Hockey Holidays Read online

  “Okay, so do I get an advantage since you totally tanked that simple trick yesterday?” Shaun skated at my side as I made a couple passes.

  “A good friend would have forgotten that,” I said as we sailed past the sin bin, skates gliding over ice, the sound as familiar to me as my own pulse. I stopped at the home net.

  “Hard to forget.” He reached out and pressed his cold thumb to my bottom lip. The pressure of his finger was pain/pleasure, sending a jagged bolt of lust to my balls. When his thumb slipped off, I missed it. “So, yeah, hockey. Woohoo. I think you should not be able to use your stick.”

  “Fine.” I turned and laid my fat paddle on the top of the net then plunked my helmet on my head. “I can block your shots blindfolded.”

  Shaun’s mouth dropped open. Then he grinned wickedly and skated to center ice.

  “Wait. I have to work the ice.”

  “Really? You’re doing that silliness with a one-on-one game?”

  I folded my arms over my chest, catcher resting on my pectoral, blocker tight to the roaring Cougar on my sweater.

  “Ice prep is not silly.” I started plowing up the ice with my skates while Shaun stood at the red line and complained about goalies being weird and hung up on routines. Smiling to myself, I took a long time getting the ice in the crease just so.

  “Dude!”

  “Okay, stop shouting.” I settled into my butterfly stance, bringing my catcher mitt up. Not having my stick in my right hand was unsettling. Losing your stick in a game makes you feel vulnerable in a way. But, I’d been cocky, so playing without a stick was my payback.

  “Can I shoot now?”

  “If you remember how.”

  The slap shot hit me dead center of the chest. It stung, nothing like a slap shot from McGarrity or Kalinski. Victor had a slap shot that would knock the air out of your lungs if it hit you right. Good thing he was a coach, and his time on ice was limited to showing players what to do. I’d have a permanent bruise if he were on the ice shooting at me all the time.

  I threw the puck back at him. He skated out, took the puck back to center ice, and drew back for another slap shot.

  “Okay, you suck,” Shaun shouted after we’d done that like ten times.

  “No, I do not suck. You suck. You’re not aiming over my shoulder or between my legs. You’re hitting the emblem.” I slapped the big cougar on my sweater. “I’ll block that shot every time. Try coming at me and being slippery.”

  I reached back for my stick. Shaun picked up the puck at the red line and raced at me, telegraphing his intention to shoot left a second before he did. I got my blocker up and the puck bounced off it. I kicked it away.

  “You’re easy as a Dick and Jane primer to read,” I chirped as he sailed behind my net.

  “Least I didn’t fall on my face,” he replied then lost his edge and went down like a bag of rocks, the puck rolling one way and his stick skittering across the ice. “Fuck karma, I mean it.”

  I howled at him lying there on the ice, his helmet strap dangling free.

  After that, things got a little more serious, at least competition wise. Shaun got some decent shots in and excelled at trying to sneak in a wraparound, but he was so blatant that I was a move ahead of him for the hour we were on the ice.

  “Okay, I admit it, you are a better hockey player than I am.” Shaun collapsed onto the away bench, sprawling out to lay down on it, arms dangling, helmet on the floor, hair soaking wet and lying flat on his head.

  “I hope so since I kind of do this for a living.” I sat down by his head, took off my mask, and plunked it down on the bench to my right. “You’re better on a snowboard than me.”

  “I hope so since I kind of do that for a living.”

  We spent a few minutes there, relaxing and catching our breath. Well, Shaun was catching his breath. I’d not really worked too hard dealing with only one skater who only put on skates once every two years.

  “Okay, so, we stop at the shop to do Grandma’s stuff, and then we go home and watch Jabberjaw while eating leftovers. How does that sound?”

  Shaun tipped his head back to look at me. Man, he was cute, even when he was sweaty. In a way, the sweat added to his appeal.

  “Dibs on the stuffing,” I said.

  “You always dib the stuffing.”

  “Your mom makes amazing stuffing.”

  “Truth.”

  Ten minutes later we were headed out the door, backing out to be honest, thanking Gus for the ice time and promising him some Cougars merchandise when I got home. It was a little after nine at night and the streets of Liberty were deserted. Christmas Day in this town meant every store was closed, so our neighbors were home with their families.

  We parked in front of the quilt shop, and Shaun unlocked the front door then relocked it after we were in. Not that crime was a big problem in Liberty.

  “I keep telling her she needs a better security system,” Shaun said, flicking on a small light over the register in the corner. The shop was packed with bolts of fabric, ceiling to floor, shelves and shelves of them. There were racks of that held more bolts all over the place, so walking through the store was always this kind of jig and dance, turn left, turn right, do-si-do, and do not spin your partner round and round.

  “Good luck with that,” I replied, padding to the tables by the front window to gather up several bolts of holiday material in my arms. Shaun joined me, and I handed mine to him and picked up eight more. A couple trips should do it. Then we could go to Shaun’s parent’s house and vegetate while enjoying Jabber and the gang. Sounded like a perfect way to end a perfect day.

  “I know, but come on, someday some tourist punk kid is going to break in just to be a dick.”

  “Probably.” There was no arguing that fact. “Still, I don’t see her installing anything without a fight.”

  “That’s all truth. Watch the steps down, okay?” He kicked open the cellar door which sat behind the register. The hinges cried out. “They’re old and super steep.”

  “I remember.”

  I led, going down only after Shaun had hit the light switch with his elbow. The basement was dry, wide, and filled with material, sewing stuff, and a couple old sewing machines on equally old sewing machine stands. It always smelled a little off down here or something. Not super gross but just off. Dusty and dank. Like old dirt or something.

  We stacked the bolts on a table, filled our arms with Valentine’s material, and climbed back up the stairs. We did that four times. On the final trip down, we paused and looked at each other across the long folding table heaped high with holiday colors.

  “You think we’re ugly corporate types, hauling out Valentine’s Day stuff when Christmas isn’t even over yet?” I enquired.

  “You know those quilting ladies. They like to get a head start.”

  “Guess so.”

  “Remember the last time we were down here?”

  I shoved at a bolt trying to slip off the mound then looked at Shaun. “Like four minutes ago? Yeah.”

  “No, not that time before. The time before two years ago.”

  “Oh.”

  The lonely naked bulb by the stairs threw Shaun into all kinds of shadow. It worked for him, giving his lush mouth and cheekbones some alluring valleys and accents.

  “I was so happy then. Like, floating on air. I’d told my parents that I was gay, and they were so cool about it. And then you pulled into town with all your goofy smiles and those cute ears, and all the Hanna-Barbera love, and I got swept into the feelings that I’d been carrying around for you.”

  “Got to love Jonny,” I nervously joked, plucking at my Jonny Quest t-shirt.

  Shaun came around the table. I stood my ground; the dry and dank air now ripe with heat and want. You could taste desire filling the cellar, feel it.

  “I made a move and kissed you. You were so stiff, so scared, and I knew as soon as I’d done it that I’d ruined things for us.”

  “No, you didn’t. I was just