"Don't drink that."
The kid's head snaps up like he's startled someone's talking to
him. This still amuses Joe even though the kid's been doing it all
weekend. It hasn't done wonders for his overconfident, prima-donna
reputation. "What?" the kid asks nervously.
"Don't drink that," Joe repeats mildly, taking the can of Red Bull
from the young Russian's hand.
Ilya stares at him. "I know what you said. Why?"
Joe studies him. He`s shifting his weight subtly from foot to foot,
his dark eyes darting around the room, only holding Joe's gaze for a
beat at a time. Without the aluminum can to clutch in his hand,
he's fiddling with the hem of his shirt.
"Why?" the Bruin repeats incredulously as Kovalchuk
fidgets. "Because your hands are shaking quite enough already
without adding a massive dose of caffeine. I'd prefer some sort of
decent game from my winger."
"But..."
Joe hands him a pack of gum and returns to sit between his Boston
Bruins teammates. Glen Murray, who would be Thornton's third
linemate with Kovalchuk, grins at Joe. "Nice of you, there, Cap.
Now what are you going to chew?"
"Your gum," Thornton replies, stealing a piece from Glen's locker
before his teammate thought to protect it. Murray just
smiles. "Still, you were risking life and limb with Nick here
around, talking to him." He gestures at the third All-Star Bruin to
Joe's right. Sure enough, the defenseman is glaring across the
locker room as if Kovalchuk's maniacal gum-chewing is in some way
personally offensive to him.
Joe rolls his eyes. "Jesus Christ, Boynton, give it up! That game
was months ago."
"Kid's a fucking..." Nick growls.
"A fucking kid," Murray calls, and Joe shoves the defenseman a
little. "Give the kid a break, Nicky, he's terrified."
Boynton makes a noncommittal grunt and turns to talk to Scott
Niedermayer.
Thornton, however, takes over watching Kovalchuk for his grudge-
holding teammate. The Russian had returned to his seat after the
equipment managers took their sticks out to the hallway, so he
couldn't retape that anymore. Now he sits between Mark Messier and
Jaromir Jagr, fiddling with his cell phone and looking around the
room. Taking it in. "Five minutes, guys," someone calls from the
door, and Joe shoves his helmet on his head without taking his eyes
from the Thrasher. He knows all the pregame routines of everyone in
his own locker room; he takes them for granted. But somehow
watching Kovalchuk prepare made him feel like he was intruding on
something.
He does it anyway. The kid checks his phone one more time before
slipping it into his bag. He closes his hand around the charm on
his necklace � Joe wonders if it's a cross, he hasn't noticed the
chain before � and closes his eyes, muttering a few words, before
tucking it under the dark blue Thrashers t-shirt he wore. He pulls
the white and red All Star jersey off its hanger and Joe smiles a
little, watching him take a deep breath before pulling it on and
adjusting it over his pads and shifting before patting his right arm
a couple times. This puzzles Thornton until Kovalchuk turns to pull
his helmet and gloves out and Joe could see the "37" shield he's
wearing on his right sleeve.
An elbow digging into his ribs tears his gaze away and into Glen
Murray's amused eyes. "Go for him," the winger advises.
"Whoa, what?"
"Oh, come on, you've been staring at him without blinking for like 5
minutes. You wanna fuck `em."
"I do not!" Murray rolls his eyes. "Besides, everybody knows he's
with Heater."
"Common misconception." And then, dramatically, "Rumor has it Dany
broke his heart."
Joe looks at him blankly. "Who are you, fucking Oprah?"
"Ok, so not really. But they aren't together right now. Byron told
me. So go for it."
"When exactly did Byron tell you this?" Thornton asks, eyes
narrowing.
"Well, Friday."
"When you were calling people you knew from every team in the
Eastern Conference to find out who would be available this weekend?"
"Well, yes." Murray sees no reason to deny this.
Joe rolls his eyes and snorts "Whore," as Glen and the other
reserves are called to the ice, leaving the six starters alone in
the locker room, looking at each other.
Martin Brodeur breaks the silence. "I hear you all are planning to
backcheck this year?"
Joe glances at Marty St. Louis, who shrugs and answers. "We talked
about playing...harder."
"If Turco gets back-checking and I do not, I will be pissed,"
Brodeur laughs, glaring at all three forwards in turn as some guy
with a clipboard yelled at them to line up. "Well," the goalie
grins, taking his place at the front of the line, "don't trip."
Thornton hears Kovalchuk mutter something to himself and leans
forward. "What's that, Kovy?"
"I said that everyone is telling me that. I think is bad karma."
Joe doesn't bother replying as Brian Rafalski skates onto the ice
and Ilya stands in the doorway. He just calls, "Don't trip!" as the
left winger gets the cue to step onto the ice. He didn't think he
actually would, but can't help but exchange a glance with St. Louis,
who shakes his head, giggling.
"That was mean."
"I didn't �" But then Joe has to go out onto the ice, without
stumbling. He bites his lip to keep from laughing as Ilya glares at
him, red-faced. Shaking his head, Joe taps his linemate's shins
with his stick. "Relax, kid."
*
*
*
The game is over, almost before Joe realizes it. A rush of
adrenaline and milestones, of jokes and smiles and great saves and
better shots and they are all half-undressed in the locker room,
shouting insults and trading jokes across the room.
Thornton notes that Kovalchuk has loosened up quite a bit, and Joe
leans back in his locker to watch him laugh with Jaromir Jagr, white
teeth flashing. The Bruin grins a little and turns his attention to
showering and dressing, all the while planning in his head.
Funny thing is, all the planning's for nothing. Because suddenly,
as he's bending over to tie his shoe, a shadow obstructs the laces.
He straightens slowly, his eyes traveling up the length of the
Russian's body to sparkling brown eyes. All traces of nervousness
are gone now, as he leans casually against the divider between Joe's
locker and Glen Murray's. The top button of his crisp white dress
shirt is undone, and Joe can see a flash of silver from the chain
around his neck. He suddenly really wants to know what's on the
chain. "So," Ilya says. "You owe me."
"I...I do?" Real smooth, Joe, he thinks to himself, wondering when
he became the tongue-tied one.
Kovalchuk's wearing a little half-smirk that's flustering Thornton
more than he'd care to admit. "Yes," Ilya affirms. "You owe me a
can of Red Bull."
At that Joe's tension melts away and he stands up, slinging his bag
over his shoulder. "I guess I do. So, you want to get out of here?"
"Why yes." Ilya says, and Joe is shocked again by his sly grin and
relaxed posture. He wonders briefly if a goal in the All-Star game
means that much to the kid, but decides to leave it alone and with a
grin at Glen and slight wave to Nick he follows the Russian out of
the locker room.
They grab a cab leaving the arena and Joe leans forward to ask the
driver for a grocery that's still open, running inside when he stops
at a 24-hour place. He deposits the caffeine-filled beverage in
Kovalchuk's lap and smirks at the Russian, who immediately opens a
can of Red Bull as the cab speeds towards the hotel.
He had finished it by the time they're in Joe's room, but Thornton
can't tell. "How much do you drink those things?"
"All the time," Ilya replies easily, setting the can on the
dresser. "Two before every game. I am addicted."
"No kidding," Joe smirks, stepping closer to Kovalchuk, pressing him
against the door. "You know what else you seem to be addicted to?"
"What's that?" Ilya hooks his fingers in Joe's waistband.
"Scoring."
Ilya's answering smirk leaves no doubt that he catches the double
meaning. "Yes. I like...scoring." Joe's fingers trace his
collarbone and the forward hooks his finger under the silver chain,
pulling it free. But his curiosity isn't satisfied, he can't even
tell what the charm is. He gives Ilya a puzzled look and the
Russian's eyes become dark, unreadable. "You read ESPN Magazine?"
Joe nods automatically but it takes him a beat to get the
reference. Snyder's watch link. "Sorry," he says quietly, tucking
the necklace back under the collar of Ilya's shirt. "I didn't mean
to..."
Kovalchuk catches Thornton's hand against his chest and half-
smiles. "Joe. You are not here for insight into my psyche."
Joe thinks he finds Ilya's psyche rather fascinating, but he doesn't
disagree. He gets to be captain of the Boston Bruins because he's a
leader on the ice, yes, but also because he can read people, fix
problems before they really happen. So now that he's decided to pay
attention he can tell that Kovalchuk's hands are shaking, though
that could be the caffeine. And he realizes that Ilya doesn't want
insight into his psyche, either. Ilya wants a night of release,
maybe to forget something for a little while. And Joe has no
problem with giving him that. Smiling back, Joe kisses him.
Kovalchuk drops Thornton's hand and instead presses a hand into the
other man's back, pulling him close as he explores the contours of
the center's mouth. Ilya pulls back a little. "Thank you. For
understanding."
Joe didn't say anything, but he understands. He understands that it
was the best sex he'd had in some time. He understands how
Kovalchuk's eyes flash the same way when he leans over Joe, panting,
as when he's zeroing in on goal. He understands that even though
Ilya knows who he's with the whole time, at the very last minute the
name that escapes his lips isn't Joe's. He understands Ilya's
dressing quietly, as if to keep from waking Joe, but then thanking
him anyway before he slips into the hall.
He understands. And he'll never call him a kid again.
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