Empty Net (13 page)

All he could do was lie there and gasp and writhe around on the bed, stare sightlessly up at the ceiling, and fall apart.

When he felt himself getting close, he reached out, hooked a hand around the back of Isaac’s neck, and blindly pulled him in—but not for a kiss. He pushed Isaac’s face into the space between his neck and shoulder, and Isaac huffed a breathless laugh and did exactly what Laurent had been hoping he’d do.

He bit him hard, and Laurent came with a low moan, his fingers tight on Isaac’s neck and the other hand clenched tight in the bedding. He was shaking when it was over—shaking, panting, and also sticky—and he felt good. Better than good.

Eventually he opened his eyes, and Isaac gave him the world’s smuggest smile. But Laurent didn’t even care. He grinned back. His shoulder throbbed pleasantly from the bite, and he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He luxuriated unabashedly in the sensation of approval he could see in Isaac’s face.

Isaac ghosted over the bite marks in Laurent’s shoulder with his fingers, which made Laurent shiver. “You like being bitten.”

He nodded and wondered if he could explain it. It was the buildup of pain and the sudden release of it that he liked, how he could feel the ache even when it was over. Feel it fade.

Getting off made it even better. Which reminded him that he was the only one who’d done that. He turned toward Isaac and wondered if he should pull up his underwear before whatever happened next. “So, umm,” he started, too lazily satisfied to care about how awkward he sounded.

“Oh.” Isaac’s smug smile turned a little sheepish. “Not necessary. I, ah. Look, dude, it was hot as hell jacking you off. All right?”

Laurent glanced down to see Isaac’s jeans were open and his cock had softened. He was weirdly disappointed that Isaac had already gotten off. He wished he could have given Isaac the same pleasure Isaac had given him. But Isaac would probably rather do it himself than have Laurent fumble his way through it.

“Whatever you’re thinking is probably wrong,” Isaac said.

Laurent made a face at him. “I’m sticky.” That wasn’t what he was thinking, but it definitely wasn’t wrong.

“Yeah. Uh… sorry about your, umm… comforter.”

“Too hot for it anyway.” Laurent stretched and watched as Isaac climbed off the bed and fixed his clothing. He left his shirt off, and Laurent took a moment to study him.

“Trying to decide if I’m hot or not?”

“No. I decided that you were already. I’m just wondering why I didn’t notice. Before. That maybe I liked how guys looked without a shirt on.”

Isaac grinned and flexed his arm muscles like an idiot. “You hadn’t seen me. That’s why.”

Laurent rolled his eyes and sat up. He raked a hand through his hair and then kicked off his jeans and pulled up his underwear. He grabbed Isaac’s T-shirt and wiped the mess off his stomach.

“Not cool. I am
not
driving home without a shirt. I don’t care if this
is
South Carolina. Not doing it.”

Laurent tossed Isaac’s shirt in the general direction of his clothes basket. “You can borrow something of mine. My T-shirts are in the bottom drawer.”

Isaac went to the dresser and rummaged around. Laurent got out of bed and found a pair of sweats and pulled them on, ignoring Isaac for the moment, in favor of going to his small fridge and pulling out a couple bottles of water. He turned and saw Isaac—wearing a shirt of his that was just a shade too big for him—flipping through something.

His sketchbook.

“Wow,” Isaac said, seemingly unaware of the death glare Laurent was shooting him from across the room. “Did you draw these? They’re amazing, Saint.”

The nickname cooled his fury, but Laurent still wanted to hurl one of the bottles at Isaac’s blue head. “Who said you could look at that?”

“Nobody.” Isaac looked at him, and he did look contrite. “Sorry?”

“You are not,” Laurent huffed.

“No. But these are seriously amazing.” Isaac held up a page. “Is that me?”

Oh Christ. Laurent did not want to admit to drawing Isaac. But he wasn’t going to back down and lie about it, not when it was obvious. Still. Admitting it outright wasn’t his style. “If I’m such a great artist, you should be able to tell.”

Isaac gave him a grin that bordered on fierce. “You really are a dick. And obviously you’ve been into
mine
longer than you think.”

“You’re graceful and have nice body lines.”

Isaac batted his eyes at him. “You’re so full of shit.” He put the sketchbook down. “Seriously, though. Is there anything you’re not good at?”

Laurent laughed at how ridiculous that was. “Now who’s full of shit? Here.” He tossed the bottle to Isaac, who caught it deftly and twisted it open. “I like drawing.”

“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you admit to liking anything,” Isaac said.

I like you.

Laurent didn’t say it, but he didn’t need to. It was probably written all over his face.

ISAAC WAS
starting to wonder if he should tell Laurent about his checkered past selling blowjobs for money.

It was obvious by then that they were dating. They spent a lot of time together, and even though they were in fierce competition on the ice, it didn’t seem to affect their relationship, whatsoever. Isaac hated admitting that Belsey was right about anything, but playing with someone of Laurent’s considerable skill was seriously improving Isaac’s own. Even without the specter of his father’s presence, though, Laurent still didn’t see playing hockey as anything other than work. It made Isaac sad.

The new, mellow Laurent was an improvement in the locker room as well. Laurent still kept mostly to himself and only talked to Isaac or sometimes Hux—mostly about comics—but at least he wasn’t infuriating people on a daily basis. The team won more games than they lost, and Laurent and Isaac had the lowest goals-against average in the entire league. Hockey would never be a source of joy for Laurent, but he was much different than the sullen, angry young man who’d shown up in July to be Isaac’s back-up.

While Isaac wasn’t lying about his past, he had the nagging feeling that he should tell Laurent about it anyway. Because maybe a guy wanted to know that his first boyfriend used to suck cock for money.

He thought about it a lot—telling Laurent, not sucking dick for money—though he did think about sucking Laurent’s dick for free. Finally he brought it up with Misha during one of their pick-up hockey games.

Sometimes Max came along, but that time it was just Misha and Isaac. Tall and broad-shouldered, wearing his Bruins jersey, Misha looked even more intimidating playing hockey than coaching it.

Isaac took his place in goal and let Misha fire pucks at him. Sometimes they switched it up, and Isaac tried out his prowess at being a forward—terrible—or playing defense—better—but he loved playing goalie even if Misha’s slapshot was terrifying.

“Did Coach Ashford know about the thing in Russia before you told me about it?”

The thing in Russia
was Isaac’s nice way of asking if Max knew what Misha had done to get enough money to come to America. Namely that he had sex with men for money.

Isaac wondered how much Misha had charged, but the sun would explode before he’d ever ask that.

Misha hated talking about anything personal, and Isaac respected that and never brought up their shared experiences with the world’s oldest profession. But that question was important, and the rule for Wednesday hockey was that Isaac could ask whatever he wanted.

“No,” said Misha and sent a shot toward him that made Isaac drop to his knees and try to stop it with the edge of his skate. It almost worked, but not quite.

“Were you gonna tell him?” Isaac asked as he sent the puck back.

The look Misha was giving him spoke volumes to both the answer and his comfort level with the conversation. He muttered something in Russian and then said, “What do you think?”

“The scowl you’re giving me says no.” He moved easily and caught Misha’s next shot in his glove. “Are you glad he knows, though?”

Misha considered that and idly bounced the puck on his stick as he did so. “That is hard to say. I don’t regret telling him.”

He said that so carefully that Isaac snorted. “But do you wish he didn’t have to know? I’m not gonna, like, think you mean that you wish you hadn’t told me or anything,” Isaac assured him.

“I am glad to know that he doesn’t think less of me. But I am not like Max, who could not keep this secret inside if it were his. It would eat away at him.”

“But not you?”

“No.” Misha’s smile was cold and flat. “I am used to having secrets.”

“You just sounded like a Bond villain,” Isaac said. “I know Max thinks that’s hot, but dude.”

“Your tastes are more Bond boys than Bond villains. Yes?”

Isaac laughed out loud. “Yup. Damn. I wish that was a thing.”

“You want to tell St. Savoy about Columbia?”

Damn it. Misha scored a goal as Isaac tried to stop the puck
and
realized that his coach knew he and Laurent were a thing. “So you figured that out.”

“You are as subtle as Max,” Misha said.

Isaac scowled. “We’ve been careful.”

“He’s been tolerable.” Misha flashed a grin at him. “It was either that or you got him hooked on drugs.”

Misha didn’t smile all that often, and Isaac only saw him grin very rarely. It made him look like a different person, and younger and less severe than usual.

Like Laurent.

“Yeah. I want to tell him about Columbia.” Isaac paused. “And is it a problem? About me and him.”

“You’re not talking to your coach,” Misha reminded him. “If you were, he would have told you that was a soft goal you just let in.”

“My coach is such an asshole.” Isaac repositioned himself, and caught Misha’s next shot with a flashy glove save. He slammed it on the ice in a moment of celebratory enthusiasm.

“Stop showing off, or I’ll make you do laps.”

“What happened to ‘you’re not talking to your coach’?”

“You’re being cocky,” said Misha, a smile in his voice. “And I think that you should tell him.”

“Why? Because he should know? Or because I can’t keep my secrets buried like you?”

“Well, the second one. Yes. But that is good, Isaac. It is not good to carry around things like I did.” He sighed. “Or so Max tells me every day. But you and I, we have… a similar story. Yes. But you’re not….”

Not what? Russian? Expensive? Isaac waited, curious.

“You’re not ashamed,” Misha said finally. “I was.”

That was probably true. Isaac wasn’t ashamed of what he’d done. He just didn’t want it to fuck up anything for his team or his coaches. His fears last season when Creepy Jeff came skulking around weren’t about him as much as what it might do to everyone else if his past were exposed in all its cheap-handjob and moderately-priced-blowjob glory.

Personally he thought the guys who paid for it should feel a lot more ashamed of themselves, if only because most of them were married or lying about being straight. “I’m not ashamed, but it’s not like I’m all that proud of it. I did it, and it’s done with.”

“Then why do you want to tell him?”

“What if he finds out, and I’m not the one who told him? You know how he is.” Isaac waved a hand.

Misha gave him a strange look. “No,” he said quietly. “I don’t. I don’t think he does either. You might be the only person who does.”

Isaac groaned. “Jesus Christ, Misha.”

Misha gave him an enigmatic sort of smile and shot the puck again. This time Isaac stopped it. He didn’t celebrate with a flashy move, and Misha nodded in approval.

The thing was, Isaac didn’t think he should blow Laurent until he told him about the blowjobs for money. And he wanted to blow Laurent. Badly.

“What if he doesn’t—” Isaac stopped. He felt stupid. “Pretend I didn’t start saying that and shoot the puck at me some more, please.”

Misha studied him quietly for a moment, but did as Isaac asked and tried to fire another stick-side shot in on him. They finished their game, changed, and headed back into the night to go home.

As they pulled into the driveway, Misha turned to him and said, “If he’s ashamed of something that you’ve done, and you’re not ashamed of it, then you don’t want to give him anything more of yourself.”

Isaac, who had been lost in his own thoughts, blinked owlishly up at Misha. “Umm.”

“I’m glad that Max knows. I could have kept it a secret, but I’m glad that I didn’t.” Misha made a face. “Now we will stop talking about feelings. But whatever you decide to do, Isaac, don’t let him treat you like what you did made you worthless. Because it didn’t, and you’re not.”

Touched, Isaac ducked his head, gave a gruff “thanks,” and went inside.

DECIDING THE
best place to have the conversation was somewhere they could be alone, Isaac waited until an off day, then packed up the Jeep, grabbed his cranky, uptight boyfriend, and headed for Lake Pinnacle—about an hour outside of Spartanburg.

“We’re going to Pumpkintown?” Laurent eyed him. He wasn’t as warmly dressed as Isaac, but maybe he was used to colder weather. Growing up in his house had to have been plenty frigid. “Is this some kind of festival? Because I hate those.”

“You’ve never been to a festival in your life,” Isaac said. Laurent’s immediate reaction to things that made him uncomfortable was to be suspicious and express dislike. Unless it came to his dick. He was getting on board with new experiences when it came to that.

“Because I hate them.” Laurent crossed his arms and fixed Isaac with a scowl.

Isaac grinned and leaned over and kissed him. He bit sharply at Laurent’s lip while he pulled away. “It’s not a festival. Shush. But I did bring some marshmallows, chocolate, and graham crackers,” he said as they headed toward Table Rock State Park. “We’re making s’mores. I know. I win at dates.”

“Why?”

“You have no romance in your soul. Aren’t you French people supposed to be good at that?”

“I’m
American
,” Laurent snapped, and Isaac realized that Laurent was nervous.