Trying to Score

Retirement is fucking boring.

At least I get to play more tennis, more golf. But it’s not like I can hit someone on the course with a club if I’m having a stressful afternoon.

So that’s why I find myself forced to sit through a Flyers- Canadiens game. At least I can taunt that jackass Roenick. That loser’ll never get the Cup. Least I can do is hang around and remind him of that fact.

I know what you’re thinking. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

In a word? No.

Besides, this is fun. You know what they say– you gotta keep young, and laughter does that. And trust me– this game is just funny.

I roll my eyes as Desjardins flubs the fourth pass in as many minutes. At least the entire team doesn’t suck. That goalie’s not half bad. What’s his name? Escher? Eschey?

Just Esche? That’s stupid. What good netminder has a one syllable last name? Durnan. Vachon. Brodeur. Bouchard. Hextall. Joseph. Parent. Roy– oh.

Shut up.

Anyway.... He’s really not so bad to watch. Kinda graceful, almost. Nothing compared to me, but I mean, he’s a kid yet. I watch him drop to his knees and instead of being impressed by the butterfly save –he’s obviously been watching tapes of me– I find my mind drifting on to what else he could do on his knees.

Yeah, I think I’ll let him be with me.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I’m not surprised to find him bringing up the rear. His teammates have filed out of the locker room –to go find a rat or a beer or both– but Robert’s still fussing with his gear.

I wonder if he knew I was coming. Well, ‘hoped’ might be more like it. That is, if he even knew I was here. I’m not sure he could have, even though I was announced and waved to the crowd and all that bullshit. He seemed pretty focused.

I wonder if he knows I’m here now?

I slam the door and stifle a laugh as he jumps about three feet.

“Christ, Keith, you scared the shit out of me! I’m coming in a minute–.”

“Well, maybe more than a minute, but yeah, that’s the plan.”

“What–? Oh man, Patrick Roy! Hi! What are you doin– wait, what did you say?”

I’ve seen this normally quiet kid in interviews, and I can tell I’ve flustered him. He may not be as eloquent as some, but he can hold his on. Good. So I threw him off. But he’s not dumb either, and I can see the wheels turning as he tries to figure out what my last comment meant. I wave my hands as if to clear the air of any words spoken.

“Hi, I’m just here to congratulate you. That was some exciting play to watch.”

He thanks me, but I’m not really listening. How do I segue this into the real reason I came?

Apparently I said something funny, because he chuckles a little. It’s almost a nervous sound, but kinda hot. It’s like a low laughing grumble coming from his throat, and I immediately imagine all the things I’d like to shove down his throat. My tongue, my dick.

Screw this: I don’t do subtle.

"I want you."

"You what?" His eyes go wide like he’s shocked or something.

Ok, maybe it came out of nowhere to him, but sue me– I don’t see the point in beating around the bush. Just wastes time. "Oh knock it off. You heard me."

"You want me?!" He asks as if I must have said the wrong thing. What does this stupid kid think, I'm practicing on him, warming up for the real deal? Come to think of it, maybe I should have practiced, because _this_ is not going so well.

It’s not that I lack finesse or anything– I got it in spades! But sometimes I get impatient. If you were looking at this young guy –hair damp from the shower, eyes big as saucers with innocence, cheeks starting to flush– trust me, you’d want to jump him in a hurry too. "Yeah, you. What, you think I'm talking to someone else in the room? Newslfash, room's empty. Just you and me left."

He doesn't look nervous at that fact. That's gotta be a good sign. At least he's not looking trapped, searching for a way to bolt and an exit to bolt out of. He just shrugs and smirks and gives me a flippant answer. "Well, there are mirrors. For all I know you could have been addressing your reflection."

"Shut up, Rookie." But I'm laughing. Don’t look at me like that– I _can_ laugh. Besides, maybe it’ll make him think I’m laid back and a good time. Which I am.

Lord only knows what that jerk JR has told him.

Must have said something, though, because Robert keeps mocking me. Caressing himself and twisting his face into the most annoying pucker, he whines "Oooo, Patty, you're so beautiful, I love you sooooo much!"

He must be all wired from the game. Well, he did play well, so I’ll cut him some slack. But he better quit imitating me! I only did that in front of the mirror once! Well, twice if you count that time at Sakic’s place.

"Shut up, kid." Now I'm closer to him. He has to know that the way he's rubbing his hands across his chest is a total fucking turn on. Nah, he probably doesn't have a clue– poor kid.

"Ooo, Patty, you're the greatest goalie and the smartest and the cutest and you have the most teeth–."

I grab his wrists and force his arms to his sides. He's still smiling and so am I, but my tone is a little more harsh than playful this time when I tell him to shut up. If he was trying to diffuse the situation with humor, well, he failed. But he did manage to change things– it's a brand new situation. Turning right to humor, he gave up his chance to have me think he didn’t want this. Can’t possibly be he was actually making fun– that’s not an option. So it must be that he was uncomfortable and trying to make light of the situation.

Well, playtime’s over.

He’s got about thirty pounds on me and he’s twelve years my junior, but I have surprise and both our wills on my side. I manhandle him against a locker and press my body to his. I can feel his reaction against my thigh– oh, yeah, he’s into this. Not that I can blame him.

Yet, for some reason, that smile has melted off his face. If anything, he looks confused as our eyes meet.

Now, I’m aware that for some inexplicable reason some people think I’m kinda a jackass. Ok, fine, but what they can’t deny is I’m a fucking sexy jackass. So now that there’s a big mess of words between us, and an initial physical connection, I decide to push it one step further. I pin him with an intense look from my bright blue eyes. Love me or hate me, I doubt many people wouldn’t melt when I’m looking at them they way I’m looking at Robert right now.

My gamble –which was more of a sure fire thing– pays off. He parts his lips, eyes transfixed by mine. Before he has time to react, I crush my mouth against his. My tongue slides past his still parted lips, and roams the inside of his mouth. Robert moans and I let my tongue slide along the roof of his mouth, then his inner cheek, finally pressing his tongue down with pressure from mine. The whole time he’s writhing against me, causing pleasant friction for us both.

Just as I’m about to reciprocate and let him know what a fine job he’s doing making me hard, we’re rudely interrupted. The door slams open and a loud cough alerts us to an unwanted third party.

Standing in the doorway, looking like he owns the room, there’s a very surprised and angry looking Canadian.

Keith Primeau’s eyes dart between us, then he narrows his glare on me. Over protective moron. I thought goalies were supposed to be the weirdos? I give my head a slight shake. Fine, playtime might be over for real, but no way am I going to let this hotshot ruin my mood. After all, it’s laughter that keeps you young, remember?

“Hmm. Seems you’re needed elsewhere.” I pull away, wiping at my mouth with the back of my hand.

“S-seems like.”

He glances quickly at the door. Captain Courageous steps fully inside and crosses his arms. I clear my throat and those chocolate pools are focused back on me. “Maybe we can pick this up later?” I lay my smirk on him, and am satisfied as color rises to his cheeks.

“Uh... yeah, maybe later.”

Robert starts to scramble to pick up his stuff, and I give no ground. Keith’s cool eyes are on me the whole time. He mutters, “Le glorieux....” and shakes his head in disdain. I couldn’t care less. He’s probably just jealous that I found Robert in the locker room and not him.

Holding the door open, their fearless leader glares over his shoulder at me. Robert leaves the room with a polite wave.

Poor kid. Maybe later I’ll teach him a thing about real manners. And trust me, there will be a ‘later’– I just need to make sure we’re not interrupted.