Page 30 of Poetry On Ice

I know who I want.

I want Ant Decker.

My dick doesn’t care that he is a dick. It wants him.

I know exactly what this is too—sexual attraction. I don’t want to be him. I want to do him.

And more to the point, I want him to do me.

He’s still sitting in the armchair, but he’s finally started to move again. He’s managed to get himself upright, though he seems a little unsteady on his legs. He turns away from me and pulls up his pants. Every time he moves, the ink on his back ripples. It moves like it has a life of its own. The vines and roses grow and change before my eyes.

Sadly, his compromised state isn’t enough to stop him from talking. His voice is deep and lacks its usual animation, a low, monotone whirr that lists all the reasons we shouldn’t be together again.

“…teammates…guys uncomfortable…unprofessional…totally unprofessional…”

“Mm-hmm,” I say, nodding supportively. He’s talking out of his ass, and I don’t really have time for this nonsense, but I don't want to argue. “Unprofessional, huh?”

“Yeah, completely unprofessional…er, definitely not going to happen again.”

When I finish cleaning up, I dunk the paper into the trash can in the corner of the room and move to where he stands. I run my hands gently up one of his arms to get his attention, scouring my palms on the coarse hair I find there.

He splutters and appears to run out of steam. Thank God, because much as I love fighting with him, I’m a little lightheaded from how hard I blew my load, and I’d rather not get into it with him until I’ve recovered.

“Want to see if you can win your money back?” I offer as a concession.

I regret making a bet with Decker for the second time. The first time, it was impulsive and I couldn’t help myself. The second time, I should have thought it through more. Ant Decker is competitive as fuck, and if anyone should know that, it’s me.

He’s given me the widest berth imaginable since our last away game. We’ve had a day off, a practice, and a home game since then. I didn’t see him on our day off obviously. I chilled pretty hard. Spent most of the day at home wishing I had a sofa and trying to shopfor one online. When I was unsuccessful, I resorted to stalking my own socials to see if Decker had looked at my profile again. He hadn’t. He hardly even looked at me at practice. He didn’t insult me at all, didn’t give me constructive criticism about my game, or even call me a show pony, and when I purposefully bumped into him on the way to the locker room,heapologized.

It was bullshit.

The game was bullshit too. We lost. We played like “utter crap,” as Coach eloquently put it. I feel bad as I was off my game in a big way. I missed an easy goal, and I don’t even want to talk about the penalty I gave away. The second it happened, I knew it would be one of those things I’d relive for years. You know, the kind of thing that wakes up randomly every few months, makes you break into a sweat and want to go back in time and slap yourself for being so stupid. It was really bad. On our way to the locker room, Bodie threw an arm around me and said, “Don’t worry, bud. It wasn’t as bad as you think it was.”

Coming from Bodie, that means it sucked balls and then some.

Most of the team went out to drown our sorrows after the game. We went to Snake Bite, a dive bar a couple of blocks from the arena. It’s a Vipers institution. It’s oneof those places that looks grimy outside and smells like burger grease and beer inside, but the vibes are good. The regulars know us by name. They’re awesome, they don’t get in our faces, and they make sure fans give us enough space that we can let our hair down a little.

Decker was there, dark and broody, sitting at the bar, staring off into middle distance. It was annoying. It was like when he’s on the ice and I can feel where he is. Every time I got into a conversation with anyone else, I’d feel this dull pull toward him. I couldn’t stop looking at him. I did it so much that Bodie asked me twice if I was okay. Decker was sitting at the bar with Katz and Bennet. Bennet was doing most of the talking. He was amusing if Katz’s reaction was anything to go by. He must have been because Decker cracked a smiled three times and said, “Hmph,” once. He ordered a pale ale and drank it quickly. The closest he came to making eye contact with me was looking at a spot a couple of inches above my head.

He was the first guy to leave.

I dreamed about him last night. We were on the ice. Just us. No one else was there, not even Coach. We had our skates on but not the rest of our gear. We were wearing plain clothes, normal clothes, jeans and T-shirts. That struck me as odd, even while dreaming. It felt strange, unrestricted, and more naked than I usually feel on the ice. More freeing too. For the first part of the dream, we were playing with a puck, passing it back and forth to each other, but then one of those odd, dreamy things happened, and the puck wasn’t there anymore. I still had my stick, but Decker didn’t have his. It took me a second to realize what had happened. Hewasthe puck. A dark streak of menace darting a few paces ahead of me. Hard, tacky rubber compressed and put under intense pressure, moving at speed away from me.

I woke up sweaty and panting, feeling confused. It was a weird dream. Kind of fucked up.

And very unrealistic.

In the dream, I couldn’t catch him.

I was shitting bricks before I hit the ice tonight. There’s nothing worse than letting your team down, and I neededa win badly to convince myself I belong here. Thankfully, I played a lot better. The game went into overtime and shootouts, so it wasn’t easy, but I scored the game-winning goal and didn’t make any major fuckups, so that was a huge relief.

I should be riding the high of the W, but I’m not. We’re in the lobby of our hotel in Philly, a cavernous, ornately lit space that echoes when people speak, and I’m more nervous now than I was before the game.

I have my hands in my pockets because I picked my cuticles so much on the bus I almost drew blood. I haven’t done that in years. Not since I was a kid. My anxiety is through the roof. My palms are clammy and my heart is beating so hard I’m finding it hard to focus on anything else.

I’m worried about everything. Some of it makes sense, some of it doesn’t.

I’m worried because we played well tonight, and Decker and I haven’t so much as had a minor argument in three or four days, so there’s a good chance Coach is going to think we’ve figured our shit out and stop making us room together. As much as that seems like it would be a good thing, if we’re not forced into a small space together, how the hell will I be able to get myself into a situation where I’m alone with him?

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