Hat Trick
There’s something to be said for the role of a backup goalie.
I may miss playing, but at the same time, from the bench I get to watch Keith. Every shift he’s on the ice, I get to watch him. Intently. If possible, it’s made me want him even more. He has an intense, silent sensuality to his movements, a sexuality that just happens, something that he can’t control. While on the bench, I can pat his shoulder when he scores, I can talk about the goal with him before he has to get back out there.
The only thing I miss is the fact that Ozzie gets more of his hugs and congratulatory murmurs. Twice now, when I’ve played and won, he’s been there to hug me—and I wouldn’t give up those brief moments of contact for anything. I want to think that there’s something there, that he’s not just hugging me because I got the win. For the briefest of moments, after the shutout against Nashville, I let myself believe he had his arms around me for a reason, not just in celebration. I let myself muse that he WANTED to be holding me.
I could barely even bring myself to look at him later. He doesn’t want me, I know that much. He’s married, his wife is beautiful, and I know he would never even give me a second look. He only feels bad for me because I’ve been demoted to backup.
But tonight, Keith is the one who looks like he needs a hug. He’s pissed at himself for not taking that shot, he’s angry that he gave up his chance at a hat trick. He pats Ozzie’s head, smiling at him, but when he turns to me, there’s disappointment in his eyes. He grins weakly, and ducks past me without another word. I quickly congratulate Chris on the shutout, and then I’m behind Keith, following him past the showers and lockers, through the doors to a trainer’s room down the hall.
"I should’ve just taken the damn shot. I wanted to give him the goal, I was sure he could do it. If I’d known he was going to miss it, I’d have taken the shot. I wanted the hat trick, Brent. I wanted it so fucking bad…" he hasn’t turned to look at me once, and I wonder how he knows someone followed him, and how he knew it was me.
"But you looked good. It made you look so unselfish, Keith, it made everyone fall in love with you, if they weren’t already."
"Fall in love with me, huh?" he says with a wry grin, slowly turning to face me, "It made EVERYONE fall in love with me?"
"I…you know…fans…" I stammer, avoiding his eyes.
"Oh, right. Just the fans. Of course," he replies, sounding a bit amused. Sure enough, there’s a smile curling his lips, and he’s got one eyebrow raised at me.
"What?" I ask, trying not to squirm under the intensity of his gaze.
"So if JUST the fans fell in love with me, that wouldn’t include any teammates, right? Just fans. People at the game. People watching at home. No one who was actually on the ice—or on the bench—tonight, right? Just the FANS," he’s still grinning, his eyes lit with something mischievous. "Right?"
I swallow hard. I hate lying, but I don’t have a choice right now. It’s either I lie, and tell him that I was only talking about Blues’ fans, or I tell the truth and say, "Maybe the ones on the bench are the ones who ALREADY loved you."
He’s slowly advancing on me, but I’m backed against the door, with nowhere to go, unless I leave the room completely, which I really, really don’t want to do. I may be scared of what might be happening, but not enough to run from it. "Already loved me, really? How many guys on our team do you know of who already loved me?"
My breath catches in my throat, but the gleam in his eye is too much to resist. "Maybe…maybe just one."
He stops right in front of me, one hand on the wall at either side of my head. "Which one is that, Brent?" he asks softly. Biting my lip, I shrug helplessly, and I stare wide-eyed at him, unable to speak. He whispers, barely louder than a sigh, "I think I know exactly which one…"
His lips touch mine softly, only long enough for my eyelashes to flutter closed, before he pulls back. In the same soft, quiet whisper, he asks, "Am I right?"
I smile shyly at him, curling my hand in his shirt and pulling him to me, so that our mouths are touching when I answer him, "Absolutely right. You win."
"If you’re the prize," he mumbles as he nips my lower lip, "this is better than any hat trick."
