Mort had put the air cast on his right hand, and taped up his left with skin-colored Band-Aids. They were almost covered by the cuff of his starchy shirt, and no one would notice them if he kept that hand down or stuck it in his pocket. As long as he kept waving the big white plastic cast on his right hand around like a magician's assistant shaking her tits, no one was going to wonder if maybe it was really his left hand that was broken.
He propped his right hand against the glass, and his forehead against the plastic covering his wrist, and squinted down at the ice. It was a shitty view up here in the press box, above even the nosebleed seats, but he was here, and he wasn't going to watch the game on the TV monitors.
From a hundred feet up, the guys looked like the players in a table hockey game, and Ray kept trying to push them in the right directions. Fraser was the only one who seemed to listen, who went right where Ray thought he should, every time, so he watched Fraser the most.
It didn't hurt that Fraser looked up at the press box every time he came off the ice, right up at the spot where Ray was standing, and smiled, though he always itched his nose with one gloved hand to cover it after a split second. Ray itched his nose right back, looking down through the glass, though Fraser couldn't possibly see him behind the glare.
It was late in the third, now, and Chicago was shorthanded42 after a penalty to Cheli. Fraser and Bully and JR and Denny formed a little box in front of Hack in the goal, holding off the five Vancouver skaters. If Vancouver scored, it'd be a tie game, and this thing would probably run into overtime, and anything could happen in overtime--one funny bounce, one flukey goal would end the game. Ray wasn't even breathing, just clicking the edge of his cast against the glass, watching like he could keep the puck away from Hack and out of the net with the power of his mind.
Only a few seconds to go. Hack stopped a close shot with a quick kick, and Fraser, in perfect position, got hold of the rebound and flipped it up to Denny. Denny shot it out of the zone and down to the other end, and Cheli was standing up in the box--Fraser and Bully were hitting the bench--fresh skaters jumped onto the ice as Cheli's penalty expired, and Ray finally started breathing again. A few more minutes and--touch wood--Chicago would have a win.
Beside him, Ray heard Ms. Vecchio take a breath, and braced himself for it a second before she said, "Okay, Ray, the penalty's over. You don't have to look away from the game or anything, just answer a few questions so I can do a nice little piece on you for the Trib."
Ray would have rolled his eyes if it hadn't meant taking his eyes off the action. "No," he said, holding onto his pretended patience, wishing he was allowed to drink in the press box, or at least loosen his goddamn tie. "Thank you."
Ms. Vecchio sighed. Extensively. "Look, Ray, this is a win-win, right? I get to do a piece on you, we sell a thousand extra copies just to your mom, not to mention everybody who had First Communion with you or ever played a game of shinny on the same pond, and my editor notices and finally realizes I'm actually a reporter and not just a dumb bunny the football players like to stare at, and--and by the time your hand x-rays clear, you're coming back with a hundred Kowalski jerseys in the stands."
"I don't care," Ray said, only a little louder than he would if he didn't actually care. "I'm not looking at the stands, I'm looking at the ice. Can you write an article that'll make me skate faster?"
"No," she said, and stepped closer, lowering her voice like she had a secret to tell him, "But, look, Ray, I'm on your side here, I'm not going to make you look stupid or something."
Ray didn't move, but she was at armpit height; she could probably see the sweat break out even through his suit coat. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He hadn't said anything but 'no' and 'go away' and 'be quiet, we're shorthanded.' He didn't look over, didn't look away from the ice, even though there had been a whistle and the guys were just milling around getting set up for the faceoff.
"Nothing, Ray, just--sometimes, when people are uncomfortable with reporters--"
"I'm not uncomfortable," Ray snapped, "I just hate being interviewed."
"When people hate reporters..." she trailed off invitingly, but Ray didn't correct her this time. "It's because they're afraid they'll be made to sound foolish in print. And I just want you to know that that wouldn't happen, if you decided to do an interview with me."
"Well, I won't, so forget it." His palms were sweating, and the plastic cast trapped the sweat against his right hand, and it felt gross. "And if you so much as write that I was here tonight--"
"Ray, you were on the Jumbotron in the first period. I think people know you're here."
"You know what I mean. If you write me up, you'll regret it."
He could just see, in his peripheral vision, the eyebrow she was giving him, the way she crossed her arms and straightened her little shoulders. "My brother's a cop, y'know, Kowalski."
"Yeah, and mine's a tax attorney. But if you don't let up on this thing, all of a sudden nobody on the team's gonna talk to anybody but the Sun-Times, and you and the Trib can just run string reports until the end of time."
Wire reports he thought as soon as the words were out of his mouth, wire, and he clenched his teeth against the heat in his face, but Ms. Vecchio didn't say anything. When Ray finally looked over, after the buzzer had sounded on Chicago's first win in a week, she was gone. It didn't feel like much of an accomplishment, running off a reporter, but--the hell with that. His team, a hundred feet down, were bunched up around Hack's goal, smacking him on the head, banging helmets, hugging each other. He couldn't get into the crush, but that didn't mean he had to stay up here.
Ray trailed after the reporters around and down all the long stairs and back corridors to the locker room, and then, just outside, he hesitated, took a breath, positioned his casted hand where it could be seen and photographed, and stepped inside.
There was a cluster of press around Tony, another cluster around Cheli. Ray's eyes went quickly to Fraser, who was sitting in front of his locker, stripped to skin above the waist and with all his gear still on below, blinking like he was still half-blind from the camera lights. He was covered in sweat, his hair mashed down and wet except where he must have scratched the back of his head and it was standing up straight. Ten feet away with no glass between, he was the best thing Ray had ever seen, and he couldn't fight back a smile. Fraser blinked again and then looked up, right at him, and smiled back, and suddenly the funny little buzz in his belly that he'd been ignoring all night was--more than just a buzz, more than just buddies. Because that was his--his Fraser, over there.
They'd been a--a thing--for just about forty-eight hours now, if you counted from when Fraser came and found him, and Ray hadn't yet figured out much about how this thing was going to work except that he really could not look at Fraser for more than thirty seconds at a time in the locker room. Ray shifted his big stupid grin to Hack, stepping further inside, and Hack grinned back at him and yelled, "Hey, Ray-Kay!" across the room, which made most of the players and about half the press turn in his direction.
Ray ducked his head and held up his right hand to hide his face as he headed past the reporters, and Chris and Tony dragged their attention back, so it was just the guys looking at him by the time he got over to Hack's space and whacked him gently on his helmetless head with the air cast. "Hey," he said, "Not bad out there tonight."
Hack grinned. He'd kicked ass tonight and they both knew it. "Hey, any game where I get off the bench is a good one for me."
"That explains a lot," Deuce yelled, from his space, behind Ray, and Ray waved his right hand over his shoulder while Hack actually managed to flip Deuce the bird.
"I liked that little," Ray shot one foot out in a crappy imitation of the sweet skate-blade kick-save Hack had made in the second, and Hack and half a dozen of the other guys laughed.
"Come on, Kowalski, don't I get a dance?" Hue called.
Ray spun around and spread his arms as he did a little shuffle step. "Hey, I don't come cheap." He could see, past Hue, Fraser watching him, a tiny smile on his face. Ray raised his left hand and rubbed his nose, and completely missed whatever Dewey said that got the whole room laughing, including the reporters.
Hack stood up behind him, and his hand landed heavily on Ray's shoulder, "Well," he said, "sounds like I at least owe you a drink for services rendered, then. You gonna hang around, come out and play?"
Ray was tempted, for a minute; he could stand a drink to wash away the lingering irritation of spending a whole game with Ms. Vecchio, and two and a half hours spent watching his team from behind the glass was enough to leave him desperate for a little time with the guys, but... he had alternatives to consider now.
"Nah," he said, smiling and waving the cast around in case anybody had somehow missed seeing it so far. "You know what they say. Early to bed and early to rise--" He could see, out of the corner of his eye, the Sun-Times stringer and a guy with an ESPN badge both listening intently, and the words were just--gone.
Before he could spit out something stupid, Fraser called out, "Gets a man back in the lineup sometime before he dies," and everybody was laughing again, Ray loudest of all. His face went red, but he had an excuse to look at Fraser and grin, so that was worth it.
Hue almost didn't look at Ray before he said, "What about you, Fraser, you coming out?"
Fraser didn't look at Ray at all, just ducked his head and blushed a little and smiled, running his fingers across a spot on his collarbone that could have just been a random bruise until he touched it like that. "No, I'm afraid I have a prior engagement."
Ray joined in the general catcalls, but by the time they'd died down and Deuce started making not-particularly-smart remarks, he was backing out of the locker room. Mort had the door of the therapy room shut, but the security guy standing outside pushed it open for Ray as he walked up, and Ray ducked inside before anyone noticed him.
Denny was sitting on a table getting his knees iced, and Bernie was saying, "Come on, it's not the flu," around a thermometer, so Ray pulled himself up to sit on a table and waited. It felt weird, being here in a suit, his feet moving lightly in shiny leather shoes instead of swinging like pendulums, weighted by his skates. He shifted and fidgeted and realized he could finally take the tie off, and then almost socked himself in the jaw with the cast on his right hand.
Mort, walking up, chuckled, and said, "You can take that off now, I believe."
Ray rolled his eyes, ripping back the velcro straps with his teeth, and Mort peeled the cast back. It clung to his skin for a second, the soft plastic lining sealed tight with sweat, but then Ray was free, flexing his fingers and wrist. His skin felt suddenly cold and naked without the clammy-hot plastic, and the cuff of his shirt felt rough and unfamiliar against his wrist. The fresh scars on his knuckles stood out brightly, dark pink against the drained-pale skin of his hand.
Ray loosened his tie left-handed, holding his right hand in front of his stomach, fingers loosely curled to protect his ticklish skin from anything touching it, even air. "Hey," he said, when Mort started to walk away, "Uh," he held up his left hand, wiggling his fingers to show the criss-crossing Band-Aids that covered the remaining cuts, which were already starting to look better since Fraser had put that goo on them. "Do you have any waterproof tape or anything that I could put on these?" Mort squinted, and Ray's heart started beating fast, like Mort was going to know that Ray had a reason for wanting both hands inside the shower other than rinsing his hair. He bit the inside of his cheek and tried not to look like he was trying to look innocent.
After a minute Mort said, "Yes, I believe I have something," and walked off to get it.
Ray, left alone, wondered if he was being an idiot. Not that the waterproof tape had anything to do with Fraser, necessarily--he didn't need to bleed all over the bed even if he was the only one in it--but all the same, he was assuming a lot, from one smile in the locker room.
Okay, so, as of yesterday morning for sure, they were... boyfriends, or something like that. That probably wasn't the right word, but Ray wasn't really ready yet to ask Fraser what the right word for them would be. He was still having trouble remembering the right word for himself.
Queer. Yeah. He could almost say it to himself without flinching now.
But he didn't know the rules for this new gig yet. It wasn't like he and Fraser were living together, so--maybe he was supposed to just go home now. Maybe Fraser just didn't want to go out with the guys, and was covering his ass--both their asses, really--by making them think there was a girl. That didn't have to mean he wanted anything else. After all, there had been two nights ago in his car, and yesterday morning in the kitchen and the hallway and the shower, and yesterday after practice before they finally went their separate ways. Nothing today, of course--no sex on game days, at least not before the game--but...
But Fraser had smiled, like that, and Ray didn't think that was fake. Faking out the other guys, sure, but not Ray. It'd be just like Fraser to lie and tell the truth at the same time. It was like he existed just to give Ray headaches.
Mort came back and covered the back of Ray's hand with slightly stretchy clear tape, cutting it just so to fit around the bases of his fingers, smoothing it down so there wasn't a single corner curling up. It was shiny, more noticeable than just the Band-Aids, but nowhere near as bad as white gauze and tape. Ray smiled. "Thanks, Mort."
Mort smiled. "I would say 'any time,' Raymond, but I hate to encourage you. Keep using that ointment of Benton's, all right? It seems to be good for you, even if it does smell of musk ox."
Ray opened his mouth, but stopped short of saying Is that what it is? There were some things he was happier not knowing.
Mort walked off, singing to himself, and Ray went on sitting still in the familiar comfortable quiet of the therapy room, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now.
He didn't hear the door open and close, didn't hear footsteps on the rubber-matted floor, but suddenly Fraser was standing next tp the table, right at Ray's side. The first thing he saw was Fraser's socks, and then his eyes traveled slowly up Fraser's jeans to his t-shirt, which was damp in spots. His eyes got stuck for a second on Fraser's throat, the pale skin still wet in the hollow between his collarbones. By the time Ray met his eyes, Fraser was grinning at him. His hair was wet, still messy looking, though Ray could smell soap and shampoo on him. Ray blinked at him for a minute, smiling stupidly, and then quickly looked away, thirty seconds blown straight to hell.
He checked around the room, but Mort and Bernie were in Mort's office. Ray could see them through the window, Bernie waving his hands around and arguing while Mort looked unimpressed and dialed the phone. Denny, two tables away, was bent low over the ice packs on his knees, and, from what Ray could see, talking to them. He and Fraser might as well be alone.
Ray startled at the touch on his right hand, and looked down as Fraser's fingers curled around his, pulling his hand up, his skin tingling at the contact. Fraser had his head down, like he was just looking at the scars, but the tips of his fingers stroked up and down the sensitive skin of Ray's palm. Ray kept perfectly still, not pulling his hand away or tightening it, and did not look up at Fraser.
Almost in his ear, Fraser said, "I just wanted to let you know that the reporters are almost all gone, so you should be safe to leave now without anyone noticing your hand."
Ray thought Fraser would let go, but he just kept running the tips of his fingers lightly up and down, just a hint of nail cutting the softness of the touch. "Almost?" Ray asked, able to manage words one a time, trying not to squirm. He was not getting turned on from Fraser touching his hand and whispering in his ear.
Fraser nodded. "I'm afraid Ren has cornered the correspondent from The Hockey News, and is pitching him an idea for a series of articles on NHL players and the unusual things they collect, starting, naturally, with his own wonderful collection of rare and vintage guitar picks. He was just suggesting that the poor man come back to his apartment to see the sights--"
Ray finally cracked and looked up, and Fraser was laughing at him with his eyes. Ray barely restrained the impulse to stick his tongue out; he bared his teeth at Fraser instead and jumped down from the table. In the instant of motion when he had to make a choice, he tightened his hand on Fraser's. They both squeezed, and both let go, in the time it took Ray to say, "Thanks for the heads up, Frase."
Fraser just nodded, already turning to head back out of the room, and Ray followed him, both his hands stuffed into his pockets. Fraser ducked into the locker room, but Ray kept right on walking, and he hadn't gotten far at all before he heard Fraser's footsteps behind him. All the way out to the parking garage, Ray walked with his chin up and his hands in his pockets, and Fraser followed. Ray didn't look back, and Fraser didn't call out or catch up.
Ray got into his car, started it up, and pulled out, all on autopilot. It wasn't until he stopped at the light in the left-turn lane and spotted Fraser in his rear view mirror, that he really caught up with what was going on. He was leading Fraser back to his place--where, so far, they hadn't done more than watch Sports Center together--so that they could have sex. On purpose. Because they were boyfriends, or lovers, or life mates, or whatever the queer word for it was.
Buddies might not have been exactly true, but it had been a hell of a lot simpler. Things just happened. The way things had just happened with Fraser for the past couple of days. But now--this was something else altogether.
On the other hand--he checked his rearview again, and saw Fraser watching him, and had to look away quick before he caused an accident--it wasn't bad. Wasn't wrong. Just different.
Desperate not to look back again, pointedly using his side mirrors to check traffic, Ray drove on, fidgety, restless. He wanted to just push the pedal down and go like hell, but a) he might lose Fraser, who drove like he had the snow chains on all the time, plus, well. Gardie had taught him better than to do stupid shit like that, in the end.
Ray reached down and started punching radio buttons, flipping from one station to the next until a familiar guitar riff made him still his fingers and smile. This song had been on a mix tape Stella had mailed to him, after he wrote her complaining about the music in Montreal that first year. He'd listened to it over and over, and all those songs still said Stella and home and crazy in love to him. He'd never known the names of the songs; he didn't even know if Stella had known. She'd just taped an hour of radio off the station he'd liked in high school.
He glanced at the rear view mirror without thinking about it, and there was Fraser again, looking like he was concentrating on driving, now, instead of on making Ray crazy. It clicked all of a sudden, the memory and the reality--this wasn't different at all. This was exactly like going back to Stella's dorm room at McGill, desperate to get there and scared at the same time, because what if he screwed this up? What if, what if, what if--but it hadn't mattered then, because he had loved Stella more than anything in the world except maybe hockey, and she had loved him back.
Ray smiled. This wasn't different at all, except that it was better, because he wasn't eighteen this time, and he wasn't going to fuck this up. The disappointments of his career were pretty much behind him, and he had nothing but a retirement in relatively good health and lots of free time to do whatever he pleased ahead of him. Fraser wasn't going to get tired of following him from city to city, or decide he had to focus on his own career. Fraser knew hockey. Fraser knew Ray, knew how he'd failed and how he'd fucked up, and here he was, following Ray home anyway. He wasn't going to make Fraser nuts, asking about having kids, because that was impossible, and Fraser liked dogs, and...
Ray slapped his left turn indicator on, like he'd been doing faithfully for the last few months, and frowned a little as he waited for oncoming traffic to clear. If he thought about it--really thought about it, the way he'd mostly tried not to think about things for a long while--he'd felt just like this with Gardie, too, sometimes. There had been nights--after an especially bad game, or an especially good one--when he'd known, and known that Gardie knew, just how they were going to blow off steam when they got back to their hotel room. And he'd looked forward to it, even if he told himself it was just his body being in the habit, knowing what was coming because it had always happened that way before.
This wasn't different at all, he realized, hauling the wheel around as he made the turn. He'd always been like this. He just hadn't always had the words.
Ray parked in his spot, and watched Fraser pull into a visitor's space and get out of his car before he turned and headed for the elevator. He got in, and held the door for Fraser, and stood in one corner on the way up while Fraser stood in the other. He could feel Fraser watching him, would bet American dollars to donut holes that Fraser thought he was freaking out after too much time to think, but it wasn't like that at all. It was just--well, there were things they couldn't talk about in public, and even the elevator was too exposed.
By the time it occurred to him that he should at least look at Fraser, at least give him a smile, Fraser had leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. Ray didn't trust himself to say anything, even his name, without saying all of it, so he kept his mouth shut. When the elevator stopped on his floor, before Fraser opened his eyes, Ray reached out and touched his hand and nodded, and Fraser nodded back and followed him out and down the hall. He stood behind Ray while Ray unlocked the door, and Ray could hear him breathing in the silence, and fumbled with the key.
When he finally got the door unlocked and turned the knob, Fraser moved, a gentle kind of body check, pressing full length against Ray, pushing him up against the door and inside. He heard Fraser kick it shut behind them as they kept moving, until Fraser had him up against the wall of the little entryway. Before Ray could try to get free, Fraser had backed off, just far enough to let Ray turn around. When he saw the look on Fraser's face, Ray leaned back against the wall and waited for it. Fraser set his hands to the wall on either side of Ray's head and leaned in like he was doing a push up, and kissed Ray without touching him anywhere else.
Ray smiled against Fraser's mouth and licked at Fraser's tongue, and sure enough those hands came right down to his shoulders, and then lower, sliding inside his suit coat. Fraser stepped closer as his arms went around Ray, one of his thighs between Ray's, and when he felt Fraser's dick, hard against his hip, Ray raised his hands. He reached for the hem of Fraser's shirt, slipping his hands underneath to slide across bare skin. Fraser twitched and pulled back, taking his arms away and choking back something like a giggle, when Ray's fingers crossed his ribs. Ray grinned and opened his mouth to say "Ticklish?" but his mouth fucked things up again, so what came out was actually, "I think I was in love with Gardie."
Fraser's smile vanished, his face going dead calm, his hands dropping to his sides. Ray bit his tongue and then leaned forward, raised his own hands to cup Fraser's face, and kissed him firmly, a slow slide of lips and tongue. His frustration with his stupid mouth faded some as he deepened the kiss, because at least it did this just the way he wanted it to.
When Fraser's hands slid back under his jacket, Ray broke the kiss. "Okay," he said, breathlessly, "Let me try that again."
Fraser's eyes were smiling now, and he licked his lips and said, "Please do."
Ray closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against Fraser's. "I mean, I realized, in the car--I've done this before, I've always been like this, because this, you and me, is just like me and Gardie used to be sometimes, except we didn't know it and things were, uh, complicated. I never kissed him, I didn't know, but I think I was in love with him, like I..." He swallowed, and made his mouth practice the words a couple of times before he said it out loud. "I love you, Fraser."
So close, he could almost feel Fraser's smile widening against his own mouth. "And I you, Ray."
That sounded... weirdly, precisely, familiar. He'd thought it was just a dream. "You've told me that before, haven't you?"
"You were heavily medicated," Fraser said, and now his lips were moving against Ray's, slowly, teasingly, and Ray bit his tongue again, holding back the sounds trying to escape his throat, trying to keep it together at least a little. "So I shan't blame you for taking so long to notice."
Ray opened his mouth to protest that, but then Fraser's tongue pushed inside, and he forgot to protest anything for a while. Fraser pushed Ray's suit coat off, and then his hands went away, and when Ray opened his eyes to look, Fraser was reaching behind him and hanging it on the coat stand. Ray had to pull away to laugh, and then his eye skipped past Fraser giving him the eyebrow, to the door, not quite closed all the way. "I gotta lock up before we do anything else," Ray said, stepping past Fraser, his hands only pulling away from Fraser's skin when they absolutely had to. "Go on in, do you want anything to drink? There's water and stuff in the fridge, help yourself."
Fraser said, "Ah, yes. Thank you," and went on into the kitchen, and Ray shoved the door shut and locked up. While he was thinking of it, he took his keys out of the pocket of his coat, and his wallet out of his pants, and dropped them both on the little table by the door, so he wouldn't be freaking out later trying to find them. It was one of those things that Stella had, after years of training, taught him to do, a little leftover good habit from their years together. He slipped out of his uncomfortable shoes while he was at it, pulled off his socks and tucked them inside. The cool floor felt good against his sore feet, and Ray stood still a minute, enjoying the feeling until he remembered he had better things to do.
When Ray went into the kitchen, Fraser was standing by the fridge, chugging down green Gatorade and looking at the snapshots Ray had stuck up there with magnets--his folks and Franis, himself and François, that picture he'd taken of François as a puppy back in Quebec the first time he actually lifted his leg. Ray pulled off his tie and stuffed it in his pocket, making a mental note to buy more green Gatorade.
He watched Fraser's throat working, the motion of Fraser's eyelashes as he looked from one picture to another, and then Ray looked quickly away. The message light on his phone was blinking. One message, and it was probably from his mom, saying they saw him on TV and wasn't it his left hand that was broken? Ray undid the buttons at his wrists and stared down at the answering machine, wondering whether to play the message, and then Fraser was behind him, wrapping his arms around Ray's waist, settling his chin on Ray's shoulder. "He looks like a wonderful dog, Ray. I really am glad he's been all right."
Ray smiled and leaned back against Fraser. His mom could wait. "Yeah," Ray said, "He--uh--" Fraser's hand slipped downward onto Ray's thigh, which put the inside of his wrist across Ray's half-hard dick. Ray pushed his hips up, sighing at the contact, his heart speeding up, his dick throbbing, getting seriously into the game now. He dropped his head back against Fraser's shoulder. "How about we forget my dog for a little while, huh Frase?"
Fraser's mouth on his throat, just above the stiff collar of his shirt, was his answer. Fraser's hand slid up to cup him through his pants, and Ray reached behind him, got a hand on Fraser's ass and pulled him in. Fraser made an approving noise, close to Ray's ear, and his hard-on rocked against Ray's ass, his hand stroking Ray slowly and steadily. Ray slid his free hand into Fraser's still-damp hair, tendrils clinging to his fingers as Ray palmed the curve of Fraser's skull. This was good, this was really good, and he could stay like this forever, between Fraser's cock and Fraser's hand and Fraser's mouth, or at least until his knees gave out.
Fraser's hand tightened on Ray's hard-on, and Ray jerked against the touch, readier for this than he thought, and maybe the staying-forever plan would bear some rethinking. Tell a guy you love him and then let him stroke you off without even getting undressed--bush league, Ray decided. He could do better than a rookie move like that. "Fraser," he said, his voice coming out in a weird hoarse whisper. "Frase." That was better; Fraser's hips stilled, his hand slowed down but didn't quite stop.
"Do you need something to drink, Ray?" Low blow, but there was a smile in Fraser's voice, and his thumb, through two layers of clothes, was doing things that made Ray's breath stutter.
"No," he said, wriggling away, remember to let go of Fraser's hair the second before he ripped half of it out. "No. But." He tilted his head, started undoing his shirt buttons with one hand and his belt with the other while walking backwards because fuck yes he had above average motor skills. He was a professional athlete. "There's stuff in the bedroom."
Fraser pulled off his shirt, just like that, half-naked in Ray's kitchen, and tossed it over the back of a chair before he followed Ray into the hallway. Ray could feel Fraser watching him as he watched Fraser flick the top button of his jeans free. Ray's own hands worked without him having to think about it, and he took one step back after another, feeling his way.
Ray shrugged out of his dress shirt and let it fall on the floor, then stopped in the bedroom doorway to pull his t-shirt over his head. Fraser's palms followed it up his arms, and Ray let go, let Fraser pull his shirt off over his hands. Fraser leaned in and kissed him as he hung Ray's shirt over the doorknob, and Ray broke away quickly, pulling off his belt and tossing it on the floor as he went inside.
He threw himself onto the bed, face down, and squirmed across to the night table, flipping on the lamp and opening the top drawer. He felt Fraser sit down on the other side of the bed, by his feet, and reached for the box of condoms and tube of lube he'd bought the day before. At the same time, he slid one foot over to rub against Fraser's hip, and was only half-surprised to feel bare skin instead of denim.
Fraser's hand came down on the sole of his foot, holding it against his thigh, Fraser's skin hot all around his bare foot. Ray flexed his foot as he pushed the drawer shut, and Fraser's palm cupped his heel, his thumb pressing hard into the sole of Ray's foot, right where it felt all tight from standing around in dress shoes all night. The sensation went straight to his dick, and Ray ground his hips against the bed and tried to say something about Fraser please not making him come in his pants. All that came out of his mouth was "Fffff--" and then he buried his face against the sheets, shoving the supplies in his hand across the bed in the general direction of Fraser's back.
Somehow, over the pounding of his own heart and the sound of his own spastic thrusting against the bed, he heard Fraser's chuckle. The hand on his foot slid up to his ankle and squeezed once, and then Fraser moved. Ray went still as he felt Fraser kneel up over him, and then Fraser's hands were on his hips, and Ray bit his lip, focused himself on the little tiny pain of that, and turned over.
Fraser was naked, and hard, and straddling him, lit up by the soft yellow light of Ray's bedside lamp, right here in Ray's bed, with the crumpled old soft blue sheets and the pillows all bunched up to one side. It wasn't that he hadn't seen Fraser naked before, but he'd never really looked. He wanted to say something crazy like, "God, you're gorgeous," but Fraser leaned down over him, kissing Ray with one hand planted beside his head and the other undoing his pants. Ray kissed him back, figuring maybe he could say it that way, and helped with his pants. He shoved his shorts down with them, getting his dick free, finally, and then Fraser's fingers trailed up the length of it and back down, like he wasn't even trying to tease, just letting Ray know he knew where they were going. Ray tried to push up, get a little friction, but Fraser's hand shifted down to his thigh, holding him steady.
Fraser's mouth slid away from his, leaving him gasping, trailing down his throat to his chest. Fraser licked hard at the spot where Ray had left that hickey on him, and then further down to--oh God--his nipple. Ray arched up into the heat of Fraser's mouth, reaching blindly for any part of Fraser he could touch. He got one hand onto Fraser's head, the other on Fraser's shoulder, slinky hair and hot skin and Fraser's mouth on him moving lower, his lips dragging down across Ray's ribs, his breath puffing hot and wet against Ray's skin. He licked at the line of Ray's waist, right where his skin went pale, and then, before Ray could brace for it or even get his hand out of Fraser's hair to prevent mishaps, Fraser's mouth was on his cock.
Ray managed not to pull Fraser's hair, digging his fingers into Fraser's shoulder instead as he writhed on the bed. Fraser licked and then swallowed him and Ray could feel it coming, his toes curling, his legs tensing, balls tightening, and then just as fast, Fraser's mouth was gone. Ray couldn't quite choke back a whimper, and Fraser, the smug Arctic bastard, laughed.
Ray took his hands off Fraser, folding them behind his head like that would somehow convince Fraser that Ray wasn't about to come the next time Fraser so much as breathed on him, and said, "This is some kind of revenge thing, isn't it?" That was a whole sentence, even if it wasn't quite all intelligible.
He could feel Fraser's breath against his balls, and then Fraser's tongue touched him just behind, on that sensitive little patch of skin. Ray shivered, and spread his legs wider, and had totally lost track of what they were talking about by the time Fraser said, "I prefer to think of it as karma."
Ray groaned. If they were going by karma, he was never going to get off. But Fraser's hand had slid under his thigh and pushed it up, and Fraser's tongue was pressing hard at that spot in a rhythm like fucking. It felt almost like that, little bursts of not-quite-enough pleasure jolting from between his legs straight to his dick. Ray would happily put his leg wherever Fraser wanted it as long as that kept up. He bent his knee up toward his chest, let his foot point up at the ceiling, and Fraser's tongue pressed again and then slid slickly lightly further down, and all of a sudden Fraser's tongue was, oh God, making little wet circles right--there.
Ray didn't remember moving his hands, but his head thudded down against the mattress and he was clutching the sheets, his hips curling. He felt his cock jump, a drop of pre-come falling onto his belly, and opened his eyes, and there was Fraser, between his legs, licking him. Just then, Fraser's tongue stopped stroking and pushed, slid in, and Ray gasped and grabbed at his own dick, squeezing hard to hold himself back. "Frase--please--please--"
And apparently that was enough karma for one night, because Fraser moved, grabbing the stuff off the bed and shifting up. Ray watched him do the lube-and-condom-and-lube thing, converting his death grip on his dick to a slow stroke, wiggling the toes of his raised foot. Fraser reached for him, and Ray started to put one elbow down, ready to roll over, but Fraser said, his voice gone all strained like maybe he couldn't take much more of this either, "No, Ray, like this. It's all right."
Fraser was obviously the expert here, so Ray just nodded, and pulled his other leg up when Fraser pushed it. Fraser tucked one hand into the crease of Ray knee, braced the other against the bed, and then Fraser's cock was entering him, slow and steady. Ray couldn't keep still, arching up, his legs unfolding right onto Fraser's shoulders like they already knew how to make this fit. Fraser's hand slid down to his hip and rested there as Fraser kept moving. Ray's breath was coming in short squished bursts, and Fraser was in him, and watching his face, his eyes dark in the dim light from the lamp, shadowed, intent. Ray had to shut his eyes, turning his face away.
With his eyes closed, it was just the compression of his lungs and Fraser's cock inside him at a weird new angle, the sound of Fraser's breathing, steadier than his own, controlled. Ray could almost, almost deal with that, panting in and out and in-and-out against the stretching-full feeling and the burn of muscle in his legs. His head was going light, his feet tingling, Fraser fucking him so slowly it was hardly like fucking at all.
Fraser's cheek pressed against Ray's at the same moment that Fraser finally really moved, his cock pulling out on a smooth roll of hips and then snapping back in, hitting right there. Ray grabbed Fraser's neck, catching him just at the juncture of shoulder, held them together, forehead to forehead and eyes shut tight, as he came without breathing at all. Fraser kept moving inside him, above him, the smooth-sharp motion only breaking down when Ray finally opened his eyes. He looked up at Fraser watching his face, and their eyes only met for a second before Fraser thrust hard into him and came, gasping incoherent words that Ray breathed in as best he could.
Ray didn't seem to have quite passed out, but he lay very still while Ben cleaned him up. It was only when Ben dragged him around to lie properly in the bed instead of across its width, tucking a pillow under his head and gathering him close, that Ray muttered, "Frase."
Ben did not look at the clock. He pressed his nose against the softness of Ray's hair, inhaling the smell of Ray and sex--a combination which was growing increasingly familiar and dangerously addictive--and said, "Yes?"
"What's the--what are the words really? Early t'bed..."
Ben smiled. "And early to rise, makes a man healthy and wealthy and wise."
Ray nodded. "I knew that," he murmured, and then he went still. Ben waited as long as he could, lying there with the simple comfort of Ray's skin against his, the soft sound of Ray's breathing in his ears. Still, eventually he looked at the clock, and then he sighed.
"Ray," he said softly, to no response. He sat up and shook Ray a little. "Kowalski."
Ray's eyes didn't open, but he rolled toward the space Ben had half-vacated. "Wha--"
"I have to go," he said gently. "We leave early for St. Louis tomorrow."
"Day trip, right," Ray said, without seeming appreciably more awake. "No sex on game days."
It would be game day again in less than half an hour. "Right," Ben murmured. "Sleep well." He wanted to say, "I'll call you," but that was silly--it would only be one night. They'd fly home straight after the game in St. Louis and sleep in their own beds--he'd sleep in his own bed, of course, not Ray's, nor his with Ray in it--but it was only a day in any case, and Ray was already asleep again.
Ben gently lifted Ray's hand from where it had come to rest on his thigh, and tucked it beside Ray's cheek. He covered Ray with the blanket that had been bunched at the foot of the bed before he picked up his boxers and jeans and shoes from where he'd left them on the floor. He ducked into the bathroom to clean up a bit and put his pants and shoes back on without turning on the light, then went out to the kitchen, forcing himself not to pause for a last look at Ray peacefully sleeping, sprawled alone in his bed.
He picked up Ray's dress shirt from the floor of the hallway, and took it with him to the kitchen, hanging it over the back of the chair from which he removed his own t-shirt. He stood beside the kitchen table to pull his shirt on, and when he'd gotten it over his head, Dief was sitting in front of Ray's refrigerator, staring up at the photographs so lovingly displayed. Time was ticking, but Ben went and joined him, crouching down beside the wolf and looping his arms around Dief's neck in deliberate imitation of the photo of Ray and François that smiled down at them. "Jealous?" he asked softly. "I think I have pictures of you, somewhere."
Dief gave him a disbelieving look and licked his ear before moving on to sniff ostentatiously at his clothes. "Yes, I do have to leave, actually," Ben whispered. "And it's not running away in the night if I told him I was going."
Dief sat back, pulling himself somewhat out of Ben's grip, and Ben looked back at him for a moment before he gave up and sat down on the floor, leaning against the refrigerator. "It's not the same," he said, softly. "I mean--it's happened rather quickly, I suppose that's the same--but I know Ray, Diefenbaker. Even if this ends--" he swallowed hard, and looked away from the way the thin city light that lit Ray's windows shone through Dief from this angle. "Even if this ends badly," he whispered, as if speaking it aloud would rush their fate closer, "It's not a mistake. Mistakes are unintentional, and this time--I know what I'm doing. I know how he is, I know what he's like. I know him. I know how he gets angry and I know how he sleeps around and I know how he's not comfortable with this, but it doesn't matter. I know how brave he is, how kind and honorable and honest, I know he loves his dog and his team, and I love him. I don't want to be anywhere else as long as he wants me here. I love him."
His eyes had shut as he was speaking, and when Ben opened them, Dief was lying down at his feet, watching him in mute sympathy. Ben mustered a smile. "Oh, you only want him for his hair," Ben whispered, and Dief raised his head and thumped his tail.
Ben sighed, and pushed himself to his feet. "Come on," he whispered, "Hockey vincit omnia, you know." But when Fraser turned right, heading for the front door, Dief turned left, padding toward Ray's bedroom. Ben felt a pang of abandonment, but at the doorway, Dief looked back, tilting his head in question, and Ben hadn't the heart to ask him to come away. He understood the impulse all too well.
"Don't wake him," Ben mouthed, and Dief wagged his tail and disappeared into the darkness of Ray's bedroom, leaving Ben to let himself out.
Ray heaved a sigh, switched the TV off, and dropped the remote on the floor.
The game hadn't been so bad, for what it was. The guys were playing their third game in four nights, on the road, and it showed every second they were on the ice. Denny was favoring his knees, Bernie's whole line looked like they were trying to pretend they didn't have the flu, everybody was exhausted.
Except Ray, of course, because Ray had been out of the action for two weeks now. Ray was healed up and rested up, a little jazzed right now from the adrenaline-echo of watching the game. In the privacy of his own home, he was free to have a beer during the intermissions and yell at the refs at the top of his lungs, flailing around like an idiot, like he could stop pucks, deflect shots, and knock Brett Hull's grinning mug into next week, right through the TV.
He couldn't, as it turned out, but not for lack of trying--and now he was as worked up as if he'd played the game, but without the post-game exhaustion waiting to knock him down the minute he stopped moving. Practice had been light today, with just the scratches43 and gimps in town. Just like watching the game, it'd been enough to get him going but not enough to run him down.
He could've gone out with the guys who were still in town, watched the game at a bar or something, but he'd already done that once this week. It had worked out great, but he wasn't going to get that lucky twice--after all, Fraser was in St. Louis--so here he was, all worked up and nowhere to go.
Ray stretched out on the couch and stared at the ceiling, his arms folded behind his head as he considered his options. He could go out and drive around, maybe watch a movie, but he hated doing that alone. He could go out and dance--he was pretty sure it was Saturday night--but he didn't feel like playing the flirting game. That was the whole point of being with somebody, was that you didn't have to go out and impress anybody else.
Ray sighed and shifted on the couch, and the loose soft scrub pants he was wearing slid smoothly against his skin, dragging against his dick. Ray shifted one arm further under his head, and slid the other down to the top of the pants. How many times had he wished he could do this since he'd busted his hands? And now here he was, hands healed up and all alone. He might be all worked up with nowhere to go, but then who needed to go anywhere when he could do just fine for himself?
His dick was definitely in favor, blood throbbing low and heavy, skin tingling. Ray ran the palm of his right hand over his hardening cock, sliding the well-washed cotton against sensitive skin, and felt that touch all over his body, his nipples going tight under his t-shirt, his toes twitching in anticipation. Ray started to slide his hand under his pants, and then stopped. He was alone and had all the time in the world, so he might as well do this right.
Ray got up, made sure the front door was locked up tight and shut off the lights before he headed into his bedroom. He ground to a halt by the still-rumpled bed. He'd woken up alone that morning, but he remembered Fraser lying beside him, whispering that he had to go, and he definitely remembered what had happened here last night. Just the thought of it--Fraser's tongue, he'd been remembering that on and off all day at the worst possible times--had him raring to go, his dick tenting the scrub pants, his heart hammering. Ray got his clothes off quickly and stretched out on the bed, his right hand wrapping around his dick like a reflex.
He stroked himself lightly, not even closing his hand, getting comfortable. It was all a reflex, really. He closed his eyes as he got settled, turned his head against the pillow, summoned up the usual sort of vague fantasy, familiar, normal...
He took a deep breath on the first proper stroke, and his eyes flashed open as the smell of him and Fraser, spunk and sweat and skin, overwhelmed him. His dick jumped in his hand, his heart was pounding, and Ray squeezed his eyes shut, reaching for something else, anything else, so long as it was--
Normal, huh? What could be more normal than thinking about your--your--significant fucking other? Ray took a deep breath, and then another, and let his mind go wherever the hell it wanted for once, and what he wanted was Fraser, here in his bed, just like last night. Jacking himself slowly with his right hand, Ray pulled his left leg up, spreading himself open just like Fraser had had him. The motion woke the little twinge in his ass he'd been feeling on and off all day, sore in the best way, and Ray clenched and relaxed, moving around to feel it more. Fraser had been in him, right here, just like this, fucked him so well he could still feel it a day later. Ray pressed his head back against the pillow, baring his throat. He kept his hand moving slow and steady on his cock, rocking his hips in counterpoint.
If Fraser were here, he'd have his mouth on Ray somewhere. Ray raised his left hand, brushing his fingers across his open mouth, flicking his tongue across his fingertips. Yeah, Fraser would kiss him a little, but there were lots of places to kiss and Fraser wouldn't want to stick with just one. Ray trailed his fingers down his throat, along the line of vein and tendon, down to his chest. Lightly, lightly, like brushing lips, his fingertips ran down to his belly, up to his collarbone. He ran a thumb over one nipple, but he was just stalling, now.
His hand had gone almost still on his dick, and he was just working his hips back and forth in small moves. His legs were splayed out, his right knee crooked up a little, and at every move he could feel air moving across the exposed skin of his ass, the places Fraser had touched--had licked. The sense-memory of it shook him, belly and spine, and his cock jerked under his hand. Ray started stroking again, steady, familiar, as his left hand slid down, past the crease of his hip, between his legs. He cupped the warm weight of his balls against his palm, even as his fingers were sliding lower.
He felt the first little shiver when his finger crossed the spot, and he pressed down lightly and nearly came off the bed, gasping, hips bucking. He took a breath and held it and pressed again, ready for it this time, and it was good, so good, like he was fucking himself almost, from the outside.
Fraser hadn't stopped there, though--Fraser wouldn't stop there if he was here. Ray took a few gasping breaths and slid his finger back further, across the crinkled skin, pressed a little and then stopped with a flinch. Sore, for one thing, and dry, for another, which was stupid--he'd learned the basics his first year in Montreal, and not dry was rule one. Fraser had used his tongue, of course--he shuddered, his dick forgetting all about the little pain in his ass as he remembered Fraser's tongue doing it so much better. Before he could even think about it, Ray raised his left hand to his mouth again and sucked one finger inside, getting it good and wet.
The spit on his finger was cool to his hot skin, made him jump a little. He pressed his thumb against the spot behind his balls, stroking in opposite rhythm to his hand moving on his cock. His finger running across his ass felt good, too, different-good, and he was gasping for breath, so close, his heels driving into the bed as he forced his hips to keep still, made his hands do the work--two good hands, hell yes. At the end of an out-breath he stiffened his finger and pushed. It slid in easy, and he just had time to register the double sensation--something inside, and the heat and tightness around his fingertip--and then he was coming, spattering on his chest and stomach, his gasping breath loud in his ears as his two hands pulled him through it.
Ray lay still awhile, blinking at the ceiling. The second time he jerked out of a doze, he got up, washed up, took his contacts out. He brushed his teeth and made goofy foamy faces at the mirror, and then stumbled back to bed, shutting the lights off on his way. The bed smelled like sex, like him and like Fraser, and Ray pulled a blanket over his head and fell asleep with a smile on his face.
Ben tossed and turned, his body still humming with the exertions of the game and the rapid succession of bus and plane and taxi travel that had brought him home. His apartment--his bed--seemed empty and quiet after eighteen straight hours in the boisterous company of his teammates. It was a sensation not unlike his first summer back at home, after a hockey season and school year in Medicine Hat, when the familiar quiet of the North was suddenly strange and unnerving.
He knew it would pass, if he just lay still and waited it out. If he gave his body the chance to settle, his exhaustion would take over and he'd be asleep.
Ben rolled over again, and buried his face in a pillow. It wasn't the team he missed. They'd been a welcome distraction, and the game, of course, precluded all else, but now he was at home, in a bed whose fresh, clean sheets bore no sign of any sleeper's presence but his own. He flipped over again, reaching across to the place Ray had slept, three nights ago.
They'd been apart barely twenty-four hours, but Ben missed him. It was a ridiculous weakness, and, if indulged, a monstrously unfair imposition on Ray. Ben knew he tended to hold on too hard, much too hard, and Ray had, after all, conducted an entire marriage around the separations hockey imposed. Of course, Ray's marriage had... ended. And Ray, clearly, had not lacked for companionship during those separations; he had, after all, been in love with Louis during his first stint in Chicago, and Jeff must have known of Ray's habits from their time playing together in New York, years later.
Ben rolled onto his back, drawing his hands in to fold across his chest. It was ridiculous even to make comparisons; Ray might love him, but they had made no promises. This was by no means a formal arrangement, nor could he imagine that Ray expected it to last beyond the season. He had no right to jealousy, and no right to make constant demands upon Ray's time and attention, especially not in the middle of the night. Ben realized he was staring fixedly, rigidly, at the ceiling, every muscle tense, and forced himself to close his eyes and breathe deeply.
A moment later, he rolled over again and looked at the clock on his night table. The squared-off red numbers seemed jagged and meaningless. His bed was empty, and just last night, Ray had said, "I love you," and Ben had left him without even looking him in the eye as he said goodbye.
It would be a show of weakness to call; it would be a show of cowardice not to. Ben lay frozen-still for a moment, wishing for something, anything to break the deadlock for him--but Dief had always had a knack for being underfoot until one wanted him and then nowhere to be found.
Ben closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them on the lighted keypad of the phone, already in his hand. His thumb found the redial button unerringly.
The second ring was cut off abruptly, and Ben listened to the thumping and fumbling sounds as the phone was dropped and recovered. "Hlo?" Ray's voice was scratchy and warm in his ear.
Ben smiled, and felt himself relax despite the guilty twinge he felt at having woken Ray. "Ray," he said softly, "I'm sorry, go back to sleep."
"No, m'awake," Ray said, in a tone that belied his words. There was a soft muffled sound, as if Ray had pulled a blanket over his head, phone and all. "Unless something's gone horribly wrong, Frase, you're in Chicago. At home."
"Ah," he said, looking around the room. "Yes, so I am."
"Kay, good," Ray murmured, barely audible above the sound of covers moving as he got comfortable. "You need anything?"
"It's just that you're on my redial," Ben said, getting comfortable himself.
"Yeah, you're on mine too, Frase," Ray said, a smile audible in his voice. "Hey, you going to practice tomorrow?"
The next day's practice, after this week's rapid succession of games, was technically optional for regulars. It had never really occurred to him not to go. "Yes, of course."
"Me too." Ray yawned and then said, "We'll have breakfast, I'll be awake then. I'll pick you up, okay?"
Ben closed his eyes, and thought of Ray eating pancakes. He was half-tempted to ask Ray if that was a date, but instead he said, "That sounds fine."
"Good," Ray mumbled, and then, his words so soft and slurred that Ben could barely make them out, "Was thinking about you, earlier. Wish I was there."
Before Ben could ask whether Ray meant he wished he'd been in St. Louis, or wished he were where Ben was at that moment, Ray had hung up. Ben replaced the phone in its cradle, closed his eyes, and considered that small mystery for the few minutes it took him to sink into sleep.
Breakfast had turned out kind of weird. Ray had forgotten it was Sunday until he'd had a cup and a half of coffee and there was suddenly a nine-year-old kid wearing a white shirt and tie standing at his elbow, holding a hockey card in one hand and a Sharpie in the other. The card showed Ray in a Blackhawks jersey--not his rookie, but his second year, a common card that you could get for two bucks, hard case included, at any decently stocked card shop in the city. This one had a bent corner, though, and a 1984 Topps Ray Kowalski with a bent corner was worth exactly bupkis. No card shop would sell one, which meant that somebody had kept that card for twelve years, packed in a shoe box or tucked into a book, and then pulled it out when he got picked up this year, and given it to this kid, who hadn't even been born the last time he played for the Hawks.
Once he got past blinking in shock and staring at the young punk on the card, he'd smiled, forcing himself not to look up at Fraser sitting across the table, and took the marker from the kid's hand, signed the card, ruffled his neatly-combed-for-church hair, and sent him back to his family. The kid's mom had given him a grateful smile, and Ray had smiled back and then wrapped his hands around his coffee cup and stared fixedly at the table.
Eventually, the waitress brought their food, and a while after that Ray managed to raise his eyes far enough to watch Fraser's hands moving as he ate, but that was about it. He felt like the whole place was staring at him, like they all knew who he was and they all knew he was eating breakfast with Fraser because he'd missed the chance to jump his bones the night before. Fraser kicked him once, lightly, under the table, startling Ray into looking up, and gave him a small understanding smile. Ray grimaced back and got on with eating his pancakes and bacon, silently vowing never to eat a meal with Fraser in public again if he could help it.
But that was hours ago now; they'd had a good practice, though only half the guys were there and even the coaches seemed worn out. They were nearly done, down to Coach's assessment of their performance and announcements about the next few days. Ray wasn't exactly listening, though his eyes were fixed on Coach as he stood on the ice with the rest of the guys, shifting from skate to skate, his helmet already hanging from the butt of his stick.
He was thinking about how to get Fraser to have dinner with him, someplace with a liquor license and no hockey-card-carrying altar boys, maybe with a few of the other guys along to make it less awkward if he forgot how to talk again. That'd be easier, and it had occurred to Ray, thinking back, that you could get away with an awful lot as long as nobody thought you were queer. At the same time as he was plotting the evening, he was sort of scanning what Coach said for key points.
His attention snapped into full focus, a sensation almost like being smacked on the head, when Coach said, "Kowalski, Krivokrasov, you're both on the regular roster until further notice. That's all for today, gentlemen."
Ray stood stunned, staring blankly up at Coach, as stunned by the announcement as he'd been by that hockey card, and then he really was getting smacked on the head, the guys crowding around to congratulate him and Sergei. The kid was almost jumping up and down on the ice, babbling in his erratic English about calling his girlfriend, and Ray kept smiling and carefully didn't look around. There was no one he needed to call; everyone he wanted to tell was right here on the ice.
The guys quickly started off for the locker room, but Ray hung back, looking around the arena. The press box was distant, and the glare off the glass was, like he'd thought, impenetrable. He stared up at that spot where he wouldn't be standing for the next home game, and raised his glove to his nose to cover his smile.
He knew Fraser's hand when it landed on his back, and with most of the guys gone, he risked looking Fraser in the eye, hoping whatever was on his face would only look like his happiness to be back in the game. Fraser's smile, the look in his eyes, could almost be that--just a guy being happy for his teammate's good luck. "Whaddya say," Ray managed, "Dinner tonight? Help me celebrate?"
Fraser's smile widened, showing that one crooked tooth in his perfect mouth. "Of course, Ray."
"And, uh--" Ray wasn't sure about this part, but he'd figured there was no need bringing it up until it mattered. "Still roommates?"
Fraser's smile closed up a little, and he looked serious but not less happy. "If you'll have me."
Ray grinned his relief, scrubbed one gloved hand over Fraser's sweat-damp hair, and turned to skate over to the door with Fraser right behind him.
Ben quickly redirected a pass from Ren down to Jack, then stole a glance at Ray. He was holding down his usual position in the crease, more or less sandwiched between the Rangers' goalie and Beukeboom, the massive defenseman wearing number twenty-three. As Ben watched, Beukeboom knocked Ray to his knees, and Ray levered himself right back up to his feet with his stick, never taking his eyes off the puck.
Jack was circling down low, looking for a clear shot to pass to Tom, then sent the puck back up to Ben just before he was checked hard in the corner. Ben slapped the puck at speed down to Tom, momentarily open in the center of the zone, and checked on Ray again. He was just bouncing back to his feet, and this time he shoved back at Beukeboom, his shoulder and elbow striking Beukeboom with as much effect as if he'd hit the wall.
Beukeboom took exception, however; as Ren battled with a Rangers forward for puck possession near the blue line, Beukeboom raised his stick and swung it down on Ray's right hand, the blow landing with enough force to be heard where Ben was standing. Ray doubled over, his whole body curling around his hand, momentarily trapping Beukeboom's stick. Beukeboom jerked it free, pulling Ray off his feet, and was already screaming his protestations of innocence as the referee's whistle blew.
Ray didn't bounce up as quickly as he had before, but he got to his feet without help from Tom or Jack, who had both rushed to his side. He pushed himself up with his left hand holding his stick and his right held carefully against his stomach. His face was tight with pain, pale under the fluorescent lights, and Ben pushed down the horror that was his instinctive response. Ray was all right. This wasn't anything like before. Ray was up and moving. His right hand was in better shape than his left, more able to take the blow, and his gloves were heavily padded.
The A on his shoulder weighing heavy, Ben turned his back on Ray and skated over to the ref, who was already listening to the low-voiced arguments of the Rangers' captain. He looked at Ben and said, "You know we're not going to call an injury if he was already hurt, Fraser."
Ben nodded. If Beukeboom were judged to have injured Ray, the rules called for a five-minute penalty and ejection from the game. It wasn't something to be decided lightly. "Unless he drew blood44, right?"
The ref tilted his head, considering the matter. Ben looked across the ice to Ray, who had not rushed to the bench, but was skating in small circles with Jack and Tom flanking him, apparently catching his breath. Ray looked up and met his eyes, and Ben raised his eyebrows. Ray instantly apprehended his meaning, and shook his head firmly, though they both knew there was no way Ray could know whether his hand was bleeding until it was unwrapped. Ben widened his eyes a little, but Ray shook his head firmly again, and Ben nodded back, accepting Ray's decision. "Never mind," Ben said, "no blood, no injury."
The ref nodded and the Rangers' captain looked faintly relieved. Ben headed over to the Hawks' bench as the ref called out the penalty against number twenty-three: two minutes for slashing97.
Ray reached the bench before him, and headed immediately down the tunnel with Mort on his heels. Ben sat down at the end of the bench nearest the tunnel, with Ren on his right side and Jeff, peering after Ray from his goalie's seat, to his left.
The Hawks' power-play unit was on the ice now, facing off against the shorthanded Rangers. They looked grimly determined, but not furious, on Ray's behalf. The penalty had been almost inevitable; Ray's injury was so widely known that it was only a matter of time before someone attacked that perceived weakness. Ben spared a thought to be glad it had been Ray's right hand they'd gone after, and then the puck was dropped and play was underway.
Ben leaned forward on the bench, staring intently at the play on the ice, his teammates quickly pressing their advantage. Even as he watched, he was listening with half an ear for Mort's return to the bench, with or without Ray. A quick return would likely mean good news; if Ray required stitches or--God forbid--x-rays, Mort would be down in the dressing room with him for some time.
Ben was so distracted that the goal took him by surprise. Tony threw his arms in the air, and the entire bench, Ben included, jumped to their feet, and in his ear, Ray's voice was barely audible above the roar of the crowd, crying, "Aw, I missed it."
Ben turned to look, and Ray was standing at his side, grinning as though he'd just scored that goal himself. He raised his right hand, flexing his fingers as much as the heavy glove would allow. "No blood, for a fucking change," he said gleefully, and then turned away from Ben to slap hands with Tony as he skated triumphantly past the bench. Ben was too happy for Ray to bother reminding him that obscene language on the bench carried a minor penalty--it would have been impossible for any of the officials to hear anyway--and settled back down onto the bench to await his next shift.
Ray lay awake in his bed in a hotel in Montreal, watching Fraser sleep the sleep of the righteously exhausted on his side of the room.
Ray never slept well in hotels in Montreal; it reminded him too much of his first year of junior, when his French still sucked and everywhere in Quebec was Montreal in his mind, even--especially--the cities where they played away games and spent the nights packed four in a room. It put him on edge and always had, whenever he'd come back to Montreal to play away games. His time playing for the Nordiques had been great, even though they played lots of away games against Montreal, because he'd nearly always managed to just go home after, home to Stella and François and his own bed.
This wasn't so bad, though. It was just a hotel room, and Montreal was just a city, and Fraser hadn't seemed to want to do anything, so Ray had just gotten into his bed and let Fraser get into his.
Fraser had gone right to sleep and left Ray lying awake, staring at the ceiling and trying to find something to think about that wasn't tomorrow's game. Today's game, now, and had been for an hour and a half. Ray closed his eyes and tried to forget what city he was in.
Fraser shifted in his sleep, muttering something unhappy that Ray couldn't make out. Ray shifted up onto one elbow, squinting for a better look at Fraser, and as he did, his movement was mirrored by a white dog, popping up from the far side of Fraser's bed to look back. Ray froze, and the dog--no, the wolf--backed away from Fraser's bed, moving to pace back and forth at the far wall, his tail low but wagging a little.
Ray pinched himself. He closed and opened his eyes. He looked at the clock and at Fraser. It didn't matter what he did; when he looked back, the wolf was still there, keeping his distance like Ray figured a wild animal would, but watching Ray all the time. "Okay," Ray said, softly, "Okay. So you really did come back. That wasn't a dream either."
He saw the wolf bark, but there was no sound. Well, why not? He was a ghost, right? Ray thought for a split second about waking Fraser up, but there was no need for both of them to lose sleep, and if he was going crazy, well, Fraser didn't really need to know that right now. It would make this whole roommates thing even more awkward than being in Montreal already had.
Ray sat up on the edge of his bed. "You're Diefenbaker?" he whispered, and the wolf silently barked again, wagging his tail more enthusiastically. "Right. Right. Because what other ghost wolf is going to appear in our hotel room?"
Diefenbaker looked smug, and Ray tried to glare at him, but it was hard to be mad at a ghost, especially one he could barely see, in a dim room with no glasses. If the wolf hadn't been white, Ray probably never would have known he was there.
He ran his hands through his hair. "You wanna come here? Come? Diefenbaker, come." He beckoned with his hand, but the wolf flattened himself against the wall. Diefenbaker knew what he was saying, but he wasn't having any of it. "Okay, okay, stay there, then." At that, the wolf took a step forward from the wall and wagged his tail, and Ray rolled his eyes. Mind of his own, that one, just like Fraser.
"So," Ray said, after a moment spent squinting across the room at the wolf. "You don't wanna come over here. But you're here. And I'm sorry, but I don't think I'm gonna be able to sleep with a dead wolf staring at me." Diefenbaker laid down and put one paw over his nose, and Ray smiled but shook his head. "Nah, I know how this works. You're a ghost. If you didn't wanna bother me, you'd just--poof--not bother me. You wanna bother me. But quietly, huh? We don't wanna wake Fraser."
Diefenbaker wagged his tail and Ray knew there was one offer no dog could refuse. He just hoped it worked on wolves, too. "Hey, boy, you wanna take a walk?" Diefenbaker's tail came up, waved like a banner, and then he bolted to the door and vanished.
Ray sat still a minute, blinking, and looked around his suddenly normal hotel room. Fraser was resting peacefully again on the other bed, bad dream over, undisturbed by Ray talking to ghosts. "Right," Ray whispered. "Right." He got up and got dressed, shoes and all. He even put his jacket on. He was just patting his pocket to make sure he had his wallet and his room key when the wolf's head reappeared, sticking right through the door, and Ray whispered, "I'm coming, I'm coming."
The wolf disappeared again, and Ray hesitated at the foot of Fraser's bed. Finally, he whispered, "If I'm unhinged, it's your fault," and then headed off after the wolf.
Ray stepped outside into the dazzling brightness of the anonymous hotel hallway, just like every other hallway in every other hotel he'd ever stayed in, except for Diefenbaker, waiting by the door to the stairs. He barked without sound, and Ray nodded. "Sure, you don't like elevators either, why am I not surprised?"
Diefenbaker disappeared through the door just when Ray got close enough to see a flash of silver in the wolf's fur, and then he stayed a flight ahead all the way down to the lobby. When they got there, Ray hesitated. He could see through the windows that it was pouring down rain, so an actual walk was out. If he caught the flu now, Coach would probably kill him.
The desk clerk was staring at him, and Ray sighed and walked over, Diefenbaker trailing after him. He was here with an Anglais team, he reminded himself. He ought to speak English. "Hey," he said, when the desk clerk met him at the counter. "Uh..."
"Is there anything you need, sir?" His English was accented but good, so Ray didn't have to feel guilty.
Ray smiled, as charmingly as he could manage at one-thirty in the morning. "I was just wondering," he said, turning to lean sideways against the counter, so that he could see the wolf sitting attentively six feet away, his tail thumping against the polished floor, "what the hotel policy on dogs is."
"Dogs," the clerk repeated, looking right through Diefenbaker as he tried to figure out whether to piss off the NHL player or his boss, which did make Ray feel guilty.
"I mean," Ray said, waving his hands around, making sure the clerk was looking toward where Diefenbaker was sitting. "Hypo--hypomanically. See, the thing is, I've been drinking." The clerk nodded cautiously to that, and Ray pushed on. "And we had a bet going, and one of the guys was sure you allowed pets. I thought it was just leader dogs."
"Ah, yes. You are correct. Only service dogs are permitted in the hotel, and they must be with their owners at all times."
Ray nodded. "So, uh, no exceptions for wolves or anything?"
The clerk blinked, and Ray could actually see the guy deciding to just humor him, because he was harmless. "No sir. No exceptions for wolves."
"Right," Ray said, and made sure to stumble a little as he stepped away from the counter. "Well, thanks. I'm just gonna sit down now."
The clerk nodded slowly, and Ray headed over to the tasteful comfy chairs and sat down. The wolf sat down in front of him, still about six feet away. Ray felt like he was dreaming, white ghost wolf almost glowing under the bright lobby lights, but he was too tired now not to be awake. "Okay," he said softly, after glancing around to make sure nobody was going to hear him talking to a wolf they couldn't see. "So what's up?"
Diefenbaker tilted his ears toward Ray, his tongue hanging out, and Ray ran his hands through his hair and wished for cigarettes. Among other things, he'd look like slightly less of a freak, sitting here smoking. "Come on, what is this, Lassie? I know Fraser's okay. I just saw him. You just saw him, and you didn't wake him up. So you wanna talk to me, is that it?"
Diefenbaker wagged his tail. "Okay, we're communicating, this is good, we can do this. Yes or no questions. Do you want me to leave Fraser alone?"
Diefenbaker went down into a crouch and bared his teeth, and Ray quickly put up his hands, palms out, placating. "Okay, so no, good, no. I don't wanna leave him alone either, all right? So you're okay with me, huh?" Dief straightened up and wagged his tail a little, uncertainly. "But you won't come near me, even though you can walk through walls." Dief wagged his tail for sure at that, but Ray didn't need to be told. He could see it.
"So that's, what, a habit left over from when you were alive? You don't like people too close. Makes sense, right? You're a wolf."
Diefenbaker shook himself at that, and at first Ray thought he was just shaking his head, but then he heard the jingle of tags, and saw the flash of silver. "Not all wolf, huh? A wolf wouldn't wear tags. And you like Fraser all right, because you were right by his bed and you're taking an interest in his love life. So it's just me you don't like?"
Dief laid down, curling up small, and hid his head under his paw again. "Yeah," he said, "Well, I get that. François only really trusted me for a long time, maybe you only really trust Fraser."
But François was like that because he was a dog, and somebody had kicked him around before Ray got to him. Diefenbaker must have been wild--he couldn't see Fraser going and buying a wolf, or even a half-wolf, but he could see him sort of taming one. He got a sudden image of Fraser as Le Petit Prince45 from that book Stella had made him read, seventeen years and a couple of miles from here, and he wondered for a minute if there was anything up north the same color as Fraser's hair. Must not be, because Diefenbaker had come after him, followed him all the way to Chicago, all the way to Montreal.
Ray looked at him again, and found Diefenbaker watching him steadily, warily. If the wolf was afraid of people, it had to be something he'd learned after Fraser hung those tags around his neck. Not from Fraser, but--
Ray remembered, suddenly, mentioning Stella and François and road trips, and Fraser's hand clenching tight.
--from Fraser's wife. He put his head down in his hands, struggling to remember everything he'd ever heard about her, which boiled down to the fact that she was dead, and her name. When he sat up, Diefenbaker was on his feet, and Ray whispered, "It was Victoria--" but before he even got her name out, the wolf blinked away into nothingness.
Ray sat there for a while, his hands propping up his face, before he remembered that he had a game to play soon, and not much time left to sleep. He took the elevator back up, and let himself quietly into their room. Fraser was still asleep, and there was no white wolf anywhere to be seen in the room. Ray got undressed, carefully putting everything back where it had been when they'd gone to bed, so Fraser wouldn't ask him where he'd gone in the night.
When he was ready to go back to bed, he stopped, standing between their beds and looking down at Fraser. He moved in his sleep and made a small troubled noise that only sounded like "Dief--" because Ray was listening for it. Ray leaned over him and dropped a quick soft kiss in the darkness of his hair, the first time he'd touched Fraser since they'd come into this room, and then he crawled into his own cold bed and willed himself to fall asleep.
Ray had been behaving strangely all day--since the night before, in fact. He'd seemed shy of Ben all evening, almost skittish, but when he considered how Ray had ended their last night as roommates, Ben didn't find it surprising at all. He'd let Ray alone and gone to bed alone, but the strained atmosphere had invaded his sleep. He'd been restless all night, half-waking between jumbled dark dreams.
One had been particularly vivid. He'd dreamt of waking to find Ray gone, and that dream and the rest to follow had been filled with lurid, fantastical images of what Ray might have been doing. Ben had awoken frustrated and shamefully aroused, but the morning light had revealed the room in exactly the same state it had been when he'd gone to sleep, Ray sleeping blamelessly in the next bed, curled tight around a pillow with the covers drawn up to his ears. Ben had hurried off to shower, and only when he'd dressed and felt more in control of himself had he gone to Ray's bed to wake him. He'd been hesitant even to touch Ray to wake him and tugged on the covers instead. Ray had startled violently awake, and then bolted to the shower, babbling about running late though they were, in fact, in plenty of time.
The strained and wary distance between them had persisted all day. Ray had been watching him constantly, apparently too deep in thought to notice when Ben caught him at it. He only looked away when Ben said his name, and then shook his head mutely when Ben asked if something was the matter. Ben, for his part, had spent the entire day fighting the phantom recollection of Ray's empty bed in their dark hotel room, the ridiculous fears conjured by his subconscious mind.
All day, through morning skate and warmups and the interminable waiting-around time of a game day on the road, Ray had been keeping a watchful distance, and Ben had exhausted the benign possibilities for what he was thinking by ten in the morning. He'd been dwelling on other-than-benign possibilities ever since, starting with "Ray can't stand to be roommates after all" and working up from there to increasingly morbid heights.
By the end of the second period, when Welsh caught Ray coming into the tunnel and said, "Denny's getting iced, you'll have to do the French interview," the flash of panic Ben glimpsed on Ray's face was actually a welcome change from the day's pensive impenetrability.
Ray recovered quickly, nodding to Coach and proceeding down the corridor, past the locker room door, to the area designated for intermission interviews. The French reporter and cameraman were already there, and Ray removed his helmet as he walked, calling out "Âllo!" in a bright voice.
Ben hung back as the rest of the team filed into the locker room, and lingered at the doors, watching Ray get set up. Ray glanced back toward the locker room just then, and gave Ben a not-uninviting nod. After a day of alternating stares and evasions, it seemed like a hopeful sign, and Ben gave up all pretense of being on his way into the locker room, leaning against the wall and watching Ray.
He didn't look in Ben's direction again, focused wholly on the reporter. They were speaking softly, and Ben wasn't quite near enough to hear what they were saying, but it was clear that the reporter was going over the questions he'd be asking. Ray was nodding rapidly, mouthing words to himself, and then the cameraman was counting down and Ray was smiling gamely into the camera.
The first few questions went off without a hitch; even in Ray's rapid Joual, Ben could make out the cadences of rote answers--we've just got to play our system, we've got to get more shots on net, Eddie's playing great for us and we've got to back him up--and then the rhythm broke. Ray stumbled over his words and fell silent, and this time Ben couldn't do anything but watch. The reporter jumped in, made a joke of it, but Ben could hear the hollowness of Ray's answering laugh.
Another moment and the interview was over. The cameraman turned his light off. Ray murmured something polite to the reporter and turned away blinking, walking further down the corridor. Ben watched until the reporter had departed in the opposite direction, and then followed Ray. He found him around a corner in an empty alcove, leaning with his bare head against a painted cinder block wall. Ray didn't move as Ben approached him, though he stepped heavily enough to be audible. After a moment spent staring at the sweat dripping down Ray's neck, the flush slowly receding from his skin, Ben gently punched Ray's padded shoulder.
Ray turned toward him then, looking grimly ashamed, and tilted forward enough to lean himself against Ben instead of the wall, his face against Ben's plastic-padded shoulder. Ben raised one arm and wrapped it awkwardly around Ray. They weren't even touching, really, with the bulk of their equipment between them, but this was as near as they'd been all day. They both stank of sweat, and Ray's hair was wet against his cheek when Ben moved his head, but Ben didn't pull away. Ray's hand settled against his side, pressing against his jersey between the bottom of his pads and the top of his pants.
Muffled but clear, he heard Ray say, "J'déteste46 reporters," but it didn't seem to be a statement that called for a response. Ray seemed only to need him to stand there, so Ben stood still, breathing Ray on every breath.
Ben heard something behind him, and carefully turned his head, to see Jeff standing at the corner looking at them. Jeff nodded, his expression utterly neutral, and then jerked his head back toward the ice. Ben nodded fractionally in reply, and waited until Jeff was gone before he shoved lightly, resistibly, at Ray's shoulder. "Game on47," he murmured, and Ray straightened up.
"Right," Ray said, shaking himself dog-like, and swinging his helmet back onto his head. "Right," and that was that. They were teammates again, headed back to the ice for the third period. Back on the bench, with six men between them and eighteen thousand watching, Ray looked over at him with a small, secret smile. Ben smiled back, and allowed himself to look forward to spending the rest of the road trip with his roommate.
Ray started grimly on the beer in front of him, and thought that he should have known that Fraser asking him to come out for a drink after the game was an offer too good to be true. He'd had the same stale smile on his face ever since Smithbauer had greeted him with a backslap dead-center on the cross-checking bruises and a, "Hey, Kowie, long time no see." No use pointing out that Smithbauer had just seen him on the ice an hour ago, because Fraser was already going on about how he'd forgotten that they'd played together for those two years in the Eighties, and Ray was smiling and nodding on autopilot.
Luckily, nobody seemed to need him to say anything. Fraser occasionally made an attempt to include Ray in the conversation, but Ray didn't try very hard to get a word in edgewise past Smithbauer, and Smithbauer didn't make it easy. If he'd been up against Smithbauer while he was controlling the puck as tightly as he was holding on to Fraser, Ray would've been risking a concussion to get it away from him. As it was, he didn't think a punch to the head was completely out of the question, so he just kept quiet and matched Smithbauer drink for drink even after he lost track of how many he'd had, and waited for the end of the night, when he'd go back to the hotel with Fraser.
Ray shifted in his seat. It was getting harder to wait for that. Smithbauer kept looking at him, and Ray was starting to feel the beers he'd been putting away, and he was absolutely not going to take a piss anywhere Smithbauer could follow him, which meant he was just stuck sitting there squirming. Smithbauer, the fucker, knew it too. The instant Ray's empty glass hit the table, he said, "Another round?"
Fraser decided it was his turn to buy, even though he'd stopped drinking at two, and headed off to the bar, leaving Ray with Smithbauer. Ray was just wondering if there were enough innocent bystanders in the world to get Smithbauer to let him alone in the john when Smithbauer leaned into him. His hand under the table landed high on Ray's thigh, gripping him hard enough to nearly hurt, and he said, "Long time no see, Cup."
Stanley Cup Kowalski, Smithbauer had screamed once, wasted out of his mind, the only Stanley we'll see this year, so we'd better enjoy him. The other guys had laughed, and Ray had laughed too, because he'd had no fucking clue what else to do. God, he'd been glad to leave Winnipeg. "Yeah," he said, smiling the best he could with Smithbauer breathing on his face. "Long time."
"Listen, Kowie baby," Smithbauer said, and his hand slid up to the crease of Ray's hip. His fingers pressed so hard on the tendon that Ray's leg jerked under the table, and his breath went all uneven from the pain. "Bent is my best friend, so you'd better be making him happy, am I clear? I know exactly--" and suddenly his fingers loosened, and Ray's head fell back at the release of pressure, and he swallowed hard as Mark's hand slid down to the inside of his thigh. "--exactly how happy you can make a guy. And I want Bent to be happy. Understood?"
Ray licked his lips and said, "He's fucking happy, Smithbauer."
Mark's hand tightened again, just for a second, and then it was off his leg. Mark touched his thumb to the corner of Ray's mouth, knowingly, and Ray was too close to drunk to hide the way it made him shake. Mark laughed in his ear, and Ray smiled, because he could not punch Fraser's best friend in the middle of a Winnipeg hockey bar, and he still, eleven years later, had no fucking clue what else to do.
Ben was listening, all the way to the bar, for a fight to break out at the table behind him. Dief had been huddling under his seat nearly since they arrived, and his distress had finally become too palpable for Ben to ignore, so he'd fled the table with the wolf at his heels.
It had seemed, beforehand, like a good idea, or at least not a tremendously bad one. He customarily met Mark after the game when they played against each other, and often enough over the years he or Mark had brought along a few teammates who were also acquainted. Ray had played with Mark for two years, and Ben hadn't been aware of any particular animosity between them that had sprung up since then.
He reached the bar without hearing anything untoward, pressed through the crush and called out his order. He felt a weight on his feet and looked down to see Dief, curled up impossibly small and looking up at him reproachfully. Ben grimaced.
It was true; he'd had an ulterior motive. He and Ray had been in this relationship--precise nature still unspecified--for a couple of weeks now. Things seemed to be going well enough, but Ben had no faith in his own judgement in these matters. He hadn't told Mark about him and Ray, but he knew that Mark knew him well enough to grasp the situation quickly once they met.
Mark hadn't, in that respect, disappointed him, but the tension between him and Ray had been instantly apparent. Ray, usually almost frantically good-natured and talkative in the company of others, had gone virtually mute; Mark, never much of a conversationalist, had talked non-stop. Ben had played along, waiting with a sick sense of dread for one of them to issue a challenge and take it outside.
Waiting for the beers he'd ordered, Ben dared to look back toward the table, not hoping for more than that the hostilities there had remained in a stalemate. Instead, he saw Mark leaning bodily against Ray, his hand on Ray somewhere under the table. Ray's head was tilted back, his lips parted as he gasped for breath, his hands fisted on the table. Before the sight had even quite registered, Ben looked away, staring blindly at the bar, and the two full glasses awaiting him.
His wife had had the distinction of being one of few women--if not the only one--he'd ever been involved with who Mark had not contrived to steal away from him. Ben hadn't minded the others; it had saved him awkward departures from passionless liaisons, dutiful attempts to live up to the expectations of all around him. His wife had been the only woman he ever loved, and Mark had respected that distinction. He might not realize that Ben did not wish to be rescued from Ray.
Ben closed his hands around the drinks and looked down to his feet, but Dief was gone. As he turned back, he saw that Ray and Mark had subsided into their earlier poses, Ray staring fixedly at the table, Mark looking supremely pleased with himself. Perhaps it was simpler than that; they had played together for those two years in Winnipeg, after all. Ray would have been freshly separated from Louis, and Mark had always been Mark. It suddenly seemed obvious, inevitable, that they had been lovers once. Viewed from that perspective, Ben was more an interloper here than Mark was.
He had nearly reached the table. Ben pasted a smile on his face and set down the drinks. Ray took his quickly, and Ben pretended not to notice the slight unsteadiness of his hand. Mark said something cheerful, his words half-laughed, and Ben responded in kind, though he had no idea what either of them said. He couldn't take his eyes off Ray, but Ray never looked back at him, only raising his eyes from his drink to take brief furtive looks at Mark as he shifted restlessly in his seat.
The levels in their glasses dropped slowly as Ben watched; his throat grew dry with constant talking, and he could have wished for another drink of his own, to ease him along. He was starting to entertain fantasies of bodily dragging Ray out of the bar and back to their hotel before another round could be ordered when Mark finished off his beer and stood up. "Well, boys, I think it's about time to get out of here."
For one terrible moment, Ben thought that Mark would, as he sometimes had in the past, suggest retiring back to his place. Instead he winked at Ben, and gave Ray a familiar, knowing look that made Ben's guts twist. "You guys have a good night, huh? Don't miss your bus in the morning."
Ben mouthed some inanity, watching the blatant way Ray's eyes followed Mark out of the bar. Ray drained his glass and finally met Ben's eyes. "Okay," Ray said, "Let's go."
Just that. Nothing more. Ben felt a surge of frustration, even anger, but he fought it down. He had no reason to expect Ray to say more; Ray had no idea that he'd seen anything, that there was anything to explain. Ben nodded and stood, and Ray got up and shrugged into his jacket. They headed out the door to the street. Ray was walking very quickly, and Ben fell a little behind as they pushed through the crush of patrons. Out on the sidewalk, it became clear that Ray's quick stride was merely a means of keeping his balance. He stumbled badly, coming to a stop near the curb, and Ben took two quick strides to catch up with him, throwing his arms around Ray with no particular concern for how it looked, so long as he didn't go tumbling into the street.
He felt Ray startle at the touch, and he was barely steadied on his feet before he was fighting free of Ben's grip. Ben took a quick step back, spreading his hands, and caught an odd hunted look in Ray's eyes as they scanned the sidewalk. Did he fear exposure, here? It wasn't altogether unreasonable, and Ray was obviously worse off for drink than had been apparent as they sat at the table.
"Ray," he said softly, "Ray, Ray, Ray, Ray."
Ray's eyes only slowly tracked back to him, still searching for something or someone else on the sidewalk. "Frase."
Ben closed a little of the distance between them, but Ray swayed away and took a short step back, wrapping his arms around himself as the breeze picked up. The temperature was slightly below freezing, and Ray's head and hands were bare, his body's systems depressed by the rapid intake of alcohol and the cumulative exhaustion of a long day and a long road trip. His jacket might be adequate if it were zipped up, but Ben doubted that Ray could manage that at the moment; it seemed even less likely that he would allow Ben to get close enough to do it for him. Ray started to shiver visibly as Ben watched. Ben was struck with the ridiculousness of their position; had they been only teammates, Ben could have tucked his intoxicated companion close to his body, zipped his jacket for him, warmed his hands. As it was, he could only look around for a cab and hope his desperation didn't show on his face.
Thankfully, one appeared in short order, and Ben managed to resist the impulse to bodily tuck Ray inside. Their ride to the hotel was shorter than their wait on the sidewalk. Ray sat the whole time hunched forward, and despite the warmth of the car's interior, he was still shivering as Ben paid the driver. "Ray," he said softly, and Ray looked up at him without comprehension for a moment, then slid down the seat and made his way without serious mishap out onto the sidewalk.
The hotel lobby was quiet, and they got an elevator to themselves. Ray stood in one corner, watching the numbers changing, shifting rapidly from foot to foot, and Ben leaned in the opposite corner and watched Ray. When the doors opened, Ray all but bolted, but went left--the direction their room in Ottawa had been from the elevator--instead of right. "Ray, Ray, Ray--" Ben caught up with him and caught him by one arm, pulling him around, and as he had outside the bar, Ray startled at the touch and quickly jerked free.
They stood facing each other in silence for a moment, Ray breathing rapidly and still shivering, and then Ben said, "This way," and led off toward their room. Ray followed close on his heels.
Ray kept his distance as Ben unlocked the door, and Ben moved quickly inside, going to his bed and turning on the light there. He heard the double slam of doors as Ray shut their room door behind him and bolted into the bathroom. Ben shrugged out of his jacket and toed off his shoes, and then went to the bathroom door and listened for any sign that Ray was in distress, but what he heard was perfectly normal.
It did explain the squirming.
The sound of the toilet flushing was followed by the sound of the sink running, and then the door burst open, showing Ray silhouetted by the bright light of the bathroom. He hesitated in the doorway long enough for Ben to notice that he'd shed his jacket, and that he was smiling for the first time in hours, and then Ray stumbled forward, coming to a halt a breath away from Ben and kissing him.
Ray's mouth was coolly wet, the metallic taste of tap water overlaying the flavor of the beer he'd been drinking. Ray's hands, running quickly over Ben's chest and sides in rather frantic caresses, still felt cold. Ben pulled back enough to say, "Shhh," and then he caught Ray's face between his hands.
Ray turned his head so that Ben's thumb was just at the corner of his mouth, shuddered and then went still, his hands knotting in Ben's shirt. Ben kissed him slowly, thoroughly, sliding his hands down Ray's throat, over his shoulders and down his back, pulling him at last into full-body contact. As though that were an awaited signal, Ray began to move, his mouth skidding down to Ben's throat, his hands resuming their frenetic motions. Ben slid his hands down from the small of Ray's back to his hips, pulling him closer, thrusting reflexively.
His own burgeoning erection met no answering hardness, and he went still, his hands resting lightly on Ray's body. Ray's hands were under his shirt, Ray's mouth at the edge of his t-shirt collar, and Ben pulled back a half-step. "Ray," he said, but he followed doggedly.
"Please," Ray whispered, "C'mon, Fraser, please, anything--"
"Ray--" Ben repeated, at a loss, as Ray breathed, "Fuck me," against his skin.
Ben slid one hand around to the front of Ray's jeans, still unfastened from his trip to the bathroom. Under his hand, Ray's penis remained unresponsive, while Ray's whispers and touches grew only more desperate. "Whatever you want, Frase--"
"Ray." Ben got a hand around each of Ray's arms and bodily pushed him back, and Ray went rigidly still, his biceps hard under Ben's hands and his fists clenching quickly, then relaxing. A small tremor shook him, though he ought to have warmed up by now. He met Ben's eyes for a moment, then looked away, but he didn't free himself from Ben's grip as he had earlier.
Ben felt well out of his depth, unequal to dealing with whatever was driving Ray tonight. "I'm tired," he said finally, honestly. "I just want to go to sleep."
He felt Ray's flinch as much as saw it, and then Ray did pull away, shoulders slumping. Ben caught him before he'd gone a step, laying one hand lightly on his shoulder. When Ray looked at him again he clarified, "Together. Please."
Ray blinked at him. They hadn't yet shared a bed all night in a hotel. It had seemed simpler not to; Ray had seemed to expect to sleep separately, whatever else they did, and they hadn't made a habit of sleeping over at home. "Yeah," Ray said, sounding as weary as Ben felt, turning away again as he pulled his shirt off, "Yeah, okay."
Ben let him go. He made his own quick visit to the bathroom and shut off the light as he came out. Ray's clothes were in a heap on the floor, and Ben dropped his own on top of them before crawling into the bed Ray was already lying in. He was stretched out well to one side, his eyes closed, perfectly still. Ben leaned across him to shut off the light, and then, with as much impunity as if he had actually believed Ray to be asleep, he dragged Ray into his arms, tangling their legs together, and tucked the blankets around them both.
Ray kept up the act for a moment, and then shifted around and raised one hand cautiously, feeling his way to Ben's face. His thumb found the corner of Ben's mouth, and Ben's lips parted at the touch, a moment before Ray's mouth found his. Ray kissed him carefully, only his mouth moving against Ben's while he held otherwise perfectly still, as though one of them were in danger of breaking. Ben returned every kiss until Ray fell asleep in his arms between one breath and the next.
"Fraser," Ray said, not bothering to hide his grin, "how is it possible for you to suck this much at pool?"
Fraser looked up from considering his shot--he had three options, Ray could see, and all of them were pretty hopeless--and said patiently, as if Ray were particularly slow, "I play hockey for a living, Ray. Not pool, although I grant you the two are very easily confused." He leaned back down over the table, lining up the most hopeless of all his hopeless shots.
Ray rolled his eyes. "Fraser, don't. Go for the six, for God's sake, that way at least you won't sink the eight ball." Normally, he'd just let someone make a mistake like that, let them put themselves out of their misery--but he got to play pool with Fraser about as often as Coach gave them a day off. He wanted to stretch both out as much as he could.
Fraser didn't straighten up, just looked up at Ray from where he was bent over the table, and Ray had to look away and take a swig of his mostly-warm American beer before he could keep talking. "And I know they're different, but--hockey and pool, it's all shots and angles."
Fraser took the slightly-less-hopeless shot, completely missed the six, but also managed not to sink either of the two balls Ray still had on the table. He sunk the cue ball instead. "Ah," Fraser said, straightening up, "Another bite."
"Scratch, Fraser," Ray corrected, squinting at him, trying to see some sign that he was sandbagging. He couldn't possibly be this bad at pool. Maybe he had some kind of special Canadian jet lag, from coming back over the border from Winnipeg this morning. "Another scratch." Ray fished the cue ball out and glanced back toward the door to the ladies room, which was just opening on a couple of women coming out. "And heads up."
Fraser looked over in that direction and smiled, all game face. They had figured out, without really discussing it, that they could play pool at the bar together if they also remembered to flirt with girls at the same time. Fraser had found probably the only chick in all of Chicago who really just wanted to hear nonstop stories about playing for the Oilers and exchange shy smiles with Fraser while he bought her endless Shirley Temples.
Ray's was a little more forward-thinking. He was just getting set up when she grabbed his ass, and his shot went wild. He sunk the eight and the cue ball both, and Fraser's girl giggled. Ray glared at Fraser, who smiled, blinking innocently, and said, "Ah. I believe I win, then?"
"No," Ray said sharply, "You do not win, Fraser. I lose."
Fraser tilted his head to one side. "Well, Ray, that's an interesting philosophical--"
Ray glared harder, and Fraser shut his mouth abruptly with a tiny smile. Ray turned away fast, before he completely forgot that he was standing in a sports bar in Chicago with at least half a dozen members of his team--not to mention a hundred innocent bystanders--looking on.
That put him face to face with the girl. He was halfway certain her name was Laura. She'd had three drinks in the last hour. She bit her lip and smiled at him, and Ray just knew she was a heartbeat away from saying something about being a bad, bad girl. He remembered to smile, and leaned back against the table. "Well, I guess I'm not playing pool anymore."
Behind him, he heard Fraser getting towed toward the bar, launching into yet another story about hockey up north, and in front of him, probably-Laura licked her lips. "Guess we'll have to find some other way to keep you entertained," she said. Ray wondered, idly, if she was actually a hooker, or just did a really great impression when she was drunk.
"Yeah," he said, and looked around the bar. The other guys were busy with the chicks they'd picked up, and not just for show. Nobody was paying attention to him, except probably Fraser, so now would be as good a time to ditch her as any. "You wanna take this outside?"
She smiled wider and led the way to the door, pulling Ray along by the hand. It was chilly outside but not as cold as it had been in Winnipeg, and the wind wasn't so bad close to the building. She pulled him away from the door, around a corner and into the alley. He didn't know exactly what she was expecting--he'd never picked up hockey groupies while he was with Stella, because that would've been cheating--but he had to make this look good. She'd be back here next week, picking up one of his teammates, and he didn't need her telling the wrong kind of stories. She turned around just at the edge of the pool of streetlight, slid her arms up around his neck and kissed him.
She tasted like the fruity drinks he'd been buying her, plus mint gum and cigarettes, and her lips slid on his, slick with gloss. He had to duck his head to kiss her, and when he slid his arms around her she was small, smaller than Stella even. He pulled her closer, right up against him, let her think his dick was half-hard for some reason other than that he'd been playing pool with Fraser for close to an hour. She mmmed against his mouth and then broke the kiss, and Ray instantly stretched his neck back and took a clear breath of cold night air. She was kissing his throat--right where Fraser liked to kiss him, and it wasn't fucking fair that she could kiss him right here on the street like this, while Fraser had to pretend to be halfway interested in that girl inside--and her breath was hot and cold on his skin.
She pushed up on tiptoes to whisper in his ear, dragging herself up against his body--she was warm, and another body, and he rocked against her for that much, but it was all wrong. He was already trying to figure out how to scare her off when she whispered against his ear, "Hey, Ray-Kay, I'm a big fan, baby. Whatever you want--"
Ray pulled away quickly, his heart pounding suddenly, his face flushing. Whatever you want-- "What the hell kind of thing is that to say?" he snapped. She was staring at him like he'd just grown a second--third?--head, but fuck it, he'd done his bit, and he had to get rid of her somehow. "Do you just go around saying that to people? I'm a total fucking stranger, kid, you shouldn't go offering that--"
She rolled her eyes. "You're a total fucking freak is what you are. Jeez."
"Yeah," he snapped, "And tu t'es fait fourré ey'ton éguisé l'pinceau au lieu des patins!48" She stared at him, open-mouthed, and in the white streetlight he could see the lines of her makeup, and that she really was practically a kid, probably barely old enough to drink. Ray dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, groping for words, English words that were at least halfway polite. "If I get you a cab, will you have time to finish your homework before you have to go to bed?"
She flipped him off as she walked away, muttering, "Fucking weirdo..."
Ray followed her to the mouth of the alley, just far enough to see her flagging her own cab, turning on a sudden megawatt smile for the driver, and then he leaned against the wall and took another breath. Christ, he'd hardly remembered what he'd said last night until now. Whatever you want. If he'd sounded half that pathetic it was no fucking wonder Fraser had tucked him into bed with a pat on the head. And now he was out here and Fraser was inside with Little Miss "Oooh, tell me more, no, I don't drink, oh, thank you kindly," and Ray had no idea how to get him out of there.
He wrapped his arms around himself, wishing the cold air would do something about his hard-on, and had just started plotting a spy-movie style phone call to the bar when Fraser threw his jacket at him. Ray caught it and was already pulling it on as Fraser said, "You forgot something."
Ray smiled, and Fraser's eyes glinted dark under the streetlight. Fraser's smile was dark too, and went straight to Ray's dick. Fraser said, "Could you give me a ride, if you're leaving?"
Ray said, "Mm-huh," and they were on their way.
In the confined spaces of the car and the elevator, Ben could smell her on Ray. In the bright lights of the corridor, he could see that Ray's lips were reddened with kissing, and that there was a faint but jarring smear of pink on Ray's throat. When he looked down to unlock the door, Ray stood at his side, hips rocking as he shifted restlessly from foot-to-foot, and Ben couldn't help but see the bulge in his jeans. Inspired by her, perhaps, but Ray was here now, with him.
Ben ushered Ray in ahead of him, and turned immediately to lock the door, so he needn't be distracted later. He was taking off his coat and toeing off his shoes as he turned around, and Ray was doing the same, one hand flat against the wall for balance. Ben managed to keep himself still until Ray straightened up, and then he was in motion, pressing Ray up against the wall, catching both his hands and pressing them against the wall above his head. Ray's hands jerked against his, but Ben pushed back hard and they went still.
He kissed Ray fiercely, hungrily, thrusting his tongue into Ray's mouth, chasing down the taste of her, which gave way quickly to the familiar invitation of Ray's tongue and lips and teeth. He tore his mouth away when he had to breathe, and shifted his grip on Ray's hands to one hand, though only a token pressure was required to keep them against the wall now.
His free hand slid down Ray's arm, down his side, to the place where his shirt, pulled up by the position of his arms, bared a line of skin above his jeans. Ray shuddered as Ben dragged his knuckles along that narrow nakedness, his breath stuttering and then catching as Ben's hand slid down to the front of Ray's jeans, cupping him through the rough cloth. Ray's eyes were closed, his head tilted back against the wall as his hips jerked against Ben's palm.
Ben pressed his tongue hard at the pulse point just under his jaw, and felt Ray's heartbeat hammering just beneath the skin. He mouthed lower, licking away the waxy residue of lipstick on Ray's throat, listening to the quick rasp of Ray's shallow breath. When his tongue found only the clean taste of Ray's sweat, he kissed the spot, sucking at Ray's skin hard enough to mark him. He stroked Ray's cock roughly through denim, sweat-damp from both sides, ignoring the throb of his own erection. Ray's fingers closed spasmodically around his hand, and Ben pulled back, gave the already-darkening mark on Ray's throat a last lick, and shifted his grip to Ray's wrist, turning to tow him down the hall to the bedroom.
The room was neat as always, and Ben grabbed a handful of the quilt and yanked it down to the foot of the bed, hauling Ray forward and swinging him onto the bed. Ben stood still, just for a second, staring down at Ray's wide eyes staring up at him, and then Ray fell back onto his elbows, spread out before him, and Ben was moving again.
He knelt between Ray's thighs, reaching out to jerk his shirt off over his head, and as Ray was falling back to the mattress Ben was already unbuttoning Ray's pants, pulling them quickly down and off. Two impatient tugs disposed of Ray's socks, and then he was naked on the bed, his cock standing while the rest of him lay pliant, arms flung out, feet dangling off the edge of the bed. His head was tipped back, his eyes closed, and he was biting his lip, breathing rapidly through his nose. Ben undressed quickly and moved over him, catching Ray's hands where they lay and pinning them. Ray bucked beneath him, turning his head as he did, but Ben held him easily. Sweat slicked the space between their palms, but Ben's grip was sure. His mouth found Ray's again, and he licked at the juncture of teeth and lip until Ray opened to him. Ben pushed his tongue inside, shoving his hips against Ray's at the same time, his cock skidding across the soft skin of Ray's belly, muscle tight and hard beneath. Ray moved in echo beneath him, the heat of his erection moving erratically against Ben's hip.
Ben squeezed tight with his right hand and then let go, reaching down between their bodies to stroke Ray's cock in quick hard movements. He pulled his mouth from Ray's to hear him gasping in time to Ben's touch, and then Ben let go of him altogether, kneeling up, gasping for breath himself.
Ray's eyes stayed closed and his hands stayed still on the bed as though Ben still held him there, and Ben couldn't wait anymore. He set one hand on Ray's side and the other on his hip and flipped him, in one forceful motion, onto his stomach. Ray's hips rocked minutely against the bed, and Ben left him to it for a moment, moving up to the night stand for supplies.
He leaned over Ray, catching his wrists together in one hand. Ray bucked up against his grip, his back bowing as his forehead pressed down against the mattress, and Ben lowered himself closer, thrusting against the cleft of his buttocks, licking hard at the edge of a faded bruise on Ray's back.
He kneed Ray's legs further apart, and Ray spread himself, his breath coming faster. Ben slicked two fingers and eased them into him, and Ray shivered beneath him as his fingers worked. He pulled them free, and used his teeth to tear open the condom, spitting a strip of foil down onto Ray's back, placing a little more of his weight on the hand holding Ray's wrists as he worked one-handed to ready himself. Ray was still beneath him, except for the quick rise and fall of his back as he breathed, and the minute metronome rocking of his hips.
Ben entered him quickly, roughly, and Ray gave a quickly-muffled moan. He knew he ought to be more careful, but it was a remote sort of knowledge, far from the frantic motion of his hips, his cock gripped tight inside Ray's body.
Ray twisted his face free of the mattress and took a long shuddering gasp just as Ben felt him come. He moved more slowly as Ray's body shuddered around him, his hands clenching hard on Ray's wrists and hip, gritting his teeth against the enticement of Ray's orgasm. He thrust slowly into Ray as Ray went still, trying to be gentler now and failing. Ben's climax rushed in on him, his hips jerking raggedly, his cock sliding quickly in the shuddering heat of Ray's body. He held himself still above Ray for a long suspended moment, trying desperately to catch his breath, and then he pulled free and rolled away. His eyes slid shut even as his hands went through the motions of dealing with the condom, his brain already fogging with sleep. He felt a sudden flurry of motion and turned his head, blinking his eyes open to see Ray lying on the far edge of the bed on his side, facing away, his shoulders hunched.
Ray's posture was like a punch in the gut, and adrenaline flooded his system. Ben was suddenly coldly awake. "Ray?" he said, and reached across the space between them, not quite touching Ray's back.
Ray shook his head quickly, a short sharp motion against the pillow, and raised one hand, fingers spread, in a painfully clear gesture of stop. Ben barely breathed, waiting for the explosion, the fingers of his extended hand curling in.
But Ray's voice, when it came, sometime after Ben had counted a hundred, was small and strained. "Don't, uh, don't do that again." He was silent for the space of a few visibly deep breaths. "Don't hold me down like that, okay? I don't--" Ray took another breath, and held it this time. The movement of his shoulders suggested that he was rubbing his wrists.
"Ray, why didn't you say something?" Ben's panic was fading rapidly into guilt and a little frustration. This needn't have happened. He would have stopped--he would have slowed down--if Ray had simply said something.
"I'm saying something," Ray said. "Right now. It's not a big deal--" Ben could see every muscle in Ray's back and shoulders, tensed as though he were awaiting a blow, as though he were bracing to run. "I just don't like it."
"Ray, all you had to say was no." His voice was rising sharply, in tandem with his anger. Of all the stupid things. "Why on Earth did you let me--"
"Fraser, just--" Ray's voice sounded stronger now, closer to anger himself, and that was better, anything was better than Ray small and quiet and broken--if Ben could just get him talking...
"Honestly, Ray, I don't understand. Why would you let me upset you? That's not--not buddies, Ray--"
Ray finally burst into motion, rolling to sit up as his hands flew out in a wild combative gesture, and Ben fell silent. "Don't talk to me about buddies, Fraser. Buddies don't say no, okay? You don't say no. Maybe--maybe one of the guys says to you, eh, Koseau, have un biere49, and you say no, you say non, you say non merci, and the next thing you know, you're on the bottom of a dogpile having the whole two-four poured down your throat. So after that, if somebody asks you to do something--you say oui, and they--they laugh, because you say it wrong, but they don't--but that's better. Because that's buddies, that's team."
Ben could hardly breathe himself now, nightmare visions blooming before his eyes of Ray, seventeen and helplessly monolingual, trying to survive in Montreal. He'd have been smaller then, and so alone. "Ray, my God, I'm s--"
"Don't--I don't want you thinking of me like a--a fucking kicked puppy or something, Fraser." Ray's head dropped, his shoulders slumping. Ben fought down the recollection of every comparison he'd ever made between Ray and Dief. "It wasn't all bad, I'm not saying that. Most of it was good. Most of it was--really was buddies. But I--I don't--don't hold me down like that, that's all."
Ben's mind was racing ahead now, irresistibly. After Montreal, Ray had had Louis, and that must have been all right, but after Louis... "Mark," he said, horrified, and Ray flinched. "Ray, did Mark--" but of course Mark had. Ben knew Mark.
Ray kept perfectly still. "I don't wanna talk about it, Fraser. He's your friend and he didn't do anything I told him not to."
Because Ray wouldn't tell him not to do anything. Couldn't say no. "Ray--"
"He's your friend," Ray repeated, his voice sounding muffled, as if he had his face in his hands. "I get that. I'm not--Smithbauer's your friend."
I love you more. The words welled up, but Ben choked them back, unable to fathom giving Ray such power, to let Ray know of the power he already had. "Ray, he is my friend, but I--I'm on your team."
Ray's shoulders jumped with something that might have been a laugh, but what he said, in a shaking muffled voice, was, "Fuck, I can't drive like this."
Ben was paralyzed. He wanted to touch Ray, to offer comfort, but dared not push. He wanted to help somehow--to drive him home, to call him a cab. Ray could sleep on the couch, or he could, or--Ray turned suddenly, flinging himself down on the bed and sliding over to Ben's side, throwing one arm across his chest. Skin to skin, Ben could feel him shaking minutely, but Ray murmured, "Okay?" in a nearly sleepy voice.
Unable to speak, Ben nodded, his cheek against Ray's hair where Ray could feel it. He lay still, staring at the ceiling, long after Ray relaxed into sleep against him.
Ray woke up with a hard dick pressed against his ass, and his stomach clenched with dread--this was how it started, half the time, having to share beds on the road, half-fucked before you even knew what was happening and then aww, hey, be a good sport. At almost the same instant he realized that he was--shitfuckidiotneverdrinkingagain--naked, and that he was--okay, okay, everything's okay--sleeping with Fraser. He couldn't stop himself from tensing, his heart racing with the panic he didn't need. He forced himself to relax, hoping he hadn't woken Fraser.
Fraser's arm over his waist tightened, and Fraser hmmed softly a few inches from Ray's ear, but he didn't wake up. Ray shifted back against him as his heart eased down from that wake-up jolt of adrenaline. Fraser was warm and solid at his back, and Ray burrowed his face into the pillow and yawned, pressing closer.
A stray twinge reminded him, from the ass up, of exactly how the night before had gone, and Ray made himself lie still again. It had been dumb to say anything--he'd half expected Fraser to point out the wet spot on the bed that proved he must like it at least a little--but, all things considered, it hadn't gone so badly. Dumb to get scared like that anyway, after it was over, when it was Fraser, and he knew--he did know--that Fraser wouldn't really hurt him. Afterward, Fraser had stayed perfectly still under him, like he thought one wrong move would send Ray screaming into the night.
So Fraser had spooked him, and he'd spooked Fraser right back, and odds were good that Fraser was going to try to back off on him again, once he woke up. He'd be all careful and considerate and probably downright gentlemanly and Ray wouldn't get laid for days.
Except Fraser wasn't feeling too considerate right now, was he? Right now, Fraser was exactly where Ray wanted him. All he had to do was figure out a way to keep him there. Ray reached back and slid a hand over the hot smooth skin of Fraser's hip to his ass, and pulled them a little tighter together. Fraser made a half-awake sound, and Ray felt the muscle under his hand tighten as Fraser's hips rocked against him, his hard-on sliding against Ray's ass. Fraser's hand slid down Ray's belly, maddeningly close to Ray's dick, Ray's own morning hard-on. It was definitely time to wake him up.
Ray twisted, ignoring the cold air that snuck down his shoulder blades when he moved away from Fraser, until he could see Fraser's face. "Hey," he whispered, flexing his ass back against Fraser's cock, "Fraser. Frase."
He saw Fraser's eyes flash open--a wide blur of blue in Ray's peripheral vision--and felt him go completely rigid. Ray twisted back into place, his back hard against Fraser's chest, and caught Fraser's wrist before he could pull his arm off Ray. Before Fraser could respond, Ray dragged his hand down--to his dick, this time, while he was calling the shots. Fraser's palm barely touched him, but he couldn't choke back a groan, his hand on Fraser's wrist tightening hard, then relaxing as he realized what he was doing. Not fair. Fraser's hand closed slowly, carefully, around his dick, like Fraser had never done this before, and Ray thrust into his loose grip. "C'mon," Ray whispered, sliding his hand up and down Fraser's forearm.
But Fraser's hand on his dick was still, and behind him, Fraser stayed frozen as Ray ground back against him. Still hard, though, and that was something. "Ray," Fraser said, his voice strangled and confused.
Ray ducked his head to be sure of hiding his face, and kept his hand sliding back and forth on Fraser's arm. "Come on, Frase, this is a series, isn't it? Gimme best two out of three, at least." No single elimination here, no one bad game was going to be the end of them, Fraser would understand him when he said it like that.
Fraser did relax a little, then, enough to close his hand properly on Ray's cock, and when he spoke, Ray could feel the words against the back of his neck. It was so distracting that it took him a minute to realize that Fraser had said, quietly but straight out, "You could fuck me."
His heart skipped, and his cock jumped. God, that would be... But his brain--and his mouth--raced ahead of his dick, for once, and Ray said, "What, like paybacks?"
Fraser didn't say anything, didn't move a muscle, his arm hard under Ray's hand. Ray took a deep, steadying breath and then shook his head. "Not now, Fraser, not because you think you owe me something. I want you to fuck me, because I like it when you fuck me."
Still nothing from Fraser, except the steady beat of his breath against the back of Ray's neck. Ray swallowed hard and wished he'd had coffee before he had to deal with this and said, "Come on, Frase, don't make me beg, that's not--"
He ran out of words, then, because Fraser was kissing the back of his neck, just at the tickly spot where the hair stopped, and his hand on Ray's dick tightened and stroked, one, two, three times. Ray gasped at the sudden rush of sensation, his eyes clenching shut, his toes curling. Then Fraser was leaning over him--Ray rolled half onto his stomach, drawing up his right knee to prop himself--to the bedside table, grabbing the stuff that was still out from the night before.
Ray shivered a little as the cool air touched him where Fraser knocked the blanket off. It was almost too hot under the covers, sharing heat with Fraser, and the contrast was startling. Fraser tugged the covers up over them both as he settled into place against Ray's back, his cock hot and hard against Ray's hip. He ran one big warm hand over Ray's shoulder, like an apology to his skin, and then lower, fingers ghosting over the bruises on his back. He stroked down Ray's lower back to his ass, spreading him more, and Ray pulled his leg up higher to hold the position.
Fraser's hand kept moving, though, down to his hip, his fingertips just hooking over Ray's hipbone, and then his hand was climbing. He pressed just hard enough against Ray's belly to keep from tickling, and then Fraser reached out to Ray's hand and covered it, twining their fingers together as he kissed the point of Ray's jaw, just under his ear, breath hot on Ray's face. Ray closed his eyes and tightened his fingers against Fraser's, and then Fraser tugged their hands down and down, to wrap around Ray's cock. Ray thrust shallowly into that pressure, Fraser's fingers hard against his, and then Fraser, still kissing him, his cock pressing in tiny motions against Ray's hip, pulled his hand away. He did it slowly, stroking Ray's hand, pressing it into place, and Ray understood. They only had two hands free between them; Fraser needed him to do this part.
Fraser's hand left him for a moment, and then Ray heard the muffled pop of the lube being opened under the covers. He stilled his hand on his dick and pressed his face into the pillow, barely breathing as he waited, and Fraser's breath against his neck sped up. One finger, sloppy-slick, pressed into him slowly. Ray remembered to breathe, remembered to relax, and it only ached a little--he'd be sore, later, but he'd played through worse for less cause. Fraser's finger moved in him, and Ray couldn't hold back a little startled sound. Fraser kissed him again on the back of his neck as he eased another slippery finger inside. He was moving them around and that was--oh, that was better. Ray had to take his face out of the pillow to breathe now, gasping cold air, his hand moving on his dick slowly, so slowly, his whole arm tensed so hard with control that it almost hurt. Fraser added another finger, and a twisting motion, and Ray bit his lip hard, forcing himself to be still, be patient.
Then, finally, Fraser's fingers slid free of him. Fraser pressed the heel of his hand against the back of Ray's thigh and his cock against Ray's ass and pushed in, slow and steady. Ray held his breath and kept his head ducked down, because it hurt, but not enough for him to want Fraser to know, not now, and it was good, so good, so exactly what he needed. When Fraser was all the way inside and Ray had started breathing again, Fraser's hand moved to his hip, pulling Ray back as Fraser rolled up onto his side. Ray hooked his leg over Fraser's thighs, and Fraser angled himself, so Ray was resting on him just a little. Ray breathed out a long sigh, Fraser's cock inside him pressing at just the right angle, and then Fraser's slick hand closed around Ray's dick, and Ray closed his eyes and gave himself up.
Fraser's left hand reached down from somewhere under the pillow their heads rested on, flattening against Ray's chest over his heart, and Ray twisted his own hand back, searching for Fraser's skin, closing around his arm and holding on. His free hand slid back and rested on Fraser's hip as Fraser started to fuck him slow and careful, like he didn't have another thing in the world to do but this, forever and ever. Pain receded into slow-burning pleasure, and Fraser's hand moved as steadily as his cock. Ray could feel everything--the way Fraser's abs tightened as he moved his hips, the way Fraser's breath sped up and up, hot against his skin, even the motion of Fraser's eyelashes as he kissed Ray's back. He knew Fraser could feel him too, his heart beating under Fraser's hand, his dick in Fraser's grip, his ass tight on Fraser's cock. It was good, it was greatness.
But it couldn't last forever, and when Fraser's breath hitched, Ray pulled with his hand on Fraser's ass as Fraser pushed into him, clenching down tight around Fraser's cock. Fraser gasped and made his first uncareful move of the morning, thrusting harder as he came, and Ray smiled. Fraser didn't pull away when he finished, but stayed still, only his hand on Ray's cock moving, and his tongue against the nape of Ray's neck. "Come on," he breathed against Ray's ear, stroking his thumb over the head of Ray's dick, "don't make me beg--"
Ray didn't. His hips jerked and he was coming, with Fraser still in him, Fraser's husky morning-rough voice in his ear.
He woke up again as Fraser slowly and carefully pulled out. Fraser's hands met a little in front of his face to tie off the condom and toss it expertly into a trash can by the night stand, and Ray blinked, impressed. He could barely read the clock at this point. He rolled onto his back, into the hot space where Fraser had been lying, which left Fraser propped above him. Ray slung one arm up around Fraser's neck and pulled him down to kiss his mouth for the first time that morning.
"M'gonna take a shower," he said, when they broke apart to breathe. He wasn't sure about the whole getting-up process, but hot water would feel good. "I think I need a shower."
Fraser looked down at him steadily, half-smiling, and dropped another quick kiss on Ray's mouth before he said, "I'll make you some coffee. And find you something soft to sit on."
And then he rolled away and was gone, leaving Ray cold on the bed with no choice but to go shower and warm up again. Bastard. Ray smiled at Fraser's back and rolled to his feet, thinking that he could probably stand to quit drinking coffee if every day started like this.
Ben forced himself to keep his back turned as he pulled on some clothes, listening as Ray padded into the bathroom. When the door closed, Ben grabbed the sweatpants Ray had borrowed once before and tossed them on the foot of the bed. He headed out to the living room, collected a small pillow and turned up the thermostat to a level that ought to be comfortable for Ray. As the heat kicked on, he moved to the kitchen, setting the pillow on the chair he'd begun, secretly, foolishly, to think of as Ray's. He found the coffee, mixed a cup, and set it in the microwave, arranging the box of Smarties and teaspoon on the counter.
He set the spoon beside the candy, then on top of the box, then flipped it over. Perhaps he should have bought sugar, instead of more candy; perhaps he ought to have bought better coffee than the instant with which Ray had had to make do last time.
Ben closed his eyes and took a deep breath, bracing his hands apart on the counter. He was being ridiculous. It had been fairly obvious, from the look on Ray's face, that coffee was the least of his concerns. Hard as it was to believe, he seemed to have quite sincerely forgiven Ben for the previous night's misstep. As Ray had said, they would take this one game at a time. One day at a time.
Ben opened his eyes, and found his gaze drawn irresistibly to the phone. This day, of course, was far from over. He hesitated a moment, listening, but he could still hear the water running in the bathroom; Ray had shown a marked propensity to luxuriate in long, hot showers when he had the time. Ben picked up the phone and dialed.
Mark answered on the third ring, sounding half asleep. "Lo?"
"Mark," Ben said, in a carefully controlled voice, "good morning."
Mark said, "Good morn--" and then stopped short. There was a brief silence on the other end, and then Mark said, equally carefully, "Is it, Ben?"
Ben blew out a breath, scrubbing one hand over his face, and leaned against the counter. "It is, actually." The kitchen was warming up to a quite decadent level, morning light was shining in through the balcony door, and Ray was taking a shower in his bathroom. Ray had reached for him this morning, had smiled at him, had...
Ben pulled himself back to the conversation at hand. "It is," he repeated. "It's good to be home."
"Yeah," Mark agreed slowly, feeling his way, "Road trips are rough."
Ben nodded, choosing his words. "Well, apparently Ray has some less-than-pleasant memories of his time in Winnipeg, so he wasn't quite himself while we were there, and it's hard for me to be happy when he isn't."
The silence stretched a long time, and then Mark, in a small low voice, said, "Fuck, Bent--fuck."
Ben sighed. "He won't speak about it, as a point of honor, and he assures me that you did nothing wrong."
"Bent--if I'd known the other night--hell, he still calls you Fraser, I thought it was just--"
"It isn't just," Ben said firmly, not allowing himself to consider Mark's perfectly apt point. It probably didn't mean anything. They were a series. They were a thing. "I love him," he said, in a much smaller voice.
He had loved her, too, and she had come between them for a time, but not forever. It was Mark who had been there, after. It was Mark who had brought him back to himself, had pushed him to accept the comfort he had needed. If they fought over Ray, Ben would have no one left to catch him when it was over.
Mark let out a breath. "Bent--I was drunk the other night, you know I'm an ass when I'm drunk--tell him for me, if I said anything shitty, I didn't mean it, okay?"
Ben let out his own held breath, relief welling in his chest like a physical thing, cool and light. "I will, Mark."
"Thanks. I gotta get to practice, Ben, I'll talk to you later, right?"
"Of course," Ben said, and they hung up at the same moment.
He'd just made it to the table and sat down when Ray came in, his damp hair standing in spikes, wearing Ben's sweatpants cinched tight around his narrow hips. Ray smiled as he walked over to the microwave, and ran his fingers across the bruise on his throat. Ben swallowed and looked away, listening as Ray checked the contents of the microwave and then started it up. He was most heartily forgiven, it seemed, and he bit down on the impulse to apologize for the mark, knowing it would take the smile from Ray's face. He didn't--entirely--regret it, anyway.
Ray came over and sat down on his cushioned seat, alternately dropping Smarties into his coffee and eating them. Ben waited till he'd finished preparing his coffee and had his first sip before he said, "Mark was on the phone. He said to tell you he was sorry about anything inappropriate he might have said the other night when he was drunk."
Ray's smile vanished anyway, replaced with a searching look, and Ben looked back steadily, trying to give away no more than he already had just by saying it, just by calling Mark in the first place. He remembered Ray's face, seen from across the bar, and tried not to imagine what Mark might have been whispering in Ray's ear.
Finally, Ray looked down into his coffee and spoke quietly. "Next time he's on the phone, tell Smithbauer he's got nothing to apologize for. I was drunk, too, I don't remember fuck all."
A lie, but a transparent and generous one; Ben smiled, and when Ray glanced up at him he smiled back, beautiful in the morning light. Ben said, "I love you," and the world didn't end.
Ray said, "Yeah, Frase, me too," and took another sip of coffee, still smiling.
Ray was just drifting off to sleep when Fraser rolled over and muttered something urgent but unintelligible.
Ray blinked fully awake and said, "Frase?" but he just mumbled something incoherent, still asleep. No wonder, after today; what with penalties and overtime, Fraser had wound up playing close to thirty minutes of the game, while Ray had been in for barely ten. Ray had brought him back here at the end of the night and he'd fallen asleep before he could do more than apologize for being tired, which had saved Ray from telling him he didn't actually care.
Ray brushed his thumb over Fraser's closed eyelid, his palm on Fraser's cheek. Fraser jerked at the touch but then settled. He said, "Dief," against Ray's wrist, and Ray leaned close, murmuring shh almost against his mouth. When Fraser was quiet, Ray raised his head to look around.
The wolf was sitting by the door of Ray's bedroom, head tilted, staring at them. Ray watched the wolf for a minute, his hand still resting lightly on Fraser's face, but Diefenbaker stayed put. Ray heaved a sigh and rolled out of bed, careful not to pull the covers off of Fraser, and Dief bolted out of the room ahead of him. Ray followed, pulling the door shut behind him.
Diefenbaker was lying in front of the fridge, so Ray took a seat at the kitchen table. There was a box of peanut butter cookies on the table--something his mom had brought him, because he was apparently still too skinny. They were a day or two old, but not bad. Ray broke one in half, popped a piece in his mouth, and tossed the rest to Diefenbaker.
The wolf caught it, dropped it on the floor, sniffed it carefully, and then ate it. Ray frowned. "Cagey, huh?"
Diefenbaker thumped his tail and looked hopeful; Ray tossed him another piece of cookie, aiming this one so it would land on the floor in front of him. The wolf gave it only a very brief sniff before he ate it, this time. Not as suspicious, but still not trusting him. No surprise; they hardly knew each other. "You had to be careful? She feed you bad stuff, buddy? Make you sick?"
Diefenbaker tucked his tail and leaned up tight against the fridge, head down.
"I know," Ray said softly, wishing he could go over there and lie on the floor with him, pet him, hold him close, whisper in his ears, "but she's gone now, hey? She's gone. You're safe."
Diefenbaker thumped his tail at that, just once, but he didn't come any closer, either. Ray sighed and sat back, staring at the wolf. He was missing something here, something big. Fraser's bitch wife had hurt the wolf while Fraser was off on road trips, and now the wolf was dead and so was she. But Diefenbaker wasn't resting in peace, and from the sound of him some nights, neither was Fraser. "You can't just tell me what happened, huh?"
Dief shook his head, jingling his tags, and Ray wished he could get close enough to look at them, but he couldn't risk spooking the wolf off again. "Okay," Ray said slowly, "okay. I'm going to give somebody a call who might be able to help me on this, all right? I won't tell her anything about you, I promise."
Dief looked skeptical until Ray tossed him another cookie, and then he sat up, head tilted, and waited to see what Ray would do.
Ray walked over to the phone, keeping the table between himself and Dief, and then took the phone back to where he'd been sitting, so he wasn't blocking the doorway. Not that it mattered, since the wolf could just disappear if he wanted to leave, but Ray knew it wasn't just about being trustworthy: it was about looking trustworthy.
He dialed the number and held his breath, hoping she was awake. She usually answered the phone at night, because it might be work, but he'd hate to get her out of bed for this. Whatever had happened, it had happened a long time ago.
On the second ring the phone picked up, and she said, "Stella Kowalski," sounding sharp but not panicked. She hadn't been sleeping--she was probably up late working on a case. Ray could almost see the stacks of papers, the pens and pencils lined up on the coffee table.
"Stella--don't hang up--I have a question for you," he said, all in one breath.
She sighed. "What is it, Ray?"
He smiled. "Thanks for siccing my mom on me, by the way," he said, because it meant she still kind of cared and she kind of owed him one. "And I know I never thanked you for taking care of things with François, but--they brought him up to see me, so--"
"You're welcome," she said tightly, and Ray grimaced. Too much too fast. He sounded like he was buttering her up and it was putting her on her guard. "You had a question?"
"Yeah, yeah. It's about Benton Fraser, actually--we're roommates now, and I was just wondering--his wife died, remember? Back in ninety-one, something like that."
"Ninety-two," Stella said, "I remember. She was young, it was very sudden. There was a lot of talk."
Ray nodded. There would've been, among the wives, and they'd been living in Quebec at the time. Stella had never quite gelled with anybody she worked with in Quebec, so she'd been closer to the wives there. "Stell, do you remember how she died? He doesn't talk about her much and I don't wanna say something stupid, y'know..."
Stella sighed, but it wasn't an unhappy sound; she was thinking. "This is all third-hand, Ray, and it was years ago. As I recall, the cause of death was never announced publicly. There was an autopsy but the results weren't released. She'd had a miscarriage a few years before, and people said they'd tried again and--"
"Fuck," Ray muttered, not really wanting to hear the gory details. But-- "People said? Nobody knew for sure? Isn't that," he choked back the word queer, which he'd used sometimes, back then, to mean things like this, "strange?"
Stella almost laughed, he could hear it on her breath. "Ray," she said, "I know you can't really see it most of the time, but you live in a strange world. They might have kept the cause of death private for any number of reasons. The team wouldn't have wanted a lot of talk about Benton, especially if it might seem like he'd pushed her to have a child when it wasn't safe for her to do so, anything like that. He was back to playing within a week or two, and from what I remember he was always a very private person. He no doubt wanted to grieve his wife without a lot of public interference."
Funny, though, that it wasn't her name Fraser said in his sleep. Funny how he never said her name at all. And he couldn't imagine Fraser being pushy, not with a woman, not with his wife. But none of that was Stella's business. "Yeah, you're right, Stell. Thanks."
"No problem, Ray," she said, her voice a little bit soft, and he knew, because he'd known her since she was thirteen, that with another ten minutes of chit-chat he could invite himself over there and she wouldn't argue. But he had Fraser asleep in his bed--his roommate, ha. He thought of the other roommates he'd had, of road trips with Gardie and going home to Stella, and he closed his eyes.
"Stella," he said carefully, because it wasn't that he wanted to confess. That wouldn't do anyone any good. "Listen, I--I've been doing some thinking lately and I just want to tell you I'm sorry for everything I did wrong when we were together. Not because then maybe we'd still be together, just because--I'm sorry. You deserved better."
Stella was quiet awhile, and then she said, "Ray? Is everything all right?"
He smiled. She'd known him since he was thirteen, after all. "I think so, yeah. It's just I've been thinking lately."
"Apology accepted," she said, and he knew it really was. "Don't waste any more thinking on me, all right, Ray? And for God's sake go to bed. You're leaving for your western Canada trip tomorrow, aren't you?"
Ray snorted. "Yes, mom," he said, and hung up on her outraged laugh.
Ben awoke, alone in Ray's bed, to the sound of the front door of Ray's apartment slamming shut. He reached over to the spot where Ray had been sleeping, the last time Ben had drifted toward consciousness, but his pillow was cold. He heard Ray kick his shoes off and pad down the hall to the bedroom. Ray hesitated in the doorway, holding a pastry box in his hands, and Ben reached out and turned on the bedside light, pushing himself up onto one elbow. "Ray?"
"I got donuts," Ray said, holding them up, as though that explained everything. He sounded wide awake, though it was still dark outside and the alarm hadn't gone off yet. He came over and crawled into bed beside Ben and opened the box, revealing a full dozen donuts, very fresh by the smell, and Ben's mouth watered. There were sugared donuts, and glazed, and powdered.
Ben blinked at the assortment, and then at Ray, who was watching him expectantly. "I'd have thought you were the chocolate type," he said, and Ray's smile widened as though that were exactly the right answer.
Ray picked up a sugared donut, bit a piece out of it, and then held it up. Ben watched the donut as Ray suddenly tossed it toward the foot of the bed, and then Dief caught it in mid-air and dashed off with it to the corner of the room. Ben froze, wondering what Ray had seen, wondering what was happening here. "And see," Ray whispered in his ear, "I'm not crazy, because your eyes followed the wolf."
Ben's eyes shot to Ray, who was licking sugar off his fingers, watching Dief steadily, refusing to look back at him. "Ray?"
"I don't think I've seen him as much as he's been around," Ray said matter-of-factly. "Just a couple times. And he won't eat out of my hand or come close enough that I could touch him, if he wasn't a ghost--"
"I can touch him," Ben said, before he could think to stop himself, and Ray nodded, still watching Dief. Dief was watching Ray right back, and Ray selected another donut, took a single bite from it, and tossed the rest again; Dief caught it daintily between his jaws and dropped it to sniff before he ate it.
"He doesn't make a sound though," Ray observed, "except those tags, sometimes." Ben looked back to Dief, trying to grasp the fact that Ray could see him too, that Ray so calmly accepted this insanity. Dief must have chosen to let Ray see him, and Ray seemed quite fascinated by him. It was wonderful, and not a little terrifying. Ben felt strangely exposed.
"I think it's because he was deaf, before," Ben offered into the silence, as Ray shifted closer to him, the smell of sugar and Ray's skin rising up together distractingly. "We were up at Prince Rupert Sound, hiking during the summer, and I fell in. He jumped after me and pulled me out, but the cold water damaged his eardrums."
Ray nodded thoughtfully. "What, uh, what happened...?"
Dief looked up at Ben as he backed into the corner, and Ben looked away, fixing his gaze on Ray's fingers, hovering over the donuts. "He doesn't like to talk about it," Ben said firmly, his heart speeding up, praying Ray wouldn't press this, wouldn't force--
"Mm," Ray replied, selecting another donut and then leaning across Ben to set the rest of the box on the night table. He eclipsed the light of the lamp for a moment, his chest, covered only by a thin t-shirt, a breath away from Ben's face, close enough to feel the living warmth he radiated. Ben tried to brace for further questions, tried not to be distracted by Ray's proximity. Ray settled back at his side and took a thoughtful bite of the donut, but he wasn't watching Dief anymore; he was watching Ben. He felt as if he were standing on a cliff, teetering at the edge of a crevasse, as if Ray, sitting casually beside him chewing on a bite of donut, could push him over with the slightest touch.
Ray licked sugar from his lips and smiled slowly, and Ben's heart beat faster in anticipation. But Ray didn't ask him anything, only said in a low voice, "Well, maybe it's time to change the subject, then."
Ben blinked, his lips parting with shock--it couldn't be that easy--and Ray popped a piece of donut, warm and sugar-coated, into his mouth. Ben closed his mouth around pastry and fingers both, and Ray's smile widened as Ben sucked his fingers clean. His eyes were bright, unshadowed by secrets, and he said unsteadily, "We got twenty minutes till the alarm."
Ben reached back with one hand and shut off the light as Ray tugged his fingers free, cupping Ben's face and kissing him. Gift horses were better appreciated in the dark.
Edmonton was ugly. The crowd booed Fraser the first time he stepped on the ice, and the second, and the third, and nine minutes from the end of the game they still hadn't gotten bored with that trick. It was worse than anything Ray had faced in any city he'd ever gone back to, but then he'd never been in one place for fourteen years, never been loved anywhere like Fraser had been loved in Edmonton. The papers had all painted the trade as Fraser's fault, saying he'd copped an attitude and forced the team to move him, and the fans thought their humble, hardworking, tragic Northern boy had ditched them for the glorious opportunities of an Original Six50 team south of the border.
They wanted blood, from the sound of it, and the Oilers seemed to be trying to supply it. They'd been hitting hard all night, and hitting nobody harder than Fraser. He seemed to be feeling it, though he wouldn't say anything, even to Doc during intermissions, but to Ray's critical eye, he was slow going over the boards for their next shift. Ray got lined up behind Deuce, who was taking the faceoff, and watched Fraser getting shoved by the Oiler next to him while the ref kept his eyes on the puck. Fraser kept his eyes on the puck, too, his face expressionless as he held his position the best he could.
Deuce won the faceoff cleanly, sending the puck straight to Ray, and Ray scrambled backward, circling for position. Fraser fought clear, and looked straight at Ray, and Ray passed it to him on reflex, because it was the right thing to do. Fraser passed the puck fast on to Bully, but Ray's eyes stayed on Fraser, and he counted three after the puck left him before Marchment, sailing in from behind Fraser, slammed him into the boards51. The glass rattled, Fraser's head snapped back like a rag doll's, and the crowd roared like Marchment had just finished a hat trick52.
The ref apparently still had his eyes on the puck. Marchment skated away toward the action, and Fraser pushed off from the boards looking a little dazed, pale under the fluorescent lights. Ray's entire body tensed with the need to chase Marchment down, to hit him until he was as beaten down as Fraser, but Hue shouted to him and the game was still on. He got clear to receive a pass, but when he looked up ice to move the puck, Bully had his gloves off and was squared up against Marchment.
The crowd noise turned to white-out sound, and Ray shot the puck furiously down the first open lane he could see to neutral ice. The ref finally blew the whistle, Marchment dropped his gloves, and Bully threw a punch as Ray's own fists clenched hard around his stick. He looked for Fraser and spotted him standing alone on the ice, watching the fight with unreadable eyes. Ray skated toward him, but halfway there Mironov got in his way, and before he knew what was happening Ray had dropped his stick and had both hands in Mironov's jersey, and Mironov was holding onto his, shoving at him. Ray shoved back a little, but shook his head and looked away without letting go; he didn't want Mironov going after Fraser or anybody else.
Bully and Marchment were whaling away on each other, both their helmets gone, their faces bloodied. Bully scored a hit that knocked Marchment back a step, blood running from his eyebrow, and the linesmen jumped in and grabbed them. Bully was headed straight for the locker room; it was his second fight, the fifth of the game. Ray let go of Mironov as Fraser and Hue gathered Bully's stuff off the ice and headed for the bench.
Fraser kept his head down even when they were back on the bench, waiting for the penalties to be assessed. Ray was almost glad not to see his face.
Ren was standing in the tunnel, already in street clothes, when Ben came off the ice. Ren hauled him out of the line of players heading for the locker room and hugged him as tightly as his equipment allowed, and Ben, unspeakably weary, was powerless to resist. He stood very still in the unexpected embrace, his eyes shut and teeth clenched, ignoring as best he could the pats on his head and back that rained down as his other teammates passed. He knew how it must seem, that he was unmoved by their overtures, that he would reject them if he knew how, but in truth he was simply overwhelmed. His self-control was strained to the breaking point by the dual assaults of Edmonton's hostility and his own team's unexpectedly ferocious support.
When Ren let him go, Ben nodded vaguely and turned away, trudging down to the locker room. Ray was standing at the door, apparently waiting for him, and Ben stopped short, several feet away. Ray gave him a searching look and then nodded and went into the locker room ahead of him, and Ben closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. He really couldn't bear to be comforted now, not by Ray, not in public, not when he wanted that more than anything. He had to hold himself together.
Ben took a breath, braced himself, and went on into the locker room with his head down, proceeding straight to his locker to undress. A few of his teammates called out to him or reached out to pat his shoulder, but Ben only nodded or shrugged them away, and they soon let him alone.
He lingered a long time in the showers, listening to the others come and go as he tried to focus his mind on soap and skin. He tried to hear only the patter of water on tile, and not the jeering of a crowd that had once chanted his name. He tried to see only his present teammates, quiet and kind, and not the enmity of the men with whom he had shared the locker room next door, a season ago. The hot water felt good, soothing the aches of the game. He probably wouldn't bruise--he rarely did--but he could feel every hit they'd landed on him tonight, and he'd feel them all the more tomorrow.
Eventually, he had to admit he was merely dawdling. He shut off the water, dried off and tidied his hair, and went back to the locker room to get dressed. Most of the team had already gone to the bus that would take them back to the hotel, but Ray was sitting in front of his locker, already dressed, untying and retying his shoes. Ben looked away from Ray quickly, fighting down the emotion that threatened to break his control. He had to get dressed. He had to get to the bus, back to the hotel with his team.
When he looked up from tying his own shoes, he found Ray watching him steadily, and Ben met his eyes briefly and nodded before he headed out the door. Ray followed him, a few steps behind, down the maze of corridors toward the away players' exit. They were nearly there when Ben turned a corner and saw a man in red serge waiting for him.
He stopped dead, suddenly seized with the conviction that his father, like Diefenbaker, had returned to him. His last sight of his father, at the funeral, had been in the formal red uniform, and his father had come to Ben's home games when he could. But the man standing there wasn't his father: his father was dead, and Edmonton didn't mean home games anymore. Ben felt the cold rush of fear that always hit when he came face-to-face with Mounties.
It was Gerard, standing there waiting for him. He looked just like he had when he met Ben at the airport to take him to the funeral, and Ben, in his hastily pulled on jeans and henley, felt at a distinct disadvantage, facing a man in uniform without his own.
He wondered, for a moment, what further bad news Gerard could possibly have for him that would warrant appearing here, in this fashion, and then he realized that he knew. Heart sinking, he turned toward Ray but didn't look at him, and said quietly, "Go on, I have to speak to him. Tell them not to wait for me."
Ray stood still for a moment, and then said softly, for Ben's ears alone, "I'll tell 'em. Good luck."
Ben kept his eyes on Ray's feet as he detoured around Ben and past Gerard, disappearing out of sight, and then he lifted his chin and walked over. "Sir," he said quietly, respectfully as his father had taught him, because he would have had trouble getting more than one syllable out of his mouth.
Gerard gave him a long look, as though Ben were under inspection, and Ben couldn't resist straightening up. Gerard nodded. "Benton, son--" Ben bit the inside of his lip at that. He hated to be called son by people who weren't his father or his coach. "I thought I should come and tell you this face-to-face." Gerard took a deep breath. "We're closing your father's case."
Ben looked away. He'd known it was coming, he'd known it, he'd known. He'd never found anything, he'd never convinced them that their version of his father's death couldn't be true, and now they would lay down even the pretense of investigating. It was over. His father was murdered and unavenged and would remain so. He had failed utterly.
Ben closed his eyes and kept his face averted as Gerard went on. "We tried like hell, son, believe me when I say we all wanted some better reason to have lost such a great man than a stupid, wasteful accident, but there's simply never been any evidence of foul play."
Ben nodded, unable to speak, and Gerard clapped a hand down on his shoulder. Ben flinched, and Gerard's hand tightened on his shoulder, too close to his skin for comfort, with just his clothes between. Gerard said, "Good game out there," and then walked away, his boots on the cement floor loud in the silence. Ben waited until the sound had faded from his hearing before he reached out one hand to the wall and slid down it to the floor.
He sat still for a long time, unable to think, unable to fathom what he should do next, mind wiped blank by one shock after another. He felt drained. It was an effort even to breathe; his chest ached as though his heart was laboring to beat. It occurred to him that he ought to get up. They'd be closing the building. He'd have to find his way back to the hotel. Ray would wonder what had become of him, and they were heading on to Vancouver tomorrow.
For a selfish, traitorous moment, Ben wished it were Mark waiting for him back at the hotel, so that he would know exactly what he was getting, so that he wouldn't have to think, wouldn't have to do anything. Mark would know what he needed, and Mark would give it to him. Perhaps Ray would be asleep when Ben got in, and he could simply take to his own bed. It would be simpler than anything else, and Ben didn't think he could manage anything that required more of him than that.
A damp nose against his cheek pulled him from his reverie. Dief nudged at him insistently, pushing at his face and hands and side, until Ben opened his eyes and pushed himself up to his feet. He'd already started to stiffen up, and his sore muscles protested the movement, but Dief was patient and relentless.
Ben stood in the middle of the deserted corridor until Dief barked at him and trotted off, and then he followed the wolf blindly, taking no notice of their path. Dief probably wouldn't lead him astray. Up a flight of stairs, around two corners, and Ben stopped short again at the sight of Ray, pacing rapidly across the width of the hallway, hands shoved into pockets, shoulders tensed.
Dief ran on ahead, coming to a dancing halt a few feet from Ray, and Ray smiled directly at the wolf. "Thanks, buddy, good work."
He reached out one hand, palm up, and Dief darted forward and licked his fingertips before backpedaling. He gave Ben a last look and then vanished.
Ben stood blinking at Ray, who looked back at him steadily, until Ben had to drop his gaze, breathing carefully. Ray had waited for him. It was a small thing, really, but tonight he felt stripped raw. Even small things pierced his skin.
He could hear Ray's steps as he closed the distance between them in long quick strides, and then Ray's hand curled around one side of his unzipped jacket--not touching him, but nearly--and Ray said, "Come on, this way," and tugged Ben along the hallway. Ben followed where Ray led him, through a door and into the bright hard-edged confines of a mens' room. He looked up, frowning, and both of Ray's hands closed in his jacket as Ray kissed him.
Ben recoiled instinctively, Ray's lips on his like an electric shock, like hot water on frozen skin. But Ray tugged him closer and kissed him again, and Ben kept still, parting his lips, tilting his head as Ray's mouth moved over his, warm and wet, Ray's tongue making flickering contact with his own until Ben was gasping against Ray's mouth.
Ray pulled away, took a step back, and Ben's eyes followed his mouth. Ray tugged on Ben's jacket and said, "Okay?" Ben met Ray's eyes and saw all that was buried in that question--are you okay, is this okay, is everything okay--and had to look away from all that naked concern focused on him, biting his lip. Ray stepped in again, so close Ben could feel the skin-heat radiating from him.
Ray licked at Ben's lower lip, his breath warm and humid against Ben's mouth, until Ben unclenched his teeth, and then Ray kissed him again, his tongue sliding over Ben's. He knew he was being tasted, couldn't resist tasting Ray in turn, his hand rising instinctively to Ray's hip, catching one finger through a belt loop. Ray groaned and pulled away again, pushing Ben back a pace with the hands still clutching his jacket. "Okay?" he repeated, breathlessly, and Ben met his eyes this time and nodded. Ray nodded back and looked away, busying his hands with zipping up Ben's jacket. "Come on, then, cab's waiting. There's no fans at this exit."
Ben blinked and swallowed, recalling himself to the world of Edmonton fans screaming down at him. He reached out himself and zipped up Ray's coat, looked quickly at the smile on Ray's face when he'd finished and then away. "All right," he said, quietly, and Ray opened his hands and turned away, leading Ben out of the washroom, to the exit door at the end of the corridor. The night air was bitterly cold, and the confines of the cab stuffy. Ben toyed with the zipper on his jacket but left it as it was, watching in his peripheral vision as Ray stared intently out the window. Ray's knee bumped against his as they went around a corner, and stayed there, skin to skin through two layers of denim. Ben tried not to wonder what would happen when they got back to the hotel. Better not to have expectations, better not to make assumptions.
Ray handed over a few bright Canadian bills to the driver as Ben got out of the cab. He waited on the sidewalk for Ray, looking around at the buildings. He'd never stayed in this hotel before, though he'd dropped Mark off at the curb once or twice. Edmonton from this vantage might have been any city, might have been Calgary or Vancouver for all it looked like the place that had once been home. Ray tugged on the sleeve of Ben's jacket as he passed him, and Ben turned and followed him into the hotel.
He leaned in the corner of the elevator, and when he stole a glance at Ray, slouching in the opposite corner, Ben found him staring up at the lighted numbers above the door. Ben was free to study him, then, the exposed line of his throat, his scarred hand resting on the rail. The doors opened at their floor and Ben looked away as Ray stepped forward. The hallway was already quiet as he followed Ray down, though indistinct voices--televisions or the inhabitants, it was hard to tell--were audible behind some doors. Ray had his key out, unlocked their room almost without breaking stride, and went on in. Ben followed, pausing to set the chain as Ray turned on lamps.
Ben paused beside the closet, and Ray, standing by a chair, glanced briefly at him and then away, and said, "Coat off." Ben took his jacket off as Ray did the same, wondering whether that had been an imperative or declarative. Ray sat down and untied his shoes, muttering, "Shoes," as he did, and Ben went to the bed and sat at its foot, following suit. Ray looked at him and said "Lie down," as he stood up, and the mystery was solved.
Ben lay down, stretching out gingerly on the bed. If he didn't move, nothing really hurt. He folded his arms behind his head and watched as Ray rifled through his luggage. He pulled out a bottle of lubricant and a condom, and Ben's heart sped up even before Ray pulled his shirt off, tossing it casually onto the ground. He dropped the other items on the bedside table, and stretched out beside Ben, lying half on top of him, insinuating one thigh between his. Ben's legs parted readily, and he could feel the heavy heat of Ray's erection against his hip.
Ben closed his eyes and breathed deep as Ray's warmth sank into his skin, Ray's weight pressing him down into the bed. Ray's arm curled around his, tucked behind his head, Ray's fingers slipping under the sleeve of his shirt to touch the bare skin of his wrist. Ben's rocked up reflexively into the pressure of Ray's thigh between his legs, and Ray responded with a thrust against his hip. He felt Ray's breath on his mouth, a warm intangible tease, and parted his lips to beg for more.
Ray's tongue silenced him before he spoke, licking across his lower lip and then into his mouth. Ray kissed him slowly, gently, his mouth moving as lightly as the hand that stroked down his side and back up, no rush, no pressure. Ben's lips tingled where Ray's touched, and his breath escaped him in a moan as he sucked at Ray's tongue. Ben pulled one hand free, sliding his fingers into Ray's hair, holding him close, closer, as they kissed. He breathed in little gasps, whenever Ray's mouth left his to drop kisses along his jaw and down his throat, always returning to his mouth before long, as though Ray couldn't resist. Ben's hand slid slackly to the back of Ray's neck, bare skin hot under his palm, growing damp with sweat. Ben's cock was throbbing, thrusting constantly, mindlessly, against the pressure of Ray's thigh, Ray's hardness moving in the same rhythm against his hip. Pleasure woke hunger, and he wanted this but he wanted more. "Ray," he gasped, "Ray--please--"
"Yeah," Ray whispered against his lips, and Ben shivered. "God--I just--" Ray kissed him again, then pulled away, shrugging off Ben's hand. Ray's hands moved under Ben's shirt, shoving it up over his head. Ben kept still, leaving his hands momentarily trapped in the fabric, and Ray raised an eyebrow and pulled them free, stuffing his shirt behind the pillow before shifting to hold himself above Ben. His hips bucked up, searching for contact, and Ray's hand came down, stroking his cock through his jeans as Ray kissed and licked the newly exposed skin of his chest, gentle where he ached as though caresses could erase blows. Ray's mouth found his nipple, sucking lightly and then harder, and Ben thrust up against Ray's hand. He gasped at the rasp of teeth on sensitive flesh, and Ray's hand shifted from stroking his cock to unbuttoning his jeans. Ben reached down one hand to help, and between them he was naked in short order.
Ray rolled away, onto his side, to unfasten his own pants, and Ben lay still, watching him shove them down, catching a brief glimpse of a dark damp spot on the front of his jockeys before he had those off too. Ray's cock was hard and gorgeous, tight skin flushed dusky-dark with blood. "Yeah," Ray said softly, and Ben looked up to see that Ray was watching his face. He felt himself blush, and Ray grinned and grabbed a pillow from under the bedspread. They hadn't even turned down the covers, and now Ray was sliding toward him, his whole body against Ben's as Ray pushed him gently over onto his stomach, tucking the pillow beneath his hips.
Ben rubbed his heated face against the cool sleek smoothness of the bedspread, his cock finding greater friction against the cotton of the pillowcase. He could feel the heat of Ray above him, the sense of weight suspended, as Ray kissed the back of his neck. Ben ducked his head, arching his neck to show more skin, and Ray's lips moved down and down, across the tight muscles of his shoulders, down the groove of his spine, lightly across the unprotected territory of his back where he'd been hit over and over tonight, and then lower yet.
Ray's hands parted his cheeks, and Ray's tongue touched him between, lightly at first and then more firmly. Ben clenched his fists in the pillow above his head as Ray's tongue made the first soft wet thrust against him, stiffening and pushing in, and Ben thought dizzily that he'd never expected to have that favor returned. The unalloyed pleasure of it was a shock, decadent and dark and unbearably good, and Ben thrust against the pillow as shallowly as he could. He could feel Ray's breath rushing against his skin as Ray's tongue worked in and out, and his own breath came in ragged uneven gasps, catching and breaking more with the waves of sensation rushing through him than with the demands of his lungs. Then Ray's tongue vanished, replaced with two fingers sliding inside, spit-slicked and easy. Ben was so ready, and there was still no pain. Ray was stroking him just so, and Ben cried out hoarsely as Ray's fingers found the spot.
Ray was whispering, "Easy, easy," in his ear, and his fingers pulled out and then returned, cool-wet and twisting inside him as Ray's mouth landed again on the back of his neck.
"Please," Ben whispered, "Please, please--"
"Yeah," Ray breathed, and when his fingers disappeared again they were replaced by the slick thick heat of Ray's cock pushing into him as Ray's weight settled over him, and Ray gasped, "Oh--fuck--Fraser--"
Ben pushed back, wanting more, wanting all of him, and Ray gave him what he wanted, exactly what he needed. Ray moved in him slowly, his breath steady and controlled in Ben's ear, but control was beyond Ben now. He thrust back against Ray, taking what Ray offered, until his orgasm rushed through him, his cock spurting beneath him, trapped against the softness of the pillow.
Ray went still as Ben moved, and Ben could feel him breathing faster now, gasping, grasping for control. When Ben stopped, spent and breathless, Ray's cock moved in him again, slow and deep. Ben moaned softly at the sensation of pleasure without urgency, though he could feel Ray's urgency in the tightness of his grip on Ben's hip, the clenched-teeth hiss of his breath. Still he moved slowly, carefully, controlled, and Ben slid one hand down to where Ray's hand was braced against the bed. Ben closed his hand around Ray's wrist, and Ray shifted his weight off that hand, shifting the angle of his cock, and Ben's sigh at that was echoed by a groan from Ray. Ben tugged Ray's hand up to his face, twisting his fingers with Ray's and touching his lips softly to the hardness of Ray's scarred knuckles. Ray moaned again, his fingers tightening on Ben's, and the steady rhythm of his hips broke, his thrusts turning ragged. Ben stuck his tongue out, tasting the slick smoothness of scars between rough skin, and Ray succumbed to his climax with a long low moan.
He didn't move away after, easing his weight carefully down onto Ben with a murmur in his ear of, "Okay?"
Ben smiled, already nearly asleep with Ray inside him and Ray's weight pressing him down and Ray's hand in his, holding him here in this place where he was loved, where nothing was ending. From the edge of consciousness, he remembered to whisper back, "Okay, Ray."
Ray was in no hurry to get back to the hotel. He hadn't thought he remembered much about the last night he'd spent in Vancouver, but the fucking bedspreads were the same as they'd been when he fought with Fraser. He couldn't have said, between times, what they'd looked like, wouldn't have thought he'd noticed, but his stomach turned as soon as he walked in the room. The bathroom was even worse. He'd been pissing with his eyes closed since they got into town.
So he'd been a little jittery, and it seemed like all the guys were watching him, waiting for him to freak out again just because they were back in the same city. Fraser and Hack were doing it the most, but they had the most reason and Ray didn't mind it so much from them. He was half-certain the rest of the team had a pool running.
So after the game--an afternoon game in Vancouver, which meant it felt like an early evening game to guys on Chicago time--they headed to a sports bar a block from the hotel and sat around, watching the scores come in from the prime time games out East. Toronto at Detroit, Tampa Bay at Ottawa, Winnipeg at Boston, Colorado at Hartford, St. Louis at New York. Ray sat quietly with his right hand curled around his glass where everybody at the table could see the scars, because trying to hide would just be obvious. His left hand rested on the table, pink knots of scars standing out almost as bright as blood, while the smaller lines had begun to fade. Ray opened and closed his hand, felt the tight skin pull a little, and then forced himself to look away.
Fraser and Hack and Hue were talking idly about the way the West was shaping up, standings and chances and who was going to get their ass kicked by who. Bully was listening, piping up only to agree with everything anybody said. Dewey was alternately staring at every chick who walked by and staring at Ray, like at any second Ray might realize he was in Vancouver and start foaming at the mouth. Shit for brains. The bar was nothing. The bar was like any other bar. Fraser and Hack had gotten distracted by the conversation they'd started to distract him, so they'd mostly stopped giving him those little looks. He wouldn't even know what city he was in if Dewey wasn't staring at him, and if he made sure not to think about going back to the hotel.
"No," Fraser said, "Arnott's a good kid, but he's not going to be enough to pull them out of it. He lost a lot of development time in the lockout, and they're too weak overall." Ray tried not to be obvious about watching him, but Fraser caught his eye and smiled a little before he looked down at his drink and shook his head. "We don't have to worry about Edmonton this year."
Bully nodded raptly, and Hue started to make some other point, and Ray's glass was empty. He waited until he was sure Fraser was paying more attention to the conversation than to him, and then Ray stood up and headed to the bar. He half-expected one of them to call him back, or ever-so-casually decide they needed a refill too, but when he glanced back they were all talking. Hack was staring at a spot halfway between Hue and the bar where Ray stood, and Fraser seemed to be staring at the jukebox--watching Ray's reflection, he realized when he looked at the angle. Ray grinned and waved at the jukebox, and Fraser's shoulders eased a little.
So Fraser could talk about Edmonton almost like they were any other team. Good. Ray didn't need that to tell him he'd done the job last night--Fraser had smiled at him in bed this morning, had leaned across him to look out the window on the plane, resting his hand on Ray's thigh--but it was always good to be sure.
Edmonton was only half the problem, though. Fraser had been wiped after the game last night, but he'd been on his feet, he'd been good to go. Then that Mountie had shown up--
Ray forced a smile and nod as the bartender passed him a fresh beer, and took a long drink, leaning on the bar and definitely not looking back at Fraser.
Hockey was a team sport. You had to click. You had to gel. You had to know what the other guy was going to do before he did it, and that meant you had to know what he was thinking by the way he stood, the way he held his stick, the set of his shoulders. Ray played as well with Fraser as he ever had with anybody, and when Fraser saw that Mountie waiting for him, Ray had fully expected Fraser to turn and bolt. It had been written all over his body.
It didn't make any sense, Fraser being scared of a Mountie. His dad had been a Mountie, and Ray had never known a cop's kid to be scared of cops, even when they should be. He'd been going over and over it in his mind, but it all added up the same way it had last night, and this morning, and on the plane, and in the locker room. Ray could only think of one reason why anybody would panic at the sight of a cop.
He took another sip of beer and looked around the bar, everywhere but the table where he'd been sitting. Cheli and JR and Tony were back in a corner, flirting with some local girls. Eddie and Denny were leaning in across a table, arguing about something in French too fast for Ray to follow. He watched for a minute, but it looked like nothing important; Eddie wasn't going to bust any heads. Closer to the door, there was another big table full of guys talking. As Ray watched, Bernie got up, tossed some money on the table, and headed out, grinning as the other guys ragged on him for ducking out. It was the best chance Ray was likely to get. He drained his drink, threw down some cash on the bar, and followed.
He had to run a few strides on the sidewalk to catch up, and Bernie heard him coming and turned back. "Hey, Bern," Ray said. "I been meaning to talk to you. You were in Edmonton a few years back, right?"
Bernie nodded as Ray fell into step with him, and they headed on toward the hotel. "Yeah, ninety-one to ninety-three."
Ray nodded quickly, playing it cool, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched. "So you, uh, you were there when Fraser's wife, uh..."
Bernie arched his eyebrow. "When Victoria died?"
"Yeah," Ray said, looking away, down at the sidewalk, "Yeah. It's just he doesn't talk about her and I don't wanna say something stupid, but I don't know--"
Bernie was nodding in Ray's peripheral vision. "It was weird, how he just quit talking about her after, because he was crazy about her, you know? Totally crazy. I guess people, you know, thought he was a little--" Bernie raised one hand and flopped it around limply, and Ray nodded, because of course people thought that. People were always thinking that a little bit. It didn't mean anything. "Because he never had a girl around until her. But he was always calling her on the road and rushing home to her when we were in town. I think he's just one of those old-fashioned romantics, and he just broke his heart over her and never loved anybody else."
Ray nodded. He'd been a one-woman man himself, he knew how that was. They walked along in silence, and then Bernie snorted a sad laugh. "She must've been a fucking wildcat in bed, too, because he'd come in some days all marked up. Even had a split lip once, the day after we got home from a long trip, and Mac was giving him crap--he blushed like you would not believe. Looks like such a choir boy, y'know? It's always the quiet ones."
Ray's hands closed into fists in his pockets, but he didn't think about it, didn't think about it, just snorted a laugh and said, "Well, God knows he's quiet enough."
Bernie breathed a half-laugh back, and then said quietly, "And then--maybe a month after that..."
Ray nodded. It had been sudden, she was so young. "What happened?"
Bernie blew out a breath. "He didn't talk about it, you know? He was wrecked, he was..." Bernie stopped walking reached out and stopped Ray with a hand on his shoulder, and Ray looked up and met his serious gaze. "You're his friend, right?"
Ray squinted into Bernie's eyes, but there was nothing suspect there, nothing but honest concern. Ray nodded slowly. "Best friend, just about," Ray said, "I'm not gonna..."
Bernie nodded and glanced up and down the street, his hand still on Ray's shoulder. Ray looked around too. There were a few people on the sidewalk, but none of the guys. A few cars going by, but it was getting dark. Nobody was paying him and Bernie any attention. He looked back at Bernie, and Bernie gave him a short, unhappy smile. "Truth is, nobody asked him anything about it, because he was in hospital that night getting stitches. In his wrist."
Ray's gut dropped, and Bernie's hand on his shoulder tightened almost to the point of pain. Ray ducked his head, blinking, pulling it together. "His wrist," he repeated, as neutrally as he could, thinking of the empty look in Fraser's eyes last night, and Bernie nodded.
"Nobody talked about that, and nobody talked about her, and nobody asked him any questions, but we all knew." Bernie looked down, and Ray went on staring blankly at his hair. It was a fuck of a lot of not talking that everybody had done, but Bernie was talking now, and fast, like he couldn't stop now that he'd started. "The casket was closed. She was a funny one, y'know? Like him, I guess. Didn't mix with the other wives, especially after she lost that baby. Nobody knew. We figured--I mean, we didn't really talk about it, but it wasn't too hard to put it together--it was the night we got home from a trip. We think she waited for him to get back before she did it. Did it right in front of him and he couldn't stop it, or maybe she did it right before he got there and he found her..."
Ray's stomach turned. He could see that, large as life and technicolor, Fraser coming into the house after a trip, happy to be home, wondering why the house was dark and then seeing her, seeing the blood, and no one there to pull him through... "So they kept it quiet," Ray said slowly, "Because she--" Because he...
"We all kept an eye on him," Bernie said, finally looking up. "Smithbauer came to town until after the funeral was over, and I think Ben stayed at the hotel with him. He sold the house right away, moved into some little apartment downtown. He wasn't the same after, but he was... he was functioning, I guess." Bernie shook his head with a look of disbelief. "Management made him sit a week and you would've thought it was the Finals and he'd twisted his knee instead of--" Bernie cut himself off and then said, softer, "He was begging to come back every day, he wanted to get back on the ice so bad."
"I get that," Ray said, glad to have something to say, shamefully desperate to talk about anything but what he'd come after Bernie to talk about. "After I--after me and Stella split, all I wanted to do was play hockey. Hockey hadn't changed, even if everything else had. Just my luck she sent me the papers in June."
Bernie smiled a little and squeezed Ray's shoulder before he dropped his hand. They started walking again, side by side. Ray kicked a pebble ahead of him on the sidewalk, and Bernie passed it back to him when it went astray, until it bounced off the other way, into the street.
They reached the hotel, and Ray stopped short in front of the revolving door, hit by a sudden sick memory of shouldering through it with his busted bloodied hands held to his chest. He took a step back as Bernie touched the glass, and said, "Thanks, Bern, I'm gonna go--" he jerked his chin back in the direction of the bar, and Bernie frowned.
"Ray, are you...?"
"I'm good," Ray said quickly. "Hey, was there a pool?" He raised his hands in loose fists and jabbed at the air, and Bernie smiled.
"We started placing bets, but Hack came in and offered to match the whole pot on a bet that you'd be perfectly fine the entire time. We figured it was either inside information or a fix, and gave up."
Ray put a grin on his face. "I guess I owe him a drink, then. Better go." Bernie still hesitated, and Ray rolled his eyes. "Go, shoo, you got a wife to call, you got kids to check up on."
Bernie opened his mouth to say something--about his kids, no doubt, because the only thing he talked about more than his little boy and girl was the one on the way--and then shut it and smiled again and went inside. Ray watched him walk across the lobby, watched him press the button for the elevator and step inside, and when the doors shut behind him, Ray let the smile drop. He crossed his arms over his chest, hunched up his shoulders even though the night was mild and still, and took off in the opposite direction from the bar, walking fast, thinking faster.
He hadn't gotten far when he saw Dief sitting on the curb under a streetlight. Ray stopped and said, "I was wondering when you'd show up again," and Dief barked at him, silent as ever.
Ray sighed and sat down with his feet in the gutter, elbows on knees. "I'm trying," he said quietly. Dief was a blur of white in the corner of his eye, three or four feet away. "I'm trying, I just--" Didn't think it would be this bad, which was fucking stupid, Kowalski. "Of course it was bad," Ray whispered to the street between his knees. "Of course it was..."
He felt Dief's breath against his ear--which was weird, a ghost shouldn't breathe--and then there was tongue, cold and wet and when Ray twitched, Dief jumped back. Ray put his hands between his knees and tilted his head, exposing his ear. "Sorry, buddy," he said softly, "startled me. Go on, lick away if you want, I'm not any more use to you than that."
Dief whined, edged close again, and, when Ray stayed perfectly still, licked a stripe up the side of his throat. Ray closed his eyes and tried to think. "Okay," he said, "okay." Dief sat down close at his side and watched him, and Ray stared at the street.
Split lip, Bernie had said, and marked up. And maybe Fraser did like to play rough, but... Ray had taken a swing at him, not far from here at all, and he'd just stood there. Like he couldn't stop it, wouldn't hit back. "So it wasn't just you she hit," Ray said, "It was him, and you when she couldn't get at him, huh? Road trips, Jesus."
Dief whined again, and Ray curled the hand that wanted to pet him into a fist, pressed his knees together to hold it still. He'd disappeared, once, when Ray just said her name, and Fraser said he didn't like to talk about what happened to him, but it was obvious, fucking obvious... "And then she--it was her."
Dief growled low, but then licked Ray's ear as if to say it wasn't Ray he was mad at. "She killed you," Ray said softly. She had killed Dief and then she... it all came to him, just like that, in a sickeningly clear rush. "Jesus," he gasped, and then jumped to his feet, "Jesus, Fraser--" Dief bolted away from him, and Ray froze. "Dief, how did she die? Tell me, buddy, you can tell me."
Dief just shook his head, tags jingling. "You can't? You don't know? Dief, this is important--" But Dief just backed up another step, barked, and vanished, and when Ray looked around he saw homeless people staring at him, people who must have crossed the street to avoid the freak standing on the sidewalk yelling at nothing. He shoved his hands into his pockets. He had to find out what had happened, couldn't just--just spring this on Fraser, and he might be wrong, please God he might be wrong...
He didn't even hesitate this time, walking into the hotel. He went straight to the lobby phones. It took thirty seconds to punch in his memorized credit card number, and another two minutes to get information to connect him to the hotel in Boston where he'd always stayed when he was playing on the road there. By then he'd caught his breath, and he had enough of a plan to get him through the next thirty seconds. When the desk clerk answered, he said, "Hi there. My name is Benton Fraser, I'm a hockey player--"
"Oh!" the desk clerk said, and thank God, she was a fan. "Yes, Mr. Fraser," she said, "I've heard of you."
"That's great," Ray said, "The thing is, I know the Jets are staying at your hotel tonight, and I urgently need to talk to Mark Smithbauer. So if you could just call his room and tell him I need to speak with him, I'm sure he'll tell you it's okay to put me through."
"Oh," she said, and then, "He might not be in..." But the game had been a rotten slugging match, and Winnipeg had lost. Smithbauer would be in his room. He might even be asleep, but Ray couldn't quite find it in his heart to feel bad about that.
"That's okay," Ray said, "If you could just tell him it's--" Smithbauer didn't say Fraser, Smithbauer said--"Ben on the phone, please, and that it's urgent."
"I'll try," she said.
"Thank you kindly," Ray said, because he'd bet anything Fraser said shit like that to strangers on the phone, and then it was crappy hold music and waiting to see if it worked. A minute and a half later, she said, "I'm connecting you now, Mr. Fraser."
The click had barely sounded in Ray's ear before Smithbauer said, "Bent? What's wrong? Where are you?" He sounded like he was about to go jump on a plane, and Bernie had said that he'd come and stayed in town until after the funeral. He might be an asshole, but he was the best friend Fraser had.
"Vancouver," Ray replied, "and I lied, but it's about Fraser."
Smithbauer went silent, and Ray thought he was going to hang up, but instead he said, "Kowalski," in a wary voice.
"Yeah, look, what's done is done, right? This is about Fraser now, I just need to know about Vic--"
"Don't fucking say her name," Smithbauer snarled, and Ray was startled silent. "Don't say it to me and if you give a shit about him don't you dare say it to Ben, you got me? What's done is done."
Fuck. Smithbauer knew something, maybe everything, and Ray had to back off. Smithbauer was too protective of Fraser to tell him anything on purpose. "It's just--he has these nightmares--"
"Aw, shit," Smithbauer said, sounding relieved, "That doesn't mean anything, Kowalski. He talks in his sleep all the time. Back in bantam53 he woke me up every night for a month babbling about mittens, okay?"
Ray took a deep breath. "Yeah, it's just--he says Dief's name all the time, and I wonder--"
"What the fuck do you know about Dief?" Bang, Smithbauer was right back on the defensive. Dief and Victoria, it was all tied up together, it had to be, and it was bad, real bad, or Smithbauer wouldn't be this jumpy about it.
"Fraser told me about him," Ray said, which was true. A little bit. "He tells me about stuff, y'know. We talk."
"You're a fucking liar," Smithbauer said, "Ben doesn't tell anybody anything about anything, and if he did you wouldn't be trying to get information from me."
"I just want to know if you know when he died, okay? Jesus. It just seems like Fraser misses him a lot right now, and I thought maybe the day--"
"I don't know when it was," Smithbauer said flatly. "I don't know if Ben knows exactly either. It happened while he was on the road, she called him and told him--fucking called and told him on the phone, and he just stood there, didn't even know what to do--"
Bingo. Ray just said, "Fuck," and he didn't have to fake the sick quiet horror of it, though it wasn't quite a surprise because it had to have gone down like that, while Fraser was on the road. If Smithbauer knew what Fraser looked like when she told him then at least Fraser hadn't been alone when he found out.
"Yeah," Smithbauer said, just as quietly, and then, "Look, Kowalski, just forget about her. He's trying to, so let him. That bitch isn't worth remembering. You want to make him happy, lemme give you a piece of free advice, huh?"
Ray grunted into the phone, not yes and not no.
"Try calling him Ben sometime," Smithbauer said, fast and quiet, like it was the actual truth. "He likes that."
Ray opened his mouth to answer, but there was a click and then a dial tone. He hung up the phone slowly himself, thinking that over, because it beat thinking about anything else. "Ben," he said quietly, "Ben. Ben. Ben." It felt strange in his mouth, not familiar like Fraser, not easy like Frase. Ben was somebody Smithbauer knew, somebody whose secrets Smithbauer kept.
Like saying his name had summoned him, the revolving door turned and Fraser stepped inside, and Ray ducked quickly behind some potted plants and turned his face away. No way could he face him yet. Everything he'd just learned, everything he thought he knew, loomed huge in his mind, and Ray knew Fraser would see it on him if he couldn't get it under control. Ray watched from his half-hidden spot as Fraser walked across the lobby to the elevator without looking around. He looked tired, maybe sad, and why shouldn't he? Ray had just ditched him without a backward glance to hang out with Bernie, of all people.
Ray felt tired, too, come to that. He felt like it should be past closing time and pushing on toward dawn, but when he glanced at his watch, barely twenty minutes had passed since he left the bar. He leaned against the wall and tried to brace himself to go upstairs and go to sleep, to keep his big mouth shut for a few more days. It had all happened years ago, after all, and Fraser seemed more or less fine so far. Fraser hadn't changed. He was the same guy he'd been twenty minutes ago. There had been nothing wrong in Edmonton that a good fuck hadn't made him forget about. The rest of this would keep until they were safely home again, as long as Ray didn't do anything stupid.
Still, he wasn't going to the elevator, wasn't moving from his spot on the wall. He tried to think about Fraser--not Victoria's husband, not Smithbauer's friend, but his Fraser, the one who was upstairs right now wondering where the fuck Ray had gone--and about the game coming up in Calgary, and Chicago's chances of making the playoffs. He tried to think about anything but all the things nobody talked about and the very good reasons they had for not talking about them. "Ben," he repeated, barely making a sound, not wanting to call him back just yet. "Ben, Ben, Ben, Ben." Ben with his secrets, Ben afraid of Mounties, Ben with his split lip and sore back and stitches in his wrist. It still felt strange, but Ray was just going to have to get used to that if he wanted to keep Fraser.
Ben lay on his bed in the hotel room. By the nature of hotel rooms, it looked eerily identical to the one where he and Ray had fought the last time they were in Vancouver, though in actual fact that room was three floors down and in another wing. He was trying, fruitlessly, to read. The words were familiar nearly to the point of memorization, the book a survival from his university years, but he couldn't concentrate.
Ray had seemed fine, or close to it, since they got to Vancouver, right up to the moment when Ben looked up from his conversation and Ray was just gone. Jeff had assured him that Ray left with Bernie, and given Jeff's implicit judgement that Bernie's company was a satisfactory guarantee of Ray's safety and sanity, Ben had stayed put. The idle conversation hadn't held enough of his attention to keep him from worrying, though, and Ben had fled as soon as he reasonably could. He'd been half-tempted to knock on Bernie's door, but as he raised his hand, he heard Bernie laughing delightedly. Ben had been tempted to linger, listening for any answering sound from Ray, but just then the elevator opened again, and Ben had hurried on rather than be caught lurking at doorways.
He reread the same passage as uncomprehendingly as he had a half-dozen times before, and was about to resort to reading aloud to force himself to focus when he heard a key in the lock. Ray stepped inside just as Ben, out of old habit, shoved the book half under his pillow. Ray stopped in the entryway and raised his eyebrows. "Frase?"
"Ray," Ben said, and sheepishly pulled the book back out.
Ray squinted at it from where he stood, and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. His hands looked fine, Ben noted. He looked altogether fine. "How come I've never seen you reading before?"
Ben shrugged as best he could, lying on his side with his finger tucked between the pages of the book. "I don't read much during the season. I don't usually have time."
Ray smiled slowly, his eyes warm, and Ben found himself smiling back as Ray said, "Yeah, and I guess this year you've got a whole new hobby keeping you busy, huh?"
Ben cleared his throat. "I wouldn't call it a hobby, exactly..."
Ray's smile turned into a smirk. "Pastime, maybe?" He pushed off from the wall and went to his bag, rummaging around. "Anyway, go ahead, read. You got some time now."
Ben watched Ray walk to the bathroom, watched the light click on. Ray didn't bother shutting the door, and Ben stared at the sliver of mirror he could see from where he lay until Ray stuck his head out the door, mouth foamy with toothpaste, toothbrush in hand, and said something that might have been, "Hey, mister."
Ben opened the book again and made an earnest effort to read, but the sounds of Ray undressing and preparing for bed were really not conducive to concentration. He seemed all right, at least. Perhaps he'd simply been talking with Bernie. Perhaps nothing was wrong. It was entirely possible.
He heard the bathroom light shut off, and glanced up to see Ray standing at the foot of the bed wearing nothing but a pair of green scrub pants, the drawstrings at the waist dangling untied. The pants had VCHA stenciled in black on one thigh, slightly faded from washing. Ben couldn't quite parse the acronym, but 'Vancouver' and 'hospital' seemed safe bets. Ray said, "Like the jammies?"
Ben tore his eyes away from the pale skin over Ray's hipbones, and said, "They're quite fetching, Ray."
This was apparently a correct answer, because Ray came around the bed and lay down beside him, his head on the same pillow, so close that Ben could see that he'd taken his contacts out and smell the familiar artificial mint of his toothpaste. "Got another question for you," Ray said, his eyes downcast, one finger tracing the elaborate gilt designs on the leather cover of Ben's book, lying in the small space between them. "How come I never call you Ben?"
Ben blinked, and said, as steadily as he could, "I'm not sure. Why?"
Ray shrugged one bare shoulder. "Dunno. Never thought of it." Ray met his eyes with an uncertain expression. "I, uh. I probably won't always remember. I'm not so great with words."
Ben raised his hand to Ray's face, and said, "I won't mind."
Ray nodded, and then squirmed around, getting comfortable, and Ben picked up the book to set it aside. "Yeah," Ray said, shifting closer still, "go on, read your book. I used to watch Stella reading all the time--seemed like all she did was read, sometimes."
Ben opened his mouth to point out that being watched, especially at such close range, wouldn't actually improve his concentration, but Ray was still talking as he settled himself. "It was kind of sexy, y'know? All those smarts. I guess I go for the brainy ones." Ben blinked and smiled--no one had ever particularly cared whether or not he was intelligent before, and it was oddly flattering. "What about your--" and then Ray stopped short, biting his lip and looking contrite.
Ben blinked. "My..." But Ray had been talking about Stella. The connection was an obvious one. "My wife?"
Ray winced. "Sorry, I--"
"It's okay," Ben said, ignoring the fear welling in his gut, the instinct to evade. "I--she wasn't much for reading," Ben said, because he needed to reassure Ray that he hadn't made a grave misstep, and because there were things he could talk about. "But she was fond of poetry."
Ray looked up at him again. "Huh," Ray said, and then, "Did she have a favorite poem?"
Ben blinked, but forced himself to speak. This was normal, this was innocent. There was no reason not to tell Ray about this. "Yes," he said, "I think--the night we met..."
Ray moved closer, tucking himself against Ben's side, resting his head on Ben's shoulder so that Ben couldn't meet his eyes even if he wanted to. The steady pressure of Ray's body against his skin made it easier to talk, somehow, and he curled his arm around Ray's back, grateful for his silent understanding. "We met at a team Christmas party," Ben said. "She'd come with one of the fourth-stringers. Jolly. He was always going back and forth from the farm club. They got into a screaming fight and he left, stranding her at the party. I was there dateless, again, and catching all kinds of very polite hell for it, again," Ray snorted, and Ben smiled. "So I offered her a ride home."
"Very chivalrous," Ray offered, and Ben nodded. His intentions had been pure.
"It had already started snowing when we left," he said, as calmly as if he were only talking about the weather. "Halfway up to her place, north of town, the storm hit full force. We were in total white-out, and when we pulled over to wait it out, snow covered the exhaust. We couldn't run the heat or we'd risk asphyxiating. She wasn't dressed for the weather--just this silly little dress, and she was smaller than me, she got cold more quickly. We had to share my coat, and we huddled there on the seat, holding on to each other."
Ben paused to catch his breath--he could feel his own heart beating fast, and Ray was lying so still that he might be asleep. Still, when Ben opened his mouth again, more words tumbled out. "I kept talking to her to keep her from slipping away, made her talk to me, and we talked about...everything, nothing, I don't know what, to this day." Not precisely true; he remembered flashes of things, snatches of conversation. He remembered saying I love you.
"It snowed all that night, and through the next day and the next night. When I couldn't talk anymore, I took her fingers, and I put them in my mouth to keep them warm. I don't remember losing consciousness, but I remember thinking I was dying--" he felt Ray flinch at that, and it occurred to him that Ray might never in his life have thought that he was about to die. He tightened his arm around Ray, feeling oddly protective, and went on steadily, so close now to finishing. "I thought that that was going to be it, freezing to death by the side of the road--but I held on to the sound of her voice, which never wavered. She had the most beautiful voice. She recited a poem, over and over. She must have said it a thousand times, but I never heard the words."
Ray lifted his head, and Ben closed his eyes, unable to believe he'd said so much, but Ray only dropped a kiss over his heart. A moment later, he felt Ray's fingertips against his lips, and opened his mouth to receive them. Against his ear, Ray whispered, "I'm not much for poetry, so you're just gonna have to go with me here."
Ben smiled around Ray's fingers and raised one hand to hold them in place, and Ray said softly, "The winters of my childhood were long, long seasons. We lived in three places--the school, the church, and the skating-rink. Real battles were won on the skating-rink. Real strength appeared on the skating-rink. The real leaders showed themselves on the skating-rink54."
When Ray stopped, Ben tugged Ray's fingers free of his mouth and held them against his cheek. "School was a sort of punishment," Ben continued softly, transported back to his senior year and a thirty-six hour period he'd spent continuously awake, desperately writing an essay for his Modern Canadian Fiction class between practices and classes. He had no clear recollection of anything about that day except the text, which he'd memorized. "Parents always want to punish children and school is their most natural way of punishing us. However, school was also a quiet place where we could prepare for the next hockey game, lay out our next strategies. As for church," Ray's voice joined his, and Ben could not keep from smiling widely, nearly laughing the words, "we found there the tranquility of God: there we forgot school and dreamed about the next hockey game."
Ben opened his eyes to Ray's bright gaze, and Ray kissed him lightly and said, "Read to me, okay? Books give me headaches even when I got my glasses on, and I like listening to you." Ray rubbed the side of his head as he said it, just where the scar was, and Ben wondered whether it had just been the one concussion, or if there had been others. No need to speak of it, though. He raised one hand to the spot, rubbing gently, and Ray settled down again beside him. "Come on, what is that, anyway? Too fancy to be the Gideon Bible."
"Ah," Ben said, and opened his battered copy of Paradise Lost. "Poetry, I'm afraid."
"Mm," Ray said, "don't bother going back to the start, then, I won't get it anyway."
Ben would have contested that point, but he remembered the sheer toil of learning to comprehend Milton, when he'd been eighteen and equipped with a young, flexible brain. Ray wanted him to read; he would read. "This horror will grow mild, this darkness light; Besides what hope the never-ending flight Of future days may bring, what chance, what change Worth waiting--" He laced his fingers into Ray's hair. Ray's hand spread across his chest, over his heart, and Ben went on. "Since our present lot appears For happy though but ill, for ill not worst, If we procure not to ourselves more woe55."
He read on a while further, until he was sure that Ray was asleep, and then Ben laid the book on the night stand and shut off the light.
Ray had had three days to practice not talking about things by the time he got a chance to check a few facts. Fraser had gotten dragged away at the end of practice for some little semi-official captain-and-A's pow-wow, and Ray took his chance to slip off unobserved.
The press box was nearly empty, since there was no game tonight, but a few of the stringers had come to watch the practice, and--
"Dammit," Ray said before he could stop himself, and of course Ms. Vecchio heard him and looked up.
She gave him a bright smile. "Hey, Ray. Did I stand you up? Were we supposed to meet up and talk?"
"No," Ray said flatly, "No we were not and you know that. I just need to ask somebody a couple of questions."
Ms. Vecchio arched an eyebrow. "Nobody here but us chickens, Ray, and usually we do the asking."
"Chickens," Ray repeated, trying to forget everything he might or might not know about Fraser--this was why nobody talked about anything, because then you knew things, and if you knew things you had to be sure no one else found out--and he blurted, "Go suck an egg, Ms. Vecchio."
She blinked, mouth open, looking more startled than offended, and the stringers were staring at him, and Ray thought, That's it, career-ending injury to the reputation, and added, "Fuck--fuck," before he bolted to the scorekeeper's booth, slamming the door behind him.
He just stood there for a second in the dim quiet, catching his breath and hating reporters, and then Elaine peeked out from behind her TV screens and computers. "Kowalski? You need something?"
Ray blinked a few times. "Yeah. Uh. Yeah." He walked over and sat down in a swivel chair next to Elaine's desk. Most of the screens were dark, but a few were showing last night's games with the sound off. Ray got dizzy trying to watch them all and had to spin his chair to the side. "Got a question for you."
Elaine spread her hands between the TVs and computers and stacks of stat books. "As long as your question relates to hockey, Kowalski, I may very well be the woman you're looking for."
Ray smiled. "It relates to Fraser. He was saying he's never missed a game due to injury, is that true?"
Elaine tilted her head, eyes up as she calculated. "Yep, that's true," she said finally. "He missed four games when his wife died, and he's been a healthy scratch from time to time, but he's never sat out due to injury."
"Huh," Ray said, playing it cool, because if he could deke out Patrick Roy96 --once, on a good night--he could definitely deke out Elaine the stats girl. "Those four games, that was, what, ninety-two?"
"November," she said, nodding, and finally had to consult her computer, clicking rapidly, her eyes following God knew what on the screen. "He missed an entire home stand, from the fourteenth to the twentieth."
"So they were on the road before that," he said. That was what Bernie had said: it was the night they got home from a trip. She'd waited for him. He'd gone home to her.
"Yeah," Elaine said, nodding, "Midwest loop. Detroit, St. Louis, Chicago, Winnipeg."
She'd called him, and Mark had watched him hear the news about Dief. "So Winnipeg, that was the last game he played, before..."
Elaine nodded again. "Yep. Had a pretty good night, too. Two assists. Twenty-two minutes of ice time." She shook her head. "Shame about his wife."
Ray nodded slowly. Yeah, it was a shame all right. "Thanks, Elaine," he said, and then headed for the door. He hesitated there, and when he looked back, Elaine was staring intently at the TVs. Ray opened the door a crack and peeked out, but Ms. Vecchio was nowhere in sight.
Ray hustled back down to player territory, and found Fraser standing in a corridor, looking around for him. "Hey!" Ray said, sounding startled, like he'd forgotten, like giving Fraser a ride this morning hadn't been part of the plan, "You need a ride, don't you?"
Fraser gave him a polite look, but his eyes were smiling. "Well, Ray, if it's any trouble--"
"Nah," Ray said, playing it casual, like his plan began and ended with getting laid tonight, "No bother. We can get pizza on the way."
Fraser rolled his eyes, but it was an argument they'd already reduced to shorthand. "Pizza with vegetables, I suppose?"
"Sure," Ray said, "Pineapple's a vegetable."
Fraser started explaining the difference between fruits and vegetables and why neither, as pizza toppings, actually contributed much in the way of nutritional value. Ray held his hand over Fraser's mouth while he called in the pizza order, but other than that he let him have his say, and he was still saying when Ray ran in to get the pizza.
He'd stopped by the time Ray came back out, and Ray shoved the hot pizza box into his hands and started up the car again. Fraser didn't say anything, and when Ray glanced over he could see him in the streetlight glow, staring at the box and swallowing hard. Ray's own mouth was watering, and he grinned. "Yeah, a little grease and garlic'll make you forget all about those pesky vitamins, huh?"
Fraser nodded, eyes on the prize. "Pineapple, you said?"
"Pineapple," Ray assured him. "I checked, it's on there."
Fraser just nodded again, and they were quiet the rest of the way back to Ray's. Ray forced himself not to think further than pizza. Couldn't do the rest of the plan with low blood sugar, so pizza was a necessary step.
Fraser carried the pizza inside while Ray locked up, and Ray went on into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He started to reach for a beer, then hesitated. Should he give Fraser one? Ask him what he wanted? Would giving him a beer be cheating, somehow?
While Ray was standing there with the door open, Fraser walked up behind him and reached past him for a bottle of green Gatorade. His lips brushed across Ray's throat as he did it, almost as if by accident, and Ray grabbed his own bottle of Gatorade and followed him into the living room, where the pizza was sitting on the coffee table.
Dief was standing on the couch, wagging his tail and eyeing the pizza, and Ben glanced quickly at Ray. "Yeah," Ray said, forcing himself to smile, forcing himself not to wonder whether Dief was here for the pizza or the rest of it, "I see him. Get down from there or you get no leftovers, mister."
Dief looked put-upon, but jumped down to sit at the end of the coffee table, watching the pizza. Ray sat down on the couch, and Fraser sat down close beside him. Their arms and hands brushed as they pulled off slices of pizza, and they ate in silence, alternating bites with gulps of Gatorade. Ray was reaching for his second piece when he noticed that Dief wasn't watching the pizza anymore--he was staring at Ray.
Ray stared back for a second and then dropped his eyes. The slice of pizza in his hand suddenly looked totally unappetizing. "Ben," Ray said, just like he'd been practicing, and Fraser looked up at him sharply, the way he had every one of the three or four times Ray had remembered to say it so far. Ray nodded toward Dief. "You mind if I give him a piece? I feel like he's gonna go for my throat if I make him wait any longer."
Fraser looked past him to the wolf. "For shame, Diefenbaker. You can't possibly be hungry."
Fraser frowned a little at whatever Dief said back to him--Ray didn't look--but he said slowly, "Well, Ray, I can't see how it could hurt him at this point."
Ray nodded and dropped the pizza on the table where Dief could reach. He took another piece for himself, to have something to do with his hands, but he didn't look at Ben or at the wolf as he picked at it.
Maybe this was stupid. Maybe this was a really bad idea. Maybe he was completely unhinged and all of this was just some kind of hallucination. Maybe Fraser would just walk out if he said something, or laugh, or punch him. Even if he was right, what good would it do to stir everything up now? Except Dief seemed to be here to see that Ray did it, and Ray didn't think he could deal with the wolf staring at him from now until the end of time. Ray nibbled at his pizza, looking up only to steal glances at Dief, who never looked down, and not looking at Fraser--Ben--at all.
He heard Fraser's Gatorade bottle hit the table with a hollow plastic sound, and he didn't jump when Fraser's hand landed on his knee. "Ray," he said, "What--"
"Victoria," Ray said, and though it came out strangled, barely audible, Ben flinched as if he'd shouted and yanked his hand back. Ray flicked a glance at Dief, but the wolf was holding his ground, and Ray looked at Ben, meeting his wide eyes squarely. "Look, Ben, I know how she died."
Ben opened his mouth, but he couldn't speak. He couldn't even breathe. He could only stare at Ray, who spoke those words so calmly, over pizza--
Ray's mouth was moving, but Ben didn't understand what he was saying, and then Ray's hands were on his face and Ray was kissing him. When Ray pulled away he found he could breathe again, long shuddering breaths, and Ray's eyes searched his. "Okay?" Ray said, and Ben shook his head.
"Yeah," Ray muttered, finally looking away, "Yeah, dumb fucking question, come on." Ray's hands left his face, and his skin felt cold without Ray's warmth. One hand closed around his wrist, dragging him along as Ray stood up, towing him to the bedroom, to the bed. Ray left the light off, and Ben followed numbly where he was led, sitting down beside Ray. Dief jumped onto the bed at Ben's other side, and Ray said, "Okay, look. Here's what I got, and maybe I'm crazy but I'm getting this vibe from you like I'm not."
Ben closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. His breath was coming effortlessly now, so fast he was dizzy with it. Ray's grip on his wrist released, sliding to his shoulder, steady and warm. Ben noticed, distantly, that he was shivering. That couldn't be right. Ray kept his own apartment a few degrees warmer than Ben kept his.
"She used to hit Dief. She used to hit you. She killed Dief. She tried to kill you. Only you're still here and she's not." Ray reached out and caught Ben's left wrist, his long fingers sliding into his sleeve to touch the scar there, tracing the curving line of it across the bone. "You didn't cut yourself. And she didn't kill herself."
Ben lowered his hands, dragging Ray's down as well, curling around the pressure-pain in his chest. He could feel the words clawing free, breaking him open. He drew a long unsteady breath and said, as he had only once before, "I killed her."
Ray's hand tightened on his wrist, and Ray's other hand was on his shoulder, pulling him further onto the bed. He let Ray push him to lie on his side, kept still as Ray lay down behind him. When Ray's arms wrapped around him, he grabbed them and held on, and a moment later Dief appeared in front of him, curled up small against Ben's chest. Ben closed his eyes.
Close to his ear, Ray said, "You're going to tell me what happened, okay, Ben?" Tell me what happened, his father had said. Tell me what happened, son.
Ben nodded obediently, but he didn't know what to say, where to start. "Ray, I've never--I can't--"
"You were in Winnipeg," Ray said softly, relentlessly. "You were at Mark's, right? And she called you. She told you about Dief."
Ben's hands tightened--too hard, he felt Ray's hands twitch against his chest, and he loosened his grip with an effort and swallowed hard. "I was in Winnipeg," he repeated. "At Mark's, after the game." They'd been drinking, laughing. Mark's place had felt so safe, so much like a home, even if it wasn't quite his. "It was a good game, I had two--"
Stupid detail, stupid thing to remember, that wasn't the point, but Ray said, "Two assists, yeah, you were having a good night."
Ben shivered, at the sound and sensation of Ray speaking against his ear, at how much Ray seemed to know already. "Yes. The phone rang and Mark answered, and I could tell right away, from the way he spoke, that it was--"
Ray's hand stroked against his chest, encouraging him to take a breath, and Ray said, "Victoria."
"Victoria," Ben repeated. His mouth barely knew how to shape her name anymore. "I still didn't realize that anything was wrong. I usually called her every night and I hadn't yet. I thought that was all it was, but she told me Dief was dead."
Dief nuzzled against his belly, and Ben heard the muffled clink of his tags when he moved.
"She told me she shot him," Ben amended. "I know she told me that." But he couldn't remember the words. He couldn't remember her voice. All he remembered was staring at the shine of lamp light off a beer bottle, and knowing. "I didn't--I didn't really hear anything else she said. I--I hate guns." He felt Ray nod against the back of his neck, and Ben shook his head. "No, that's not it--I'm afraid of guns. I always have been. Terrified. I never really saw them when I was young--my father didn't bring his gun in the house when he was home, which wasn't often, and my grandparents bought or bartered their food--but when I was thirteen, my father decided to teach me to hunt."
Ray seemed to know what was coming. His hand slid up and down Ben's chest, and Ben remembered to breathe. "He took me out into the woods. I carried the pack and he carried the gun, in a case. I wasn't eager, but I thought I could do it. I had to. My father expected me to. Up there, men hunt. That's what it means to be a man." Ray nodded again, and Ben took another long breath, remembering that moment, the clarity of the light, the shine of the rifle barrel.
"We got to the spot, and he took out the gun and I must have made some kind of sound, because he looked up at me, holding the rifle. I panicked. I ran, and ran, and ran until I fell down, until I couldn't run anymore, and then I just laid there on the ground, waiting for--" He had to stop and catch his breath. He was gasping for it as if he were running now, and he could feel Ray's thumb stroking across the ridge of his collarbone as he tried to control himself.
"Waiting for my father to kill me," he finished, when he could. "That's what I thought, when I saw the gun. It was ridiculous, but I was convinced I was going to die. That gun in my father's hands was the most terrifying thing I'd ever seen."
He'd stayed there, on the ground, trying frantically to think where he could hide, knowing it wouldn't matter. His father could track a ghost across sheer ice; one thirteen-year-old boy wouldn't get far. He'd lain there so long the shadows moved across him. Eventually his panic ebbed, and he began to realize how utterly he'd humiliated himself. "I knew I had to go back--I couldn't just sit out there all night--so I followed my own trail all the way to where we'd stopped. It was plain as day, but my father hadn't followed me. He'd set up camp and built a fire. The gun was nowhere in sight. I sat down next to the fire, and he handed me a--" Ben swallowed hard, remembering, fighting to keep his voice steady. "He handed me a cup of coffee. As if I were a man. He'd always given me cocoa before, when he took me out camping. But he gave me coffee, and he asked me about the travel hockey leagues down south, and--I think that was the day he gave up on me being a man like him. A Mountie, or anything useful at all."
Ben fell silent, and Ray said, "He didn't give you the coffee when you ran away, y'know. He gave it to you when you came back."
Ben turned his head, twisting his neck to look at Ray in the failing light, and Ray smiled a little and said, "I know a thing or two about disappointing your old man." Then Ray's hand came up to his cheek, and guided him to lay his head down again. Ben closed his eyes, tilting his cheek up into Ray's touch. Close to his ear, Ray said, "So she told you she shot him," Ray said, "and you freaked because you can't handle guns."
Ben clenched his eyes shut tight and forced himself to take up the thread again. "Mark came and took the phone away from me and hung it up. He asked me what was wrong and I said Dief was dead, I said there had been an accident. I was--" Ben breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, and loosened one hand from holding on to Ray to sink it into Dief's fur. "I was used to lying. For her. About her. About things that happened. It was automatic. I don't know if he believed me. I wanted to leave right then, but he wouldn't let me. He wouldn't even let me go back to the hotel. I--slept--we didn't--"
Ben got stuck, hesitant to say I was married, when that apparently hadn't been an obstacle for Ray, but Ray said, "Yeah, I gotcha. You spent the night at his place so he could keep an eye on you."
"I called my father before I went to sleep. I wanted Dief buried up north, and I knew I wouldn't be able to go myself, so I wanted my father to take him. I was in luck, and I was able to get hold of him. He said he'd be in Edmonton the next day, and I should call him when I got there. Mark took me to the airport in the morning and I flew home with the team."
Ray's mouth settled against the back of Ben's neck, his breath a warm-cool tickle. Constant. Steady. "It was late afternoon by the time I got to the house. The light was already failing. I--" Ben's breath caught, and he swallowed a sob and went on. "I knew how it must have happened, I'd had plenty of time to figure it out. Dief didn't like to stay inside the house with her if I wasn't there, especially in the winter, because he didn't have enough exits. He had a kennel outside, and he could jump the fences from there if he needed to. The first heavy snow had fallen that day while I was in Winnipeg, and Dief loved the snow. He felt safe in it. He knew he could outrun any human in snow. She must have come outside, onto the back porch, and called to him. He came--not close, not close enough for her to touch, but he came. He didn't--I don't think he'd ever seen a gun, he didn't know that she could--"
Ben had to stop, his breath coming in short harsh gasps, and Dief squirmed up to lick at his face. Ray's thumb moved in short sweeps across Ben's cheekbone; he was reminded of a windshield wiper, and a laugh broke through his next breath. Dief subsided to rest with his head tucked against Ben's throat, and he forced himself to go on. "She'd left him where he fell, and they'd gotten more snow afterward. I had to look for him. The snow was drifted and deep." He'd spent close to an hour reaching into hummocks of snow, probing for the shape of a wolf underneath. "The snow was red under the white, and blood had frozen in his fur and on his tags. She shot him straight through the heart. He hadn't even turned to run." His face had been numb, tears frozen to his skin, his arms and legs soaked and freezing, his hands numb and awkward as he broke Dief free of the frozen snow.
"I took him into the garage to clean him up. The blood started to melt under the water and I could smell it. I could smell him." Dief didn't smell like anything, now, but Ben could smell Ray's skin and sweat, pressed close, and that was something, that was better than the memory of blood thawing on his hands. "I wrapped him up in a tarp and laid him down in the corner. I went inside to wash my hands in the kitchen and I knew it was over. I couldn't do it anymore, I just couldn't. She'd killed him. There was--" he took a breath. He'd had years to think about it, to explain it to himself over and over in ever more cool and clinical terms. He hadn't been thinking of it, at the time; in fact he'd been very carefully not thinking about anything. He'd been utterly focused on running his hands under lukewarm water until he could feel his fingertips, thinking beyond that only so far as to be thankful that his bag was still in the car, so that he wouldn't need to pack anything. Still, he wanted Ray to understand.
"There was an escalating pattern," he said. "It wasn't just Dief. She--" Rehearsed or not, the words caught in his throat, and he got stuck. His mouth worked, but it was like rocking a car stranded in mud; the more he tried, the deeper he sunk.
Ray's forehead touched the back of his neck; Ray's skin was warm against his, and he could feel the motion of Ray's eyelashes as he blinked. "The baby?"
Ben's breath caught, his heart stuttering. He'd tried for so long not to think of it that way, as a baby. It had been a pregnancy, no more than that. "I had an ultrasound picture," he said softly, "it was taped up in my locker, but I took it with me when we went on the road." His teammates had teased him about it, but they'd understood. He'd been adopted into the circle of married men and fathers; they'd joked with him about tiny ice skates and hockey camp trust funds. "She told me she'd had a miscarriage," he said. Miscarriage. That was easier to say; he must have said it dozens of times. Hundreds. To his father, to Mark, to his teammates. He'd even explained the matter to Dief, and the wolf had shared with him the quiet numb grief that he had dared not lay as a further burden upon Victoria, still recovering. "But--she'd been treated at a private clinic, not the hospital. If it had been an emergency they'd have taken her to hospital. I never asked her, I didn't want to know for certain, but I--I think--"
Ray's fingers touched his mouth, pressed inside to still his tongue, and Ben went gratefully silent as Ray kissed the back of his neck. After a moment, Ray's fingers withdrew, and Ben said, in the same calm, detached voice with which he could discuss Edmonton's odds of making the playoffs, "The worst part of it was being relieved. At least the worst had already happened. At least it was over quickly. At least it--" he, she, my child, "didn't suffer for long."
Ray's hand slipped down his throat to his chest, resting lightly over his wildly beating heart, and Ray said softly, "Not like you, huh? Not like Dief. She took her time with you guys."
Ben swallowed and nodded, though he'd never thought of it in quite that way, and Ray went on. "So you went inside to wash up, wash your hands of it all, because you'd had enough."
Ben took a shaky breath, remembering the light shining on the faucet, the blood caked around his nails. "She came in, and I didn't look up, I just said I was leaving, loudly enough to be heard over the water. I said I'd stay in a hotel. She walked up to me while I was looking down, and put the barrel of the gun to the side of my head. She said I wasn't going anywhere."
Ray's arms tightened, crushingly tight, around him, and Ray shifted up to press a kiss to his temple. It was the wrong side, but it felt good anyway. Ben kept talking, the words pushing free of him whether he willed it or no. "I froze, and she laughed. She had--she knew I was scared of guns. She insisted on having one because I was gone so much, and she might have to protect herself. She was American, from Alaska. She took me with her to buy the gun, and kept asking my opinion when she wasn't flirting with the proprietor. And now she--I thought that was it. I thought I was going to die. I couldn't move. She pushed with the gun until my head was on my shoulder and then she said, 'You'll never leave me.' I thought she was right, but I didn't say anything, and she took the gun away and screamed at me. 'You'll never leave me.' I knew she wanted me to say it back, but I wouldn't say it. I don't know if I was defying her or if I just couldn't speak. I wasn't thinking very clearly.
"She grabbed my chin and made me face her, she kissed me, but I wouldn't kiss her back. She slapped me. I just stood there. I wasn't going to cooperate, not that night. Not after what she'd done. She said--" He didn't remember the words, not clearly. Such a beautiful voice, but he couldn't hear it anymore. He remembered her eyes, the fury but more the utter madness. It had never been so clear to him as it was then, that she was beyond reaching, beyond all hope. She hadn't always been like that, he thought. When had it happened? How? He'd been on the road too much, like she said.
"She said things about--me, and about Mark--she threatened him. Threatened to expose him, threatened to kill him, she was waving the gun and I--I didn't think, I just moved, grabbed it from her hand. She stopped for a second and stared at me. I'd never done anything of the sort before, but I was numb, not just my hands, everywhere. I felt as if I was already dead, as if I was out there under the tarp in the garage. It didn't matter what I did. The gun was in my hand, and she reached out and grabbed a knife from the block on the counter. She swung it at me and I blocked with my arm, without thinking, and the blade stuck in the bone. The pain woke me up. It hurt, but it meant I wasn't dead yet, and then I didn't want to be. She was trying to pull it free and I knew if she got a second shot she'd kill me--I thought she might have broken my arm or cut the veins in my wrist already--and I had to stop her."
It had all been so easy, had happened so fast. He'd never handled a gun before but it fit his hand like it belonged there, his finger found the trigger and he knew what he had to do. "I put the gun to her jaw." He reached up and caught Ray's hand, guided Ray's fingers to the place on his own face, the soft spot just under the bone, where the pulse beat. "And I pulled the trigger." The sound hadn't been as loud as he expected, but the recoil had jolted through him as though he'd been shot himself. Newton's Second Law. "She fell, and I fell. The gun fell, I heard it bounce. The knife was still in my arm and I held it there. I knew I'd bleed more if I pulled it out. I grabbed the phone. I couldn't feel my fingers and they were slippery with blood. I could barely see but I dialed. My father. It was the first phone number I could think of. I'd been supposed to call him to come get Dief. He was a Mountie. He would know what to do.
"I told him she was dead, I told him he had to come. He asked me where I was, where she was, I said the kitchen. He made me put a towel on my arm, and I pressed it as hard as I could but it hurt so badly I nearly passed out. I opened my eyes and my father was there, kneeling over me. His hand was on my arm and he asked me what happened. I told him I killed her. I told him why. He told me--" Ben swallowed. "He told me that wasn't what happened. He told me I came home and found her with the gun, holding it to her own head. I took it away from her and she grabbed the knife and I got in her way when she tried to cut herself with it, and that's when she grabbed the gun again. I fought to get it away from her and she shot herself. He--he pressed down, on my arm, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't see, and he asked me what happened. I told him--" Ben shut his eyes tight, shuddered. "I told him she killed herself. He asked me how it happened and I told him I tried to stop her, we fought for the gun, fought for the knife, and then she shot herself. He made me tell him again, and again. I was crying. I could barely talk and he kept making me tell him, and then he pulled the knife out and I lost consciousness. I woke up in the hospital."
Ray's mouth touched the point of his jaw, the pulse in his throat. "You made it," Ray whispered. "You survived."
Ben's chest clenched, and he forced himself to breathe. "I wasn't badly hurt. My arm wasn't broken. They gave me stitches and a blood transfusion. The police only spoke to me once and I told them--I told them what I told my father. I told them what he told me. They didn't ask me again and he arranged everything. The coroner's inquest found no need for further investigation and the report was sealed at my father's request. I never said another word about her to anyone."
Ray's hand pressed against his chest, and Ray said softly, "So you're safe, then?"
Ben blinked into the darkness, uncomprehending. "What?"
"They won't reopen the case. They won't come after you. You're safe."
Ben was dumbstruck. That was Ray's question? Whether he was safe? He had to swallow hysterical laughter before he could speak. "Yes, Ray. Yes, as far as I know."
Ray seemed to hear the unsteadiness in his voice, because his arms tightened infinitesimally. "And you're not going to do something dumb like go confess, right? Because you know the first thing they'd do is peg Mark as a conspirator. And me as an accessory after the fact, now, because you can bet your ass I'm aiding and abetting."
Ray's voice was rough and warm, and Ben closed his eyes as tears leaked out, too weary to be ashamed. "I used to think about it," he said. "I used to think about it all the time. I rehearsed it in my mind, over and over. I wanted to tell, but I couldn't--I couldn't do that. My father--Mark--"
"And you," Ray said softly. "Even if they cleared you for her death there'd be charges on concealing evidence. Your career would be over. It'd be a fuck of a mess. She's not worth that, Ben."
Ben rolled onto his back, and Ray moved enough to let him, as Dief scooted close on his other side. He looked at Ray's eyes, intent in the dimness, and then away to the featureless dark of the ceiling. "You can just say that?"
"Sure," Ray said, easily. "Does anybody but me know as much as I do about what happened?"
Ben opened his mouth, and closed it again.
"Nope," Ray agreed. "I'm the world's greatest living expert on you, Benton Fraser, and I'm saying you did the right thing. You did the only thing you could do. And your dad, maybe what he did wasn't exactly on the up and up, but it was the best he could do for you. To keep you safe. And you're safe, so that's it. Done. Over."
"Ray, I--"
Ray sighed against his mouth, and kissed him until he lost all ambition to speak. "I gotta do something," Ray said quietly. "I'm not going anywhere. I'll come right back to you. I just gotta do something, okay? Close your eyes."
Ben squinted at Ray, and then closed his eyes. Ray's fingers brushed over his eyelids, and his weariness seemed suddenly magnified, far beyond his ability to fight. He was lying in Ray's familiar bed, with Dief curled at his back. It didn't even occur to him to wonder what Ray was doing until he felt Ray's weight settle again in the spot where Ray had been lying, close beside him. "Okay," Ray said, so softly he wouldn't have woken Ben if he'd been sleeping, "open your eyes."
Ben blinked, his eyes adjusting to the faint light coming from the half-open closet door. Ray was holding his keys in one hand, and had a lockbox in his lap. Ben stared at it a moment, and then realized what must be inside. Ray didn't look at him as he found the right key and slipped it into the lock. "My uncle, the one who taught me to skate, my Uncle Ed. He got me a job working nights as a security guard in one of those fancy buildings on the Mile. He was head of the night shift, got me in under the table because I was too young. It paid for my first set of contacts, new equipment, a ring for Stella." Ray turned the key. Ben couldn't take his eyes off Ray's hand. "I had to have a gun. He taught me to shoot, and I was good at it. Real good, as long as I had my glasses on. Even competed a couple of times. Won some prizes in my age group." Ray turned the key back and pulled it out. Ben kept breathing. It was just a locked metal box.
Ray's fingers worked quickly, removing the small silver key from the ring. He held it out to Ben on his open hand, and only then did Ben look up into Ray's eyes, calm and patient and blue as deep water. "Ray?"
"Take it," Ray said softly. "I want you to be able to trust me."
Ben shook his head slowly. "If I took it, it would mean I didn't trust you."
Ray lips twitched up, but his eyes never wavered. "Well, then the hell with trusting me, Ben. I want you to feel safe with me."
Ben reached out and closed Ray's fingers around the key. "I already do."
Ray kept looking at him until Ben closed his eyes, and then he said softly, "Yeah, all right." Ben meant to point out that the matter didn't actually call for ratification, but he never got around to opening his mouth before he fell asleep, his hand still covering Ray's.
Ray didn't start to shake until he knew Ben was asleep. He clenched his fist tight on the key, the edges sharp against his palm, and his fist shook so hard Ben's hand slipped off, landing on Ray's calf. He felt cold when Ben's hand left his, and goosebumps jumped up on his arms. He wanted to run, he wanted to fight, he wanted to scream--fuck, he wanted to cry--for all the shit that had happened to Ben and for the fact that he'd never been able to tell a soul. Never could tell anyone she was hurting him, or hurting Dief--no one would've believed an NHL defenseman couldn't look out for himself, even though it would have been a scandal if he'd ever laid a hand on her. Never could tell anyone she killed his baby.
Ray curled down over his fisted hands, his arms and shoulders aching with the strain of keeping still. He pressed his forehead against Ben's arm, and forced himself to breathe as much as he could in that position, and he shook until he felt sick with it, until tears squeezed from his eyes and dropped onto Ben's skin.
Ben shifted in his sleep, muttering, and his hand tightened on Ray's calf. Ray took a deep breath, and then another, and laid himself down by Ben's side, shifting Ben's grip to his arm and whispering to him he was quiet and still again. Ray slung an arm across his chest, one leg over Ben's legs, and shoved the lockbox key in his pocket as he settled in. The shaking was passing off, now, leaving nothing but total exhaustion in its place, but he was still awake as Ben slept. Even Dief seemed to be sleeping, resting easy now that it was all over, maybe. He was tucked so close to Ben that his fur brushed against Ray's arm--he could have petted the wolf now, if he wanted to, but it seemed like taking advantage, so Ray kept still. He listened to Ben sleeping, felt him breathe, felt the warmth of him raise sweat everywhere they touched, and reminded himself that it had all happened a long time ago and Ben was safe now, here with him.
Ray slept and woke and slept and woke, but Ben was always still, sleeping deep. Ray was usually an all-over-the-bed kind of guy, but he stuck close to Ben all night, and every time he opened his eyes, Dief was still right there, just a finger-twitch away on Ben's other side.
He woke up after what felt like a long stretch asleep to see the sky lightening outside the window, dull grey compared to the yellow glow of the closet light. His eyes and mouth were gummy with sleep, and he felt that particular kind of grimy that came from sleeping in his clothes, and his jeans were tight enough that there was just no ignoring how badly he had to piss.
Ben mumbled when Ray pulled away, and Ray whispered, "I'm not leaving, I'll be right back," and then stumbled to the bathroom, his right arm going all pins-and-needles from being trapped under Ben for half the night. He waited it out when he got to the bathroom instead of trying to piss left-handed. When he got back to the bedroom, he turned off the closet light and then headed back to bed. Ben was lying there with his eyes open, staring at the lockbox on the night stand. "Sorry," Ray said, reaching for it, "I'll--"
"No," Ben said, "It's all right. Please." He patted the space where Ray had spent the last twelve or so hours, and Ray crawled right back into bed, lying down along his side.
Ben was all shades of gray and black in the thin morning light, looking faded and frayed even after a more-than-full night's sleep. Ray touched Ben's face, and it was the same as ever to his fingertips. "Nothing's changed," Ray said softly, tracing the familiar line of Ben's jaw, prickly with stubble, the curve of his lip. Ben watched him with dark, unreadable eyes. "Nothing's changed," he repeated. "We're still here."
Ben looked away, up at the ceiling. "You can just say that?"
Ray grinned, relief hitting him like a burst of adrenaline, his heart beating fast and his head light. "Sure," he said, "I'm the expert, remember."
Ben looked over at him without turning his head, and his mouth curved into a tiny smile, almost shy. Ray leaned in and kissed him, closed-mouthed and careful, his hand resting lightly on Ben's stomach. He felt the tug as Ben caught a fold of his t-shirt, and a breath later the heat of his hand bled through.
The bed bounced as Dief jumped off, startling them both. Ray felt Ben stiffen under him, and they both turned to look at the wolf, who was standing by the bedroom door, barking at them. His ears were pricked up, his tail wagging high, and as they both lay there watching him, he came back to the side of the bed, bouncing like a puppy. Ben reached out a hand to him and Dief closed his teeth around it gently, tugging. "I think he wants me to take him for a walk," Ben said, sounding happily confused.
Dief dropped Ben's hand and barked, tail wagging, and Ben's smile widened. "Me and you." Ben turned to look at him, and Ray couldn't have said no to him right then no matter what Ben wanted from him. "If you don't mind, Ray?"
"Nah," Ray said, smiling back, "why should I mind? He probably hasn't had a good run in a long time now."
Dief barked again at that, and Ben rolled out of bed. Ray followed him, and they went straight out to the front door to get their shoes and coats. Ray fell a little behind as they passed the kitchen, his feet automatically slowing down to remind him that he was about to leave without coffee. Dief came trotting back to him, and before Ray could react, he caught Ray's hand in his teeth. The little hard points of pressure were cold on Ray's skin.
Ray looked down at Dief, and Dief looked up and met his eyes. He didn't bark, or wag his tail, just looked up at Ray, and suddenly Ray wanted coffee, wanted donuts, wanted to put away last night's pizza and brush his teeth, anything that would put off going out for a walk with Dief. He tried to pull his hand back, and felt the vibration of a silent growl through Dief's teeth, which didn't let him go.
Ray dropped his gaze first, giving in. "Okay," he whispered.
Ben called, "Ray?" and Dief dropped his hand, prancing back toward the door, all excited again.
"Yeah," Ray called, pasting the smile back on his face that had been so effortless a minute ago. Dief was dancing around them as Ray put on his shoes, shrugged into his coat, tucked his keys and wallet in his pockets. He kept almost-but-not-quite tripping either him or Ben, so by the time they were both ready to head out, they were holding on to each other for balance and laughing.
Ray was telling himself that it had been nothing, back in the hallway, but then Dief jumped, tags jingling, and for the first time Ray clearly saw the black spot on the white fur of his chest, and realized it marked where she'd shot him. Ray ushered Ben and Dief out into the hallway and locked the door behind them, and they headed to the elevator. Dief didn't have any problem with that this morning, and stood between Ray and Ben, watching the numbers clicking down and wagging his tail.
It was snowing when they stepped outside. The sky was gray but brightening, and the streetlights were still on. There wasn't any snow on the sidewalks yet, but it was piling up on the grass and bushes, and Dief took off for the little park where Ray had walked François a time or two, like he knew exactly where to go. Ray and Ben followed side-by-side and slower, their breath puffing white in the cold air. Ray shoved his hands in his pockets, only looking over occasionally to see Ben's pink cheeks and bright blue eyes, snow dotting his dark hair and the shoulders of his coat. "So, hey," Ray said quietly, "if there's ever anything else you think you need to tell me, don't hesitate, okay?"
Ben looked over at him, and the light in his eyes faded a little. The sky looked grayer, all of a sudden, and Ray wished he'd kept his mouth shut, but something was still going on, Dief was trying to tell him something, and he still didn't know what. If Ben was really safe, what had that Mountie wanted, and why had he been so scared? Ray kicked up a powdering of snow from the grass at the edge of the sidewalk, and Ben said, "I don't remember how my mother died."
Ray looked over at him, but Ben was looking straight ahead, as calm as he'd been that morning when he told Ray his mom was dead.
"As far as I can tell I was there," he said, "but the last thing I remember is her taking me down to the pond to skate and reminding me to stay away from the rotten ice. It was close to spring thaw. I know that I nearly drowned that day, and I know that I developed pneumonia afterward, from the water in my lungs. I know my mother died, and so did a friend of my father's, a man named Muldoon. My father nursed me through my sickness himself, and the first thing I remember, after, is that he had a beard. He must not have left my side the entire time, even to shave. I asked him where my mother was, and he told me she was dead. Within the week, he'd sent me to stay with my grandparents, and thrown himself back into his work."
Ben had only missed a week, Ray remembered, after Victoria. Chip off the old block.
"I don't think he blamed me, exactly," Ben said quietly. "But I think--it must have been my fault."
Ray stopped walking and grabbed Ben by the arm, resisting the urge to actually shake him. "No," he said. "No way. Victoria I will grant you, but you were six, Ben, and whatever happened to two adults that day could not possibly have been your fault."
Ben didn't look convinced, but he didn't argue, didn't give Ray an opening to fight him on it. "The point is," he said quietly, eyes on the sidewalk, snow falling down on the back of his neck unheeded, "the people I care about all seem to die. The people I love." He looked up and met Ray's eyes steadily. "And I do love you, Ray. And--"
"Whoa," Ray said, wishing they'd had this conversation indoors somewhere, wishing he could kiss Ben on a public street at dawn and not worry about who might be watching. "Hey. We don't know what happened to your mom and this Muldoon guy, and the other half of your data points are the result of your wife being insane." Ben smiled a little at that, but his eyes were still dark. "I don't die easy," Ray said, more quietly. "I'm not going anywhere." He reached out and brushed snow off Ben's neck with his bare hand, and Ben let him. When Ray went to tuck his hand back into his pocket, Ben caught it for a second, warming it with his own, though he still didn't look up. Ray squeezed Ben's hand, and then let go.
Hands back in pockets, they walked on down the street and into the park, where Dief was running around in the snow that had accumulated on the grass, snapping at the snowflakes still falling. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder watching him act like an idiot--rolling in the snow, digging in the quarter-inch of accumulation like it was a snow drift--until he came over to them, tail and ears high. Ray thought--hoped--that he was going to recruit Ben to throw snowballs, but he just shook himself, making his tags jingle and throwing off snow onto their legs.
Ray glanced over at Ben, and saw him watching Dief with a frown of concentration, and he saw the moment when Ben understood what Dief wanted, his eyes going shock-wide, his lips pressing together like he was trying not to scream. Ray looked back at Dief and watched him duck his head and raise one paw to his neck, then look up at Ben again, tail waving slower now. Ray swallowed hard, getting the message himself. "He wants his tags off."
Ben made a choked noise and dropped to his knees in the snow, and Ray knelt down too, as Dief stepped forward and licked Ben's face. Ray set his hand on Ben's shoulder, squeezing tight through the thickness of his coat, ignoring the cold. "Ben," he said softly, and Ben jerked at the name.
"I know," he said, but when he raised his hands it was to hug Dief around the neck, and he buried his face in Dief's fur. Ray held on to Ben, and Dief licked at Ben's ear, his tail finally still. Ray could feel snow soaking through his jeans, his fingers and ears were starting to go numb, and he had to wonder what they'd look like, to anybody walking by who couldn't see Dief, but none of it mattered. He'd stay here all day if he had to, if Ben needed him to.
The streetlights were starting to shut off as the sky brightened and the snow came down harder. Ben finally picked his head up, shifting his hands as he did. Ray watched as one of his hands closed in a white-knuckled fist around the chain of Dief's tags. Dief whined, twisting his head back and forth but not pulling back, not pulling himself out from under. Ray opened his mouth to say something, but Ben's hand moved before he could find words. Dief ducked his head, and the tags came off with a small sound, dropping to hang from Ben's hand as Dief danced away. His feet didn't even seem to touch the snow anymore, as if that little bit of metal dangling from Ben's hand had been weighing him down, holding him to the ground.
He came back and licked Ben's face again, barking and wagging his tail until Ben smiled a little, and then Dief turned to Ray and licked his face, too. Moving slow, not wanting to rush him off, Ray raised his hands and sunk them into Dief's fur. Dief backed off far enough to bark at him, tongue hanging out, but he didn't pull away from Ray's hands. "Okay, furface," Ray said. "I get it. You like me, you really like me." Dief wagged his tail like crazy at that, and Ray took his hands away.
Dief ran off a few strides, then turned back and barked at them again, perfectly silent in the falling snow. When he turned away for the last time, Ray looked away from the wolf, to Ben's face. His last smile for Dief was frozen in place, and he still held his hand up, his fist clenched, a few snowflakes gathering on the cold metal of the tags and chain. Ray didn't watch Dief run on into the snow, finally free. He watched Ben watching, and when Ben finally looked down, he knew Dief had disappeared from sight, white on white in the distance.
Ray wiggled his toes and waited, and finally Ben said, "I don't know why he didn't take them off years ago. He could have. I told him he could. I don't know why he didn't leave."
Ray, kneeling in the snow in a public park, looked at Ben, his face pale under the cold flush in his cheeks, his blue eyes dry, and said, "I do."
Ben looked over at him, but Ray couldn't meet his eyes. He reached out and stuck his nearer hand through the chain, looping it twice around his wrist, and then he stood up, pulling Ben along. "Come on," he said softly. "We gotta get warmed up before it's time to leave for practice."
Ben's grip on the chain never loosened, all the way back to Ray's apartment.
Ray led him directly into the bathroom and turned on the shower one-handed, as Ben was still holding the chain wrapped around his left wrist. Steam began to heat the room at once, and Ben found the contrast to his own thoroughly chilled state almost painful. As he stood there, waiting for his shivering to stop, Ray started to unwind the chain from his wrist. "No," Ben said, startlingly loud in the small space, and Ray looked up at him, wide-eyed.
Ben let go with an effort. The imprint of the beads remained on his palm and fingertips, perfect hemispherical voids imprinted in his skin. Ray looped the chain a third time around his wrist, settling the tags at the back of his hand, and began to undress, and Ben, after a beat, did the same. He kept his gaze fixed on Ray, who was barely a hand's breath away in the small room and not going anywhere. He could smell Ray's skin in the warm air, and Ray's breath and muttered imprecations nearly drowned out the occasional jingling of the tags.
Ray finished undressing before Ben, and reached out his left hand. Ben took it, wrapping the slack of the chain around his fingers and using Ray's hand to steady himself as he pulled off his socks. When he was done, Ray kicked their clothes into an untidy heap against the wall and stepped into the shower, leaning slightly on Ben's hand as he did. He raised his free hand to Ben's back to pull him in, and for just a moment the angle of his arm was perfectly decorous, as if they were waltzing, until Ben stepped in, collapsing the space between them. The fingers of his free hand curled around the back of Ray's neck, and Ben felt Ray's half-suppressed shudder at the cold touch. He knew he ought to move his hand, but he held on and moved closer instead, seeking the warmth of Ray's body more than that of the water.
The first kiss was clumsy with need and lingering chill--he felt Ray's nose as a point of cold against his cheek, shocking in the warmth of the shower, and Ben shivered himself. But Ray's mouth was hot against his, and blessedly familiar. Ray kissed him this morning exactly as he had the morning before, and the morning before that. Nothing had changed, except the chain connecting his fingers and Ray's wrist, and the weight of secrets that no longer separated them. Ben twisted the steel beads more tightly around his fingers, and Ray's hand closed around his despite the awkward angle, welcoming his grip. Warm water ran down his face, over his closed eyes, over his lips, diluting the taste of Ray when they parted to breathe, but Ray's body was hard against his and Ray's hand on his hip slid lower, pulling him closer.
Ben pressed forward and Ray eased back to lean against the shower wall. Ben pressed his knuckles against that unyielding surface, while his thumb stroked the softness of Ray's wrist, held fast. Ben thrust against the wet-slick warmth of Ray's belly as his cock hardened and Ray pushed back against him in echo. The feeling of Ray's erection sliding on his sensitive skin only made Ben more eager. He moaned against Ray's mouth, swallowing the murmur of Ray's reply in another wet kiss. Ben's hips thrust in random irresistible impulses against Ray, his cock sliding against the water-slick skin of Ray's hip as he pressed his tongue into Ray's mouth, tasting him, breathing his breath.
Ray's hand slid forward from his hip, moving to touch him, to speed him on, and Ben caught his wrist and held it back. Even as his hand tightened he froze, suddenly aware that he had pinned Ray to the wall, and was holding both of his wrists. Ben opened his eyes to meet Ray's, but saw none of his own brief panic reflected there.
Ray shook off Ben's suddenly-loose grip on both his wrists and raised his hands between them. He unwound a loop of chain from his left wrist, and twisted it around his right. Ray tugged once, to show the impromptu bond would hold, and then raised both hands above his head. He leaned in to kiss Ben as he did, whispering, "Whatever you need, okay?"
Ben's breath left him in a groan as he raised one hand to hold the twist of chain between Ray's hands, pinning them to the wall. Ray's hands curled around his wrist, and Ben bent his head to drop kisses along Ray's throat--carefully now, leaving no marks--licking his skin, finding the taste of him in the angle of his jaw, his pulse beating under Ben's tongue.
Ben thrust harder now, holding Ray's hip to the wall as his erection skidded against Ray's hard cock and soft skin. Ray's fingers tightened spasmodically on his wrist, and even the chain in his hand felt blood-warm now, as Ray's hips jerked in tiny frustrated motions against his grip. Ben felt flushed hot, his skin stretched thin, and he panted raggedly against Ray's skin, thrusting hard, wildly. Ray's fingers stroked suggestively up the column of his wrist, and he felt Ray's lips against his ear. Under the falling water Ray whispered, "Come on, Ben, give it up," and Ben cried out, half a sob, and thrust hard against Ray, unable to hold back any longer, spurting against Ray's skin.
He let go of the chain with an effort, his fingers releasing it unwillingly, still half-curled as they slid through Ray's hair and down the line of his jaw. His hand on Ray's hip tightened all the more, to compensate, and Ray's erection pressed hard and hot against his belly. Ben raised his head, fumbling for Ray's mouth and then kissing him fiercely, thrusting his tongue into the heat of Ray's mouth. Ray moaned and sucked at him, and Ben dragged his hand lower, down Ray's throat to his chest, the skin mostly shielded from the spray by Ben's body. Ben's fingers searched Ray's skin until he found a sticky-wet spot. He rubbed there, and Ray moaned again and sucked harder, waking an echo of arousal in Ben. He shoved his hips against Ray's, and felt Ray's cock straining against him.
Ben raised his fingers to his mouth, to Ray's mouth, to the place where they connected, and Ray's head turned, his mouth seeking Ben's fingers. Ben pressed them inside, and Ray's eyes opened, focusing on Ben's as he licked the semen from Ben's fingertips. Ben held back, watching, for a breath, but he couldn't resist--didn't want to resist--and pressed his mouth awkwardly against Ray's, his tongue sliding into Ray's mouth along with his fingers, seeking out the taste of himself in the taste of Ray. He found it on Ray's tongue, on his own fingertips, and when he couldn't find any more he tore his mouth away, sliding his hand down Ray's side to keep him still. He twisted awkwardly in the small space, licking a path down Ray's body, his mouth moving from one spot to another to taste himself on Ray, bitter-salt and sweat, racing the rush of water over Ray's skin.
Ray's hands, still bound, slid into his hair as he moved lower, pressing him lower still, but Ben was determined to take his own time. He knelt and licked at the crease of Ray's hip, Ray's erection hot and wet against his cheek. He ignored the silent plea of Ray's hands and the sound of Ray's uneven breath above him, licking at Ray's soft skin, pale where the sun never touched. He shifted his hand down to Ray's thigh, and licked the reddened spots where he had held on too hard. He could feel the hardness of the chain against his scalp as Ray's hands moved apart to the limit of their bonds, and he heard Ray say, "Please, Ben, please--" and there no longer seemed to be any merit in waiting.
He curled a hand loosely around the base of Ray's erection, and licked a stripe up the underside. Ray shuddered, and his hands tightened in Ben's hair, grip slipping on the wet strands. The tags jingled almost against Ben's ear, and the taste of Ray was strong on his tongue, but he needed more. He closed his hand around Ray's cock, stroking quickly, almost roughly, as he closed his mouth around the head. Ben heard Ray groan, and closed his eyes as water ran down his face, the world shrinking down to darkness and heat and Ray in his mouth. He stilled his hand and slid his mouth lower, taking one finger in along with Ray's cock, licking and sucking at both. He had his other hand on Ray's belly, and he could feel the straining hardness of muscle there as well, as Ray forced himself to be still. When Ben pulled his wetted finger free, he felt Ray widen his stance, and hummed approvingly around Ray's erection, earning him a jerk of Ray's hips, driving Ray's cock deeper.
Ben's hand slid between Ray's parted thighs, cupping his balls in his palm as his fingers worked further back. He pressed against the perineum, and Ray was startled into another uncontrolled thrust, which he welcomed with a moan. This was what he wanted; Ray, entirely his, entirely given up to this. He shifted his hand down to Ray's hip, and slid his finger further, pressing against Ray's opening and then in, pulling on Ray's hip as he did, but Ray needed no further encouragement. His hands held Ben's head still as his hips rocked steadily between Ben's finger and his mouth, and Ben had only to let himself be used, swallowing around Ray's cock on the downstroke and working his finger steadily inside the tight heat of Ray's ass.
He heard Ray's warning, urgent words somewhere above him, but he only tightened his hand on Ray's hip, holding him close as Ray's cock swelled and jerked in his mouth. He swallowed and swallowed again, savoring Ray's taste, sucking at him until Ray gently pushed his head away.
Ben eased his finger free of Ray and collapsed back on his heels, catching his breath as Ray turned off the water. He heard a metallic jingle, and looked up to see Ray's hand extended to him, all the chain wrapped around one wrist again. He looked up further, to see Ray looking down at him calmly, normally, as though they did this every morning. "Come on," Ray said, beckoning with his hand. "Some of us still need breakfast."
Ben was startled by the laugh that broke from his pleasantly sore throat, and Ray's eyes lit as he grinned brightly back. Ben took the hand held out to him, and pushed himself to his feet.
Ray could hardly remember the last time he'd looked forward to game day so much. Game day would be simpler. Game day would be normal, and not the careful, deliberate normal of every minute he'd spent with Ben since that night, but really normal.
It was, too. He slept over at Ben's, they woke up, showered separately, exchanged exactly one kiss for luck, and drove separately to the arena. All through morning practice, and game day afternoon with the guys and dinner, everything was normal. Ray relaxed, and he could see Ben relaxing too, sinking into the routine and forgetting everything else for a while.
So everything was fine, everything was rolling along, right up until Ray went out for warmups, glanced over to the other side of the ice, and saw Brett Hull wink at him. They were playing the Blues tonight, the fucking Blues, and Ray had forgotten that in his eagerness for the game.
Ray bared his teeth at Hull, his whole body suddenly tensed for the fight, his fists clenching, his heart speeding, and then he turned away, slapping a puck at Eddie that hit him square in the chest.
It was just about the only way he'd be hitting anyone tonight. He reminded himself of that over and over, back in the locker room for Coach's last talk and standing on the bench through the anthem. This was just another game, and Hull was just one of many assholes he wasn't going to square off with this year, and that was that. He was thinking with his brain, not his fists, no matter how loud they got, no matter how good it would feel to lose himself in a fight tonight.
No fighting. He'd promised, and his hands were whole for the first time in years and he was not going to jeopardize any of that, not for a joker like Hull.
He didn't have too much trouble remembering that until the first time Coach threw Ray's line out to match up with Hull's. They lined up shoulder-to-shoulder in the faceoff circle. "Hey, Brando," Hull said, nearly in his ear, "long time no see."
Ray shoved sideways against him, just hard enough, gritting his teeth against the hated nickname and never taking his eyes off the puck in the ref's hand. "Miss me, goldilocks?"
"Oh yeah," Hull shoved back, "nobody's quite as pretty as you."
"Had to come back," Ray agreed, "nobody sucks--"
The puck dropped, and Dewey knocked it straight back to Ray. He got it clear of Hull with a quick move and skated down ice a half stride ahead of him. Ray passed it across to Hue at the first chance, just ahead of Hull's stick. The puck was barely clear before Hull smashed him up against the boards, and for a second Ray could feel all the places he'd hurt tomorrow. He whirled, shaking it off, looking to get back into the play, but Hull was right there, blocking his path. "Come on, Ray-Kay, let's go."
Ray shook his head as he shoved past, his hands tight on his stick, because he could not he could not he could not fight Brett Hull, not right now. The puck came free and Ray chased it down, but Hull was on him, knocking it off his stick and out of the zone. Daz bounced it back in and the play was whistled down, offsides, but Hull was still right on his ass, still yammering in his ear, "Come on, Kowalski, you lost your nerve? Your wrists gone permanently limp on you?"
"Fuck off," Ray gritted out. It wasn't exactly a great comeback, but he managed to skate off fast enough to get to his bench before Hull said anything else, before he got stupider than he could afford to, and that was what counted.
He had tape on his hands. He just had to remember that. His hands were wrapped and taped at the knuckle, and according to the rules, if he fought with tape on his hands and drew blood--and there was no fucking way he was going to fight with Hull and not do his level best to draw some blood--then it wasn't just a fighting penalty, it was intent to injure: mandatory suspension, fine, possible league review, and maybe there was some tiny chance of Coach understanding a regular fight, but he would never come back from that.
Ray sat down on the bench and fiddled with his gloves, but Doc was right behind him, and there was no way to get rid of the tape and gauze on his hands while he was sitting on the bench. So he was going to have to wait for the intermission, sneak the tape off his hands, and then, and then...
Ray clenched his fists on his stick, then forced them to relax, reaching under the bench for a squirt bottle. He tilted his head back to catch a mouthful of Gatorade, and the sleeve of his jersey slid back from his wrist, showing the doubled loop of chain.
Fraser had shortened it with Ray's wire cutters, and tucked Dief's tags away somewhere safe, but Ray was still wearing the chain around his wrist. After a day and a half, he was almost used to it, the slight weight of metal against his skin, slipping on sweat and sliding around.
Twenty thousand people in the building, but he could feel just one looking at him. Ray turned his head and Fraser was there, halfway down the bench, watching the little glint of silver peeking out of his glove. He met Ray's eyes for just a second, and then Coach was shouting a line change, and Fraser was going over the boards. He and Bully must have switched sides, because Fraser was skating straight at Brett Hull.
Brett Hull had the puck; he was a scoring powerhouse, a serious offensive threat. Checking him hard into the boards as soon as he got onto the ice was nothing more nor less than Ben's duty as a defenseman.
Hitting him with enough force to knock him off his feet, and lingering to say, "Let Kowalski alone," as he scrambled back up, that was a matter of personal discretion.
Ben skated off to take up his proper position, a couple of strides out of the crease. The Blues still had possession, and the puck was rocketing around the zone. A pass reached Hull, and he took a shot at the net, but Ben blocked it with his stick, and the puck flew off over the glass. Ben watched its trajectory, but the scrambling of the crowd was only the usual eagerness to catch the puck for a souvenir.
Hull skated up, crashing lightly into him, and said, "What's your problem, Fraser? You don't want me messing with your girlfriend?"
Ben blinked at Hull's taunting smirk. "No," he said, his voice steady and exactly loud enough for Hull to hear, "But I fear that if you won't let Kowalski alone, a fight will inevitably result, and it will not go well for you."
Hull snorted. "I think I know my way around Ray-Kay, thanks."
Ben didn't bother to try to correct Hull's misconception; Coach was waving him off the ice, and he skated to the bench. He stole a quick glance toward Ray, but he was staring down at his hands again.
Ray had promised not to fight this season. He must not. For the sake of his standing on the team, for the sake of his hands, for the sake of... Ben could not stop seeing him, huddled on the floor of a Vancouver hotel bathroom, and though he knew, rationally, that a few blows exchanged with a traditional rival wouldn't reduce Ray to such a state tonight... Ray had spoken once, only a little bitterly, of Coach leading him not into temptation. Tonight, here he was, and Ben could see the temptation in every tightly-strung motion of his body, every look he cast at Hull. Whether Ray thanked him for it or not, it was up to Ben to deliver him from evil.
The match-ups went awry, so that Ben didn't go out on the ice at the same time as Hull for several shifts. Ray did, twice. Ben could only sit and watch as Hull continued to push him, and Ray continued to turn away. Ben could see the effort it was costing him not to fight, the knife-edge of control he maintained over his fury. He looked up once, and Ben caught his eye. Ray gave him a tight, grim smile, and Ben mirrored it.
He was the only one on the bench who understood Ray's predicament. The others were all waiting--eagerly, by the sound of Dewey's voice--for Ray to quit delaying and fight Hull. They expected it; it was tradition, and Ray's prerogative to fight the man who so clearly wanted to fight him. None of them would dream of stepping into the middle. Ben watched Ray swing a leg over the boards and drop into his spot on the bench, his face a studied, neutral mask, all his normal delight in the game utterly vanished, and then he felt a tap on his shoulder. When he looked around, he saw Jeff, leaning over from his seat, the butt-end of his stick still extended toward Ben. Jeff poked him with it again and mouthed, kill him.
Ben's smile turned a fraction more real--he wasn't quite the only one who understood--and he nodded firmly to Jeff before he settled back into place.
A moment later, Coach called out Ray's line for a faceoff against Hull's, with Ren and Ben backing them up on defense. Ben took up his place, but his eyes followed Hull instead of the puck. He took in the actual play from the corners of his eyes, skating and blocking automatically, all his attention on Hull, and all Hull's attention on Ray. The Blues' goaltender stopped a shot, and the play was whistled down. Ray's momentum carried him to the boards in the corner, and Hull was right on his heels, bumping him at the boards. Ray shoved at him and made to skate away, but Hull was moving to follow him.
Ben skated up with the all the force of inevitability, slamming into the tight space between them, knocking Hull back from Ray. He was vaguely conscious that he'd dropped his stick somewhere as he caught Hull's jersey in both hands. "I told you," Ben said, "to let him alone."
Hull stared at him in utter incomprehension, and Ben shoved him roughly, forcing him back a pace along the boards. "What?" Hull said, with an almost insulting degree of disbelief. "You wanna go? You wanna go?"
Ben shoved him back again, loosed his grip enough to drop his gloves and raise his fists. He nodded, and Hull's confusion turned to an amused look as he dropped his own gloves. "Yeah," he said, "All right--"
The instant his hands were up, before he'd even stopped speaking, Ben threw the first punch, connecting with a satisfying smash against Hull's face. He'd braced himself half against the boards, but the blow still pushed them apart, and Hull was knocked nearly off his feet. Ben caught the collar of Hull's jersey in his right hand, dragging him close as he threw a left. Another solid hit, and another, and he was vaguely aware that Hull was landing blows on his body, but nothing was real except this, his flying fist, the blood and the fight and the utter certainty that he was doing the right thing, the only thing he could do.
A black-and-white striped arm intruded into his field of vision, and a hand hooked into his pants hauled him back. Ben went still immediately, allowing the linesman to pull him away from Hull, whose face was dripping blood. He wasn't smiling anymore, and had no witty comeback for this. The Blues' trainer met him on the ice and guided him to the door.
Ben was facing a door himself: the penalty box. He stepped inside, sat down and then noticed for the first time that his jersey and pads were all askew. He pulled his jersey off and stood up, and Ray was standing before him on the other side of the glass, holding Ben's gloves and helmet and stick. The grin on his face was enormous, his blue eyes shining bright with exhilaration. He handed Ben's things over the glass, and Ben's fingers brushed the skin of Ray's wrist, just past the edge of his glove, as he took them from him. "You know you just lost yourself a Lady Byng nomination," Ray called, shouting to be heard over the crowd, which was roaring, all on their feet for him.
Ben felt the smile on his own face matching Ray's, and shouted back, "It doesn't matter. I never win anyway."
Ray barked a laugh and winked, then skated away, and Ben sat down and waited to hear how long he was in for.
Ray had pointed out that he was only high on life, but Fraser just said, "That still doesn't mean I should let you drive," and shoved him toward the passenger door of the truck. Ray couldn't sit still, bouncing in the seat, fiddling with the radio. God, that had been a great game. Fraser had sent Hull running--well, skating very slowly--to the locker room for stitches, and when he came back for the second, he'd kept his big mouth shut. Ray had settled right into the game, put in a goal early in the third that had turned out to the game winner. He was fucking flying, so amped up that kissing Ben in the elevator on the way up to his apartment seemed like a great idea.
Ben kissed him back for just a second, but then his hand was in the collar of Ray's shirt, pushing him back to arm's length. "Hold off," he said, but he was grinning, his eyes bright and dark and his cheeks flushed, "just another minute."
Ray leaned his weight against Ben's hand, which just made Ben grin at him, and then the doors opened and they were both almost running down the hall. Ben had his key out, slammed it into the lock in one smooth motion and threw the door open, shoving Ray through ahead of him.
Ray hadn't even tied his shoes, so he kicked them off as Ben locked the door behind them, shrugging out of his coat and dropping it on the floor as he headed to the bedroom. He tossed his shirt on the floor in the doorway, and Ben caught up with him there. He grabbed Ray by the nape of his neck and the back of his jeans, hauling him in for a kiss, rough and hot and wet. Ray gave as good as he got, reaching around to get hold of the back of Ben's shirt and pulling up. Ben didn't seem to notice what Ray was doing until Ray had the shirt half over his head, and then he broke the kiss, laughing, and struggled out of his shirt while Ray started unbuttoning his jeans.
When Ben got his shirt off, he grinned at Ray and then leaned back against the door frame, undoing his own pants. Ray's hands went stupid and clumsy, at the grin and at the bulge in Ben's pants, so Ben was kicking his jeans off while Ray was still fighting with his stupid, stupid button-fly. He looked down, trying to focus, and then Ben's mouth was on his throat, and Ben's hands batted his aside, and Ben, as it turned out, was good at buttons. Ray tipped his head back and set his hands flat against Ben's chest and muttered, "I knew there was a reason I kept you around," just as Ben's hand slid into his pants.
Ben's hand on his dick went still, and he nipped at Ray's ear. "Just the one?"
Ray turned his head to catch Ben's mouth in a kiss, their tongues thrusting and sliding together as Ray pushed against Ben's hand, resting between his open jeans and his jockeys. He slid one hand down to the front of Ben's boxers, hooking his fingers into the waistband and pulling him closer, close enough to feel the heat of Ben's skin against his own. Ray could feel the moment when Ben forgot all about his mock-annoyance. He tilted his head and deepened the kiss, his hips moving hopefully under Ray's hand as his hand tightened on Ray's hard-on.
At just that moment, Ray broke the kiss and whispered, "It only takes one," and then he snapped the elastic of Ben's boxers, shoving him back with his other hand, and bolted for the bed.
It would have worked just fine, except that Ben managed to give Ray's unbuttoned jeans a good hard yank as he was pulling away. They slid down to his thighs and tripped him up, and he barely managed to twist enough as he went down to land on his ass instead of his face, hands tucked safe against his chest.
The overhead light came on and showed him Ben standing in the doorway, rubbing the skin where Ray had snapped him with one hand, the other still on the switch. Ray tried to glare at him, but he was blinking against the light and it was all he could do not to laugh. Ben cracked a smile and walked over, kneeling between Ray's legs. "These are clearly a hazard," he said, pulling Ray's jeans the rest of the way off. "You'll be much safer without them."
"Yeah," Ray said, and he was only breathless from falling so hard, not because of the way Ben's hand slid down his calf, or the way Ben's eyes never left his jockeys. "I never should've put them on to start with."
Ben looked up at that, all blinking wide-eyed innocence as his hand slid up Ray's bare thigh. "Oh, I don't know," he said, "I'm sure that would have exposed you to other dangers."
Ray totally forgot to breathe, then, because he was thinking about just what kind of danger he might've been exposed to, riding home in Ben's truck without his pants. "Well, you know me. Danger's my middle name. My other middle name."
Ben's fingers slid under the leg of his shorts, and Ben said, "Oh? What's your first middle name?"
Ray blinked, and Ben's fingers were warm, and his hands curled into fists against the floor, but this was, after all, an easy question. "Ray. Raymond. Stanley Raymond Kowalski."
Ben's fingers stopped moving, and he frowned. "Your name really is Stanley?"
Ray frowned back. He coulda sworn they'd been over this before, and this wasn't really the time anyway, but it was a reflex, so he said, "Yeah, my dad's a big Brando fan."
"Mmm," Ben said, dragging his fingers back down Ray's thigh, "There was a film adaptation, wasn't there? I've never seen it." His hand slid up again, spreading on Ray's hip, hot through the thin barrier of his shorts. "You didn't hurt yourself, did you?"
Ray shifted his weight to one side, letting Ben's hand slide under his ass. "You wanna check?"
Ben's mouth flickered into a smile and then straightened out again. "I think I probably should," he said, flexing his fingers on Ray's ass, which felt pretty much like he'd fallen on it. "If you'll just--" He pulled up a little, and Ray let himself be moved. Ben pushed him up and over onto his knees, facing the foot of the bed, and Ray scooted forward until he could fold himself over it, resting his upper body against the perfectly smooth quilt. Ben pulled his jockeys down, and Ray lifted his knees in turn so he could get them all the way off, and then he was just kneeling there, naked but for the chain on his wrist, hard and breathless and waiting.
Ben didn't make him wait long. His big warm hands stroked slowly over Ray's ass, rubbing and pressing here and there, and Ray couldn't hold back a little noise when Ben hit the spot that had taken most of his weight when he fell. Ben seemed to know what he meant by it, and his hands slid away to brace Ray's hips as his mouth touched the spot. Ray jerked away from the touch, his dick seeking some kind of friction, but Ben held him away from the bed. Ben's lips were soft, his breath hot and wet against the sting on his skin and the deeper ache beneath. Ray stopped trying to pull away, pressed his face against the quilt and breathed, and Ben's hands eased back onto his ass, stroking as Ben licked, spreading him open.
Ray felt Ben's breath on him a little ahead of Ben's tongue, and he wasn't even trying to pull away anymore. His hips pressed back as Ben's tongue pushed into him, hot and wet, soft but hard enough for this, hard enough to feel. Ray choked on his breath and his hands clenched in the quilt, pulling it all out of place, pressing the softness against his face to stop the sounds he made. Ben's hands kept moving on him, still nowhere near his dick but the touch was so good Ray almost didn't care--except this wasn't what he wanted. Not all he wanted, anyway.
Ray shifted his weight to one knee and then the other. Years of staying awake in church had taught him how to make kneeling hurt just enough to be distracting, and Ben's carpeting wasn't any more padded than the kneelers at Ste. Therese. Of course, Ben's tongue in his ass was a little more distracting than a priest droning on in French, so it was a couple of minutes before Ray could make a convincingly pained noise loud enough for Ben to hear.
Ben's mouth left him, and Ben said, "Ray?" so close to his skin that Ray could feel his breath on the small of his back, and shivered a little.
"Sorry," Ray muttered, and he was, now that Ben had stopped. "My knees--"
Ben just said "Ah," and kissed Ray right over one kidney, and then his hands were pushing Ray up onto the bed, turning him around to sit on the edge. Ray leaned back, settling in, squirming a little to get the odd sensation in his ass--not the twinge you got from fucking, but--more there than usual. Ben was kneeling at his feet, totally ignoring Ray's dick in favor of his knees, which were sort of red. Ray realized that his plan had not been a complete success just as Ben's mouth came down on his left kneecap, licking at the imprint of the carpeting on his skin. His hand rested on Ray's other knee, and both were moving up, onto his thighs, but glacially slowly.
Ray made a heroic effort and sat up again, leaning forward in one motion and getting his hand on the back of Ben's boxers before Ben could move. He pulled up hard as he threw himself backward, and Ben made a startled noise, and then he was sprawled half on top of Ray, blinking down at him. Ray grinned. "My turn," he said, and sat up, pushing Ben over onto his back. "Come on, scoot."
Ben moved up so he was all the way on the bed, lying on his back, and Ray eased his boxers off him. He was hard, wet at the tip and plenty ready, and Ray was tempted to quit playing and get down to business, but when he looked at Ben's face, he was smiling, waiting to see what Ray would do next, and Ray grinned. He moved to straddle Ben's thighs, careful not to touch but definitely close enough to tease--Ben took a quick deep breath and held it--and set his hands on Ben's belly. "Hull got a few hits in, didn't he?" Ray said softly. "Better make sure he didn't hurt you too bad."
Ben smiled, teeth bright and hard and sharp, and then he said, "I suppose you'd better."
Ray lowered his eyes to Ben's skin. He seemed to shine under the overhead light, except where Ray cast a shadow over him. He didn't have any obvious bruises showing, but Ray ran his fingers across Ben's ribs in symmetrical stripes, pressing just hard enough to get a good feel. He didn't bother watching Ben's face, because he knew it wouldn't show him anything; he saw the flinch in Ben's abs, when he hit the spot just below his ribs on his left side.
Ray dropped down to lay on his side, throwing one leg over Ben's thighs, settling his own dick against Ben's hip but forcing himself to keep still, so still.
Ben had one arm over his eyes, his lips parted to breathe, and Ray reached out his hand to Ben's other arm. He wrapped his fingers around Ben's elbow, his thumb settling into the sweaty-smooth crease. Propping himself up just a little, Ray touched his mouth to the spot that had made Ben flinch, dragging his lips lightly across the soft, hot skin. Ray could feel the tension in the body under him, the effort Ben was putting into keeping still. His legs were shaking with it, the muscle of his forearm clenching and releasing under Ray's fingers, his belly tight, almost vibrating under Ray's tongue. He listened, licking slow broad stripes, as Ben's breath went shallow. When it stopped altogether, he started counting down from ten. At three Ben's hand caught Ray's shoulder, and at one he was pulled up level with Ben and pushed onto his back.
Ben rolled over on top of him, and he was done teasing, his eyes intent, his cock lined up with Ray's. He was thrusting as soon as he was in position, long slow strokes, and Ray groaned and arched up into the contact, the sweet hot friction of Ben's hard-on against his own. Ben's mouth covered his, Ben's tongue thrusting wetly against Ray's as his hand closed around their cocks. Ray slid one hand into Ben's hair, settling the other on Ben's ass, and anchoring himself more firmly as they moved. He sucked at Ben's tongue until Ben gave up a little moan, and then Ray smiled, thrusting up a little harder, raggedly, trying to throw him off his pace. Ben pulled his mouth away a little, so that their lips just brushed, their breath loud between them, and he kept moving slow, steady as a clock, like he wanted this to last, and Ray could get behind that.
He slid his hand up from Ben's ass, over the flexing muscles of his back to his side. Ray felt the little shudder that passed through Ben when his fingers grazed his ribs, and that was as good as an engraved invitation. He slid his hand out of Ben's hair, down to the bed to brace himself, and with the other, he tickled Ben.
Ben jerked and made a weird noise, half a laugh and half a yelp, his eyes wide and startled, and he was totally thrown. Ray flipped him onto his back easy as pie, and crawled up over him, straddling Ben's chest, his knees nearly at Ben's shoulders. Ben blinked up at him. Ray smiled down and settled himself just a little lower, ignoring the burn in his quads, so that his ass just barely brushed against Ben's cock. Ben took a sharp breath and then said, "That was entirely unsportsmanlike, Kowalski."
Ray grinned. "You see a ref in this room, Fraser?"
Ben actually lifted his head and looked around, and Ray waited him out, until he collapsed back on the bed and said, "I see. I must concede."
"Yeah," Ray agreed, folding himself down to drop a kiss on Ben's mouth, "Yeah, you must."
He had to lean and twist to reach the night stand, and when he looked down under himself, Ben was staring up at Ray's dick. Ray grabbed a condom and the lube--bottle was getting sticky, he'd have to buy a new one soon--and knelt up again. He watched Ben's eyes snap from his dick to his hands, his lips parting. Ray shifted back a little further, fitting the cleft of his ass against Ben's cock, and Fraser tilted his head back and closed his eyes, but he didn't move under Ray. Ray lifted back up, out of contact, and opened the condom, and Ben's eyes came open again at the sound of tearing foil. "Gimme a hand here," Ray muttered, and Ben raised his right hand and set it against Ray's chest.
Ray showed his teeth and said, "Hardy ha ha, very helpful," and Ben twitched a little tiny smile at him. Ray pulled Ben's hand down and behind his back, and curled Ben's fingers around the base of his cock. Then he closed his eyes and reached behind him with the condom, biting his lip as he rolled it down. Having a third hand to help almost made up for the weird angle, and Ben's fingers brushed against his and then took over.
Ray opened his eyes to Fraser grinning at him, and Fraser's other hand stroked up and down Ray's thigh. "Not done with you yet," Ray said unsteadily, his throat gone dry from the look in Ben's eyes. He caught Ben's hand again, reaching back this time with the lube. He drizzled it all over Ben's fingers, spreading it around with his own hand, and then leaned up, guiding Ben's hand to his ass. When Fraser's two fingertips pressed against him, Ray tightened his grip on Ben's hand, pulling him in. Ray leaned forward, bracing with his other arm against the headboard, sliding his grip back to Ben's wrist. He could feel Ben's pulse racing under his fingers as Ben's fingers pushed inside him, twisting and stroking, and sweat slid down into Ray's eye as he pulled Ben's fingers out and pressed them back in. Ben's free hand stroked up and down his thigh, and then it closed around his cock and Ray gasped, jerking Ben's fingers roughly out of himself to keep from coming. Ben blinked at him, and Ray bared his teeth, letting go of Ben's hand and reaching back with his own slick fingers to stroke Ben's cock.
Ben's hands went to his hips, steadying him, and Ray closed his eyes and smiled, because Ben knew exactly what he needed. Ray pushed back from the wall, lowering himself on trembling legs, and sat back until he could feel the head of Ben's cock. Another breath, but he couldn't hold the position long, his knees were screaming, and he exhaled and pushed down, pushing himself down onto Ben in one long slide. He tipped his head back and gasped for air; it hurt a little, felt like more from this angle, different, and then Ben's hips bucked beneath him, and Ray gasped, because that was it, right there. Ray bent forward, his hands on Ben's shoulders, his cock pressed against Ben's belly, and a little sound leaked from his mouth as he brushed his lips across Ben's. Ben leaned up to kiss him better, and Ben's hand spread across his back as Ben fucked him in slow, short moves, and then the world flipped upside-down, and when Ray opened his eyes again, Ben was pressing him down into the mattress and his feet were in the air.
Ray opened his mouth and caught half a breath to say, "Fraser, you lied."
Ben pulled out of him, long and smooth and slow, and then slammed back in hard as he said, "Obfuscated."
Ray grinned, reached up and pulled Ben's head down to kiss him. "Lied," he whispered against Ben's lips.
Ben's mouth dragged along his jaw, and Ben said, "Equivocated."
Ray arched up under Ben, baring his throat, gasping for breath, and said the only word he could still remember. "Lied."
Ben's lips dragged down the line of his throat, Ben's tongue pressed into the hollow between his collarbones, Ben's cock moved in and out and in and out, pushing him closer to the edge with every beat of his heart, every breath, and Ben said, "Lied."
Ray met his eyes and laughed until he couldn't anymore, his breath stuttering as he came. Ben held himself still as Ray gasped for breath, and when he started to move again Ray lay still beneath him, totally fucked out but not finished quite yet. He watched through his eyelashes as Ben fucked him, the way his mouth moved as he breathed. Ben looked at Ray's face but then away quickly, and then back again, like it was too much but he couldn't resist. Ray reached up and slid his right hand into Ben's hair, pushing his wrist against Ben's cheek, sliding it back and forth so the chain rubbed against his skin. Ben turned his head, pressing his mouth against the underside of Ray's wrist, his tongue moving over the chain and Ray's skin. Ben's hips jerked hard, and Ray felt the jump of his cock as he came, eyes shut tight, sucking at Ray's wrist.
He pulled out and rolled off Ray, lying on his side, and Ray let his legs collapse onto the bed and then curled onto his side facing Ben, who gave him a vague, sleepy smile.
Ray scooted closer and kissed him, whispering, "Dirty cheater," against his lips.
"Mm," Ben murmured, his eyes fluttering shut already, "have to award you a penalty shot56."
Ray would've pointed out that Ben hadn't actually blocked his scoring opportunity, but it was easier to kiss him again and slip into sleep.
Notes:
42. When a player commits a minor penalty, he is placed in the penalty box for a certain amount of time (most commonly two minutes) and his team is required to play on without replacing him until his penalty expires or until they are scored on. The team with four skaters on the ice is shorthanded or on the penalty kill. The team with five skaters is on the power play. back
43. NHL teams are permitted to have up to 24 players on their roster at any given time, not counting players on injured reserve. However, the team may only dress 20 players (18 skaters and 2 goalies) for each game. A player left out of the lineup despite being physically able to play is known as a healthy scratch. back
44. The drawing of blood is the traditional hockey standard for an injury. This most typically comes into play with high-sticking calls; if the player who was struck can produce blood from e.g. a cut on his face, the penalty is almost automatically doubled from two minutes to four. back
Rule 85: Slashing
Slashing is the act of swinging a player's stick at an opponent, whether contact is made or not.
(NOTE) Non aggressive stick contact to the pant or front of the shin pads, should not be penalized as slashing.
(a) A minor or major and a game misconduct penalty, at the discretion of the Referee, shall be imposed on any player who impedes the progress of an opponent by "slashing" with his stick.
(b) A major and a game misconduct penalty shall be imposed on any player who injure an opponent by slashing.
45. From Chapter XXI of The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, which Ray, reading it in the original French, knew as Le Petit Prince:
"My life is very monotonous," the fox said. "I hunt chickens; men hunt me. All the chickens are just alike, and all the men are just alike. And, in consequence, I am a little bored. But if you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life . I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music, out of my burrow. And then look: you see the grain-fields down yonder? I do not eat bread. Wheat is of no use to me. The wheat fields have nothing to say to me. And that is sad. But you have hair that is the colour of gold. Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me! The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat..."
The fox gazed at the little prince, for a long time.
"Please-- tame me!" he said.
"I want to, very much," the little prince replied.
...
So the little prince tamed the fox. And when the hour of his departure drew near--
"Ah," said the fox, "I shall cry."
"It is your own fault," said the little prince. "I never wished you any sort of harm; but you wanted me to tame you..."
"Yes, that is so," said the fox.
"But now you are going to cry!" said the little prince.
"Yes, that is so," said the fox.
"Then it has done you no good at all!"
"It has done me good," said the fox, "because of the color of the wheat fields."
[Source: korczak.com] back
46. J'deteste: I hate. back
47. Benton Fraser played very little street hockey growing up, but, due to the vagaries of room sharing, had seen Wayne's World six times. back
48. Tu t'es fait fourré ey'ton éguisé l'pinceau au lieu des patins: You sharpened your dick instead of your skates! (The first sentence of French that Ray Kowalski learned to speak with reasonable fluidity after moving to Montreal.) back
49. Un biere: A beer. back
50. Original Six: The collective term for the six teams (the Boston Bruins, Chicago Blackhawks, Detroit Red Wings, Montreal Canadiens, New York Rangers, and Toronto Maple Leafs) which have been NHL frachises continuously since the league's inception in 1926. back
51. The only player who may legally be checked is the one carrying the puck, or--to allow for the effects of momentum--the player who most recently handled the puck. A sufficiently late hit on a player who has already passed the puck ought to result in a penalty being called. back
52. Hat trick: Three goals scored by the same player in a single game. back
53. Bantam: Youth hockey for boys ages 13-14. back
54. "The Hockey Sweater," by Roch Carrier. This short story was released in Carrier's original French and in Sheila Fischman's English translation in 1979, and is regarded as one of the most important literary works to address Canada's linguistic divide. back
55. Lines 220-225 from Book II of John Milton's Paradise Lost. [Source: bartleby.com] back
96. Deke: Fake out, out-maneuver. Patrick Roy: for several years, the best goalie in the NHL. Also either crazy or very French-Canadian or both. back
56. Penalty shot: "One of the most exciting and rare plays in hockey occurs when an offensive player is tripped from behind and denied a breakaway scoring opportunity, when the goaltender deliberately displaces the goal post during the course of a breakaway or when a defensive player falls on and holds the puck in his own crease. The puck is placed at center ice and the offensive player is allowed to move in alone on the goaltender for a free shot." [Source: bluejackets.com] back