“Fuck buddies,” Joel said, and he smiled.
“Sure,” Quentin said. “Fuck buddies.”
Chapter 16
Quentin
The greatest challenge they’d face was logistical: both Quentin and Joel had very busy schedules, with the NHL season for Quentin and theNorthern Suntour for Joel. Quentin was crisscrossing the country and parts of Canada for his hockey games, and his schedule would only pick up if they made it to the playoffs, which Boston was on track to do. Joel was moving westward with his tour, and come the summer months, he’d depart for Central and South America, and later for Europe and Asia for the other legs of his tour. They wanted to see as much of each other as they could, with their busy schedules. To make it happen, they turned to their support teams.
Neither of them wanted those in their circles to know the truth, not yet. It was a private, personal truth right now, not the sort of thing that they wanted shared. Quentin had told Henri and Cort, and that was enough for him. He knew that Joel had told Ariadne, and didn’t plan on telling anyone else. There wasn’t much to tell at this point. What would they say? That they wanted to fuck, and had to arrange their schedules accordingly, thank you very much?
Their plan was to enlist the help of Billy Rasmussen and Shivonne Sharpe. They already had their media friendship. Quentin knew that Billy had sensed something had changed, and Joel said Shivonne had as well. Neither had any ideahowthings had changed, but they knew that Quentin and Joel really were friends. Quentin and Joel told their respective people how they’d seen the financial benefit of a visible friendship. Quentin said that he wanted to make more appearances at Joel’s concerts; Joel told Shivonne he wanted to see more games.
“What’s the sudden interest in pop music?” Billy asked Quentin.
“He’s talented, and we’re friends now,” Quentin said.
“I didn’t have that on my bingo card for this year,” Billy muttered, but said he’d make it work.
Trust me,Quentin thought to himself,I didn’t, either.
Quentin had a game in Texas against the Dallas Wranglers, a competent team from the Central Division of the Western Conference. There wasn’t any bad blood between Boston and Dallas. They played very different styles of hockey, and Quentin always saw playing Dallas as a chance for him to stretch certain hockey muscles he didn’t get to with other teams. Dallas tended to be quick and slippery on the ice. They played a defense-heavy game and counted on wearing their opponents down by blocking all their shots before snagging a goal or two of their own at the last second.
It was a high-energy, high-contact game, with lots of fighting on the ice, though Quentin steered clear of any blows, per usual.
After the game, dripping in sweat and sitting on his bench in the locker room, wearing only a towel, he checked his phone. He’d gotten a text message from Joel during the game. It was a picture of a TV showing the Boston vs. Dallas game.
Joel:Goddamn, who’s that number 23? Look at that ass on him.
Quentin openly blushed. If he wasn’t already red from playing hockey, he’d worry his teammates would notice.
Quentin:You kiss your mother with that mouth?
Joel:No, but I can think of some places on you I’d like to kiss.
Quentin put his phone down and thought of hockey strategy, anything to cool his mind off before he popped a boner in his towel.
“Who ya texting?” Henri said, sidling up to him with a shit-eating grin. He was completely naked and unashamed, toweling off his hair.
“Your mom,” Quentin said.
“Tell Rebecca I say hello,” Henri said. His mother, Rebecca, was a retired French supermodel.
Quentin was seeing Joel that night. It was still December, and Joel was taking the month off from touring. He was spending most of the month in New York City at his apartment, or in the studio, recording something secret, but he and Quentin had agreed to meet in Boston for the night. They wouldn’t have much time together because Joel would be flying back to New York in the early morning, and Quentin had a game in Boston that day, but it would be enough.
Joel was all Quentin could think about on the flight from Dallas to Boston. He was horny. It had been a week since their incredible encounter in New York City, a week since they’d almost fucked, and Quentin had thought about very littlebutfucking since then. Joel had unlocked something in him, something feral and hungry.
“You look like you’re a castaway on your way to a full meal for the first time since getting shipwrecked,” Henri murmured to him when they got off the plane.
“And what about it?” Quentin said defensively. He wanted to run through the airport, but that would be suspicious. Instead, he took a car straight to his apartment, hurried into his unit, took a quick but thorough shower, and then sat on his couch waiting patiently by his phone.
Joel texted him soon to let him know that he was there.
Quentin buzzed him in.
Joel was disguised in a gray hoodie, a long black coat, and black jeans. The hood covered his head, and he pushed it back when he entered the apartment.
“Nice place,” he said nonchalantly.
