Page 48 of Script
I kissed him with all the whirling emotions inside me. Our tongues tangled as our fingers tightened around each other’s, the world melting away to a chilly blur around us. Nothing else mattered but this moment.
“God, I do love you,” I croaked, my throat tight with feelings I wasn’t sure how to express. “Emoting isn’t my thing, it’s yours, but I am crazy about you. It feels like someone elbowed me in the head every time I look at you.”
He chortled a bit, his lips a mere inch from mine—his breath sweet from the coffee we’d stopped to buy on the way in—so close.
“You romantic fool,” he teased, stealing another kiss, then leaning in close to rest his brow on my shoulder. I dropped a kiss to his hair, my dopey gaze flitting around the rink. A flash of something purple caught my eye by the northern exit.
“Shit,” I snapped, rising to my skates to watch a small figure in one of my damn Storm jerseys booking ass. “We’ve been made.”
Finn’s rosy cheeks went ashen. How had anyone gotten past Jed and Todd? I took off, climbing up and over the railing that ran across the tunnel that leads from the benches to the locker rooms. Finn fell in behind me as I locked eyes on the frame of a kid. Black hair, tan skin, about thirteen or so, maybe, just judging by his gangly build. The kid was faster, but I had longer legs. I also had reach. I caught him and pulled him into me gently. Finn clambered over the plastic benches, reaching us a moment after I had captured our quarry.
“Hand it over,” Finn said, his breathing barely hitched. The man was in phenomenal shape. The kid, who now sounded like he was crying, held up his cellphone. “Unlock it,” Finn said—God, he sounded sad—and the kid did as he was asked. I loosened my hold on him but didn’t let go entirely. This was not the way I liked to interact with fans, but my faith in this kid was hurt badly when Finn showed me the shots of us kissing.
“Little dude, that was so uncool,” I said to the child resting loosely against me. I wasn’t so much holding him, as he was seeking comfort from me.
“I know… I’m… I’m…” The boy began to really cry now. Big, choking sobs that made me feel like a first-class jerk. Finn spent a moment deleting the images of us, then gestured for the boy to sit down. I steered him to the top row of benches, then let go. The kid sat with a sniffle, then pulled his sleeve under his running nose. Gross. But hey, I did that on the ice when it was necessary, so I didn’t chide him.
“What’s your name?” I asked of the little guy.
He glanced up at me with big brown eyes. “Manuel,” he replied shakily. I glanced at Finn, who had taken a seat on Manuel’s left. I dropped down beside the boy.
“Okay, Manuel, want to tell us why you were sneaking around in here?”
He glanced at me, then Finn, sniveled a bit more, and then gave his nose one more wipe.
“I saw your car outside,” Manuel replied, his tears slowing. “I came in the service door, there’s no cameras there, and I’m your biggest fan,” he said, his gaze meeting mine.
“Thanks, but, seriously, my man, what you did there was uncool.” I jerked my chin to his phone as it dangled from his fingers.
“I know. I’m sorry. I just…” He drew in a huge breath, then let it out in one massive snotty exhale. Finn fished a hankie out of his back pocket and passed it over to the lad. After a big blow, Manuel tried to return the hankie, but Finn told him to keep it. I would have made the same call. “I wanted to show it to my dad. I swear that was all! I wouldn’t have sold it to any papers or put it online. I just wanted my dad to see that guys who are gay are tough too.”
Oh. “Are you hiding something from your father, Manuel?” I asked in Spanish.
He replied with a sluggish nod, then began telling me about his life. He lived near the rink, hell, he was even on one of the teams in CC’s Club. He began rambling on about how he felt different from the other kids in school, but how his father was a tough guy, real macho, which was common among Latino men. It had taken my Mexican uncles and male cousins some adjusting to accept me, but they had, mostly. The ones who didn’t could go sit in a fucking ditch. But I got his story and his struggle. As did Finn, who was staring at me in confusion.
Jed and Todd arrived--too little, too late-- and I shot them an angry glance. They both stepped closer as if they were going to get involved. “You can go,” I said. Then, I turned back to Manuel. “Hey, we best speak in English. My man’s Spanish sucks.” I jerked a thumb at Finn, who had the good grace to nod. It felt nice to call him mine. Aloud and all that.
“It really does. I had to have all my lines in a Spanish shampoo commercial that I did a few years back dubbed in,” Finn confessed. That made Manuel throw him a weak smile.
“So, your dad…” I prompted.
“Yeah, he loves the Storm. Beer every game, lots of chest-pounding and all that, you know. He thinks you’re super cool,” he said as he stared at me. “I thought… I don’t know… that he might be okay with me being gay, if he saw that tough guys were too.”
No shit, this was crazy heavy.
Finn looked about ready to weep. “Is this what it’s come to?” he asked after a moment or two of silence had passed. “Are we now chasing down kids and demanding they keep my secret?”
I had no answer for that. Yeah, I guess that was what it had come down to for sure. That felt pretty rotten.
“I’m really sorry. I know I shouldn’t have taken your picture,” Manuel murmured. I ruffled his hair as I studied Finn for signs of what the hell to do now.
“It’s fine. We totally get it. We’ve both been there,” Finn announced to the world, which made me gape. Finn glanced at me. I nodded. “Guess I just came out though, huh?”
“Guess so, baby,” I replied. Manuel sat there between us, his dark eyes darting from Finn to me, as if he had never witnessed two men staring lovingly at each other. “You know, maybe if we visited with you and your dad, and had a talk with him he’d be okay with hearing you out, Manuel.” The boy’s jaw went slack. He nodded and blinked as if words had failed him. “Cool, let’s take a walk.” I rose, offered Finn my hand, and he clasped it. And he did not let go the whole time we strolled to Manuel’s home four blocks away.
It was a lovely home in a heavily Latino section of town. Modest, but well-taken care of, lots of love in the house. You could sense it the moment you entered. The smells of lunch being made lured us into the small kitchen where three adults—a woman of about forty, a man about the same age, and an older woman of about sixty or so—glanced up at us as we entered. The older woman at the stove preparing what smelled like some ten-alarm chili, dropped the spoon she was stirring the meat with into the large pot.
It took a few minutes to get everyone calmed down and answer most of their questions. Finn and I learned that the family was compromised of Manuel, his grandmother, Teresa; her son, Lorenzo; and his wife, Maria. Teresa insisted we dine with them, so we ate lunch at that small, scarred table that had come all the way from Taxco with Teresa and her husband forty years ago. Finn dove into the chili with gusto, only to break into a sweat so severe we all worried he might pass out. Teresa’s chili was not for those with tender tummies. After a few glasses of milk for my man—that sounded so damn good—we moved outside where it was cooler. The backyard was small, packed full of flowers and pottery that Maria made in her studio.
