from his side till they'd landed. Ben noticed that the rest of the team were averting their eyes now, as though he were merely unclean rather than an enemy in their midst, and wondered if that could be considered progress.
Joanna the visiting nurse won Ray's eternal devotion with a carton of chocolate milk. Not one of those tiny things like you got at school, either; this was a whole pint in a cardboard carton, icy cold. She ripped it open and dropped a straw in, and Ray leaned over the table, his bandaged hands resting gingerly on its surface, and drank. His eyes slipped shut as he gulped down his drink, swallowing over and over till he finally had to stop to breathe. When he opened his eyes again, his stomach had stopped screaming, and he felt like he might not fall over if he tried to stand up. Joanna was standing across the table from him with her hands on his duffle bag, smiling. Ray licked his lips. "What? You said to drink it."
She smiled wider, and ducked her head, looking through the side pocket of his bag. "I did. I just didn't expect it to be a religious experience."
Ray lowered his head and went back to drinking his chocolate milk, and didn't say anything about how he hadn't eaten anything in a day or so, since before the game last night. She'd only fuss. He thought about asking her to marry him when she picked up a paper bag from the counter, and emptied more chocolate milk and some promising-looking styrofoam containers into his fridge. Will work for food, he thought, wondering if Joanna's hospital had a hockey team she'd like him to play on. No one was going to be paying him much more than that now, not after this.
Ray glanced down at his hands and let go of the straw, stealing a quick glance at the message light on his answering machine, which was flashing a little wildly. He'd heard the phone ring while he was sleeping, drifting in and out in a codeine daze, but he had no idea how many times. It didn't matter; he couldn't answer the phone if he couldn't work his fingers, and he didn't want to talk to anybody who might be calling enough to try. His agent, or maybe his lawyer, screaming about how he'd violated his contract, somebody from the team's front office wanting to notify him of his exact state of fired-ness, maybe even some fucking press, if word had gotten around that there might be a story in it. Ms. Vecchio would want to chat, maybe. Or maybe... maybe he wasn't a story at all.
Ray looked away from the phone, back down at his milk and his hands. The sharp bone-pain spiked and receded with his heartbeat, not quite bad enough yet to make him ask Joanna about the T3. He sucked on the straw some more, swallowing fast, until his stomach felt achy-full and the straw was slurping up the last chocolate drops. Ray straightened up as much as he could without moving his hands, shifting a little in his seat, his ass sliding in the soft loose scrub pants as he cocked his knees out, sliding one foot across the cool linoleum. Joanna was looking at the contents of a folder he'd never seen before, something Mort must have stuck in his bag, but she looked at Ray as he sat up. "You all set there, Mr. Kowalski?"
Ray shook his head. "Ray, it's just Ray."
"Well, Ray, why don't we go sit in the living room for the fun part?"
Ray winced. Going anywhere meant standing up, and walking, and moving his hands. "It wouldn't be better in here? With the sink and the linoleum and stuff?"
Joanna shook her head. "If you pass out while I'm working on your hands, I don't want you falling off your chair. Come on." She tucked the file under her arm, came around the table and bent to help him up. Ray carefully raised one arm to sling around her shoulders, noticing that her scrubs were bright blue and said NMH on the shoulder. He still couldn't remember where his were from. She slid one arm around his waist, pulling Ray up to his feet, levering him somehow because she was shorter than him but it wasn't awkward at all.
Ray leaned against her side, reaching his free arm out to the side for balance, and then his pants started to slide. He reached for them, his left hand almost getting down to his hip before a flare of pain reminded him. He hissed, and snatched his casted hand to his chest, and Joanna stopped, steadying him. "What--oh." Ray kept his eyes on the floor, and her hand moved across his line of sight, reaching over to pull his pants up, yanking the drawstrings tight. Then she tightened her arm around his waist, and went on dragging him into the living room.
Ray sank gratefully into the big leather armchair, leaning his head back as Joanna dropped his file on the coffee table and walked off. He opened his eyes when she came back, tugging the footstool up so she was sitting between his knees. She opened her medical kit and then looked at him, one eyebrow up. "Left or right first?"
"Left," Ray said, instantly. Get it over with, and if he did pass out, she could probably do the right before he woke up and he'd miss it completely.
She smiled like she'd known he would say that, and then Ray turned his head to the side, closing his eyes and holding his breath as she picked up his hand. She held his hand steady as she peeled back the velcro and eased the air cast away, and when she said, "Come on, breathe, you big baby," Ray let his breath hiss out between his teeth.
He swallowed, steadying himself against the pain--it wasn't so bad once you got used to it, like swimming in the Lake--and said, "So is there anything I should know in there?"
Joanna looked where he nodded, at the folder, and then back at him, before she started unwinding the gauze from his hand. "Anybody tell you what was in there when you were in a state to understand it?"
Ray remembered to breathe. In and out. "No," he said, "This is pretty much the first time I've been able to--ah--" she tossed the gauze down, and Ray snuck a look at his hand. The stitches stood out black against purple-bruised skin, and his hand was all puffy and wrong-looking. He shut his eyes and then forced himself to open them. "Uh. Form sentences. So no."
"Yeah, you keep practicing the sentence formation." She started running something cool and wet over his hand, and the tickle of it almost distracted him from the hurt. Made it harder to keep his fingers still, though. "Well, it's not as bad as it could be. You cracked your number three metacarpal, but it's not a complete fracture," she squeezed the tip of his middle finger, and Ray nodded, watching her face, only her face, "and you have bone contusions in both hands, but no other breaks." Her hands moved against his hand, and Ray's vision went all bright and sharp-edged. His stomach was doing weird things, clenching around that pint of chocolate milk, and his hand hurt so badly that the sensation kept whiting out into nothing.
Maybe he should have asked for the drugs beforehand after all.
He forced himself to breathe, keep breathing, and listen to Joanna, who was breathing without even thinking about it. Talking. To him. "Twenty-six stitches in your right hand, forty-three in the left." She paused, made a little satisfied noise, and started wrapping his hand again. Ray dared a glance down as the worst of the pain ebbed, and watched his hand disappear under clean white gauze. Familiar sight, unfamiliar hands. He had to look away, didn't let himself think about Mort never wrapping his hands for him again. "No displacement of the bones and no significant tendon damage, so no surgery required unless you manage to screw 'em up at some point in the future. You lucked out, Ray."
Ray nodded, catching his breath. Joanna was watching him carefully, and Ray looked away, up at the ceiling, until he'd pulled himself together enough to pick up his right hand and hold it out to her. "Yeah, lucky me."
Joanna tsked, but didn't ask him whose bright idea it had been to punch a telephone pole. She started peeling off the bandage on his right hand, and Ray tilted his head back and almost closed his eyes, watching through his eyelashes as she worked. She shifted position, leaning over his hand, and her knee pressed against the inside of his thigh. Ray would have moved away but he couldn't move while she held his hand, so he just kept breathing and watching. His right hand, blurred through his almost-closed eyes, didn't look as bad as his left, and the pain was nothing like it at all. No breaks, he remembered, no breaks in the right hand, Joanna had just told him. That was why it didn't hurt as bad. Ray swallowed hard and breathed, and thought that the chocolate milk was probably going to stay down after all.
She set Ray's hand back down on the arm of the chair when she finished, and Ray sighed and closed his eyes, finally letting himself relax, and then Joanna set her hand down on her knee, her fingertips against Ray's thigh. He opened his eyes again, to see her smiling at him, and was suddenly aware that he didn't have anything on under his precarious scrub pants and he hadn't even noticed that she had her knee up against his thigh, that she had shiny copper-colored hair--pulled back tight, professional, but still pretty--and big brown eyes and a knockout smile. His eyes flickered down to the v-neck of her scrub shirt, which showed a hint of cleavage, and then back up. Her smile had widened, her eyes sparkling. "Y'know," she said, "They warn us about you guys, when we do private duty--about athletes being grabby or flirty or whatever--but you've been a total gentleman, Ray. Thanks."
Ray blinked, and tried to remember to breathe. He hadn't even fucking noticed, never mind thinking to flirt. "Well," Ray said, lifting his hands a little, "I was just, y'know, playing it cool." What kind of a guy wouldn't notice a gorgeous nurse who came to his house and fed him chocolate milk?
The little voice in his head that sounded like Fraser could tell him exactly what kind of guy, but Ray was listening to Joanna today, just Joanna.
She winked. "I know, I know. You've got your bad boy rep to protect. It'll be our secret, I promise." She moved her hand off her knee, patted his leg, and stood up. "Now. How about some solid food?"
Ray was just opening his mouth to answer when the phone rang again, and he sank into his seat, pulling his legs up, his hands into his lap. "Do me a favor?" Joanna arched her eyebrows, and Ray looked down. "Unplug that thing? I can't answer it anyway."
She didn't say anything, but Ray watched her legs walking away from him--beautiful long legs that had been right between his a minute ago, although he was apparently too fucking gentlemanly to notice--and then the phone went silent in mid-ring.
It took Ben the better part of two days to screw up his courage.
Even then he might have concluded that discretion was the better part of valor, were it not for the looks Ren kept giving him. The rest of the team, following Chris's example, were civil, mostly pretending he didn't exist except when they were on the ice.
Ren, on the other hand, had been giving him the most horribly reproachful looks Ben had experienced since the last time he saw his grandmother. Every time Ren looked at him, Ben's guilt was refreshed. He only lasted a day before he felt driven to get in touch with Ray and make his apologies, however unwelcome they might be, though it took more time to find a moment of solitude and an appropriate phone.
Late that evening, after an unusually miserable meal with his team, Ben sat in his hotel room. He stared at the phone for a time, rehearsing possible courses the conversation could take. Ray was certain to be angry at him, but that could manifest in any number of ways. He might be openly furious, ready to carry on fighting over the phone, and Ben spent a moment bracing himself against that possibility. Then again, it had been Ray who ended their fight two nights ago; he'd walked away, after all. Whatever had happened afterward, Ray had had no further interest in arguing with Ben, and he might well have no more to say to him now than he had then.
In fact, Ray might simply decline to answer the phone. Even if he was for some reason amenable to speaking to Ben--not that answering the phone would necessarily indicate a willingness to discuss anything--Ray was doubtless in a great deal of pain and, if he were wise, taking very strong medication. He might already be asleep.
Perhaps that would be for the best. Ben could leave a message on Ray's answering machine, offer some preliminary apologies, make some overture, and then Ray could address the matter in his own time. Ben sat a while longer, trying to compose a message that expressed his contrition over everything that had happened. It was a great deal to cover; he'd jeopardized Ray's entire career, and put him in the way of harm. He could hardly even attempt to apologize for all that through a recorded message.
After several fruitless minutes, Ben realized that he was trying to imagine what Ray's answering machine message said, and how much time he might get to spend listening to Ray's voice. Any voice speaking to him, even if in anger or on a recording, would be welcome now.
Ben sighed. He'd been accustomed to this once; last season, he'd done just fine without friends on the team. He'd gone soft, exposed to the luxury of Ray's presence, and Ben wondered if he'd be able to readjust.
He'd have no choice, if he couldn't reconcile with Ray, and that prospect drew Ben's hand to the phone. He dialed quickly, the number long since memorized, and drew in a breath as the first ring sounded in his ear, readying himself.
At the fifth ring he exhaled, and at the ninth ring, he put his head down, cradling his forehead in his hand. He wondered, idly, if Ray were there, listening to the phone ring and refusing to answer, or if he were sleeping too deeply to hear, or if he'd gone somewhere. Images flashed through his mind--Ray insensible, Ray hurting and alone, Ray and an empty pill bottle--but they were unworthy, melodramatic and ridiculous. Ray was fine, or as fine as a man could be who'd been badly injured and separated from his team, his career in jeopardy. He simply wasn't answering his phone, likely for any of a number of very good reasons.
Most probably, he had nothing to say to Ben anyway.
Ben listened a little longer to the endless, useless ringing of the phone, and then he hung up. The sound went on echoing in his ears as he readied himself for bed, with nothing in his silent hotel room to drown it out. Ben laid still and tried to think of other things until sleep grudgingly claimed him.
Ray was lying on the couch, thinking about turning on the TV, when somebody started knocking on the door. He looked first, guiltily, toward the phone, and then to the door. Somebody had given up on calling and actually come to see him. Legal papers, maybe. Termination of contract, or notice of suit being filed.
The knocking stopped, and Ray kept still, holding his breath, but then it started up again.
Weird. They weren't pounding, like Ray would expect--the courier who'd brought the divorce papers had hammered away like he was going to kick the door down if Ray didn't answer--but they also probably weren't going to just give up and go away. They'd come all the way here, after all.
Ray took a breath, and lifted the remote off his stomach with his fingertips, dropping it on the couch as he stood up.
He was uncomfortably aware of his grubbiness as he walked toward the door. Joanna had helped him out some with getting washed up, so he didn't really stink, and he was even wearing clean sweats and a fresh tank, but he hadn't shaved or showered in a couple of days and his hair was all over the place. Then again, what better way to start his life of unemployment?
Ray held his hands against his chest and leaned one shoulder against the door to peer through the spyhole. It took him a minute to process what he was seeing, and then he sagged against the door, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Once he'd convinced himself that, really, he couldn't brush his hair even if he had time to do it, he straightened up, fumbled the lock off, only wincing a little, and opened the door.
"Ma," he said, and that was as far as he got, because she wasn't just smiling, she was beaming, opening her arms.
"Stanley, oh Stanley! My poor dear!" Ray dropped his hands, would've put them behind his back, but his mom's hands caught his wrists. She was gentle, careful; she'd nursed him through all the bruises of his first twelve years of hockey, back when he couldn't even see where he was going half the time. She knew how it was. He should've been able to pull away, but the minute his mom touched him, he was all of five years old again. He held his hands out for her to look at, and as soon as he did she shook her head and looked away, moving to hug him. Ray hugged her back the best he could, his cheek against her hair, struggling to hear what she was saying to him through the overwhelming sense that his mom was here, and everything was going to be fine now.
"I argued with your father all the way from Arizona. 'He's a grown man,' your father said, 'He doesn't need anyone hovering over him'. 'Damien,' I said, 'He's our son, and he's hurt, of course he needs someone.'" Ray pulled back from the hug, opening his mouth to protest, and his mom caught his arms again, examining his hands. "And look at you, how can you take care of yourself like this? No, as soon as I heard you were on the injured list21--"
Ray blinked.
"--with a broken hand of all things, I said to your father, we'll just have to go up to Chicago, he hasn't got anyone to look after him anymore."
Ray went still, and his mother looked up at him, her smile faltering. "Ma," he said gently, "did Stella call you?"
His mom squeezed Ray's arm. "Sweetheart, all kinds of people called me, worried about you. Your cousin Linda--well, third cousin, you remember Linda--" And that wasn't no, that was pretty much yes. He didn't know why he was surprised--he knew Stella still cared whether he lived or died, and he knew she'd kept in touch with his mom even after they split, but still the idea of it caught him by surprise.
Well, all of it was a surprise. Stella, his mom...
And the injured list, which meant... if they'd announced him on injured reserve, then he wasn't off the team, he wasn't even in trouble with the front office. There would still be Coach to contend with--Ray could wish his shock-amnesia extended to Coach saying, "You promised me, Kowalski"--but if he was still on the team, then it wasn't over, he could work his way back. Ray took a deep breath, like waking up, like breathing for the first time since it all went to hell.
His mom had stopped listing concerned cousins and aunts and ladies from church, and was holding on tight to his arms, looking worried. Ray shook his head. "Sorry," he muttered, "Sorry, I just--"
"Good lord, Stanley, when was the last time you ate? And you with your hands, how could you possibly manage for yourself? You just sit down and I'll put something together."
Ray just nodded, leaning against the doorframe and hoping she wouldn't notice him doing it, watching as his mom bent down to gather up the shopping bags around her feet. She'd been to the bakery already, and the little Polish grocery in the neighborhood, and Ray's mouth watered at the thought of her cooking. It was going to be like Christmas in his lonely little apartment. He'd have to try to give Joanna leftovers, there was no way he could eat all that. And suddenly something else his mom had said caught up with him. As she brushed past him, into his apartment, Ray said, "Mom? Did you say Dad...?"
"Your father took the stairs, dear," she said, already headed for the kitchen, "You know how he gets in elevators, that hasn't changed."
Ray blinked, staring after his mom. Elevators? His dad didn't have a problem with elevators. Just then the fire door slammed shut, and Ray leaned out of his door, looking down the hallway, and there was his dad, walking toward him with one hand behind his back. Ray tried to smile, but he could feel it coming out all uneven.
He hadn't seen his dad in years, and, Jesus, what if he wanted to shake Ray's hand? That was how they did things, the few times Ray had seen his dad since he'd gotten drafted, handshakes all around. Ray caught himself hoping for a hug like he hadn't gotten since he was about fourteen, only partly because the bandages wouldn't get in the way so much, and then he forgot everything else he was hoping for, because François--François who hated elevators, just like he hated bananas and oscillating fans--bolted out from behind Ray's dad, barking like the crazy mutt he'd always been.
Ray felt his jaw drop, and saw, in the corner of his vision, his dad almost smiling, but mostly he just saw François, dancing and jumping at the end of his leash, straining toward Ray. His dad stopped walking, and started reeling François back in, but the little guy was going nuts, shaking all over, whole body wagging, ears pricked, and Ray figured he had about three minutes to calm the dog down before he pissed all over the hallway.
"François," he said, raising his voice a little to make himself heard over the barking, hoping none of his neighbors heard and got mad, "Eh, François! Ferme-toi la trappe.22" He pushed off from the door, and got within a couple feet of François, who didn't shut up, and in fact just got wilder the closer Ray got. "Pitou poche! François, assieds-toi!23" François sat, but immediately reared back, pawing up at the air, and Ray hunkered down and showed François his hands.
It was like magic. François still remembered what bandages meant, and he laid right down, swallowing his barks down to a little whine, not fearful but worried. Ray tipped forward onto his knees, hands in his lap, and François wormed up to him and nuzzled at the air cast and gauze, whimpering. When Ray moved his hands away, François stepped up onto his thighs and started licking Ray's face, and Ray wrapped his arms loosely around the dog. "Eh," he muttered, as François washed his face, and ears, and throat, for him. "Eh, François, flo fin24, good boy, good dog."
François just went on wagging his tail and licking Ray's face and of course it was all right to speak English, the dog had been living with Ray's parents for going on two years, he must be used to it. Ray looked up then, to see his dad crouching beside him, still holding François's leash. "We mostly called him Frankie," he said, "We, uh--we knew he didn't like English when he got upset, so we tried Polish, and a lot of the neighborhood kids spoke Spanish to him. So he's had a little bit of everything."
Ray nodded quickly, swallowed against the tightness in his throat, and said, "Thanks, Dad. For keeping him."
His dad looked at him for a minute, and then reached out and set one hand on Ray's shoulder. "That's what parents are for, isn't it?" Ray looked down at François, who'd settled down on his lap and was now looking up adoringly at Ray, his nose buried against Ray's stomach. Ray felt his dad's hand lift from his shoulder and run lightly over his hair, and smiled a little, nervously. His dad just chuckled and said, "Looking good, son."
Ray nodded, and eased François off his lap as he stood up. "Well, come on in," he said, "Mom--"
Just then she appeared in the doorway. "What are you two doing out there? Stanley, did you know your phone was unplugged? We tried to call you several times, and I wondered what had happened to your answering machine. Who knows how many messages you've missed!"
Ray felt his dad looking at him, but kept his eyes toward his mom, his face as blank as he could make it. "Oh, I musta knocked it out. I was pretty wobbly the first day or so."
His mother gave him a look like she didn't buy that, and Ray knew it was a pretty lame lie, but she just said, "Well, I plugged it back in for you."
Ray nodded, and took another look down at François, who was sitting so close to Ray's feet that in a minute he was going to be sitting on them, tail still thumping. "Good, thanks." He took a breath, and the words sounded so good in his head after the last two days that he had to say them out loud. "I gotta call my coach."
Ben sat on the floor with his back to the couch, his head tipped back against the cushions, his legs stretched out on Mark's soft, expensive carpet. The couch was leather, and felt wonderful against his cheek. Ben rubbed his face back and forth against it until something cold and hard touched his forehead, and then he opened his eyes.
Mark was standing over him, holding a beer in each hand, one dangling at his side, the other pressed to Ben's face. Ben reached up to that bottle, wrapping his hand as much around Mark's fingers as the cold glass.
Mark smiled and shook his head, letting go as Ben drew the bottle down to his mouth. "Feeling better now, Bent?"
Ben closed his eyes to concentrate on swallowing, and then opened them again, surveying the empty beer bottles, scattered on the floor near his feet like ninepins, though he didn't think there were quite nine of them. Post-game dehydration made this much quicker and easier than it might otherwise be. "Yes," he said, rubbing slow circles over the alcohol-burn in his belly, "Yes, Mark. Much better, thank you kindly."
Mark snorted, and sat down on the floor beside Ben's feet, his feet tucked against Ben's hip, their knees overlapping. Mark sipped his beer, and Ben took another long drink. Mark was looking at him in a way that made Ben want to squirm. He did shift in place, but it only made the stiff denim of his jeans rub against his thighs, sliding the cotton of his boxers across his groin. The slight friction made his skin hum, and he wanted to move more, feel more, but Mark was watching him. Ben went still.
Mark took another sip of his beer, never taking his eyes off Ben, and said, "So you wanna tell me what happened?"
The words welled up--all the words, so many words, after days of silence in the midst of his team, all those silent accusations unanswered--but Ben swallowed them back, sour and sharp, and washed them down with icy beer. No right. It wasn't his secret alone, and he really didn't know what had happened, entirely.
Mark's knee shoved against his, and Mark leaned closer, his arm crossing Ben's body and settling on his hip. "Come on, now, Bent. Jesus, the last time I saw you like this, your wife was dead."
Ben's heart thudded--secrets and secrets, and he might just say anything tonight if it would keep Mark talking to him, but he daren't, not while he was still able to resist. He cleared his throat and said, "She still is, actually."
Mark winced, drawing his hand back, but went on undeterred. "Yeah, and has been for years and you don't get like this about her, not for a long time. And don't say you're missing Dief, either, because that's the same all over."
It wasn't, anymore; missing Dief was a fresh, sharp pain again, after those days of reprieve. The things he shouldn't tell Mark kept piling up, and Ben tipped the bottle to his lips to find it empty. "My father," he said, a guilty rush jolting through him at the lie that ought to have been true, "A whole summer gone and I couldn't find out anything--"
"That the Mounties also couldn't find out. Ben, they're pros, your Dad was a pro. If there was anything to find they'd've found it, for one of their own. It's time to admit it was an accident, buddy boy. Time to let it go."
Ben looked away, rolling the empty bottle between his thigh and his palm. He'd tried before to explain it, to Mark, to anyone who was willing to pretend to care, and he'd concluded by now that people who didn't understand instinctively just weren't going to. It was his father. His father had been killed, had gone down into the ground with no justice, and if Ben had only been different he might have done something about it.
"Ah, fuck," Mark muttered, and dropped his empty bottle with a clink among the others, "Made it worse."
Ben shook his head, but couldn't look up, his eyes burning like his stomach; it was the beer, that was all. Mark moved before and above Ben, planting a knee between his thighs, hooking his fingers through the belt loops of Ben's jeans.
Ben dropped his beer bottle, and managed to coordinate his arms sufficiently to take some of his weight as Mark hauled him up by the jeans. His hands skidded up the front of the couch, and then Ben was sprawled on the soft cushions, with Mark kneeling between his thighs.
The look on Mark's face made Ben catch his breath, and mingled with the anticipation was relief--no need for words, no need to do anything further. Mark knew what Ben had come here for, more than just a friendly post-game drink with his friend on the opposing team. Then Mark was lunging up from his knees, one hand between Ben's legs, cupping him as he hardened. Ben pressed up against Mark's palm even as Mark's other hand caught his jaw, fingers against his cheek, the heel of his hand pressing against Ben's throat, and Mark was kissing him.
His mouth drove hard against Ben's, bruising his lips with the fierce press of teeth, and Ben opened to the assault, Mark's tongue thrusting roughly into his mouth. Ben moaned, licking eagerly at Mark's lips, tongue, teeth. Mark's hand moved over his erection just roughly enough, and Ben tightened his legs against the couch and pushed up into the ungentle caresses. He was aware, dimly, of his arms lying at his sides, leather under his fingers when he could be touching Mark. He raised his left hand to Mark's arm, but the instant he touched skin, Mark pulled away, breaking the kiss as abruptly as it had begun. He stood up, catching Ben's wrist and hauling him to his feet.
Mark kicked aside a beer bottle and then headed for the bedroom, towing Ben along as though he might get lost if Mark let go. Ben's head spun with the beer and the sudden movement, blood throbbing heavy in his groin, his mouth tingling and aching and eager for more.
Mark's bedroom was the usual sort of chaos--socks scattered on the floor, drawers and closet doors open, the bed a wreckage of sheets and pillows, the duvet crumpled on the floor at its foot--and Ben only had an instant to take it in before Mark was shoving him onto the bed. Ben hit the mattress and bounced, boneless and dizzy, and then Mark was on the bed with him, kneeling between his legs and unfastening his pants. Ben lay still, arms flung wide, and waited for the ceiling to steady as Mark dragged his jeans and boxers off him, the fabric leaving a little burn in its wake as it was yanked down. Mark's hands slid up Ben's ribs, pushing his shirt, and Ben moved his arms up when Mark's fingertips prodded at his armpits.
Mark's hands on him felt good--his skin felt awake and alive, tingling, hungry, blood humming just below the surface. When Mark's hands withdrew from him, Ben could feel the air moving on his skin, and traced the patterns with his own hands, across his chest--hard nipples, muscular ripple of ribs, belly expanding with his breath--and lower, over the hard jut of hipbones and the curly tangle of hair between. He shifted his hips, slowly, feeling the blood throb in his cock, the weight of his balls shifting between his legs when he moved. He was tempted to touch there, too, but it was much too soon yet. Ben wanted this to go on and on.
Above him, Mark rumbled a laugh, and Ben opened his eyes as Mark climbed onto the bed. Mark was naked, too, his cock standing hard and ready. Ben traced the familiar body with his eyes, and then his hands. It had been a long time since he'd seen Mark this way, or touched him, and his hands itched with eagerness. One palm flattened against the heat of Mark's skin, damp with sweat, muscle and bone hard and mobile under Ben's touch, and the other reached lower. Mark grinned, and caught both of Ben's wrists, forcing them down to the bed, and murmured, "Uh-uh, Bent."
Ben struggled under Mark's grip, half out of frustrated desire to touch, half because he knew the game. He got one hand free fairly quickly, and succeeded in unbalancing Mark enough that Mark collapsed heavily on top of him. Ben lost his breath and his tactical advantage all at once, and Mark quickly pushed up again--Ben was conscious of the feeling of Mark's cock pressing against his hip just in time for it to be withdrawn as Mark moved away. Mark pinned his hands and Ben went on struggling, writhing under Mark, shoulders and hips arching off the bed, his legs fighting for purchase. Mark held him down, pushing him into the mattress, until he became impatient with Ben, and then he released one of Ben's hands. Before Ben could relax, Mark took tight hold of his cock.
He squeezed, just once, hard enough to make Ben's breath stop. Ben went perfectly still, panting open-mouthed, pleasure-pain making his toes curl. His hips pushed up minutely, of their own accord, and Mark's hand tightened just a fraction in response. He raised an eyebrow. "My belt's just on the floor there, Bent," he murmured, his voice husky and dark and utterly sincere. "If you can't be still..."
Ben closed his eyes, remembering the bite of leather cinched tight on his wrists, when he hadn't been able to keep still, hadn't been able to resist fighting this, fighting Mark and himself and the goodness of it. He couldn't recognize good from bad, then, but this had always been good. Mark's hand was still on his cock and Ben wanted, desperately, to push up into that grip, but he knew now to trust Mark. He opened his eyes, staring into Mark's, and deliberately relaxed, loosening his muscles, letting himself sink into the mattress. Mark nodded, satisfied, and with a last burning-bruising twist of his grip on Ben's wrist, and one quick hard stroke of Ben's cock, Mark let go, lowering himself to kiss.
He wasn't so rough, now; he'd already won. Ben opened his mouth and tilted his head back, and Mark kissed him, teeth grazing Ben's lower lip, his tongue thrusting into Ben's mouth, exploring, tasting. Mark held himself above Ben, only their mouths touching, but Ben could feel the heat in the air between them, and shifted in tiny movements as he licked at Mark's tongue, welcoming.
Mark broke the kiss and pulled away, and Ben shivered as cooler air touched him. Mark set one hand on Ben's ribs and the other on his hip, and flipped him, in one forceful motion, onto his stomach. Ben felt the mattress move beneath him as Mark crawled across it, but he was distracted by the suddenly available friction, grinding his hips irresistibly against the warm soft cotton of the sheets, his face buried in the sleep-scent of Mark and laundry detergent. Ben felt a small moan of satisfaction vibrate its way out of his throat as he thrust against the firmness of the mattress, and then Mark's hand came down against Ben's ass with a sharp crack, pain flaring bright.
Mark's hand didn't lift away after the slap, his thumb moving gently across Ben's skin as the sharp sting eased into a low burn. Ben, frozen still, made a small sound, and Mark seemed to know what he meant, sliding his hand down onto Ben's hipbone. "Up," he said, and Ben pulled his knees and arms under himself, pushing away from the tempting pressure of the mattress against his cock. Mark's hand on his hip guided him up until only air touched him. Mark's knees, between his, pushed Ben to spread his legs, and air touched him there, too, one heavy eager heartbeat ahead of Mark's slick fingers.
Ben remembered to breathe, and to relax, in the moment while Mark's fingertips stroked his cleft, pressing lightly at his opening, circling against it. Then he pushed in, and Ben dropped his head, panting, forcing himself not to push back against the stretch and burn and touch of two fingers inside him. Mark's fingers moved quickly, purposefully. Ben gasped when they pulled out, and was ready when they pressed in again, bearing more lubricant.
The second time Mark's fingers withdrew, they were quickly replaced by the blunt hard heat of his cock, thrusting irresistibly inside as Ben gasped in one long breath. When Mark was buried inside him--hot and mercilessly hard, stretching and taking and waking feelings Ben hadn't felt in too long, shivers of pleasure rushing through him, tightening his balls--Ben exhaled, dizzy with sensation and hyperventilation. He shuddered with the effort not to move, and then Mark was moving, short hard thrusts that were not--quite--exactly what Ben needed, though he could hear Mark's breath coming short and ragged with pleasure.
Ben's cock throbbed, eager and neglected, tormented by the pleasure of Mark inside him. With an animal whine--desperate, heedless--Ben thrust back against Mark, canting his hips to meet him, so that the angle was exactly right, pleasure bursting through him in a sudden rush. Ben bit down on his lip, and Mark thrust again, and again, and again, until finally Ben had to open his mouth to breathe. Mark's teeth closed on the skin just beside his shoulder blade, and Ben came, gasping.
He managed, somehow, not to collapse, and Mark kept moving in him, the pleasure now almost too intense to bear as his thrusts turned erratic and wild, sensations edging nearly into pain again before he finished, lifting his mouth from Ben's skin to breathe harshly through his climax. Mark pulled out quickly when he was done, and moved away to deal with the condom, and Ben lowered himself to the bed on his side. The friction he'd craved moments ago would be too much now that it was freely available, and Ben smiled in vague appreciation of the irony as he touched one finger to the cooling wet splatters of semen on Mark's rumpled sheets.
Mark returned and laid down behind him, rubbing at the stinging spot on the back of Ben's shoulder and then running one hand down his side. "There, Bent. Now you feel better?"
Ben nodded slowly. No danger, now, that he'd say anything at all; he was too near sleep already, his skin-hunger thoroughly sated. In between one unfocused blink and the next, a compact white shape appeared in the corner of the room, and under Ben's scrutiny Dief got to his feet and tentatively wagged his tail. Ben smiled. "Much better, thank you."
"Good," Mark said, in Ben's ear, "Because it's time for me to drive you back to your hotel, so you don't miss your bus in the morning."
Ben shook his head. "Cab," he murmured. At least as many of the empties on the floor were Mark's as his, and he knew Mark would be feeling a lassitude to rival his own now, however his voice disguised it.
Mark pulled Ben up into a sitting position, and ruffled his hair when he winced. "I'll give you a pillow to sit on," he said. As he stood and went to the phone Dief trotted up to Ben, and set his head on Ben's knee.
Ben stroked his thumb discreetly along Dief's muzzle and said, "You shouldn't spoil me so."
It was weird, sitting in the passenger seat of the Goat, but Ray didn't really care. He was out of the apartment for the first time since Sandor had brought him home, even if it was just to go to a doctor's appointment. Mort had said he could start working out at United, with the other scratches left behind from the road trip, if the doctor okayed it.
Ray was feeling good, feeling great. His hands were still hurting, but not quite as bad. He'd stopped taking the T3--Joanna had given him a look when he asked not to, and made him take regular Tylenol instead, and Ray rolled his eyes and did, just to humor her--so he didn't feel all woolly and stupid now. The swelling had gone down, after four days of anti-inflammatories, so Ray could bend his fingers, if he was careful about it. He wasn't ready to put gloves on, let alone hold a stick, but he was healing, and that was enough for now.
Healing, and riding in the car with his dad. Ray glanced sideways, and caught his dad grinning as he wove through downtown traffic. He tried not to laugh, but his dad looked over at him and snorted.
Ray sat back in his seat and went back to looking at the street, still smiling. "What?"
His dad shook his head, and then jerked a nod over his shoulder, to where François was sitting up in the backseat on a well-chewed old Nordiques practice jersey, looking around wildly. "I never knew anybody who took after his dog so much, son."
Ray shook his head. "He takes after me, dad. I musta got it from somewhere else."
Ray'd dad just snorted again. "Somebody on your mother's side, maybe," he said, but Ray knew exactly where he got this crazed delight in the road and the city, because he could see it on his dad's face, behind the wheel of this car again after so long. The last time his dad had driven the Goat, Ray had been seventeen, still keeping quiet about his plans to take up Montreal's offer of a place on the team that fall.
Ray sat back in his seat, staring out the window. François whined softly, not really upset, but it was loud in the silence, rising above the hum of the Goat running perfectly. Ray twisted in his seat, cradling his left hand against his belly, and reached back with his right. François licked at his fingertips, and Ray shushed him. François laid down, curled up small, and Ray flipped a fold of the jersey over his nose before settling back into his own seat.
His dad looked over at him and cleared his throat. "Y'know, Raymond, you can tell me what happened to your hands. You didn't do that falling down. It was some kind of a fight, right?"
Ray felt his heart start to pound, his face flushing. He'd been better at lying to his parents, once, a lot better. His dad hadn't known he was going to Montreal till his bags were packed. He remembered the screaming, the crazy stupid terrifying rush of the moment when he realized he might have to choose between his dad and hockey, realized he might never see his dad again.
He thought about telling the truth, or a piece of it--I had sex with this guy and then I took a swing at him after, or maybe Being called a slut always makes me want to hit things, or just, I'm a queer hockey player, dad, these things happen. Ray could feel it just like before, the threat, the promise--he might never see his dad again. He sighed, and said, "Yeah, I got in a fight. Off-ice, total rookie move. I'm in the doghouse with my coach."
His dad smiled, shaking his head but proud, his macho jock son getting into brawls. Ray smiled back, shaky inside, and his dad reached out and squeezed his shoulder and left his hand there, warm and solid. Ray had to swallow hard against the gratitude that choked him. He could tell this one lie, he could pretend he was normal. He could keep his dad. "There's no need to lie to us, y'know, Raymond. Your mother and I are fully functioning adults. We can handle the truth."
Ray barked a laugh, uncontrollable, almost hysterical, and he had to say something, anything, as long as it was the truth. "Dad? You know that antique lamp that I said the cat broke, that was me."
His dad laughed, and patted his back. "Yeah, I know, son."
Ray forced himself to keep smiling, watching the road, wondering how fucking far it could possibly be to the hospital. "And--the time after school when I had a black eye. That didn't happen during gym. I, uh, I skipped class to play shinny99 on the pond behind Tomaszek's."
His dad took his hand away, turning a corner, perfect hand-over-hand form. "I know, son."
"Remember when I was fourteen? And the station wagon went missing?"
His dad looked over at him, real suspicion sneaking through the smile. "Yeah?"
It was better, somehow, if he really was shocking him, even just a little. "That was me."
His dad looked back at the road, shaking his head and almost laughing. "You stupid son of a bitch."
Ray grinned though his lips felt numb, and nodded, and picked at the velcro on his cast. He could live with that.
Ben returned to his room for a nap following morning skate and lunch. Fatigue always told on a team over the course of a road trip, so the rest would do him good.
It was fatigue that dogged road teams. Fatigue, and the inevitable interpersonal stress of travel. A team that wasn't getting along at home would only continue to splinter on the road.
Ben laid down on his bed in his empty hotel room, not looking at the second bed, perfect and undisturbed because Ben had no roommate. Staring at the ceiling he sighed, and admitted it to himself: he wasn't tired. He was making a virtue of necessity.
The truth was, none of his teammates had seemed prepared to even tolerate his presence past lunch.
Ben dragged his arm over his eyes. "Self pity is a luxury you can ill afford," he said, as though hearing the words spoken would shake him from his foolish habit of thought. When the echo of his voice faded from the room, he was still the same. Ben sighed, and tried to think of something soothing. Ice fields, cold wind, and the thundering of caribou...
His mind's eye persisted in showing him only the blankness of another hotel ceiling. He was nearly thirty-five years old; he'd been playing hockey on the road for twenty years now. It was a simple mathematical fact: he'd seen more hotel ceilings than ice fields.
Ben shook himself and resolved to count sheep, if he couldn't do better. He'd counted to one hundred thirty-nine when he was startled into opening his eyes by an energetic bounce on the bed beside him. Diefenbaker stood over him, lowering his nose to nudge Ben into a sitting position.
He smiled as he sat up, but tried to mask his relief in exasperation. "I suppose you have some idea of how I might more profitably spend my time?"
Dief, showing his usual fine disregard for sarcasm, gave a soundless bark and wagged his tail. Ben spread his hands in a Well? gesture, and Dief stepped behind him, across the pillows, to nose at the phone on the night stand.
Ben swung his legs down so that he was sitting beside Dief, looking at the phone. Dief touched his nose to the printed placard which explained how to place international calls, and barked again, oddly expressive despite his silence.
Ben sighed. "No. I'm not going to call Ray. I very much doubt he'd welcome my intrusion on his time."
Diefenbaker made his opinion of that assessment quite clear, but Ben shook his head, resolute. Ray would doubtless still be angry with him, and no phone conversation would set things to rights. It would be better just to wait, and sort things out face to face. Dief lay down across the pillows with a visibly gusty exhalation, disdain in every line of his body.
Ben frowned. "I am not being a coward. I'm certainly not the one who retreated into the next world for several days after Ray shouted at me." Not that he mightn't have been tempted, if he had the chance.
For a moment, he thought Dief would call him on that point, but the wolf displayed one of his odd flashes of diplomacy and changed the subject, tilting his nose toward the phone again. Ben shook his head. "I'm not going to call Mark either. Honestly, I don't even know what city he's in."
Dief somehow managed to give the impression that he was rolling his eyes without actually looking at Ben. "You can think what you like, Diefenbaker, but the fact is that you still haven't offered a more productive alternative to taking a nap."
Dief merely yawned, and shifted to more effectively take up an improbably large fraction of the bed.
Ben sighed, and reached for the phone. "Well, if you're so determined that I should talk to someone, there is a phone call I ought to make. I've put it off much too long already."
This, at last, drew a sharp reaction from Dief; he sat up abruptly, hackles raised. Ben hesitated a moment, then picked the phone up, pulling it into his lap. He was the human, here. Dief was only a wolf, and a ghost wolf at that. "He was a good friend of my father's, Diefenbaker, and he's overseeing the investigation. Really, I ought to have called him weeks ago to check up. Thank you for reminding me."
Dief shook himself all over, which seemed to be the lupine equivalent of washing his hands of Ben, and jumped off the bed, settling himself in the furthest corner of the room and curling up so that only his eyes showed over the tightly-tucked plume of his tail. He stared balefully at Ben, who soon dropped his eyes to the phone in his lap.
A Mountie named Gerard, someone he vaguely recalled his father mentioning during one or another story about work, had called Ben, one year, two months, four days ago, to tell him his father was dead. Gerard's words, crackling with static, had thrust Ben into a nightmare, the impossible loss studded with mundane miseries. His father--his father, Sergeant Robert Fraser--was dead. Ben had flown two thousand miles in miserable conditions only to spend two days in the oppressive company of an enormous congregation of Mounties, complete with their red coats and rifle salutes. He had but rarely seen his father in a red coat while he lived, and--thankfully--even more rarely with a gun in his hands. By the time Gerard approached him and pressed a card into his hand, printed with his contact numbers, Ben had been numb with exhaustion piled upon shock. He had accepted the card, and Gerard's assurances of a swift and thorough investigation, unquestioningly.
A few days later, when he felt able, Ben had called Gerard for news of the investigation.
Gerard hadn't had much to tell him that day, but Ben had called back, and called back again. Gerard never had much to tell him, counseling patience, citing complex procedures that sounded reasonable while Ben was speaking to him, but seemed, when reconsidered in the dark watches of the night, nothing more than obfuscations. Eventually he began calling other Mounties, bracing himself to meet with them, wheedling papers and files and information, trying desperately to do something right for his father. The season had gotten off to its late start, and despite warnings from his coaches and team management, he'd kept up his efforts. When the unthinkable happened, and he was traded away--traded out of Canada--he'd still clung to this one familiar pursuit. He'd persisted in calling, reminding those involved in the case that his father was not forgotten, refusing to accept their weak excuse of an accident in hunting season.
He'd had a familiarly futile conversation with Gerard on the anniversary of his father's death, the sixteenth of August. Ten days later, Chris's call had drawn Ben down to Chicago to attend another funeral. Thousands of miles of hastily-planned travel, once again, but he'd been surrounded by his own colleagues rather than his father's at the end of it, and instead of a rifle salute there had been... Ray Kowalski.
No less a shock to the system, certainly. But that was a month and a half ago now, and in all the time since, Ben had permitted Ray and hockey to consume his thoughts, all his attention. He'd gone straight back to playing a game as if it mattered, while his father, a hero, remained unavenged.
Ben took a breath, shifting his sweating hands on the smooth plastic of the phone. He looked up toward the corner where Dief was sitting, and Dief uncoiled abruptly and got to his feet. Ben raised an eyebrow, and Dief took a longing look toward the door, edging in that direction. "Honestly, Diefenbaker, I don't understand your objections to my making a simple phone call."
Dief elucidated with a volley of barks, tail whipping madly, his whole body communicating his anxiety and frustration. Ben could hardly pretend to misunderstand him; he made his opinion of Gerard, and Ben's efforts, quite clear, and Ben finally shut his eyes so that he wouldn't have to listen anymore. Even then, he could feel Dief's arguments hammering at his eyelids.
It was hardly fair; Dief, of all people, ought to understand why no objection could deter him from his course, ought to support him in this. Dief was his friend, his ally. "Diefenbaker!" he finally snapped, opening his eyes. Dief stopped, mouth hanging open, and Ben went on, "When it was you--"
Dief's stillness hardened and sharpened, mouth snapping shut, and Ben froze himself, choking on his words and going silent. That was something he didn't ever mention, could barely acknowledge in the privacy of his own mind, let alone aloud, even in a room he shared only with a ghostly and soundless wolf. "Dief," he said, his voice strangled and low, but Dief shook himself and laid down again, facing away, as if to say he didn't care what Ben said or did.
All out of reasons to delay, Ben cleared his throat and picked up the phone. Gerard's card was in his wallet, where it had stayed since it had been given to him, but Ben had long since memorized the number. Here in Calgary, he wasn't even dialing across the border.
After two rings, a brisk voice said, "Chief Superintendent Gerard's office, Constable Corbin speaking."
Ben took a deep breath. "Good afternoon, Constable. This is Benton Fraser. I'd like to speak to the Superintendent regarding a case."
"Ah," said the Constable. He cleared his throat, and then his voice turned even more professional, nearly mechanical. "Yes, Superintendent Gerard indicated you might be calling. There has been no change in the status of the investigation of Sergeant Fraser's death. If there is any change, you will of course be duly informed."
"Thank you kindly, Constable Corbin. I'd like to speak to Superintendent Gerard, now." It was automatic. He'd been pushing his way through to Gerard for the last year, and he could do it quite effectively, all the while remaining perfectly polite, betraying nothing of what he felt.
Corbin seemed to be on automatic as well. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Fraser, that's not possible at this moment. But as I've said, Superintendent Gerard has made provision for your inquiries to be handled promptly by the most readily available officer, and as I have explained, there has been no change in the status of the case."
Ben opened his mouth to continue the familiar argument, then sighed. "Look, Constable," he said, tiredly, thinking that he might just take that nap after all when he was finished with this. "You work in the Superintendent's office. You answer the phones. You must have some idea what the status of the case is."
Corbin was silent for a moment, perhaps thrown by Ben's change in tactics, then said, "Mr. Fraser, I'm not at liberty to discuss such matters with a civilian."
Ben squeezed his eyes shut tight, gritting his teeth, refusing to register the feeling like a blow to the gut that those mere words had given him. "You must know," he repeated doggedly. "You must see reports come in, you must know who's working on the case, because Gerard can't possibly be investigating personally--you're the front line, Constable, you must--"
But the young Constable said nothing, and it sounded, suddenly, like the silence of a man with not one word to say.
"Oh," Ben said. "Oh, I see. You don't see the reports, and you don't know who's working on the case, because there are no reports. No one is doing a--damned--thing, and none of you even has the decency to tell me so."
"Mr. Fraser--"
"Tell Gerard I think he owes it to me to tell me exactly what's going on here," Ben said, too tired of it all to be truly angry, "Tell him he owes my father's son the truth."
Corbin was still spluttering as Ben hung up, and when he looked up for Dief, the wolf was sitting by his feet. He opened his mouth to apologize for his outburst, but Dief took one of Ben's hands gently between his teeth and tugged.
Ben blinked, and then smiled. "I suppose you're right," he said softly. "I'm not an Oiler anymore, am I? I'm a Blackhawk. I can go out alone if I like." For all his adult life--ever since he'd been drafted by the Edmonton Oilers from the University of Alberta-Calgary, and then spent his latter two years of university keeping as quiet as he possibly could about which NHL team he'd be playing for when he finished--the Calgary-Edmonton rivalry had ruled him. As an Oiler, he'd always been leery of venturing into the streets of Calgary without a pack of teammates, but he wasn't an Oiler anymore, and no one in Calgary particularly cared about the members of a struggling American team. For the first time in sixteen years, he was free in Calgary. It was a strange feeling, something like the first time his mother had let go of his hand on the ice and sent him wobbling off on his own two skates. As he remembered, he'd fallen a lot that day.
Dief dropped Ben's hand and barked, and Ben smiled wider. "Yes, of course, I misspoke. I won't be alone at all."
Mort sighed. "This, I do not like, Raymond."
Ray sighed right back. He didn't like it either. There were four small spots on his left hand, in among the bumps of his knuckles and the railroad tracks of stitches and fresh new scars, where the skin hadn't knit. It wasn't surprising--there hadn't really been enough skin left to put back together by the time he was done with that telephone pole--but it sucked. He'd gotten used to the sight of those four spots, each one like a jagged little crater with red jelly donut filling inside, but he didn't like the thought of what they'd do the first time he put gloves on.
Still, he'd always had bad hands. "So, whaddya think?"
Mort looked at Ray, and then back down at Ray's hands, and then at the row of x-ray films he had spread out on the desk. Nine days, and the bone contusions had faded some. The crack in his knucklebone was still visible in the picture, but Ray thought that was showing improvement, too; in today's x-ray it looked shorter and thinner, and it couldn't be just wishful thinking. It hurt less, lately, and he'd been drinking enough milk to grow a whole new set of arm bones.
Mort looked away from the films, back to Ray, and said, "Can you make a fist?"
Ray took a deep breath. He'd been practicing this. His right hand balled up easily, though Ray went slowly to be careful of the stitches and scars, and Mort nodded his approval. His left hand was slower, and finally he reached out and gripped two of Mort's fingers and squeezed the best he could, gritting his teeth. "I can do that. I can hold a stick. No more fists for me anyway, right?"
Mort looked skeptical. "The stitches will come out tomorrow, Raymond. Tomorrow you may begin skating in full equipment, and we'll see about your participation in practices." Ray grinned, the pain in his left hand already fading. He had to flatten his hands on the table again to keep himself from grabbing Mort and kissing him. Mort laughed, shaking his head. "That is all I can say, you know. The rest is up to Coach."
"I know," Ray said, "That's all I need. Once I'm on the ice again--" Things were gonna be fine, just fine. He didn't know how, but he'd gotten one more chance, and he was going to do it right this time. Really right.
Mort just smiled, and bandaged up Ray's hands for him again. When he was done, Ray headed over to the locker room.
It was empty, for now. The rest of the team was out on the ice for their first practice after the road trip. Ray had shown up too late to see anybody beforehand, too jittery at the thought of seeing them again to get himself moving properly that morning. He'd slept like crap and then snoozed through his alarm, cut himself shaving, spilled his coffee, answered the phone instead of letting the machine get it, and then been stuck talking to his mom for five minutes and François for ten. So the day hadn't gotten off to a great start, but then...
He grinned into his locker, which he didn't have to clean out after all. He'd taped up a picture of François on one side the day before. Ray had had to practically sit on the dog to get him to hold still for the camera, but the way his arms were wrapped around François mostly hid his hands in the picture.
He was still looking into his locker when he heard the sounds of guys coming down the tunnel. His heart started pounding fast, and he swallowed hard, working his hands open and closed. The little jolts of pain from his left hand gave him something else to think about, and then Hack yelled, "Ray-Kay! Fuck, there you are! We thought you were lost and gone forever!" and Ray was turning around, grinning.
The whole fucking team was streaming in, crowding around him in full gear, everyone talking at once, though they left him a little breathing space, knowing well enough not to jostle the injured guy. Still, Hue reached across to mess his hair, and Ray shook away, laughing. "Yeah, yeah, I know my phone was unplugged for a couple days, Jesus! Did you all try to call me?"
A few of the guys looked around at each other--Eddie and Daz and JR all pointed to Hack behind his back--and everybody laughed, and Ray grinned. He'd finally sucked it up and listened to his messages, yesterday, and three of them had been from Hack. He'd had one from Hue, and one from Deuce, and one from Deuce's wife wanting to know if he had food. He'd even had one from Bully, for God's sake.
Hack shoved gently at Ray's shoulder, and Ray had a sudden memory of Hack's hand under his arm, bracing him up to his feet, Mort standing close on his other side. Hack knew where it was okay to smack him, because he'd been there. "What, and it would have killed you to let somebody know you were alive?"
Ray grinned, and spread his hands as he shrugged. Hack was a hell of a friend, saw him like that, all fucked up on his bathroom floor, and was right back to teasing him a week later, just like old times, just like nothing had ever happened. Like nothing had changed. "Well," he said, "I woulda called you guys back, but the thing is, they sent me this nurse, and she was--" Ray's hands waved in the air, which was all the description the guys needed. It was a shitty thing to do to Joanna, but he thought she'd understand--it was their secret, after all, that he was such a gentleman.
All the guys roared with laughter, and started up with the jokes, but Ray peeked over their shoulders, across the room, even as he laughed and answered back just like he should. There was one guy missing from the crowd, one guy who hadn't left a message.
Fraser was sitting at his locker, taking off his skates. And it wasn't just that he was sitting over there by himself--none of the guys, not even Bully, looked over at him or called out to him. Ray felt his grin turn plastic, but kept right on bullshitting with the guys as they peeled away in ones and twos to go undress, still stealing glances at Fraser as often as he could.
Something had gone wrong, completely wrong. The guys must have blamed Fraser, must have thought Fraser had something to do with Ray going out and punching a fucking telephone pole, which was just stupid. It was true, maybe, but not in a way that any of them ever needed to know about, and it was stupid for them to all be shunning Fraser like this.
And, fuck, but he hadn't seen Fraser since they argued, and he'd've liked to be able to have five minutes alone with the guy to see where they stood, whether Fraser had any use for him at all. He hadn't even been willing to fight it out, just turned away, just let Ray go, and... maybe that was that, maybe Fraser was through with him. After all, who wanted to be friends with a closet case slut? Especially one who tried to say he was straight at the worst possible moment.
Still, he had to try, and he had to try right now, because the team had to know that they could stop holding their stupid grudge against Fraser right this second, and because--because he had to try. This was Fraser, not speaking to him even though they hadn't seen each other in a week and a half, not even asking how his hands were, not even wondering where he'd gone. Not so much as a word or a look; Fraser was just sitting there, staring down at his skates for the last ten minutes straight so he wouldn't have to look at Ray, and all because Ray was an idiot. This was Ray's last best chance to fix things, and he wasn't going to let it slip away.
Ray gritted his teeth, braced for total failure, hoped for something better, and called out in his most normal voice, with a big normal grin, "Hey, Fraser!"
Ben, trailing behind the mass of his team as they returned from the ice, had heard the shouts of enthusiastic welcome well before he entered the locker room. Still, he had kept his stride steady, had not hesitated at the door but went straight to his locker, brushing past the crush of his teammates gathered around Ray.
He'd caught just a glimpse of Ray, fair hair aggressively spiked, his expressive hands, only one bandaged now, making a vividly illustrative gesture. That combined with Ray's laughter, mingling with that of his teammates, gave Ben a very clear picture of how Ray had spent the last several days. He sat down hard on the bench and stared at his skates, trying to remember how to undo the laces, trying to quell the shaking in his gut. He hadn't seen Ray since that night. He thought he'd forgotten Ray's anger, that it had at least faded a little in his mind--if nothing else, Ray's pitiful state a few hours later ought to have erased the recollection, but he couldn't forget. Ray surely would not have forgotten, however happy he seemed in the company of others.
Ben was so intent upon his skates, so consumed with dread, that it took him a moment to register Ray's voice, bright but ringing faintly false in Ben's ear, calling out to him. Ben looked up into Ray's smiling face, searching it for any hint of what Ray really felt--because it was obvious, perfectly obvious, as the entire locker room went quiet and turned to watch, that whatever Ray did now, he did for the benefit of the team. The team came first, always, and so Ben mustered up his best attempt at a smile, though he knew he was not nearly so gifted at this sort of subterfuge as Ray was.
Ray's smile seemed to falter slightly, as though he'd noticed Ben wasn't going to be able to fool anyone, and Ben put a little extra effort into controlling his expression. Ray's grin returned to its full force, and he called out, "Fraser, you know I was telling you about my dog the other day? Well, my parents came up to see me the other day, and they brought him along for a visit."
Ben blinked. There was so much encoded in that brief statement, as if Ray were deliberately recalling him to their former intimacy--the intimacy of friends and teammates, the intimacy of the locker room, of course, nothing else--but then that too would be no more than their audience would expect, if Ray were to persuade them that nothing was wrong.
If François had been returned to him... then Ray had never in truth lost his dog, only misplaced him for a time, and that small sorrow they had shared, right here, sitting on this bench, was now erased; this was, perhaps, Ray's way of denouncing their former closeness while seeming to all around them to embrace it.
Ben blinked, and tried to smile more widely, though it was very nearly painful. "I'm happy to hear that, Ray," he said, his voice sounding stiff to his own ears, and as if it echoed in the locker room, though he could hear a buzz of conversation, and suspected that the room was not in truth as quiet as it seemed to him. "How wonderful for you to see him. And your parents, of course."
Ray's smile faltered visibly now, blatantly, but he nodded and went on smiling falsely across the room at Ben until Jeff, still standing close to Ray's side, said something that caught Ray's attention. The change that went over Ray's face--the genuineness of his comfort in talking to Jeff--was obvious and painful to behold. Ben looked down.
Ray's estrangement from his parents had ended, then, another hurt healed, another bit of common ground between them plowed under. And he had, apparently, enjoyed some liaison with his bountifully female home nurse, perhaps entered into an ongoing relationship, though he would have expected more chivalry from Ray with respect to a serious girlfriend. In any case, Ray had clearly chosen his solution to whatever difficulty he had faced, chosen his family and female companionship over--whatever they might have had.
Ben looked to his skates again, his fingers working automatically now, the muscle memory which had served him for nearly all his life taking over again. As if they might have had anything at all, as if it could possibly have meant anything, been anything, become anything.
It was for the best, really. Any illusions he might have had about what Ray might truly want would only have been weapons for Ray to use against him. Better if he already knew it was over--all over, their friendship, everything, all gone, only a workmanlike civility to be hoped for now--before he had to face Ray's anger in any overt form. Really, Ray could hardly hurt him any more.
Ben stood and turned away to undress and ignored the sensation of Ray's gaze resting steadily on his back. If he ignored it long enough, it would almost certainly go away.
With the Hawks struggling, Coach had mixed up the schedule, hoping to shake the team out of their early slump. Morning skate had become afternoon skate. By the time Ray had his hands checked and the left bandaged all neat and tidy, there were barely two hours left to game-time. Most of the guys were bolting a quick light meal, but Ray, showered and dressed in clean shorts and a t-shirt, ready to gear up again, went hunting for Coach.
He found Welsh in the corridor near his office, looking at a clipboard, flipping rapidly from one page to the next. "Hey," Ray said, "Can I, uh..."
Welsh glanced up at him, not totally forbiddingly, and then back down to the paper in front of him. "What is it, Kowalski?"
Ray swallowed. Practice today, his first back, had gone pretty well. Hack had lived up to the promise Ray had extorted from him and talked to Fraser in front of the other guys. Welsh hadn't actually ripped Ray to shreds out there, though he had collected his share of yelling. It would have been a bad sign if he hadn't; Coach hadn't yelled at Hue for a day or two after he got back on skates. "I was wondering if you'd consider putting me in the lineup tonight," Ray said, all in one breath, steadily, chin up. He'd have been looking Coach in the eye if Coach had been looking at him.
Welsh glanced up at Ray, met his eye for a second and then looked back down. "I've already considered it, Kowalski." Ray wasn't completely sure, from the way Coach said it, so he held perfectly still, heart pounding, trying not to hope. Coach looked up again and said, "No," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You're still on injured reserve. Mort tells me your hand hasn't healed up all the way yet."
Ray released the held breath, the effort to be good, be polite, aware deep down that he already had his answer and couldn't possibly make it worse now, but he had to try, had to say something. "Hell, Coach, it might never, I'm old, I don't heal as fast, so what the hell's it matter? I haven't got that many games left."
"You should've thought of that before you punched a telephone pole, Kowalski." Coach lowered the clipboard, giving Ray a hard look that made Ray think he was actually going to ask, and Ray hadn't yet managed to think of a reason for punching a phone pole that didn't sound like such an obvious lie that Coach would smack him upside the head for even trying it.
Ray was a forward for the simple reason that he played better on offense than defense. "Look," he said quickly, trying to sound reasonable, trying not to whine. "I'm not asking for me, but I know and you know that I can do better than that French kid with Hue and Deuce--we work, Coach, you know we work, the three of us, we're a line, and I could help, this is a big game--"
"Hey," Coach said, without raising his voice to match the increasing volume of Ray's, but stopping him short all the same. "I'm the coach here, Kowalski, I know my team, and it's up to me to decide who plays. You wanna tell me how to do my job?"
Well, yes, he did, or he wouldn't be here. Ray looked away in case Coach could see the smartass thought, and muttered, "No."
"Then listen when I tell you: I thought about it, and you're not coming off IR tonight. Go home, Kowalski. I don't want you back in this building before noon for tomorrow's warmups unless you're wearing a suit and sitting in the press box like a good little boy." Coach half turned away, then stopped, and looked back at Ray.
Ray couldn't resist looking up, searching for some tiny crumb of hope, some sign that Coach would relent, if not now, then soon. He opened his mouth to beg, to plead, but Coach just said, "If you do come back, come down here first and have Mort put an air cast on your hand. Remember, if anybody asks, it's broken. You're on injured reserve, not idiot reserve."
Ray gritted his teeth and stared at the floor until he heard Coach walk as far as his office, heard the door open and close, and reminded himself not to clench his fists. It wouldn't help. His hands were really doing relatively well today. They'd hardly bled at all when Mort took the wraps off.
Ray went on staring at the floor for a while, trying to pull himself together, trying to adjust his mental image of the rest of the night from a game to another evening on the couch, or, worse, a night in the press box, looking penitent in his funeral suit and making conversation with reporters. He hadn't made much headway yet when he heard Fraser clear his throat down the hall, and then Ray picked his head up so fast he almost gave himself whiplash.
Fraser looked embarrassed, and there was no fucking point asking him how long he'd been standing down there; it was written all over his obvious truthful Canadian face. Ray looked away for a second, guts churning, telling himself not to blush. It was nothing to be ashamed of, really, anyone would want to play, everybody always wanted to play--but Ray had been ready to beg, and Coach had said no, and Fraser had seen.
Ray looked up at Fraser, who was still just standing down there, wearing tennies with his shorts and t-shirt and pulled-up socks, just waiting to get dressed again for the game. Ray felt suddenly naked in his own shorts, all ready to put on gear that wasn't coming out of his locker anytime soon. Stupid, stupid hope. "What?" Ray snapped, and Fraser sort of flinched.
Ray sighed and ran one hand through his hair. They had to make up. They had to do something, or the team was never gonna work right and they might as well send Ray down to Indy, or leave him on IR till he rotted. "Sorry," Ray muttered, "Sorry."
"No," Fraser said, quickly, walking fast over to Ray, stopping an arm's length away. "No, it's I who should apologize, Ray, I'm only sorry I haven't sooner. Well--not only sorry for that, of course--not even primarily sorry for that, in fact, it's really fairly trivial in the scheme of--"
Ray blinked. Fraser was fucking nervous, which was just crazy. "Fraser," he said, sharply, cutting him off, and Fraser went still, looking Ray in the eye and biting his lip. "What the hell are you talking about? Primarily?"
Fraser took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, opened and closed his hands, easily, like he didn't even have to think about doing it. "I'd like to offer my deepest apologies for the way I spoke to you in Vancouver. It was utterly inappropriate--"
Ray thought, So it was Vancouver. Huh. and then his brain caught up with what Fraser was trying to say. "Hey, hey! Hold up a second there, Fraser." Fraser stopped talking, and Ray reran what he'd said through his mind. "Are you actually trying to tell me you're sorry for--" he glanced toward the closed door of Coach's office, down the empty corridor, "For what you said? About me?"
"Yes, Ray, but more than that for what I did in goading you to such anger, to such--well, I put your career in jeopardy, to say nothing of the harm you personally suffered." Fraser glanced down at Ray's hands, then back up.
Ray shook his head, quickly, pulling out a smile, "No, Fraser, you got it all wrong, this is no big deal, this is just Coach being tough on me because--well--"
"Because you promised him," Fraser said, in a soft certain voice, "And I caused you to break your word, and I know there's nothing I can--"
Ray stared at Fraser, his stomach going cold. He'd never told Fraser about that, about what Welsh had said the night he rescued Ray from the beer leagues. But Welsh had said it, that night.
You promised me, Kowalski...
Welsh had said it to him while he sat on the floor of Hack's bathroom, as fucked up and bad off as he'd ever been in his life.
And Fraser had heard. Fraser had been there. Fraser had seen.
Ray stepped back, ducking his head, and Fraser stopped whatever it was he'd been saying.
Ray glanced up, and Fraser was watching him with--concern. Almost pity. Because Fraser had seen him like that, and of course Fraser wanted nothing to do with him, didn't want him anymore. Nobody would want a pathetic crazy loser who went out and smashed himself up because somebody called him a few-- perfectly true, not like he couldn't see that once he'd had a minute to think about it--names. Jesus. "You were there," Ray said, and his voice came out in a funny hoarse whisper.
Ray wasn't up to looking at Fraser above the ankles, but he saw Fraser freeze. "Yes," he said, his voice gone all soft and careful, like Ray needed coddling, like Ray was so fucking damaged that he couldn't just be told.
Ray whipped his head up, teeth clenched, reminded himself again to keep his hands open, jabbed one flat hand toward Fraser's chest without quite making contact. "You were there, you bastard. What the fuck were you doing there? Did you think I wanted you around? I didn't need your help. What were you even doing there?"
Fraser stepped back, looking a little stunned, and Ray knew, really, that this wasn't the best way to go about this, but, hell, Fraser had seen. Fraser said, wide-eyed, "Jeff said you needed your shoes."
Ray bit down on a wordless growl--he'd deal with Hack later, the interfering fuck--and said, "Don't apologize to me, Fraser. Don't think you're responsible for me. I'm not stupid. When I hit something, that's my fault."
Fraser blinked at him, and then said, "That's remarkably similar to what Coach said about the situation, actually."
"You--" Ray's vision went weirdly red, and he clenched his eyes shut tight and pressed his open hands against his thighs. Fraser had talked to Coach about him. About this. Because Alternate Captain Fraser thought that poor little Ray's queer panic had to be explained away. Because Fraser thought he couldn't cope with this thing, and he had every reason to think that, because he'd seen.
Ray could hear Fraser breathing in front of him, but he couldn't hear himself breathing. Breathing meant moving, and moving might just mean trying to knock Fraser into next week, and he already knew that wouldn't work. He knew that. And even if he was tempted, Coach was right there in his office, within earshot of a fight. When he couldn't resist breathing anymore, when he had to move, Ray turned and started walking toward the locker room, his clothes, his keys, the door out of here, so fast it was almost a run.
"Ray," Fraser called after him. "Ray, Ray, Ray," until Ray had to turn around or start screaming. "Please, Ray," Fraser said, "Come back for the game."
Like Ray was a kid who wanted to stay out late, and Fraser was afraid of what kind of trouble he'd get into, wanted to keep Ray where he'd be safe. "Like hell I will," Ray said. "I've got better things to do."
Fraser looked like the last thing on earth he wanted was to hear what they were, so Ray told him. "I'm going out and getting drunk," Ray snapped, "And if I have a minute free, maybe I'll check the score. Any further questions, alternate captain?" Fraser didn't say anything, and Ray turned around and kept walking, wishing he had a door to slam.
Fraser didn't think he could hack this queer thing, huh? Well, Fraser had another think coming. Ray was going to get however drunk he needed to, and then he was going to get laid.
Ben had paused in his headlong rush through showering and dressing after the game for only a few terse words with Jeff, who, rather apologetically, had given him the pointers that brought him here. He was driving slowly down the streets of an unfamiliar neighborhood, hoping to spot Ray's car in the darkness broken intermittently by sodium lights and neon signs, still uncertain of what he was doing.
I want to make sure he gets home in one piece this time. That was how he'd put it to Jeff, and that was true enough. But he'd wanted Ray to come home in one piece last time, and yet stayed where he was, and Ray was far less likely to do himself further injury now, when he was so focused on trying to work his way back into the lineup.
Ben winced at the too-fresh memory of Ray's determined, almost desperate, voice, asking Welsh to let him play. He'd had a point; they'd been beaten tonight, and badly. Ray's line could well have made a difference, if only... Well. There was no way Ray could have played, and that was that. But what he'd overheard had made him understand, even better than his clumsy attempt to actually talk to Ray, what was really going on.
Of course Ray had lashed out, in Vancouver, and this afternoon in the arena. Even Dief had bitten him once, backed into a corner and nursing injuries. The wolf had licked at Ben's sore hand the next day, and Ray had called out to him, across a crowded locker room, and he had been too blind to see what was being offered to him, let alone take it.
So here he was, now that he could see, hunting Ray with no idea what he'd do if he found him. Pour him into the truck and take him home, likely; Ben had no doubt that Ray would be quite thoroughly inebriated by now, if he were still to be found in a bar. Ben shied away from thinking further than that, and kept his mind to the simple task of trying to identify a black 1967 GTO--which might or might not be there--in the uncertain light from a moving car.
And then there it was; not parked in obvious proximity to any one establishment, nor near any conveniently empty spaces large enough to accommodate Ben's truck. He drove on until he could park, then backtracked toward Ray's car. The chill of the late-October night air was comforting. He felt steadier when the air had a bite to it; it was like being on the ice, or at home.
Instinct drove him to the door of the bar that looked most familiar, in type if not in actuality. It had neon lights and beer signs in the windows, and, once he stepped inside, a plethora of TV screens. He caught one showing highlights--if you could call them that--of the game he'd just played in, and averted his eyes with a grimace, scanning the room as he approached the bar.
Ray wasn't there, but the bartender came right over when Ben stepped up. "Excuse me," he said softly, as the bar was rather quiet. It occurred to Ben, vaguely, that it was a weeknight, and the game had been over for more than an hour and with a depressing result besides. "Was there a man in here tonight, about my height but lighter, with blond hair and a bandage on his left hand?"
The bartender looked at him for a moment, then picked up a glass to polish and said to the cloth in his hand, "You looking for Ray Kowalski, Mr. Fraser?"
Ben blinked, then scolded himself for being surprised. He'd been recognized semi-regularly in Edmonton, but it hadn't happened in Chicago yet. He should have expected it sooner or later, and it could hardly be avoided in a sports bar on game night. "Yes," he said, "was he here?"
The bartender nodded, jerking his chin toward a seat at the end of the bar, out of the way but with a good view of the television. "Sat right there from the pre-game show to the bitter end. Told me when he came in to bring him a fresh beer every time the other guys scored, and tipped like a guy who wasn't actually looking at what he was pulling out of his wallet."
Ben winced. At that rate, Ray would have been drinking fairly steadily for over three hours. "Did you call him a cab?"
He set down the glass with a soft thud and tossed the towel over his shoulder. After a long, steady look at Ben, he shrugged. "Nope. He said he wasn't planning on driving anywhere. There's a dozen other bars in walking distance, and all of 'em are livelier than this place on a night when the Hawks get pasted. And he wasn't staggering--he could've caught his own cab if he wanted one."
Ben nodded and pulled a bill from his own wallet. He tossed it on the bar without looking to see what it was as he turned and walked out into the night.
Back out on the sidewalk, he looked around. He didn't think Ray would have gone home, after spending the evening that way; if he'd wanted that, he could have watched the game at his own apartment. It only remained to guess which of the many convenient bars he might have chosen to move on to, and Ben knew he didn't know Ray well enough to predict that.
He found Ray in the fourth bar he tried, propped up against the wall in a dim corner, watching the dancers on the small crowded floor. He had a half-full beer bottle dangling from the fingers of his bandaged hand, and the table at his elbow held an alarming number of empties.
Ben watched him for a moment from a few meters away, knowing he was safely hidden in the low light and pounding music, free to observe. Ray rocked a little to the music, hips shifting hypnotically as his neatly-bandaged hand raised the bottle slowly to his lips, long fingers curled around the neck. His head tilted heavily back to catch the last drops, coming to rest against the wall, and his throat worked visibly as he swallowed. His eyes were heavy-lidded, and Ben wondered who on the floor had caught his attention, whether he saw any of them at all or was simply replaying the game in his mind, imagining how he might have turned the tide if he'd been able to play.
Ray set his empty on the table with the others and pushed off from the wall, and Ben moved to intercept him, stepping into his path and setting one hand to his chest. He wore only a thin, faded t-shirt under his leather jacket, and Ben could feel the heat of his skin through it, and the thud of his heart. Ray looked up at him with a slow, warm smile, and Ben felt his own heart start to race. Ray licked his lips, then parted them to speak, and Ben automatically leaned in to hear him over the music.
"Eh, Fraser." Ray's slur, and the feel of his hot damp breath on Ben's ear, turned even his surname into something wanton. "J'suis ben paqueté25."
Ben pulled away a little then, squinting at Ray as he settled back against the wall with a smug smile. Remembering Ray's years playing for the Nordiques, Ben mustered his crispest schoolboy French and replied, "Je ne parle pas Québécois26, Ray."
Ray favored that perhaps overly obvious statement with a snort. "Je sais27, Fraser," he said, very distinctly, raising his voice a little to be heard. "And I don't forget my English when I'm wasted. But j'suis ben fucké, tu comprends?28"
Ben shook his head, slowly, entranced. This was not at all what he'd been expecting. "You know I don't."
Ray nodded, turning his head aside to stare at the bottles on the table. He licked his lips and swallowed visibly, and then met Ben's eyes again with a small smile. "Exactement29, Fraser."
"Dites que vous avez envie de dire30, then," Ben said, stepping closer again. Ray's sagging posture gave him a height advantage of some inches, and Ben leaned over him, looking down into his upturned face as Ray's eyes sagged shut.
"What if I don't wanna say anything, Fraser? J'suis ben fucké, ben magané31, comprends?" Ben propped one arm against the wall, leaning his forehead on his wrist as he watched Ray's mouth move around words that hovered on the edge of understanding. It occurred to him, vaguely, how they must look, but it was dark, and late, and no one here knew who they were. "Et je tripe, en masse32."
He smiled at that; even with no idea what Ray was saying, he suspected he hadn't said that right. "En masse, Ray?"
"Oui, Fraser." Ray's arm slipped around his hips, jerking him forward, and Ray pushed up from his slouch, grinding their hips together so that Ben could feel him, hard in his jeans. "En masse."
Ben held still, trying to think about how Ray was terribly drunk and how they hadn't talked about this and how to get him out of the bar and into the truck without causing a scene, and then Ray's eyes opened, and the heat in his gaze made Ben's mouth go dry. Ray's hand on his hips tugged a little, and Ben drove his erection against Ray's, hard and hot through two layers of denim, however liquid-loose the rest of Ray's body was. "Je suis ben fucké, so fuck me, Ben." He couldn't speak, and Ray's smile turned almost mocking, so he lowered his dry mouth almost to Ray's, and then hesitated a breath away. "Ray..."
Ray sighed. Ben could feel it against his lips and almost shuddered, desire shooting through him at that near-touch. "C'est vrai33, Fraser." Ben only blinked, and Ray elaborated. "C'est vrai, I like it, I like kissing you, okay?"
Ben opened his mouth, licking his lips, tried to gather his wits to speak--this was important--but then Ray lunged up, pressing his open mouth to Ben's, driving all thoughts of talking from his mind. He was hot and wet and tasted richly of hops and himself, and Ben couldn't have said which made his mouth water more. Ray kissed him slowly, lazily, licking into his mouth, sucking at his tongue in time to the languid rocking of his hips. His arm looped heavily around Ben's neck, and he pulled away far enough to whisper, "Fuck me," into Ben's mouth, their lips brushing on each syllable. He moved to press their mouths together again but Ben pulled back, keeping the contact light, just a brush of wet parted lips.
"Je veux bien34," he whispered, his hand on Ray's chest creeping up of its own accord until his fingertips rested in the sweat-damp hollow of Ray's throat, "but not here. Can you walk?"
Ray chuckled--Ben could feel the vibration of it under his fingers--and reached down between their bodies to adjust himself. "I think I can manage."
Ben glared at him as best he could manage, making his own adjustment at the same time. "I was referring to your state of inebriation, Ray."
"Paqueté off my ass, yeah," Ray said, head bobbing up and down like a doll's, "But I can get to the car. Just can't drive it when I get there."
"We'll worry about that when we get there," Ben promised him, wondering how the hell he was going to drive anywhere; he doubted Ray would be willing to sit quietly and keep his hands to himself. Ben stepped back from him with an effort, tugging him away from the wall as he did. Ray only stumbled a little, then shook himself and headed for the door, moving with a catlike slink that riveted Ben's gaze. He forced himself to look around as he followed a few steps behind, but, impossibly, no one seemed to be looking at Ray. Blind, all of them, but Ben wasn't about to argue with his first lucky break in a long unlucky night.
His eyes slid back to Ray, and he mentally corrected that. Second lucky break of the night. He just hoped his luck would hold a little longer.
When he stepped out into the cool night air, he was just in time to see Ray striding off in the wrong direction. "Ray," he called, and then, "Ray! Kowalski!"
He stopped, and look back at Ben over his shoulder, weaving slightly in place.
Ben pointed in the opposite direction. "My truck is this way."
Ray shook his head so violently he staggered, and threw out one arm for balance. Ben moved quickly to his side, but Ray was steady again by the time he got there. "My car's down there," he explained. "Nobody's gonna bother your heap, but I'm not leaving the Goat here overnight."
Ben would have argued, but Ray pulled out his keys and tossed them to him. Ben caught them automatically, and followed him when he started walking again.
Ray washed up against the driver's side of the car, leaning limply against the vehicle while Ben unlocked the door. He opened it and leaned over, fumbling around for the release to fold the seat forward, and Ray laid himself across Ben's back, breathing against his ear, his erection pressed to Ben's hip, his fingers sliding across Ben's to guide them to the lever.
When the seat shot forward, Ben tilted a little so that Ray slid off of him and into the car, thumping and squirming and kicking his way into the backseat. Ben waited until it seemed safe to duck and peer inside, and found Ray had one knee up under himself on the seat, the other foot against the bent-forward driver's seat, his shoulder jammed against the far side of the car. His head was leaning against that small window, and he was looking back over his shoulder at Ben, eyes gleaming in the dimness. Both his arms were braced beneath him, but he shifted one hand free and crooked a finger in invitation. Ben's cock throbbed in response, and he swallowed hard.
"Ray," he muttered, but Ray's hand, white bandage flashing, was digging into his jacket pocket, coming up with a foil packet and a small tube, so what he said wasn't, Not here either, but, "Jesus Christ, you come prepared."
Ray's throaty chuckle hit him low, and as Ben watched, Ray tossed the supplies toward him, down into the footwell, and he heard the sounds of a belt being undone. Button. Zipper. "Good thing you came along when you did," Ray muttered, sounding breathless as he wiggled his jeans down. "Who knows what kinda trouble I could've gotten into."
Ben muttered, "Oh, for fuck's sake," and Ray smiled his triumph as he worked his jeans down far enough for Ben to realize he hadn't been wearing anything beneath them. It was the last straw, and Ben broke. He snatched up the condom and lube and crawled inside, positioning himself in the tight space behind Ray and yanking the door shut.
Ray shifted his attention from working his jeans the rest of the way off to struggling out of his leather jacket, and Ben hooked his fingers under the denim and yanked them down, drawing a huff of breathless laughter from Ray as he helpfully kicked off one boot and bent his leg to get them all the way off on one side. Ray vanquished his jacket and chucked it into the front seat, leaving his shirt hiked up to his armpits, and Ben stopped, staring at the expanse of skin exposed in the glow of a distant streetlight.
Folding himself around Ray, he lowered his mouth to lick along the groove of his spine, tasting salt sweat on fine skin before Ray twisted away. "C'mon, Fraser," he mumbled, and his wandering hand made its way up Ben's thigh to his belt, tugging insistently. Ben obediently fumbled the buckle open, pressing closer over Ray, setting his mouth against the side of Ray's throat where the collar of his t-shirt gapped. Ray pressed back against him distractingly, and Fraser stuck the supplies between his teeth and scooted back in order to work his jeans and boxers down to his thighs. He closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief--if he'd had any idea he'd be doing anything other than hauling Ray home tonight, he'd have worn different jeans--and then opened his eyes again, strangling back a moan at the touch of Ray's hand against his cock.
Ray blinked rapidly at him--fluttering his eyelashes, Ben realized, or trying to--as he trailed the backs of his fingers up the length of Ben's erection. Ben swatted Ray's hand away and plucked the lube from between his teeth, thumbing the cap open. He kept his eyes on his hands, not looking at Ray's intent eyes or the way he shifted his legs to spread wider, as he squeezed the clear gel onto shaking fingers. He spread one hand against the small of Ray's back, steadying himself or Ray or maybe both of them, and pressed two slick fingertips against and, shockingly easily, into Ray.
He gritted his teeth against the feel of him, hot and tight, and Ray pressed back against his hand even as he started spitting what could only be curses. "Maudit crisse de câlisse de viarge35, Fraser, don't--maintenant36, maintenant, for the love of Christ, now."
That was clear enough, so he eased his fingers free, wiped them cursorily on his jeans, and tore open the condom packet. He didn't, quite, drop the damn thing before he managed to get it on. Then the lube, which had fallen to the seat and he had to feel around for it and if Ray actually turned out to be laughing Ben was going to kill him. His fingers closed on the tube before it came to that, and he slicked up and Ray seemed to be gasping "maintenant," on every other breath. He shifted closer, his hand sliding up Ray's back, pressing down so that Ray arched up against it, and then he was pushing smoothly in, and something in his brain was saying 'alcohol' and 'muscle relaxant' but he wasn't really registering anything more complicated than melting heat and tightness and then, as he folded down over Ray's back, he realized that the whispers of "maintenant," had given way to a steady stream of hissed curses. "Saint-crisse de osti de câlisse de37 fuck, fuck, ohhh..."
Ben pressed his lips to the back of Ray's neck and went perfectly still, only speaking against his skin. "Je regrette--38"
But Ray clenched around him, his head tipping up, and he gasped, "C'est bon39, c'est bon," as he began to move, slow and fluid as he'd been back in the bar, and Ben tilted his forehead against Ray's shoulder and focused on breathing, on not coming, and let Ray do the work, bracing his feet to keep himself still.
After a moment, he shifted more of his weight onto Ray's back and raised one still-slick hand to Ray's cock. His grasp drew a grunt from Ray, and he started stroking him quickly, at odds with the slower pace Ray was setting. He pressed his mouth to Kowalski's throat again, sucking soft-hard-soft at the thin skin over his pulse point until he could feel the sounds he made as much as hear them, and the motion of his hips went jerky and ragged and Ray was coming, in his hand, under him, around him.
Ben pulled his mouth free then, breathing carefully as Ray's orgasm washed over them both. His movements slowed as he softened in Ben's hand, slipping back into a slow languid rhythm, fucking himself on Ben so long as Ben held himself still. Too late for that, though, and Ben slid his hands to Ray's hips, steadying him as he finally, finally, allowed himself to move again, thrusting hard--
"J'regre--"
"C'est bon, bon, Frase--"
--until his toes curled in his boots and the flash-heat of it coiled through his belly and balls and he was coming.
Reality reasserted itself, pulling him away from the low shine of Ray's skin under his unfocused eyes, when Ray made a small helpless noise and collapsed beneath him, leaving them in an awkward tangle of limbs smashed against the seat. Ben carefully extricated himself, tied off the condom and rearranged his clothing more or less decently, and then prodded Kowalski into a sitting position.
His eyes had lost all focus, and Ben knew he was within a few minutes of passing out. Ray wiggled pliantly as Ben got his clothes back onto him and manhandled him out of the car and around into the passenger seat, where he could buckle him in without sticking him in the wet spot. As an afterthought, Ben located a towel and wiped that up.
The keys to Ray's car were, miraculously, still in Ben's pocket, and he started up the car and smiled at the purr of the thing, glancing sideways toward Ray. His eyes weren't quite closed, but he wasn't likely to be much help navigating and even less likely to object, so Ben turned the car toward his own place. They were halfway there when Ray, sounding more than halfway asleep, muttered, "The game."
Ben shifted in his seat, remembering the night's main attraction for the first time since he'd spotted Ray, and winced at a few of the aches earned in the hard-fought loss. He made only a small neutral noise, but Ray's hand rose from his lap, so that the bandage caught the streetlight glare. "Ma faute40. Stupid. J'regrette."
Ben reached across the small space between them, tangling his blunt fingers with Ray's graceful ones, dragging his hand down, shaking his head though he doubted Ray would see. "C'est bon," he whispered, running his thumb along the edge of the gauze. "C'est bon."
Ray's hand went slack in his, and Ben had to let go a moment later to take a corner, but the feel of Ray's skin lingered against his palm all the way back to his apartment. Ray revived a little--to the point of lifting his head up and mumbling incoherently--when Ben put the car in park. He went around to the passenger side and pulled Ray out, and Ray kept his feet under himself, leaning heavily against Ben but walking, through the parking garage to the elevator and then down the hall to Ben's door. He was failing by then, close to dead weight, and Ben barely managed to get him to the bedroom and onto the bed before he'd entirely lost consciousness.
He weighed his options. He didn't want to leave Ray alone, given how much he'd likely had to drink, but there was always the chance that he'd wake up swinging. Looking at Ray, sprawled peacefully unconscious on the bed, remembering that whisper, c'est vrai... It didn't seem like a chance worth thinking about, and Ben was too weary himself to pursue it further. He stripped Ray, undressed himself down to his shorts, and got into bed, maneuvering Ray under the covers as well.
Always position an unconscious drunk on his side, Ben thought primly, pulling Ray's back against his chest, burying his face against Ray's hair and breathing in the smell of smoke and beer and sweat and sex. His arm fit comfortably over Ray's waist, holding him close, and it occurred to him, as he slipped into sleep, that he had brought Ray home in one piece after all.
Ray registered not at home when his outstretched hand met a wall that shouldn't have been there. He half-opened one eye, straining for some sign of a bathroom door. The room was really dark--heavy drapes, or too high up for streetlights--but there were only so many places you could put doors, and Ray found his way without too much difficulty.
Sink, towel rack--toilet. Lid and seat down, and he raised them quietly, careful not to make a sound against the porcelain, because he didn't want to wake anyone.
Ahhhh.
He washed his hands, after, and the soap didn't smell like hotel soap and his left hand itched under the bandage. He thought about that while he scratched gently at the gauze, and then he remembered.
Fraser's. Right.
He opened the medicine cabinet and felt around until he found aspirin, shook some into his damp palm and crunched them down as he put the bottle away, then ducked his head and drank from the tap till his stomach was full. The ache in his belly and the lingering bitter taste in his mouth brought him all the way awake, and Ray patted his half-unstuck bandage back into place and stepped into the doorway.
He could see a little now, enough to make out the shape of Fraser's bed, with Fraser lying in the middle of it and the covers tossed back on one side where Ray had been sleeping. He spent a moment trying to figure out where his clothes were, whether it would be okay to crash on the couch or if he should just get the hell out of here, and then he realized that it didn't matter.
He was queer. He could spend the whole night in the same bed with his--his boyfriend--if he wanted to. What was Fraser going to say, after all? It must have been his idea in the first place.
Besides, it was probably warm under the covers with Fraser. Ray shivered, and headed quickly back to the bed, crawling in carefully so he wouldn't wake Fraser, and eased himself back into his spot. Fraser muttered in his sleep, and threw an arm over Ray, pulling him close, and Ray allowed himself to be pulled, closing his eyes as he thought back over the night.
He'd said a lot of stuff to Fraser, and most of it Fraser hadn't understood, which was just as well. But he'd said the important stuff, too, and that Fraser got. C'est vrai, I like it. And he did like it, and he could say that to Fraser, even if he had to say it in French, and Fraser could understand him. Fraser had come after him, and Fraser had fucked him, and Fraser had brought him here. After everything, after seeing what he'd seen, knowing what he knew, knowing the truth about Ray... Fraser had brought Ray home, to his bed, and slept right here, curled close. The sleeping-together thing was strange, but Ray figured there were going to be lots of strange things about being queer, and if this was anything to judge by, some of them wouldn't be too bad.
Ray shifted closer against Fraser, sore in all the right places after a light practice and a hard fuck, and felt himself drifting back toward sleep.
There was a jingle like dog tags, and Ray saw a white wolf standing in the corner of the room. He came a little closer while Ray watched, and because it was that kind of dream, Ray knew, without doubt or surprise, that this was Fraser's wolf.
You came back too, eh? Ray stretched out his right hand, letting it hang off the bed palm up, fingers curled. "Bon loup," he murmured. "Beau loup41."
Ray closed his eyes again. When he felt the faint brush of a tongue against his palm, he smiled.
Ben was jerked from sleep by Ray sitting bolt upright with an incoherent yell, flinging back the covers and flailing his way out of bed.
Ben sat up only slightly slower, and looked from Ray, standing naked beside the bed, hugging himself and looking horrified, down to the sheets, where he saw what must have greeted Ray the instant he opened his eyes. Much of one side of the bed, and a good portion of the pillow, was streaked with smears of blood in various states of dryness. One, near the headboard, looked quite fresh, and Ben stared at it, muzzily fascinated, until Ray said, "Fuck, Fraser, sorry--fucking bandage must have slipped, I didn't think--"
Ben looked at Ray then, taking in his reddened eyes and pained expression, his wild hair, hunched posture and still-actively-bleeding left hand, the bandage dangling by one corner. "It's all right, Ray," he said, in as normal a tone as he could manage, as he scooted around the mess and out of bed. "Blood doesn't bother me," he added as he stood, watching Ray, trying to gauge whether it was the blood he was really upset about, whether he was about to panic or fly into another rage. "And I can buy new sheets. I understand I'm quite well-paid."
Ray smiled briefly at that, and didn't back away though they were standing barely a foot apart now. His solidly bloodshot eyes met Ben's steadily, and he said, breathless and nonsensical, "Blood's not a problem, huh? How about morning breath?"
Ben's brow wrinkled as he opened his mouth to answer, and Ray, with a faintly determined look, leaned in and kissed him. It was a brief dry press of lips, slightly off-target but undeniably a kiss, so quick Ben had no chance to respond. By the time he'd processed what was happening, Ray was already walking past him, calling out in a nearly steady voice, "First aid kit in the bathroom, Frase?"
Ben remained where he was, blinking, mouth working in silence, until he heard the water running and pulled himself together enough to say, "Yes, Ray. Under the sink."
He turned and followed then, since Ray hadn't shut the door, and caught him in the act of pulling Kleenex from the box on the counter to blot the back of his hand. "Don't," he said, quickly, catching Ray's wrists and directing his left hand back over the sink. "You'll just get lint in the wound." After a quick glance at Ray's hand, he corrected himself. "Wounds."
He knelt beside Ray, keeping his eyes studiously fixed on the cupboard door and not at all on the length of Ray's naked leg or anything else, and pulled out the first aid kit. Ray kept perfectly still, hand over the sink, as Ben straightened up and pulled out a sterile gauze pad, and held his hand out so that Ben could press it into place over his knuckles. "There. I've got some ointment I can put on it to aid healing, if you like. Do you need anything else? Aspirin?" Ray must have a dreadful headache.
Ray raised his right hand and rubbed gingerly at his eyes. "Got any eye drops?" he asked, head down. "I slept with my contacts in, and they're all scratchy."
"Ah," Ben said, "Yes, I think--" He opened the medicine cabinet and there they were. He started to hand the small bottle to Ray, and then hesitated.
"Would you?" Ray asked, brushing past Ben to sit on the toilet. He had to put the lid down to do so, Ben noticed. That was odd. And then Ray was sitting there in front of him, his face at the level of Ben's waist, head tipped back expectantly, the length of his throat bared. They hadn't turned on the light, and the small room was illuminated only by what sunlight filtered in from the rest of the apartment; Ray was a collection of angled shadows.
"Ah," Ben repeated, and cleared his throat. "Yes." He stepped between Ray's parted knees, not looking anywhere but Ray's face, Ray's bloodshot eyes, and settled one hand on Ray's forehead. Ben found his hand strangely unsteady, and had to try twice to get a drop to land in Ray's right eye. The left went better, and then Ray was blinking rapidly, eyelashes spiky-wet, and smiling at him.
"Thanks," he said, "Uh. I gotta--"
"Oh," Ben said, "Yes, of course." He set the eye drops down on the counter and slipped out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He went to the dresser and put on a pair of sweatpants, then, after a moment's thought, pulled out another pair--his old worn Oilers sweats, with the drawstring that allowed him to wear them from the beginning of the season to the end, no matter how much weight he lost--and left them on the foot of the bed, in plain sight from the bathroom door. The livid mess of the sheets caught his eye, and he flipped up the top sheet to cover that corner of the bed. That could be dealt with later; for now, he needed to look after Ray.
He kept the ointment in a jar in the refrigerator--apart, of course, from the small quantity he stored in his locker, where it was most likely to be needed--as it was slightly perishable and, given the scarcity of the raw materials below the Arctic Circle, hard to replace. He pulled the jar out, along with the orange juice, and took a long drink from the carton while he tried to remember whether he'd put the powdered horn in a kitchen cupboard or the medicine cabinet.
At the sound of the bathroom door opening, Ben replaced the orange juice and pulled out a bottle of water, setting it on the kitchen table along with the ointment. Ray walked in, wearing Ben's sweatpants, with the first aid kit tucked between his elbow and his side, holding the gauze pad against the back of his hand. "Ah," Ben said, swallowing, moving away from the table to check the cupboards. "Here, have a seat. Have some water."
Ray grunted his thanks, and sat down at the table. Ben turned to the cupboards, and heard Ray twist off the cap on the water bottle as he said, "I guess you don't have coffee, huh?"
Ben hesitated. He did have coffee. In his freezer there was a jar of instant coffee, packed up by a professional mover and brought from Edmonton to Chicago. His father had had a fondness for absolutely vile coffee, and Ben had always kept some on hand for him. He'd never gotten around to throwing it away.
"I do, actually," he said, "if you don't mind instant." He dared a glance at Ray as he went back to the refrigerator, and Ray smiled at him around the neck of the bottle in his mouth, throat working steadily as he swallowed. Ben swallowed as well, then turned away. Freezer. Coffee.
He spooned some into a mug and added tap water, then put it in the microwave. "I'm afraid I don't have any white sugar," he said. His father had always had maple candies in his pocket, and would use a few of those to sweeten his coffee. "But I have got Smarties."
He heard the empty plastic bottle hit the table, and Ray said, "Smarties'll work. Sugar's sugar, right?"
Ben collected the mug, a spoon, and the box of candy, and returned to the table, arranging them all at Ray's right hand. Ray's left hand rested on his knee, gauze still in place. Ben sat down and opened the first aid kit as Ray stirred his coffee, the ring of the spoon on porcelain almost-but-not-quite familiar; Ray stirred slightly faster than his father had, and counterclockwise.
Ah. The powdered horn was in the first aid kit. Naturally. Ben pulled it out, along with another gauze pad and tape, and picked up Ray's hand, then nearly dropped it when Dief wandered out from behind Ray's chair. "Fraser?" Ray said.
Ben met his eyes quickly, resolutely not looking at the wolf sitting beside Ray's knee, looking smug. The redness in Ray's eyes was easing; he looked little worse than he had at any early practice, short on sleep and disheveled. "Ah. Nothing, sorry."
Ray gave him a searching look, but nodded and returned to his coffee as Ben peeled the gauze back, revealing four mostly-clotted raw spots. He stole another look at Dief, but the wolf seemed prepared to stay right there at Ray's side indefinitely. Spurred by an only slightly petty impulse, he said, "I apologize in advance for the ointment, Ray. It has a bit of an odor."
Perhaps the opening of the jar covered the sound of Dief's tags jingling as he got to his feet; perhaps Ray simply couldn't hear the ghost. Either way, Dief, who'd always hated the smell of the ointment and protested vigorously about having it applied to his injuries, trotted off without argument, doubtless on his way to take a nap squarely in the middle of the bed. "I can take it, I promise," Ray said, his smile audible.
Ben reached for the powdered horn first, sprinkling it onto the bleeding spots on Ray's knuckles. "This will help the blood clot," he explained. He glanced up at Ray's face, and found Ray watching him intently. Ducking his head quickly, Ben said, "I suppose this is a bit different than the treatments you've been receiving."
Ray huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. "Yeah, a bit. Can't hurt, though, right? Shake things up?"
Ben glanced up, and remembered Ray's laugh, speaking of the nurse who'd been sent to tend him while he was hurt. "Well," he said, "I suppose that depends on how you feel about the care you've had before."
Ray's forehead wrinkled as he looked at Ben over his coffee, and then he set it down and said, "From Joanna, you mean?"
Ben looked down. The odd feeling in his gut when Ray said her name wasn't jealousy. He had no right to jealousy, nor surprise. It was just an ache, like prodding at a bruise. "I suppose so."
Definitely a snort of laughter from Ray this time, and when Ben looked up, his expression was distinctly rueful. "All lies, Fraser. I was just saying what the guys expected to hear, y'know? Truth is, I never even thought about it till she said how polite I was. That's when I knew something was really wrong with me."
Ah. Ben kept his expression carefully neutral. "Wrong?"
"Not wrong," Ray said quickly, wincing. "Not wrong, right? Just, uh, different. Different from how I thought I was."
Ben nodded slightly and went back to his work on Ray's hand, letting the matter drop. As he dabbed ointment onto Ray's knuckles, though, Ray cleared his throat and said, "Frase, uh."
Ben looked up and waited.
It was Ray who looked down this time, staring into his coffee. "This thing--you and me, this is a--a thing, isn't it? Not just a one-time or whatever. This means something."
Ben felt his face go hot, blood rushing audibly in his ears as he stared blankly at Ray's hair. He'd never expected this, never imagined Ray would want something like this from him.
Ray looked up as Ben's silence stretched. "I mean, unless you don't--I know I'm not the greatest--"
"No," Ben said, quickly, "Ray, not at all. I would--very much--like to, if that's what you want."
Ray looked intently into Ben's eyes, and Ben looked back, not bothering to force a smile. He was glad. It wasn't that he wasn't glad. He was just... other things, as well.
When Ray looked away, Ben could breathe again. He picked up a gauze pad and opened the packet, pressing it carefully into place over Ray's knuckles. Ray held it in place as Ben reached for the tape, and said, quietly, "I don't know if I said last night--I know I was thinking it, but I don't remember if I said--I'm sorry about the game. I should've been there. I had no right to do this, take myself out like this."
Ben frowned, but something eased in his chest. This topic, he could handle. "Well, that's as may be, Ray--we all have our contractual obligations--but you know it wouldn't have made a difference regarding last night." Ray looked up, lips parted to protest, but Ben pushed on. "Ray, Welsh wouldn't have let you play if you'd been on pace for a forty-goal season. Not against the Avalanche."
Ray looked away then, lips tight. A year ago, the Colorado Avalanche had been the Quebec Nordiques; they had been Ray's team a year before that, the team he'd played with longer than any other in his journeyman career. A team he might well have expected to retire from, but they'd traded him to Boston for the fourth year of his contract, and while he was with Boston-- "Do you remember that fight?" Ben asked.
Ray's lips twisted up joylessly. "I was there, Fraser. Of course I remember."
"Ah," Ben said, "Of course. So you were. Only it looked, from the videotape, like the sort of fight you might not recall clearly." Ben remembered it vividly; he must have seen the fight a dozen times or more, from three different camera-angles. He raised his fingers to Ray's temple, to the spot where he'd seen the same bloody gash open under a pounding fist, over and over, in slow motion and at normal speed. There was a scar there, not easy to see but evident to his fingertips, just at the hairline.
Ray's bitter smile eased a little at the touch. "You saw it, huh?"
Ben grinned. "The whole league saw it, Ray. It was rather spectacular." Ray said nothing but also didn't look away, and Ben went on as he wrapped the tape around Ray's hand. "It was your first game back in Quebec in a Boston jersey." It must have been an awful night--the crowd would have been against him, jeering at a player who, loved when he belonged to them, could only be hated now that he was gone. Worse than that would have been the men on the ice, men who'd been his friends the last time he'd seen them but were now adversaries.
None of that had been in the video. Every player who'd watched that fight knew how it would have been. "Adam Foote hit you hard in the corner, said something you didn't like, and you'd had enough. You didn't let it go. You turned right around and dropped the gloves, shouted after him to come and fight." Foote stood six feet two inches tall and weighed two hundred fifteen pounds without help from the sort of artful padding that went into Ray's official statistics. "You were so furious it looked like an even match. You looked dangerous. Wild. Foote didn't drop his gloves right away--he smiled, nearly laughed, and you screamed at him. We watched it again and again and never could read your lips; it might as well have been a howl. You didn't need words to challenge him. When he did drop his gloves, it was like watching a firecracker explode. You flew at him."
Ben tore the tape and set it down, but Ray didn't even seem to notice, listening raptly. "You landed one punch, then another, knocking his helmet back. He shook it off, and then hit you square in the mouth, and caught your jersey in his other hand, holding you as still as he could, though you kept fighting, kept swinging. Your anger couldn't make your arms longer, though, and he kept hitting you. In the head, in the face. You had blood running down your chin, running from your nose, your mouth was red. He got your jersey off you, and you just pulled free and went back at him, landed a gut punch and dragged his jersey half off before he got you by the t-shirt and started hitting you again. He got your shirt and pads off you, too, and you were stripped to the waist, covered in sweat, covered in blood--your hair was brown with sweat except where it was red--you were shining under the lights, your arms never stopped, that tattoo on your arm was just a blur of red and black--and all the while you were grinning. This absolute mad dog grin."
Ray wrinkled his nose, bared his teeth, and Ben smiled. "And you wouldn't quit, even when the ref pulled you off, you were still struggling." He'd been thrown out of the game for that, and given a mandatory three game suspension. Even after the suspension expired, he didn't return; Ray had spent the last months of the season with Boston's farm team before his contract expired. His fight with Foote had been the last of his career.
"Harding Welsh was standing behind the Nordiques bench that night, as an assistant coach. He'd been your coach, half a year before. He knew you then, and he knows you now. There's no way he'd have put you in against Foote's team and expected you not to fight."
Ray looked down, but Ben could see a smile in the crinkling of his eyes. "Our Coach, leading me not into temptation, I know."
Ben smiled and sat back. "Well, not just you, you know, Ray. You're a locker room favorite. There isn't a man on the team who wouldn't pick a fight if he thought you'd been slighted." Ray looked up at that, as if the thought had never occurred to him, as if he didn't know his teammates would protect him, which was preposterous. "The game would have been end-to-end fisticuffs."
Ray snorted, and looked down at his bandaged hand, flexing it experimentally. "Like that would have been worse than last night?"
Ben smiled. "Well, we play them again in a month or so; you can try out that argument when the time comes."
Ray grinned, showing his straight white teeth, and Ben frowned and reached out a hand to cup Ray's chin, running a thumb over Ray's lower lip, against the even firmness of teeth behind flesh. "Ray," he said, hesitantly, "I'd have sworn he knocked out one of your teeth that night, and--"
Ray's smile widened, showing off. "I got nice permanent replacements put in when I retired," Ray said. "I figured they weren't gonna get knocked out anymore, so why not? If I take a puck in the mouth this year, it'll make a hell of a mess, but I'll just keep my fingers crossed. Bet you can't guess which are which."
Ben frowned, and leaned closer, and then closer again. "Well," he said, slowly, telegraphing his intentions as clearly as he knew how, "I'd hate to rely on guessing..."
Ray's mouth opened readily under his, and Ray kept still, their tongues touching only glancingly as Ben explored his mouth. Eventually, he had to breathe, and pulled back. "Goodness," he said, "I had no idea you'd lost eleven."
Ray squinted at him. "Fraser, did you just count the surgical scars in my mouth with your tongue?"
Ben couldn't quite read him, and kept his voice neutral as he said, "Ah, yes, Ray. Do you consider that to be cheating?"
"I dunno about cheating," Ray said, "But--isn't that a little queer?"
Ben kept still, but there was definitely a glint of humor in Ray's eyes, and he was leaning closer, nearly out of his chair. "I mean," Ray said, one hand on Ben's bare shoulder, never quite straightening up as he moved to straddle him, "Why settle for a little? Let's not be half-assed about this."
Ray's arm went around his neck as Ray's mouth descended to his, and Ben sighed as their lips touched, as Ray licked into Ben's mouth. His kisses were cautious, his body strung tight now that he didn't have alcohol to ease him into this. Ben clutched at Ray's arm with one hand, and slid the other around his hips, drawing him down until Ray's weight rested on his lap, their bare chests brushing. Ray made a small pleased sound and settled his left hand tentatively on Ben's shoulder.
Ben let himself get lost in long breathless kisses. Ray's mouth was bitter with coffee, sweet with chocolate, faintly sour with sleep, hot and soft and wet and strong. Ray was half-naked against him, half-hard, and for once there was no rush, no danger of discovery. Ray's skin was warm under his hands in the cool air of the kitchen, radiating heat, muscles slowly easing as Ray forgot to be nervous. He raised one hand to the back of Ray's head, and Ray's hair tickled against his palm. He couldn't help grinding his hips up against Ray's, both their bodies definitely awake by now.
Ray broke the kiss, sitting back on Ben's thighs. His lips were already swollen with kissing, the soft skin around his mouth was prickled with stubble-burn--they'd have to be careful about that in future--and the morning sun lit up his hair and skin and eyelashes, all shades of gold. His eyes were bright, and fixed wholly on Ben. If he'd ever seen anything more alluring, he couldn't remember it at that moment. But when Ray reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, Ben caught his wrist. "Wait," he said, "Let's just--do this for a while."
Ray licked his lower lip, and his eyes gleamed. He glanced over Ben's head at the clock, and said, "I guess we do have a few hours to kill," as he bent his head for another kiss.
Notes:
18. Je vous salue, Marie pleine de grâces; le Seigneur est avec vous. Vous êtes bénie entre toutes les femmes et Jésus, le fruit de vos entrailles, est béni. Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu, pour nous pauvres pécheurs, maintenant et à l'heure de notre mort. Amen.
Hail Mary, full of grace; the Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women and blest is the fruit of your womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen. back
19. From the 1995 NHL Standard Player's Contract:
2. The Player agrees to give his services and to play hockey in all League Championship, All Star, International, Exhibition, Play-Off and Stanley Cup games to the best of his ability under the direction and control of the Club in accordance with the provisions hereof.
The Player further agrees,
(a) to report to the Club training camp at the time and place fixed by the Club, in good physical condition,
(b) to keep himself in good physical condition at all times during the season ...
20. Peewee: Youth hockey for boys ages 11-12. back
21. From the 1995 NHL Collective Bargaining Agreement:
Source: NHLFA.com] back
(Emphasis mine.) [ 22. Ferme-toi la trappe: Shut up. back
23. Pitou poche ... assieds-toi: Stupid dog ... sit! back
24. Flo fin: (Quebecois anglicism) good boy. back
99. Shinny: pick-up hockey. back
25. J'suis ben paqueté: (Quebecois) I'm very drunk. back
26. Je ne parle pas Québécois: I do not speak any Québécois. back
27. Je sais: I know. back
28. J'suis ben fucké, tu comprends?: (Quebecois) I'm very [crazy/broken; lit. fucked], understand? back
29. Exactement: Exactly back
30. Dites que vous avez envie de dire: Say what you want to say. back
31. Magané: (Qb.) Used up. back
32. Et je tripe, en masse: (Qb.) And I'm turned on, a lot. back
33. C'est vrai: It's true. back
34. Je veux bien: I'm quite willing. back
35. Maudit crisse de câlisse de viarge: Quebecois profanity. It doesn't translate very meaningfully into English. back
36. Maintenant: Now. back
37. Saint-crisse de osti de câlisse de...: More Quebecois profanity. back
38. Je regrette: I apologize. back
39. C'est bon: It's good. back
40. Ma faute: My fault. back
41. Bon loup ... Beau loup: Good wolf ... Pretty wolf. back
(a) The Injured Reserve List is
a category of the Reserve List. A Club may place a player on
Injured Reserve only if such player is injured or disabled and
unable to perform his duties as a hockey player by reason of an
injury sustained during the course of his employment as a hockey
player, including travel with his team or on business requested
by the Club, after having passed the Club's initial physical
examination in that season. If a player fails the Club's initial
physical examination in any Season, he is not eligible for
Injured Reserve.
...
(c) A player who has an injury that renders him physically
unable to play hockey for a minimum of seven (7) days after the
date of injury can be placed on the Injured Reserve List. Once a
player is placed on the Injured Reserve List, the Club may
replace said player on it's NHL roster with another player.
16.10. Injured Reserve List.