Sugar and Ice - RJ Scott Page 0,7
a breath and a mouthful of hot water. His dark eyes moved to me. I glanced downward.
“Back in Dallas we used to…”
Whatever he said was a garbled mess. I nodded, made sounds of agreement, and even smiled once when he chuckled at something he’d said. My eyes stayed locked on my feet, the ceiling, the faucets, or the bar of blue, nautical-scented soap in my hand. I lathered at speed, hitting only the high spots as Eli would say, rinsed, said something stupid about a beer sometime, and then left the showers. I pulled on some shorts, a tank top, sneakers with no socks, and got the hell out of the Raptors changing area. Beer. Fuck that. I needed something stronger than beer.
The scrimmage had kicked my ass, as had the time spent in the showers averting my gaze from Tate’s tattooed body. This attraction was growing instead of lessening and I needed to gain some perspective and control. Freewheeling was not my preferred mode of operation. I was happiest when I had things planned out in advance. Spontaneity was not my “happy place” as the Americans are so fond of saying. Feeling the tension tightening my shoulders, I padded to the bar, poured myself two fingers of Stolichnaya, dropped one cube into the vodka, skipped the lemon zest as it was too much work, and went to Frank’s massive pen to set him free.
He climbed onto my hand, his claws digging into my wrist as I lifted him out of his cage.
The macaw loved free time, stretching his bright blue wings as he flew around my condo, coming to land on my shoulder as I dropped onto the sofa. I did my best to give him as much time out as I could, along with working on training, as he had an attitude when it came to treats on occasion.
“Alexa, play the Fearless album by Taylor Swift,” I said while sinking into the sofa cushion. The moment her voice hit the airwaves my tension began to lessen. How was it possible for one woman to be so talented? There was not one album of hers that I didn’t have in CD form, vinyl and downloaded for digital play. Taylor was a gift from the gods of music and beauty. If I were straight, or even bisexual like my twin Dimi, I would’ve married Taylor if she’d have had me.
Women had never appealed to me sexually, unlike my brother. Which made his life in Russia, and his playing in the KHL easier than it had ever been for me. He dated men occasionally but always in secret. At the moment he was seeing a beautiful woman, Lada, who he was madly in love with. He had already bought a ring and had plans to propose next month on their two-year anniversary. Even though I lived and played in America, I still kept a tight rein on my social media presence and the men that I dated. News of my being gay could filter back to Russia where it might make things difficult for my family. So I dated men who understood my need to be discreet and in control of what took place in my bed. So far all had been well, but my tastes had led me to men of an age similar to mine. Not someone younger like Tate Collins, who was the face of professional hockey.
“Vinograd,” the parrot said, bobbing his red head as his claws sank into my shoulder.
“Nyet, I did not get the grapes.” I reached up to pet him. He snapped at my hand with a big, black, hooked beak.
“Mudak! Mudak!” He squawked, taking to wing to sit atop his crate and glower at me.
“Yes, I’m an asshole,” I replied, holding my drink up as a toast to my asshole status before taking a taste. It burned a cold path down to my stomach. My brother had warned me that teaching the bird to cuss in Russian would come back to bite me. He’d been right, damn it. I’d never dreamed my own pet would fling curses at me, and everyone else, who didn’t feed him grapes on demand.
My gaze moved from Frank, who was now preening, to the oil on the wall. It was an old thing, a painting of a lady’s dressing room or something similar. My great-grandmother had owned it and it had come to us upon her death many years ago. It had hung in our parlor for ages, as