Power Play

Chapter 2-4

The bus was a little off schedule, that’s

Dante’s excuse when Bobby asks him why he’s fifteen minutes late

for work. To be honest, though, he lingered at the rink for another

half hour after he told Ryan he needed to go, and he would’ve

stayed longer but Ryan’s mother showed up to make sure he was doing

alright. “I really should go this time,” Dante said. As he left, he

heard Ryan’s mother say he seemed to be a nice boy, and Ryan hushed

her quickly. That brought a smile to Dante’s face that stayed in

place for hours.

He stopped by the apartment complex to pay

the rent, then ran up to his place for a quick lunch. Ramen, that’s

about all he eats anymore, but the starch is a good source of

energy and the noodles are so damn cheap, five for a dollar at the

grocer’s down the street. He ate straight from the pot, leaning

over the sink so he wouldn’t make a mess, and as he shoveled the

last of the curled noodles into his mouth, it occurred to him that

he didn’t know Ryan’s number. You’ll see him tomorrow, he

told himself, but it would’ve been nice to at least ask for

it. It might have shown he was interested in the boy, and not just

because of the web site he planned to make, either. Maybe he could

check the phone book, or call information—

But he was running late. Dropping the pot

into the sink, he caught the noon bus down to Bobby’s and ducked

behind the counter while his boss was with a customer. He didn’t

say anything then—Bobby’s the type to let something fester before

he mentions it, another reason Dante doesn’t think a relationship

between them would work out. He’s blunt, painfully so, doesn’t

dwell on anything. If it bothers him, he gets it out in the open

and moves on. Bobby though, he broods over the littlest things,

Dante hates that. Like now, he waits until the shop is dead, twenty

minutes until they’re ready to close, before he leans on the

counter and, watching Dante flip through the phone book, says,

“Quarter past twelve isn’t noon on the dot.”

Dante glances at his boss and doesn’t

respond. Bobby’s near thirty, too old for Dante’s tastes, but the

guy likes to think he’s still hip. His word, hip, which

dates him right there. He wears his dark hair kinked into

dreadlocks, even though the color that tans his skin isn’t

ethnic—he’s purebred Long Island, through and through, as

Rastafarian as Santa Claus. But the dreads are clean and short,

twists of hair that shoot up like sprouts from the top of his head

and hang down to his eyebrows, they don’t go much farther than

that. He wears more earrings than Dante can afford, five in one

ear, three in the other, all solid gold. An eyebrow ring too, and

he’s hinted that he’s pierced in places he’d like Dante to see, if

he ever gets the urge. So far, he hasn’t.

He feels Bobby staring at him, trying to

will him to look up, meet his gaze. He doesn’t. Bobby’s got quick

eyes and thin lips twisted into a perpetual smirk, and a little

tuft of stubble down the center of his chin that he’s trying to

grow in. “Looks like you missed a spot,” Dante told him once. The

glare he got in return was enough to keep him from commenting on it

again.

“Dante,” Bobby says softly. He steps

closer, Dante knows what’s coming. The shop’s well-lit, true, but

this isn’t exactly the best part of town and no one’s passed by

their windows in a good five, ten minutes. No one to see the hand

that finds its way into the back pocket of Dante’s jeans. The

fingers curve around his ass with a familiarity that bothers him.

Sidling closer, Bobby brushes against his arm and murmurs, “We can

make up that time, if you want.”

Dante steps easily out of his embrace. “And

if I don’t?” He finds the page he wants, tal–tan, and starts

to scan through the numbers listed. How many Talonovichs can there

be in the city anyway? When Bobby’s arm starts to snake around his

waist, Dante warns, “Don’t.”

The arm stops, Bobby’s hand resting high on

Dante’s hip. “How’d the heat go today?” he asks, probably hoping to

distract Dante long enough to get further than this. “You

qualify?”

“You know I did,” Dante replies. He

runs a finger down the listings, hoping Bobby clues into the fact

that he’s busy here and drifts off to find something else to

do.

No such luck. Leaning over his shoulder,

Bobby glances at the phone book and breathes on Dante’s neck. Is

that supposed to be sexy? Dante wonders. Is it supposed to turn

him on? Because if so, it’s failing miserably. “What ’cha looking

for?” Bobby wants to know.

Dante shrugs him away. “Someone’s number.”

Before Bobby can ask, he adds, “Talonovich? He plays hockey for the

college.”

“Played,” Bobby corrects. Folding his

arms on the counter in front of him, he leans against Dante and

frowns at the phone book. “Isn’t he crippled now? Paralyzed for

life, or something?”

“His legs are messed up,” Dante tells

him, “that’s all. It’s nothing permanent.”

“Why do you care?” Glancing up at

Dante, that frown still worried into his face, Bobby says, “I

didn’t know you guys were friends.”

Dante finds the name, Talonovich, and

then an address in one of the classier suburbs. It’s the only

listing so it has to be him. Memorizing the number, Dante closes

the book and steps away from the counter, away from Bobby and the

press of his hip against Dante’s own. “We’re not,” he admits, “not

really. I just met him today.” He slips the phone book back into

place beneath the register and remembers the way Ryan laughed when

he asked if he could still get it up. That sure broke the ice

between them. “He’s real nice.”

“He’s playing again?” Bobby asks,

incredulous. “Already? He just got hurt what, a month ago? I heard

he broke his back. Snapped his spine right in half.”

With a grin, Dante shakes his head. “You

heard wrong. He’s just got a brace on one leg, that’s it.”

“He’s in a wheelchair,” Bobby points

out.

“He’ll walk soon enough,” Dante tells

him. “Jeez, Bob, he’s not an invalid. He just got hurt during

practice, it happens to the best of us.” Dante himself has a scar

on the inside of his left arm, almost seven inches long from end to

end, stretching between his wrist and his elbow where he took a

tumble with another skater during a heat last year. The other guy’s

skate caught him as he slid on the ice, and the razor-sharp blade

sliced into him, he didn’t even feel it until he saw the blood. He

can place his whole hand over the slit, it reaches from the tip of

his pinky finger to the tip of his thumb, and he was off the ice

for weeks before the stitches finally came out. Stuff like that

happens all the time—it’s one of the risks of sports. You fall, you

get up again, you get back in the game. And Ryan’s going to do

that, isn’t he? He wants back in the game.

“So you gonna call him now or what?”

Bobby asks. Propping an elbow up on the counter and chin in hand,

he stares at the middle of Dante’s chest with a look on his face

that suggests he’s thinking thoughts about the two of them that

Dante would rather not know about. “You like him?”

“He’s nice,” Dante says again. Later

on tonight, after his mom comes home from the office, he’ll make

her some soup and tell her he met a boy—he can almost see the

disappointed set of her mouth, the tips of her fingers whitening as

her grip tightens on the spoon, but she knows skating still comes

first. “At least that can’t get you into much trouble,” she’ll

mumble. “As long as you take care…” That’s as close as she’ll come

to telling him to use protection. He’s eighteen, what else is she

going to say?

But he’s not going to tell Bobby he likes

Ryan, he’s not going to even hint at it, because as much as he’s

not interested in the older man’s advances, he’d be stupid to lose

this job. It’s his one and only sponsor, and he knows he won’t make

better money anywhere else, Bobby pays him well to keep him here,

gives him incentives like free blades when he needs them, the

racing suit he wears, his helmet, that jacket. He even fronts Dante

cash from time to time, when he’s between checks and his skating

fund is running low. As long as there’s the hope that one day Dante

might give in, take Bobby up on his offer to meet with him after

work, then he’s fine. He can come in late every now and then, he

can take off when he has to for his skating, he can work extra

hours to pull in some more dough for the championships.

That’s going to set him back, if he makes

the cut. When he makes it, he knows he’ll win, he’s the best

skater in the whole club, any division, any gender. But the state

competition is held in Atlantic City, which means group trip, hotel

expenses, bus fare, dining, the whole works. Skaters who make it

into the championships have to come up with a couple hundred

dollars, Dante’s not sure on the exact amount just yet, but it has

to cover two people, the skater and another traveler of their

choice. He’s already thinking he can maybe talk to the skate club

committee, see if he can just pay for himself. They want each

skater to bring along a friend or family member, someone for

support, but he knows his mother will be too busy to go. She’s

always so busy with work—she’s never even seen him skate.

“Nice,” Bobby says, bringing Dante’s

mind back to the present. Five minutes until closing now, they

should start cleaning up the shop. Grabbing a broom propped up

against the counter, Dante starts to sweep the floor behind the

register. He feels Bobby’s gaze on his arms and shoulders and he’s

glad he wore long sleeves, he hates to feel like eye candy when

he’s trying to work. “You think he’s nice?”

“Yeah.” Dante wonders how he can

change the subject, but nothing comes to mind.

Bobby steps around Dante and for a moment he

thinks the guy’s going to touch him again, just ease an arm around

his waist and press against him, he’s done it before. But not this

time—he rings out the register, starts to count the till, and

there’s an angry air about him that makes Dante think he’s mad at

him. Because of Ryan, how silly. He just met the boy, and it’s not

like Bobby has much of a chance anyway…“So you gonna call him?”

Bobby asks again.

Dante shrugs—he hasn’t really given it much

thought. “I doubt it,” he says. “I’ll see him again tomorrow

anyway.”

Icy silence. Dante suppresses a smile, he

can almost feel the ire radiating from his boss in waves, as

cold as the air in the rink when the refrigeration unit is going

full blast. With a dramatic sigh, Dante says, “Don’t be pissy,

Bobby. He’s making me a web site, okay? That’s it.”

“A web site?” Bobby asks. The way he

says the word, Dante wonders if he’s ever even heard it before. “I

didn’t know you wanted one. My sister can do it—”

Dante laughs. “I don’t think so, Bobby.”

“Why not?” Bobby wants to know. Dante

just gives him a sardonic look over his shoulder and continues to

sweep. He’s not even going to answer that.

Marnie Trevor made the Later Skater site,

over three years ago now and it’s not all that great. She has

flashing graphics, Welcome! across the top of the main page

in sparkly text and graphics she swiped from all of the skating

sites she could find. It’s not a very creative page, to be honest,

and Dante wants something a little more professional for his own

site. Something like what they have for the Olympics, maybe, or one

of the major league hockey teams. Plus, Marnie just turned

fourteen—every page she makes has to be linked with the phrase

Another Marnie Marvel to her own web site, which is pink and

flowery and full of cutesy little anime girls with wings. Not to

mention the fact that she has a crush on Dante, almost as bad as

her brother’s, and there’s no way in hell he’s going to spend any

amount of time over at the Trevor place, not if he can help it.

It’s hard enough eluding Bobby most days, but Marnie too? No

thanks.

“Why not?” Bobby asks

again.

“Just no,” Dante tells him.

“She’d do it for free,” Bobby says, as

if that’s added incentive.

“Ryan’s doing mine for free, too.”

Dante sweeps around the counter, away from the register and the

threat of Bobby’s hands straying to his ass. “He says he has the

time—”

Bobby snorts. “Not doing much else now, is

he?”

Shut up, Dante thinks, but this

is his boss, he’s not going to say that. Instead he ignores

him, concentrates on the broom across the floor and Ryan’s smile,

his freckles, his thick, reddish-blonde eyelashes and the fact that

he’s going to see him again tomorrow.