It hit me hard, my cock jerking in his grip, and he followed a second later, his body tensing, his release hot and thick in our hands, his breath a ragged curse against my mouth. We stayed like that, trembling, the weight of Cam’s hand on my back and the sticky mess between us proof of something I couldn’t name.
For the first time, I'd just let myselffeel.
And it was perfect.
We cleaned up in the bathroom, and he stayed close the whole time, brushing past me, stealing soft kisses without saying a word. I let him. I needed the contact. Then back in the living room, Cam tugged me gently toward the sofa and sat, pulling me with him until I was straddling his lap again, my knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his thighs. His hands were warm and sure at my waist, holding me there without pressure.
“Talk to me, sweetheart,” he said.
So, I did.
FOURTEEN
Cam
One of theadvantages of being a professional athlete was the ability to assist loved ones in times of need. I had substantial money—more than I could ever spend in a lifetime—and I invested it wisely, which generated even more income. Yadda, yadda, yadda. While investments like cars, homes in Pennsylvania, Florida, Crete, and a cabin in Yimmo Bay, BC, along with some solid stocks and bonds, were nice, the real value came from being able to use my cash for altruistic purposes. That felt more rewarding than owning homes, cars, or shares in solar energy companies.
I was a helper. That was me. I liked helping people I didn’t know even more. And I liked Jari. A lot. So, helping Jari was as natural as breathing. I’d spent a few days—several—pondering what he’d said on cake night. When I wasn’t thinking about his predicament, I was either watching hockey on TV or attending the games in person. Tonight, I was headed to a Railers game against Edmonton wearing my new Railers jersey. I’d spent a long time staring at the name on the back, wondering whether I had time to remove the lettering linking Jari to his father. The more I learned about Aarni Lankinen, the more I wanted to buryhis battered corpse—battered by me with a Louisville Slugger—under third base at the ball field, a la Jimmy Hoffa.
Not having the time to sit down and remove every stitch by hand, I wore the jersey but felt the weight of that last name on my back. Poor Jari. If that last name felt so heavy to me, I couldn’t imagine what it felt like to him. Granted, I had my own family bullshit to contend with, we all did. My uncle was an asshole who wanted the glory of a famous ballplayer so pushed his son to play as well as his cousin. Kirby didn’t possess the arm or the love of the game I had, so he began to withdraw, which led to depression, which led to cutting. Yeah, we had gone through the shit and had come out the other side. We’d cut ties with my uncle. Clean, severe, and wholly necessary.
Jari, on the other hand, was stuck in this fucking nightmare. A nightmare that I knew I could help him out of, just as I had Kirby. I’d reached out to a well-respected private detective to dig up what he could about the Lankinen family, with special details on Mrs. Lankinen’s cost and care. It was a simple enough thing. Cut a check to the facility she was in, and voilà, Jari would be free of his miserable rat shit father’s demands. There was more than one way to skin a shitty family member. My uncle could attest to that. It was amazing what millions spent on lawyers could get you when you were protecting someone you loved. Restraining orders worked wonders, as did security for your homes. Kirby’s house was locked down tight as Fort Knox, just in case his father tried to visit his son or grandson. My home had the same state-of-the-art security system. Maybe that was what Jari needed for his mother…
I’d investigate it. Tucking my phone away after giving the PI the go-ahead to purchase tickets to Finland to poke about, I slid behind the wheel of my black Escalade to make my way to the ice rink. Being who I was, I was given discreet entry via the players’ entrance, which meant I could visit with a few of the Railers—Jari, among them, kicking a soccer ball around in the hallway—before security showed me to a seat behind the Railers’ bench. I sat next to a huge man with wide shoulders and dark hair, chatting with a man with soft blond curls. His hand rested on the blond man’s knee in an intimate manner. How nice it would be to attend an event with Jari and be open about our feelings for each other. Someday. Someday, he’d be free of his father and be able to live his life freely.
“Excuse me, you are the famous baseball player of southpaws for Iron Horses, yes?” I snapped out of my daydream to find kind gray eyes on me. “I am knowing of you from the commercial for the aftershave. Balls in your hands.”
I blinked. “You mean the commercial where I hold two baseballs?” I asked because if he was talking about juggling any other kind of balls, I needed to update my security system.
“Yes, two baseballs. Big hands. Throwing them at the camera then saying in sexy Clint Eastwood sort of way, ‘Command the strike zone on field and off with Old Stadium. Is about what lasts. Leather, wood, time. Old Stadium. Built like game.’ I like the cologne very much. My husband likes the soap. This is him. Erik, my beloved spouse. Would you like to sniff his wrist?”
“Stan, seriously, no.” His husband leaned around the man chattering at me to smile warmly while shaking gold curls. “I’m sure Mr. Blackburn does not want to smell my wrist. Pleasure to meet you. We enjoy watching your games in the summer. This is my husband, Stan Lyamin.”
“Oh, right, I think we’ve met at a fundraiser for the Harrisburg Athletic Council a few years ago.” I shook hands with both men as fans moved around us, many eying us as if they wished to ask for a selfie but didn’t want to be too rude. “LGTBQ Youth Sports.”
“Yes, that is right. We sit on co-chairs for Trans Sports Inclusion committees. Many meetings. Making money for the children. I think you should come. Bring your balls.”
I snorted. “I bring them everywhere I go,” I replied and got a laugh from the Hall of Fame goalie. “I’d love to help. Have your people call my people. Perhaps I could entice you to attend a fall ball my charity is hosting next week to raise funds and awareness for mental health?”
“Yes, is fine. Good mental health is happy brains. We will come. Have people call people,” Stan said with a nod as the lights dimmed and the teams hit the ice for warmups. “See Noah.” He pointed to his son on the ice. “That is our son. Very much a talent. Skates well, fast as a bolt, scores big times.”
“Ah right, Noah Gunnarson-Lyamin. You must be proud.”
“Oh yes, big proud. Always proud of children. We have two others. Grown now. We are empty nest sitters like old penguins on icy rocks. I think we should have one more egg to roll under our butts for warming in the cold, but my husband is saying we now wait for grandkids to stuff under our butts.”
“I do not say that exactly,” Erik was quick to counter, which made me chuckle. “But weareready for grandkids but don’t want to rush our children.”
“No, we no rush the chicks to grow up to make eggs for grandchicks. We wait. Be good fathers. But is hard. Oh, I think I know of how to help with the mental health fall balling. I can make the night rocking hard good with my Elvis impression. Is great talented. I have jumpsuits. What color is ball theme?”
I was taken aback at that. Erik leaned out to shake his head at me. “Oh, that would be amazing, but we’ve already hired a string quartet for atmosphere and dancing after the meal.”
“Oh, too bad. Next time. You call me. I will do short set with big hits. My hips are very sexy even now they are older.” He gave me a wink and then went on to ramble throughout the gameabout Elvis, his dogs and cats, his love of Gatorade when he played, how the Edmonton goalie was not doing well because he did not speak to his pipes, and how the pretzels at the game were perfectly salted but the dipping cheese made his eyeballs sweat. By the time we were into the third and the Railers were up by five Stan was jabbering away about the old days. “I see you wear sweater of Jari Lankinen.”
“Oh yeah, he’s quite good.” I wasn’t sure why I felt the need not to speak out about our friendship. Perhaps because the big man wearing his son’s jersey suddenly seemed very terse. Erik was watching a fan dressed as a conductor on the Jumbotron dancing a railroad dance in his section as “Crazy Train” blared throughout the arena.
“Hmm, is okay. I think his father is poison for his head.” Stan tapped his temple. “Aarni is vile like roasted turd on spit. Evil. Hurtful. I would not like him for nothing. His son bears much hatred for his actions, right? Which is wrong. The Bible says is bad for making the sins of the father fall to the child, so I do not boo Jari. He is making way by himself, showing the world he is own man. Which is good thing. Finding own path on alone is good for building character and pride. I think he is good player, heavy with his family dark side like maybe Luke Skywalker only Jari uses stick not lightsaber as I am sure the league would not allow lightsabers on the ice. One time, many years ago when I was playing still, we did aStar Warsnight for the fans. I was Chewbacca. I make good Wookie sounds.”
Which he then went on to do much to the joy of the fans around us. As the game wound down and the fans filed out I shook hands with Stan and Erik and moseyed away from the rink to the team entrance. I thought long and hard about staying in the corridor to wait for Jari, but I opted to leave. I was sure he didn’t want to have to explain to anyone why I was lingering and waiting for him like a boyfriend. I would gladly do that. But hewasn’t even close to that level of openness and our relationship was… well, it was…
