Chapter Five
Ryan wrapped his hand around the other man’s arm, pulling him close in a firm grip. He dipped his head, and brought his lips close to the man’s ear.
“You sure you wanna do this, kid?”
When Ryan pulled back, he could see the fear in the young man’s eyes.
Hell, he could smell it coming off him in waves.
“F-fuck you,” the man spat out.
So Ryan punched him across the jaw. And the crowd went wild.
Ryan had hoped the one punch would do the trick, and the younger player would fall to the ice. Then the refs could step in and break it up, the kid would get to say he fought Ryan Price, and Ryan wouldn’t have to hurt this rookie too badly.
But the kid didn’t go down. Instead, he pulled back his right fist and hit Ryan in the shoulder, which probably hadn’t been where he’d been aiming, because Ryan could hear his knuckles cracking against the hard plastic of his shoulder pad.
The kid—a twenty-two-year-old rookie for Minnesota named Corkum— stared in horror at his own fist for a second, and then turned his wide eyes to Ryan’s face. Ryan sort of shrugged and gave him an apologetic look before landing a second punch to the right side of his face.
This time, Corkum hit the ice. Ryan made a show of covering him with his much larger body and pulling his arm back as if he might hit him again.
He wouldn’t—the kid was turtling now, and Ryan would never hit a guy in that position—but he wanted to get the ref’s attention.
It worked. In a moment, one of the linesmen was roughly hauling Ryan off of Corkum. The crowd was chanting now as Ryan was ushered to the
penalty box.
“Pay. The. Price.”
Ryan hated that chant. Truly, and deeply despised it. It had followed him from his junior hockey days to the eight different NHL teams he had played
for, and now to his ninth team.
“Pay. The. Price.”
He settled into the box, took his helmet off, and shook out his long, sweaty hair.
“I was starting to miss you,” the penalty box attendant joked. Gerald was in his sixties, and chattier than most of the attendants around the league.
Ryan would know; he was very familiar with them.
“You’re going to be expecting a proposal soon, I’ll bet,” Ryan said. “All this time alone together.”
Gerald laughed, but Ryan found himself wondering how many hours of his own life had been spent in penalty boxes. How many days, if he added up all the two-minute and five-minute intervals.
Well, less than Gerald. Maybe.
When the crowd had settled down, and the play was underway, Ryan heard Corkum yelling at him from his own penalty box. “Hey, Price!”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks!” Corkum was beaming, and flushed like he’d just had the best sex of his life. Ryan snorted and shook his head.
“You made his night!” Gerald said cheerfully.
“He’s an idiot,” Ryan grumbled. He grabbed a water bottle and squirted it over his head, then finger-combed his damp hair, pulling it away from his face before putting his helmet back on. It wasn’t unusual for young players to challenge him to fights; Ryan was known to be one of the toughest fighters in the league. A youngster could quickly earn a little respect by challenging him. It was probably Ryan’s least favorite kind of fight, though.
The last thing he wanted to do was truly hurt someone, so he had to concentrate on pulling his punches, and making sure they didn’t land on the guy’s temple or his nose or eyes. At six-foot-seven and almost two hundred and sixty pounds, Ryan was usually the biggest guy on the ice, so evenly matched fights were rare.
Ryan inspected his left hand before putting his gloves back on. He’d probably have a bit of bruising on his knuckles, but nothing serious. He was more concerned about the fact that his back had been bothering him again.
He glanced up at the clock. He doubted he’d see more ice time tonight; his team was up by two goals with a little over eight minutes left to play, and he had done his job for the night.
When the five minutes were up and play had stopped, Gerald opened the door to let Ryan out of the penalty box. He quickly made his way to the
Toronto bench, where he wedged himself between his defensive line mate Marcel Houde and Wyatt.
“Good fight, Pricey,” Marcel said halfheartedly when Ryan sat next to him.
“Thanks.” Ryan didn’t mind the lack of enthusiasm; it hadn’t, truthfully, been a good fight. But fighting was all his teammates expected of him, and if he didn’t get perfunctory acknowledgments for punching people, Ryan would never hear praise at all.
“Who do you think the stars will be?” Wyatt asked with a grin.
“I don’t know. Maybe—”
“I mean,” Wyatt continued, “obviously the first star of the game will be me, but who will the second star be?”
Ryan laughed. “You and me, buddy. One and two.”
Wyatt shook his head. “I’m one, the Zamboni is two. You’re three.”
“I’ll take it,” Ryan said. The game was now into its final minute, and Ryan realized he was in a good mood. His team was going to win at home, and it would be days before he inevitably started worrying about the next flight he needed to board.
The game ended and Ryan joined his teammates on the ice in celebration.
Wyatt, in his ball cap and clean, dry uniform, had launched into his usual routine. “Whoosh, that was a tough one, boys. Couldn’t have done it without me! Where are we drinking?”
The celebration continued into the locker room. Ryan sat in his stall in one corner and quietly removed his gear as his teammates whooped and hollered and made plans for later that night.
It was Wyatt who thought to ask him. Of course.
“You comin’ out with us?” Wyatt, who hadn’t played and thus hadn’t needed a shower, was already dressed in a dark gray suit, ready to leave the arena.
“Oh, uh, I think I’m gonna head home, actually. I...” Ryan didn’t finish his sentence because he didn’t want to tell Wyatt about his plans. He had decided to go to see Fabian’s show that night. He had been wrestling with the idea all week, and he’d finally decided that his desire to see Fabian perform outweighed his anxiety about going out.
Thankfully, Wyatt didn’t require an explanation. He wouldn’t have been expecting Ryan to accept his invitation anyway. Ryan was sure of that. “See you Monday, then,” Wyatt said. “Have a good day off.”
“Right. Okay. You too.”
Ryan needed to hurry. It was already after ten o’clock. He took the fastest shower ever, and cursed the rule about wearing suits out of the arena after games. He wouldn’t have time to stop at home to change; as it was he needed to haul ass to the club and hope he hadn’t missed Fabian’s set entirely.
When Ryan arrived at the Lighthouse, Fabian was already onstage, but it looked like he was just setting up. The room was quite full, which was good for both the charity the concert was raising money for, and for Ryan, because he would rather Fabian didn’t see him. He didn’t want anyone to see him, really. Especially since he was wearing a full suit, which made him stick out even more than he would have anyway. Everyone in the room was dressed casually, but in a way that suggested their outfits had been carefully put together. He saw everything from button-up shirts with loud prints on them, to overalls, to plain white T-shirts and skinny jeans. Definitely no other suits, though.
He stood at the back of the dark room, mindful of his size and not wanting to block anyone’s view, and watched Fabian fiddle with a complicated-looking setup that included several floor pedals, a laptop, and a keyboard. He could also see Fabian’s violin case on the floor behind him.
Fabian moved quickly and efficiently between each of the components, occasionally chatting with people in the audience near the stage. Ryan saw him smile and laugh, and he was struck by how surreal it was to see him again as a beautiful and confident adult.
And that was before Fabian was even performing.
The first song started with a simple drum track that Fabian played from his laptop. To that he added layers of music from the keyboard, which he seemed to record and loop using the floor pedals. When he was satisfied with how that sounded, he would add another layer, building a wall of sound all by himself. He moved away from the laptop and keyboard, and picked up his violin, and when he stepped in front of the microphone, Ryan felt like the wind had been knocked right out of him. Fabian stood, alone, under the stage lights in a black, transparent shirt, sleek black pants, and several sparkling necklaces. He was also wearing dramatic makeup—Ryan
could tell, even from the back of the room—and it all made him look like a mythical creature or an angel.
Ryan may have gasped a little when Fabian brought the bow to the violin and played the first notes. Ryan had loved listening to him devotedly practice his instrument as a teenager, and hearing it again now was bewildering. The slow, dreamy melody was recorded and looped with the pedals, and then Fabian rested the violin and its bow at his sides, one item in each hand. He turned to the mic, closed his eyes, and sang.
It was the most beautiful thing Ryan had ever heard; haunting in a way that sent sparks dancing down Ryan’s spine and into his abdomen. Fabian’s voice was kind of soft and high, but also clear and confident. The music could probably be called pop, but it was so complex that Ryan wasn’t sure it fit any category. Fabian’s lyrics were cryptic, but they were also unmistakably sexy. Ryan couldn’t quite follow the story of the song, but he definitely felt every word.
He held his breath, not wanting to make even the faintest sound that might compete with this perfect gift Fabian was giving the audience. Ryan couldn’t believe this was actually happening in front of him and that there were people in the world who were not here witnessing what was surely humanity’s most impressive achievement.
The song ended, the audience erupted into cheers, and Ryan, gobsmacked, nearly forgot to clap. And then he realized that was only the first song.
“Thank you,” Fabian said quietly, as if he hadn’t just done something completely amazing. “This next song is new. I haven’t named it yet, but I wanted to try it out tonight, if that’s all right with you.”
There was scattered applause and a few whoops of appreciation. Ryan had considered, as he’d been walking to the club, just staying for a song or two, but there was no way he was going anywhere now. He stood, barely moving, for however long it took Fabian to finish his set. Thirty minutes?
Forty? Ryan had no idea how much time had passed because he was transfixed. When the last song finished, Fabian sort of half bowed and blew kisses at the crowd.
The show was over, and Ryan should leave, but now he really wanted to talk to Fabian. Just to tell him how much he had enjoyed the show. Fabian hopped off the stage and Ryan lost sight of him for a while. He considered getting a beer, or maybe finding a table to sit at, now that some of the
people were starting to clear out. Instead, he leaned back against the wall and stared at the floor for a few minutes, just to keep himself from obsessively scanning the crowd for Fabian.
It was probably twenty minutes later when Ryan saw Fabian standing alone next to an empty table, drinking from a bottle of water. Ryan decided this was his chance, and took a step toward him. He ran a hand quickly over his beard, hoping he looked all right.
He stopped in his tracks when he saw a man wrap his arms around Fabian. Fabian beamed at the man, and kissed him quickly on the mouth.
The man was stocky, with skin slightly darker than Fabian’s, and he was wearing a stylish outfit complete with dark-rimmed glasses. He was cute.
And of course Fabian had an adorable boyfriend.
The man’s hand stayed on Fabian’s arm as they chatted. Possessive, Ryan thought. He didn’t blame him. But he did hate him a little.
Jesus. What the hell gave him the right to think badly of Fabian’s boyfriend? Ryan didn’t know the guy. Ryan didn’t know Fabian. Ryan needed to get out of this bar. He didn’t belong here. This was why he never went anywhere. This was why he was so fucking lonely. He was about to turn away when Fabian suddenly locked eyes with him.
Shit.
Fabian’s face broke into a smile, and he gently tapped the other man’s arm before making his way to Ryan.
“I thought that was you,” Fabian said. He was still smiling—a full, delighted smile that showed his teeth. Ryan realized his own mouth was just sort of hanging open, like a dead fish.
“Hi. I, um, was just—you mentioned you were playing here. Tonight.
When we were talking last week. In the, um...”
Fabian stepped closer. “I remember. I didn’t expect you to actually
come.”
“Sorry. I probably shouldn’t have—”
“No! No, I’m glad you’re here. It’s...really sweet. Actually.”
“Oh.”
“I perhaps should have been clearer about the dress code.” Fabian’s gaze swept over Ryan’s light gray suit, and his lips twisted into a teasing smile.
“I came straight from the arena. I didn’t have time to change. I know I
look ridiculous.”
“Not at all.”
For a few seconds, they stood in silence, and Ryan wanted to both run away, and to reach out and touch his fingers to Fabian’s gorgeous face.
Standing as close as they were, Ryan could now clearly see the artistry of his makeup; Fabian’s eyelids were painted in smoky layers of black and silver, and there was an iridescent shimmery powder on his face that
highlighted his sharp cheekbones.
“Did you enjoy the show?” Fabian asked.
Fuck, Ryan. How rude are you? “Holy god. Yeah, it was unreal. You are...really good.”
Fabian pressed his lips together, then said, “Thank you.”
Ryan wanted to say more, but he couldn’t find the right words to describe how incredible Fabian’s music had been. So instead he said, “Well, I should let you get back to—”
“Come sit with us,” Fabian interrupted. “You can meet my friends. I have
drink tickets. What can I get you?”
“Oh. You don’t have to—”
“Come on. You can tell me some more about how great I was.”
Ryan laughed at that. “Okay.”
Fabian led him back to the man he’d been hugging, and kissing, and touching a few minutes ago. “This is my friend, Tarek. He lives with my other friends, Vanessa, who is here...somewhere...and Marcus, who isn’t here because he’s working tonight.”
Friend. “Nice to meet you, Tarek.” Ryan extended his hand. “Ryan.”
Tarek’s face clearly expressed that he had no idea who Ryan was, but not in a rude way. “Ryan,” he repeated back as he shook his hand.
“Ryan used to live with my family,” Fabian explained. “When we were both seventeen.”
“Oh!” Understanding dawned on Tarek’s face. “You’re a hockey player!”
“Yeah.” Ryan fiddled with the button on his suit jacket, and wished for the millionth time that he’d had time to change.
“Do you still play?” Tarek asked politely.
Ryan wasn’t famous, exactly, but it was unusual for him to be speaking to anyone who didn’t know who he was. Unusual, and kind of nice, to be meeting people who had no expectations about him. “I play for the Guardians. For now, at least. I get traded a lot.” God. Shut up, Ryan.
“That must be tough,” Tarek said, and he sounded truly sympathetic. “I moved a lot as a kid. It sucks.”
Ryan nodded. “It does.” He desperately tried to think of something to ask Tarek, but was spared when a woman attacked Fabian with the kind of hug that was normally reserved for game-winning goals.
“Fabian! That was so fucking good!”
Ryan couldn’t see Fabian’s reaction, because his face was covered by the woman’s voluminous, curly blond hair. She turned her head to look directly at Ryan, without letting go of Fabian. “Wasn’t that incredible?”
“Yeah,” Ryan replied. “Amazing.”
She released Fabian and turned fully to face Ryan. “Who are you?”
The question was so blunt, it startled a laugh out of him. “Uh, Ryan.
Just...we used to, ah...”
“Hi, Ryan! Are you a fan of Fabian’s?”
“I, um...”
Fabian came to his rescue. “This is Vanessa, by the way. She’s kind of a lot.”
“Definitely true,” she agreed. “I like the suit.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
“What can I get you, Ryan?” Fabian asked, tilting his head toward the
bar.
“You don’t have to—”
“A beer? I’m going to guess beer.”
There was a quirk to Fabian’s lips that let Ryan know he was being playful. Ryan answered in kind. “You shouldn’t make assumptions about people.”
Vanessa punched Fabian’s arm. “That’s right. You should know better.
Ryan, I happen to know that the bartender tonight makes the most amazing lemon drop martinis. Give me the drink tickets, Fabe. You stay and keep your friend company.”
Fabian fixed a look on Vanessa’s face that probably said a lot of things that Ryan couldn’t translate, and handed her a strip of paper tickets. “I’ll have one of those martinis.”
Vanessa pointed at Tarek, and then Ryan. “Martini? Martini?”
“Sure,” Tarek said.
“Ah, I actually would just like a beer,” Ryan said shyly.
“Ha!” Vanessa looked delighted. “Beer it is. Tarek, come with me.”
“Subtle,” Tarek muttered as he turned to follow her.
Fabian watched his ridiculous friends make their way through the crowd to the bar, before turning his attention back to Ryan. “They might be a while,” he said. “Vanessa has a crush on the bartender.”
Ryan’s hair was tied back in a little bun tonight, which only accentuated the poofiness of his beard. “I don’t know how you write songs like that. Or play onstage in front of people.”
“Don’t you play hockey in front of, like, a million people all the time?”
“It’s not the same.”
“It’s not?” Fabian genuinely didn’t understand how it wasn’t the same thing.
Ryan shook his head. “I can play hockey in front of a crowd, but I could never, like, sing the national anthem, y’know?”
Fabian tried to picture that, and smiled to himself. “That’s because you’re good at hockey. I’m good at this.” He gestured toward the stage. “And my audiences don’t tend to boo me when I make a mistake. I’ve heard that sports fans are less forgiving.”
Ryan’s mouth turned up a bit at that. “They can be pretty harsh for sure.
And I’m not so sure I’m good at hockey.”
Okay. Well this was just dumb. “You play in the NHL, Ryan. Is there a higher league I’m not aware of?” He frowned. “Honest question. There actually might be one.”
Ryan laughed. “No. The NHL is the highest. But I’m not—” He stopped himself, and Fabian wondered what he had been about to say. He was startled out of his wondering when Ryan blurted out, “I like your outfit.”
Fabian smiled. He was proud of his look tonight—a sheer T-shirt with black, baroque-style velvet flowers on it, black tuxedo pants, and a whole pile of sparkly necklaces he’d bought at Forever 21. He noticed Ryan’s gaze catch on Fabian’s chest, where the piercing in his right nipple was visible through the shirt. “Thank you.”
“I feel so ordinary,” Ryan said, then immediately looked embarrassed about saying it. He ran a hand through his hair and over his beard, a gesture that Fabian already recognized as a nervous habit.
“Just an ordinary seven-foot-tall hockey star. So boring,” he teased.
Ryan blushed. “I’m not seven feet tall.”
“Did I underestimate?”
“I’m six-seven.”
Oof. Six fucking seven. Fabian had never been with a man anywhere near that tall. What would it be like? Was kissing even possible? He would dearly love to find out.
Not that he was going to be hooking up with Ryan Price. For so many reasons.
“Come sit.” Fabian gestured at the empty table next to them. Sitting would at least remove the distraction of Ryan’s height. And of how well he filled out that suit.
Once they were seated, Fabian propped an elbow on the table, leaned forward, and rested his chin on his fist. “Tell me all about yourself, Ryan Price.”
His tone was probably a tad too flirtatious, because Ryan laughed nervously and looked away. “Not much to tell.”
“Do you live in the neighborhood? The Village, I mean?”
“Uh, sort of. Like, not right here, but a few blocks south. Near the drugstore there, where you work.”
“So...yes, then? You live in the Village?” Fabian couldn’t help his teasing smile, but it seemed to put Ryan at ease. He smiled back at him.
“Yes. Sorry. Long answer to a simple question.”
Fabian had to push this. He was burning with curiosity. “Did you know you were moving into the queer neighborhood?”
Ryan’s brow furrowed, as if he was trying to decide how to answer the yes-or-no question. “Yeah. I knew.”
No further information was offered, so Fabian backed off. He was intrigued, though.
They sat in silence for a moment, Fabian looking toward the bar as if he was extremely interested in the progress of their drink orders. He decided he would let Ryan ask the next question.
Instead, Ryan broke the silence by suddenly blurting out, “I’m gay.”
Even though Fabian had kind of guessed this might be the case, hearing
Ryan say the words was... “Holy shit.”
“Surprise,” Ryan said with a shrug.
“Are hockey players even allowed to be gay?”
Ryan laughed. “It’s only a five-minute major now.”
Fabian looked at him blankly.
“Sorry,” Ryan said. “Hockey joke. A bad hockey joke. Yes, there are gay hockey players.”
Fabian considered this. “I guess there’s that guy in New York. The hot one.”
“Scott Hunter. Yeah. I’m the other one. The not-hot one.” Ryan smiled at his self-deprecating comment.
Fabian wasn’t so sure about that assessment, but he ignored it for now.
“So why have I heard about the New York guy being gay, but not you?”
Ryan snorted. “Because I’m not a superstar. And I didn’t kiss my boyfriend on live television after winning the Stanley Cup.”
Ryan saying the words kiss my boyfriend made Fabian’s head spin a little.
Did Ryan have a boyfriend? Ryan dated men. Ryan kissed men. Ryan played hockey and he also kissed men.
“I also don’t talk about it much,” Ryan continued. “Being gay, I mean. Or anything, really.”
Well that was certainly true. Ryan didn’t seem to be any chattier now than he had been as an awkward teenager. “Your teammates don’t know?”
“Some of them do. Did. I get traded a lot, like I said.”
“Are they dicks about it?”
Ryan shrugged. “Most of them don’t seem to care. Or maybe it just helps that I’m big. I dunno.”
At that moment, Tarek returned to the table with a martini glass in each hand and a bottle of beer tucked in his elbow. “Vanessa is flirting with Callie.”
“Ah,” Fabian said, accepting his martini glass. “We probably won’t see
her again.”
“Probably not,” Tarek agreed.
Fabian watched Ryan take a sip of his beer. He was turned away from them a bit, but he didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular. Fabian was struck by how bizarre it was to be sitting at a table in one of his regular bars with his best friends...and Ryan Price. Ryan Price, who was apparently every bit as queer as Fabian, Fabian’s friends, and this bar they were in.
But he was still a hockey player, and Fabian had been very glad to eliminate all traces of hockey from his life as soon as he’d moved to Toronto to start university over a decade ago. Having Ryan here, in one of Fabian’s favorite spaces, should have been annoying him more than it was.
Ryan was different. Fabian had felt it when they’d been seventeen, and he still felt it now. Unlike every other hockey player who had entered his family home, who Fabian had gone to school with, who had been coached
by his father, Ryan had never made him feel uncomfortable. When they had lived together, Fabian had actually enjoyed Ryan’s quiet presence. When they’d done their homework together at the kitchen table, or watched Finding Nemo together with Amy (again), or walked to school together, it had always been in almost total silence. But Fabian had always liked having him around. He was like...a big, sweet dog.
Fabian grimaced at the unflattering thought, and took a sip of lemon drop martini.
For several long minutes, no one at the table said anything. Ryan was still looking away, his back half turned to Fabian, and Tarek was engrossed in his phone.
“How do you get all of your gear home?” Ryan asked suddenly.
Fabian was surprised by the question. “Usually a friend or two helps me.
I have a system: all the pedals and cords go in a backpack with my laptop, so it’s just the violin, the keyboard, and the stand that need to be carried.
Sometimes I take a cab, but I only live a few blocks away from here.”
Ryan nodded.
“About that,” Tarek said slowly. “I’ve been messaging with this guy,
Mario...”
“Mario the flight attendant?”
Tarek smiled dreamily. “The very same. He’s in town and he’s got a hotel room, so if you’ve got someone else helping you, I’m gonna...”
Fabian waved his hand. “Go. Enjoy Mario. I’m sure I can—”
“I can help,” Ryan said quickly. “I’ll carry your gear. I don’t mind.”
Fabian stared at him, then smiled. “Cool. Thanks.”
Tarek stood and kissed the top of Fabian’s head. He waved at Ryan and said, “Nice meeting you” before making a quick exit.
“And then there were two,” Fabian said, his voice more sultry than was appropriate. There was a trace of alarm in Ryan’s eyes, so Fabian leaned back in his chair and returned his voice to normal. “You don’t have to walk
home with me. Really.”
“Oh.”
God, he looked disappointed. “I mean, you can. Of course. I’d like that.”
Ryan’s face brightened. “You would?”
“Sure. Big, strong man carrying my gear for me? Who wouldn’t like that?”
Ryan snorted, but he looked less enthused than he had a second ago.
“Right.”
Fuck. “I’d like to talk to you. Away from this noise,” Fabian clarified. “It would be nice to catch up.”
That seemed to do the trick, because the beard area around Ryan’s mouth curved up.
Twenty minutes later, Fabian was making sure he hadn’t left anything near the stage when Vanessa planted herself in front of him. “Time to go?”
“Yes, but you don’t have to walk with me.”
Vanessa frowned. “Uh, yes I do. Tarek bailed and you need help. Unless you’re taking a cab.”
“It’s fine. You can stay and hang out with Callie. Ryan is going to help
me.”
“Oh,” she said. Then, “Ohhhhhh.”
Fabian rolled his eyes. “Nope. Just friends. Or whatever.”
“Sure.”
“As if I’m going to fuck a hockey player.”
Instead of laughing, or arguing, Vanessa made a weird face that Fabian interpreted as Ryan the hockey player is standing right behind you.
Shit.