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“Getting a drink, you want one?!” Swoops shouted, barely able to hear his own voice over the noise of the club.
“What?!” Carl yelled back.
“DRINK!”
“WHAT?!”
Swoops mimed drinking, his left hand cupped in a c.
“OH!” Carl shouted. “NAH.” He said something else too, but it was lost under the rushing current of the club’s music.
Jeff gave up and shouldered his way off the dancefloor. Or tried to. Jeff Troy, at 6’3” and 220lbs was pretty good at making his presence known on and off the ice. But even he could barely get two steps towards the bar before he was blocked off, or redirected, or literally pulled back onto the dancefloor. Some of the faces around him were familiar - his teammates, their dates, the occasional B-list celebrity - and some weren’t. Young women with freshly-applied lipstick and hair made thick by humidity, looking at him like he was food. Young men with hipster beards and hundred-dollar t-shirts stained dark with sweat. A haze of body heat hang in the air. Lights darted across the dancefloor, that skittish, frenetic lighting that seems specifically designed so that Jeff could barely see his own hand in front of his face. The club was an obstacle course, made hazardous by sensory overload and that fourth rum-and-coke. Jeff extracted himself from one young woman and her wandering hands. He skirted the entwined form of Scraps and his date, both insensible to anyone around them, and finally he flat out walked right through a small circle of dancers at the edge of the crowd, one of whom he recognized as one of the lesser Kardashians.
Jeff reached the bar at last, grateful for the cooler air. Making eye contact with the bartender, he called his order and the woman nodded, setting off to throw his drink together. Jeff twisted around and leaned against the bar, surveying the rest of the club. Across the room, a DJ was set up on a raised platform, a digital desk and three Macbooks arrayed on all sides of her. A song blasted from the speakers, which Jeff thought he recognized, but it’d been twisted with layers of synthetic beats and vocal distortion. The bartender returned with Jeff’s drink and waved off his attempt to pay, “it’s covered!” she shouted.
Of course. Because some moron sank his card behind the bar for the whole club tonight. Through a gap in the crowd, Jeff caught a glimpse of the moron in question.
Kent was dancing with abandon right at the middle of the dancefloor, his golden hair unmistakable even in this light. He looked like a fucking adonis. A god among mortals. The music shifted seamlessly into a new beat, a frothy pop song Jeff definitely recognized. The crowd swelled as the lights burst with renewed vigour. Kent threw his hands up, literally jumping with joy, and Jeff felt something in his chest twist and expand. Fuck.
He took a long swig of his drink.
A smile tugged on Jeff’s lips as Kent swayed along to the electronic beat. Around him, Kent had a small gaggle of hangers on, men and women both, clearly just wanting to bask in his glory for a moment. Jeff could relate.
He took another long drink.
Then, as though Kent could feel Jeff’s eyes on him from across the room, Kent looked up and over at him. Their eyes locked. Suddenly, Jeff was finding it difficult to breathe.
Listen, Jeff had been with Kent through every moment of the past two years. He’d been called up from the American League at the start of Kent’s rookie season and they’d been more or less inseparable since. They’d stumbled into living together and never bothered to move out. They sat together on the Aces plane, their stalls were next to each other, they were roadie roomies. Jeff didn’t know much about relationships, but he figured there were actual married couples who spent less time together. He’d seen Kent at his best and his worst. He’d seen Kent spitting mad and bleeding. Seen him giddy and flushed with victory. Seen him mock outraged as Jeff snapped a terrible candid and threw it onto twitter. He’d seen Kent talking to the press, and to his deadbeat piece-of-shit dad, and to terminally ill kids. Once, when he’d thought he was alone, Jeff saw Kent crying with sobs that raked through his whole body and left him doubled over in pain. More times than he would like, Jeff had seen Kent lurch awake from a screaming nightmare, sweat-soaked and shivering.
The point was this: nine times out of ten, Jeff could keep his shit together. Nine times out of ten, Kent was just Kent: his teammate, his roommate, and his best friend. But nothing else.
This was not one of those times.
The look in Kent’s eyes was unmistakable. It spoke of dark corners, of lips finding exposed skin, of hands slipping under clothes. It spoke of sex. It was an invitation and a dare and suddenly Jeff’s skin felt far too tight for his body. With a tremor in his hand, Jeff set his glass down. He sank a twenty into the bartender’s tip jar for good luck, and pushed off from the bar. Still holding Kent’s gaze, Jeff took a step forward. Slowly, deliberately, he licked his lips. At the sight, something delicious sparked in Kent’s eyes. Then he disappeared behind a crowd of people passing toward the bar. Jeff kept walking towards him anyway. But the few steps from the bar to the dancefloor gave him entirely too much time to over-think. There were so many things that could go wrong. So many things to worry about. And because Jeff’s brain hated him, it drew up a list.
- Thing the Bad: Neither of them have ever addressed it, the thing between them. The long glances, the lingering hands. At best, the hockey world operated on an aggressive don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy. Everyone had wedged their closet door shut and covered all the cracks with duct tape. Even Kent. Maybe especially Kent. But if this went sideways, Kent could still get by on movie-star charisma and the softest hands in the NHL. Jeff has nothing to fall back on. He’s not charming, he’s not especially good-looking, he’s not a future hall-of-famer. If he’s disgraced, he’ll just be a disgrace.
- Thing the Worse: A terrible, gnawing sadness has been eating at Kent for years. He hides it well, most of the time. Even Jeff, for all the time he spends with Kent, has seen it only in the barest of glimpses. But if he lets himself fall into Kent’s come-hither eyes… well. Jeff’s not sure Kent can be trusted with his heart.
- Thing the Worst: Jeff could be misreading this entire situation. He could be propelling himself headlong into something awful and humiliating and which could, conceivably, ruin his career and in fact his life.
Then the crowd parted. And Kent was right there, hips moving to the music. He saw Jeff and beamed and Jeff doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care.
Kent didn’t try to speak as Jeff approached him. It wouldn’t do any good anyway, with the speakers cranked so loud that Jeff could feel the bass in his bones. They just danced. Jeff made no claim at being a dancer. He’s got decent wheels, but off the ice he’s heavy on his feet and lacks any sense of rhythm. Still, it’s impossible to feel awkward around Kent, with his easy smiles and loose hips.
Minutes, or hours, or days could have passed.
Jeff lost track of the people around them, of the music, of their teammates, of everything but Kent. Before he knew what happened, Kent had inched towards him, or maybe Jeff had been the one to move forward first. He was exquisitely aware of his own hands, as he moved them in short, swaying movements (his best approximation of dancing). The space between the back of his hand and Kent’s upper thigh felt hot and electric. Kent’s lowered his own hands and they’re close, so close, to Jeff’s. An inch of space. A centimeter. Less. Who’s moved? Jeff had no idea anymore, but it didn’t matter because his skin was on fire and he felt lightheaded.
Still, the need for plausible deniability was like a thick curtain between them. On all sides, people danced and ground up against each other. Jeff was bumped and jostled on all sides, pressed close by other bodies, but none of them mattered but Kent. Kent, who he had not touched. Kent, who he must not touch.
Why is he doing this to himself? What is the point of flirting with this line? They couldn’t cross it. Not while they lived together, not while they played on the same team, and certainly not in the middle of a crowded club in downtown Vegas.
Jeff hissed out a curse, “Fuck.” It was swallowed up by the music, not even loud enough for Kent to hear, as close as he was.
What might have happened if Jeff had hesitated one moment longer? He would never know. He moved back as Kent moved forward. Kent’s hands, raised to hip-level, grasped nothing but air as Jeff pushed back, not caring about the toes he stamped on behind him.
He couldn’t look at Kent, couldn’t risk finding anything at all in his expression: hurt, or confusion, or understanding. All of them would be unbearable. So he just ran. Turned and walked away, shouldering his way through the crowd with a lot more aggression than needed, eager to be anywhere but here. Jeff followed the signs for the exits and eventually emerged into the Vegas air. Smokers were leaning against the wall on one side of the club, behind a velvet rope. On the other side, a long line of people were waiting to get in.
Hesitating, Jeff moved to the smoking section, and edged his way along the wall until he could lean against the brick exterior of the club and get his breath back. The fuck is he supposed to do now? He can’t go back in there. He can’t look at Kent. He should just go home. Go home and hope that Kent found someone else to take to bed. The idea of listening to Kent bring someone else to their apartment made bile rise into the back of Jeff’s throat, but he swallowed it down. If he was going to chicken out, he couldn’t very well hold it against Kent if he found someone else braver. Maybe Kent would at least show him the mercy of going to that guy’s house instead.
“Hey. What’re you doing out here?”
Jeff twisted around to find Kent leaning beside him against the brick wall.
“Hey,” Jeff replied. “Just a bit of air, you know.” He was suddenly grateful that he’d pinned his hands behind his back. It saved him having to worry about what to do with them.
On Kent’s other side, a small gaggle of women were smoking against the wall. They keep casting glances over their shoulder at Kent. The Kent: local hero, face of a franchise, and their benefactor for the evening’s debauchery. Kent noticed them and looked over one shoulder. He winked at them, sending them blushing and darting back inside.
Jeff smiled, his heart aching with affection. How does he get away with this crap? In front of a camera, Kent sparkled in designer suits and thousand-dollar shades. Before a game he burst with energy and charisma. After a win he was euphoric, strung out on adrenaline and joy. After a loss, he’d be self-effacing and gracious. He knew every member of the scrum by name, he asked after their partners, he signed stuff for their kids. He was a once-in-a-generation talent with a personality to match.
Meanwhile, Jeff was a solid second pairing D who will probably be traded before his contract expires next year.
Kent’s eyes locked on Jeff’s, his expression careful and guarded. “Are you okay?”
No. “Yeah.” I don’t know what to do. “Of course.”
“Because what happened back there-”
“Yeah, look-”
“I didn’t mean to-”
“No, I know- I.” Jeff stopped, forced himself to breathe. He looked Kent in the eye, and he hoped Kent could see the regret in them. “I can’t.”
Kent nodded, like this is what he was expecting. “Don’t worry, I get it.”
“Kent-“
“Really I’m not-“
“I just-“
“I’m sorry,” they said in unison.
And that would be it. They would go back to pretending. Pretending that nothing happened, that they weren’t crawling out of their skin with want. That they were straight. This was his fault, Jeff knew. If he reached out, if he unpinned one of his hands from behind his back, and leapt… If he were braver, maybe. But he wasn’t, so there was nothing left to say.
“Hey, you sure know how to throw a party,” Jeff told him, trying desperately to find sold footing.
Flushed, bright-eyed and impossibly sexy, Kent grinned. “What’re performance bonuses for, if not to throw a really great Fourth of July party?”
Jeff smiled, his heart twisting. “Happy birthday, Kent.”