The best moments were the stolen hours together. They were hungry for each other, and Joel felt like he was making up for lost time, exploring himself as a relatively free sexual being. It was refreshing to be with someone consistently who knew his name, and whom he didn’t have to buckle into an NDA. They respected and understood each other’s need for secrecy, and they didn’t argue about it. Neither of them wanted anything more than what they shared, and they gave to each other freely of their bodies and sexualities.
Joel was happy and considered himself lucky. He didn’t see Quentin every week, or even every other week, but they saw each other as often as they could. When they weren’t together, they were texting almost constantly, both sexual messages and then, gradually, messages about their days and their lives.
Joel began to learn more about Quentin and found himself intrigued the more that he learned. He learned that Quentin was originally from Colorado and had grown up in a military family. He wasn’t close to his family, but largely supported them financially, and didn’t begrudge them for it. He considered it his way of giving back. Quentin considered his team more of a family than his biological family. He cared deeply about his teammates and spoke of them with affection. They were his brothers, and he loved them while often being infuriated by them, in the way that brothers often are.
When Joel had first met Quentin, he’d mistaken Quentin’s passion about hockey for a one-note obsession. He had thought Quentin was a mindless jock who just liked to hit a puck and ram into other guys on the ice.
The truth was far different.
Quentin was a true athlete. He valued his sport and his body, and treated both with respect. He was incredibly disciplined and careful, and had the highest regard for the value of his game. He looked at it as his job and told Joel he considered himself lucky to play the game.
Joel shared about his own life, too. Over text messages, and sometimes when they lay together after sex, he shared about his upbringing in New Mexico, about his early interest in music, and how his parents had encouraged it, until his interests became clearly secular. His parents were devout members of the Church of Latter-day Saints, Mormons, and they expected the same of their son. He was no longer a practicing member of his parents’ church, and his decision to leave their faith had been difficult for them. He wasn’t sure they’d ever gotten over it, and he told Quentin he had a feeling they hoped he’d eventually “return to the fold.”
He told Quentin about his time in Good Treble, the boy band that had made him famous. He was still friends with the guys from the band and saw them when he had the chance. They understood each other in ways that other young men their age wouldn’t. They’d gone through the same unique and sometimes traumatic experiences in their adolescence and early adulthood. Experiences like that bonded people together, tying them through shared understandings that other people would never comprehend.
Joel found himself hoping that Quentin could one day meet his friends from Good Treble and his other friends in Los Angeles and New York. It was a frightening concept, and one he tried to ignore. He didn’t want to imagine an impossible future where he and Quentin could act like a couple. They weren’t a couple. They weren’t in a relationship. They were just having sex, very good sex, and developing a friendship along with their physical relationship. They trusted each other and had an understanding. There was no expectation of exclusivity, and no talk of a future together. Joel, however, didn’t sleep with anyone else, and he knew Quentin wasn’t, either.
The strange new rhythm of their situation eventually became a comfortable sort of normal for Joel. He was used to keeping things in his life private, and what he shared with Quentin was just a more dramatic example of that. He hid it from Shivonne and Harlan. He was sure they both had suspicions, but they never shared them, and he appreciated that.
There were times when he wondered if he should want more, but he didn’t want more. Not yet, at least. A mutually-fulfilling, secret sexual relationship with a consistent partner was more than he had ever thought he could hope for. It wasn’t a romance, but it wasn’t about romance. For as often as he wrote about love in his songs, it wasn’t something he thought he had time for, or even something he thought he wasallowedto experience. On some nights, when he wasn’t with Quentin and he was exhausted from the tour, his mind threatened to unpack the reasons he didn’t think he deserved real love, but he always quickly shut the doors to that area of thought. Whatever secret traumas or scars he had from his childhood, or from the world at large, could stay secret, as far as he was concerned.
The only person who knew about his clandestine relationship was Ariadne. She had been instrumental in encouraging him to pursue something with Quentin, but now Joel sensed that she didn’t fully approve of what the relationship had become. It wasn’t judgment that he felt from his best friend; if anything, it was a sort of vicarious longing or yearning for more. She wanted something more real for him, though he had told her he was satisfied with his arrangement. It fulfilled the needs he was used to addressing. If there were other needs, emotional or relational, that weren’t getting fulfilled—or whichweregetting fulfilled without being named—he was fine with that. He wanted sex, good sex, and that’s exactly what he was getting.
Ariadne had made her opinion quietly known because she wanted more for him, but they never argued about it or even dwelled on it that long, because early in March, when Joel was doing the Midwest section of his tour, Ariadne dropped a bomb. She was breaking with their record label, and she and her producer, Troy Whitman, were suing each other. It looked like it was going to be a messy situation, and the tabloids immediately descended on it. The stories made Ariadne out to be some sort of villain, a selfish, capitalistic diva who wanted things to go her way, and her way only. She kept her mouth quiet and didn’t say anything about it. She didn’t do interviews and didn’t speak to anyone in the media. Joel knew the truth was that Troy Whitman had been abusive—not physically or sexually, but the psychological tactics he’d employed in his business were predatory and wrong. He’d taken advantage of Ariadne creatively and professionally, and threatened to do more, and Joel was just glad she’d gotten out.
He called her every night while he was on tour, asking if she needed anything. Shivonne volunteered to do some work for her for free, but Ariadne’s publicity team was handling everything. It wasn’t a pleasant situation, but Joel had hope that the judge would favor Ariadne’s case, or maybe they would be able to settle out of court. Ariadne just wanted her artistic and creative freedom back.
Joel had just finished three concerts in Indianapolis, Indiana. Quentin was in St. Louis. There were a few weeks left in the regular NHL season, and then the Playoffs would begin. Joel had been following the season closely, something he had never done before, and he found that it was interesting. He at least liked watching Quentin play and was proud of his ability to talk about Quentin’s games afterward. He had noticed that Quentin’s mood often depended on how a game went. He was quieter when the games went poorly, or they lost, though it never made him negative or unpleasant. The attitude shift was subtle. Joel appreciated that Quentin was mature enough to handle his emotions in that way and that Quentin didn’t let a bad game totally derail his mood.
Joel flew from Indianapolis to St. Louis to see Quentin. He flew secretly; only Harlan and Shivonne knew where he was going, and he didn’t tell them why. Surely they suspected.
He took a private car to the hotel where Quentin was staying and went in through the back door, Shivonne having discreetly handled his entrance. He paid her not to ask questions.
Boston had won the game against St. Louis, and Quentin had informed Joel that most of the guys were out celebrating or already asleep in their rooms. Quentin had gotten a room to himself, and on a different floor from his teammates, so they would have some privacy.
Joel was careful in the elevator and the hallway, a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. He wore nondescript clothing and kept his head down. He went to the ninth floor, found Quentin’s room, and knocked quietly.
Quentin was shirtless and smiling when he opened the hotel door. He smelled like shampoo and soap, and his hair was damp. He wore black sweatpants and nothing else.
Joel’s stomach did a now-familiar dance when he saw Quentin. Quentin pulled him into the hotel room, shut the door, and kissed him deeply.
They kissed for a while, holding each other, with Joel’s back to the wall. Each time he kissed Quentin, it felt more right. And every day, or week, that he wentwithoutkissing Quentin felt longer, and worse. They hadn’t asked for exclusivity, and they hadn’t asked for anything beyond mutually-satisfying sex, but Joel wasn’t blind to his own emotions. He knew there was something else growing in his gut, or in his heart. He was doing his best to ignore it. He told himself it was just the natural side effect of being physically intimate with someone repeatedly. Anyfeelingshe might have for Quentin would surely be passing. The feelings would leave him eventually, and he could focus solely on the sexual aspect of their relationship.
Quentin broke apart from the kiss and brushed a thumb along Joel’s cheekbone. “I missed you,” he said.
Joel felt a little melty inside. “I missed you, too,” he whispered. It was true. He had missed Quentin and missed him badly.
He needed a shower, so he used Quentin’s hotel shower. When he was done, he walked out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. Quentin was already sitting on the bed in his underwear, smiling at Joel.
Joel returned the smile, and then he dropped his towel.
He loved it when Quentin took control. Quentin was good at it. He was firm and directive, dominant without beingdomineering. His dominance came from the force of his own presence and the directness of his desire. Joel never felt like he was surrendering his agency when he submitted to Quentin. In fact, it made him feel powerful, knowing the effect he had on Quentin. He was permitting, allowing Quentin to dominate him, and that in itself was a form of power.
He crawled onto the bed and kissed Quentin’s calf. Quentin eyed him lustfully, raising his foot and bringing it to Joel’s mouth. There was a silent command in his eyes, and Joel obeyed, taking Quentin’s foot in his mouth, sucking his toes, kissing the sole of his foot, massaging the calf. He repeated the process with Quentin’s other foot, and Quentin nodded approvingly.
“Good boy,” Quentin murmured.
The hockey player had his thick cock in his hand, and he was stroking it lazily. Joel stretched out between Quentin’s legs, his shoulders bracketed by Quentin’s strong, hairy thighs, and took Quentin’s thick cock in his mouth. It was so large that it hit the back of his throat without even being fully in his mouth. He loved the taste of Quentin’s cock, loved how its size stretched him to his limits. He loved how there was an element of danger in taking the cock, and he always felt silently and privately accomplished after deep-throating Quentin, or bottoming without a lot of warmup or lube.
