Power Play

Chapter 3-2

Today after practice, Jacoby doesn’t stop by

to say hi. He looks up at Ryan, laughing with Dante about something

silly—that boy is always laughing—and when he catches Ryan’s

eye, he just nods before leaving the rink. That’s it. No how you

doing today, kid? No we miss you out there on the ice.

Nothing at all to let him know they’re even thinking about him. So

much for staying a part of the team.

“You should get out there,” Ryan tells

Dante after the zamboni has cleaned the ice. He fiddles with his

camera, adjusting the lens so he’ll be able to zoom in on his new

friend as he skates. “Get in some laps before the rest of the club

shows up, you know?”

Dante nods. “Are you going to take my

picture?” Before Ryan can reply, he leans against the railing and

flings open the collar of his flannel jacket, exposing the white

t-shirt underneath. Striking a haughty pose, he asks, “How’s

this?”

“Ooh, work it for me,” Ryan says,

playing along. He snaps off a shot, two, three, each click of the

shutter prompting Dante to move into another position as he tries

desperately not to laugh. Soon they’re both giggling, Ryan reeling

off pictures before the last one even saved and Dante pulling up

his shirt, rubbing his hands across his midriff, blowing kisses

into the camera. “Can you give me sexy?” Ryan asks as Dante sits up

on the edge of the railing and leans back dangerously for another

shot.

“You don’t think I’m already sexy

enough?” Dante counters. He says it with a laugh that doesn’t quite

make it to his eyes, and his smile slips a notch as Ryan searches

for an answer to that. I think you’re damn sexy, he thinks,

taking in his friend’s slim body, the hair that has begun to curl

beneath the bandanna he wears, the slight bulge at his crotch that

his sweat pants accentuate perfectly. “Ryan?” Dante sinks to the

edge of his seat, concern written all over his face. “I’m just

teasing. You don’t have to answer that.” With a self-conscious

laugh, he adds, “I told you I say stupid s**t all the

time.”

Anything he says now might broadcast the

myriad of emotions churning in him, making his stomach flutter and

his hands tremble and his gaze drop to the ground. He can’t look at

Dante, not when his friend’s staring at him so intensely, he’ll see

the same lovesick crush in Ryan’s eyes that he must see in every

girl he meets, and Ryan doesn’t want to scare him away, not when

he’s the only person who really sees him now, who talks with

him and laughs and isn’t afraid to touch him. Touch me

again, Ryan thinks, and he presses his lips together tightly to

avoid saying it out loud. Change the subject, safest thing to

do. Frowning at his hands, Ryan watches the saved images parade

across the display on the back of the camera, tiny pictures of

Dante in various poses, all of them pretentious and silly and fun.

“Ryan?” Dante asks. He touches Ryan’s arm, touches him, it’s

more than even his mother does anymore. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Ryan murmurs, even though he’s

not. Hoping to lighten the mood, he takes a deep breath and asks,

“So are you going to get out on the ice and strut your stuff, or

what?”

Dante studies him a moment longer and Ryan

thinks he’s going to ask again, you okay?, because he

doesn’t believe him, it’s evident in the thoughtful twist of his

mouth. “I’m fine,” Ryan assures him before he can say anything

else. “Really. Just a little…I don’t know, nervous I guess.”

That gets a smile. “I make you nervous?”

Dante asks. His hand’s still on Ryan’s arm and yes, he has to admit

the boy makes him nervous. And giddy and invincible and thrilled

and awkward all at once, like the latest, greatest roller coaster

ride. “Little ole me?”

“Stop it,” Ryan tells him. Dante

laughs, a gorgeous sound that manages to make everything alright.

“I mean about my therapy.”

Sobering up, Dante rubs his arm softly—Ryan

could grow used to so gentle a touch. “It’s that bad?” he whispers.

Ryan nods. Yes, most days, it is.

Ryan nods at the ice, now empty and smooth,

the hockey players gone and the skate club not yet arrived. “You’re

losing practice time,” he says.

“I know.” Dante stands and stretches,

then gathers up his jacket, his sweatshirt, and a duffle bag that’s

hidden beneath his seat. Looking down at Ryan, he asks, “You’re

going to be here tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Ryan replies. He has nothing

else planned and already he can’t wait to see Dante again. He’s

going to dream of him tonight, he knows it, and during his therapy

session, he’ll focus on his friend’s face just to chase away the

pain. “I’ll be here. You?”

“Yeah—no, wait.” Dante frowns and digs

in his pocket, pulls out a handful of crumpled dollar bills, and

starts to count them out. “Damn,” he murmurs. “Not tomorrow. I only

have eight dollars.”

Ryan doesn’t get it. “For what?”

“It’s fifteen to skate for club

members,” Dante tells him. Shoving the money back into his pocket,

he shrugs and asks, “Maybe Friday? I get paid tomorrow.”

Ryan thinks about the money in his own

wallet, a twenty, some fives, a few ones—he hasn’t been anywhere to

spend it since the accident, and living at home means no more

late-night calls to Domino’s. Reaching behind him for his wallet,

he says, “I can spot you. If you get paid tomorrow anyway—”

“No, really, it’s cool.” Dante shakes

his head quickly. “I need to save for the quarters, too. I’ll

practice today and then get some time in on Friday, I’ll be good to

go.” Which means you won’t be here tomorrow, Ryan thinks as

he shoves his wallet down into the back pocket of his jeans. Maybe

Dante didn’t want to see him again, maybe this is the

beginning of goodbye. He came here early just to talk with

you, he reminds himself, but it’s a cold comfort. Hell, he’d

give Dante seven bucks if it’ll bring him back here, he

doesn’t need to pay it back.

Suddenly Dante sits down again, his knee

almost touching Ryan’s as he leans forward and asks, “Can I call

you? Like tonight or something. I have to work but I’ll get a break

around seven. We could just talk, say hi, I don’t know. If you

want?”

“Sure.” Ryan nods, relieved. He

wants to call me…he’s more than relieved, he’s ecstatic,

he’ll sit by the phone tonight and will it to ring. As he pulls his

notebook and pen out of his backpack, he asks, “You won’t get in

trouble for calling me at work?”

Dante laughs. “Nah.” Then, thinking about

it, he adds, “Well, maybe, but what the hell, you know? It’s off

the clock. Bobby’ll just be pissed I’m calling another guy. He’ll

get over it.”

He’ll be pissed about another

guy…why? Ryan wishes fervently that he were bold enough to ask.

Scribbling down his number on a blank sheet of paper, he tears it

out of the notebook and hands it to Dante. Shyly, he hands him the

pen, as well. “Can you give me your number?” he asks, his voice

hesitant. “Just in case.”

“If I give it to you, you better use

it,” Dante says, writing it down. He hands back the notebook and

the pen is warm from his hand. “You’ll be here Friday though,

right?” When Ryan nods, Dante hefts his bag in one hand, swings his

coat and sweatshirt over his shoulder, and tells him, “I’ll talk to

you tonight. Seven okay for you?”

Anytime, Ryan thinks, but he simply

says, “Yeah, that’s fine.” He turns as Dante leaves, watching the

sway of his friend’s hips, the way the tail of his shirt pulls taut

across his butt as he walks, and wonders if he can wait until

seven. He imagines Dante’s voice in his ear, so close through the

phone, and he thinks he’ll undress completely, turn off the lights,

lie naked beneath the cool sheets on his bed and listen to that

voice, that laugh, curl into him. You’re falling hard,

Talon, he thinks.

At the door, Dante turns and looks back at

him. There’s a smile on his face that Ryan can just make out in the

shadows, and then he’s gone.

* * * *

Dante’s amazing on the ice. He moves

effortlessly, zipping around the rink, bending low on the corners

and picking up speed on the straight tracks. Watching him, Ryan

feels as if he’s out there, too—he feels the cold breeze stinging

his face and numbing his lips, he feels every chip in the ice

beneath his feet, he tastes the slush flung up from the blades. He

wants to be back out there again, he wants to be that free again,

he wants to be chasing after Dante with their laughter streaming

out behind them, hurrying to catch up.

He manages to take another ten or twelve

pictures before the rink starts to fill up, other members of the

skate club trickling in, a few fans already picking seats close to

the ice. Dante moves to the sidelines to let other skaters

practice, and he’s not even sitting down before a couple of girls

are already leaning against the player box, flirting with him. One

Ryan recognizes from the day before, that pretty blonde with the

braid down her back—she stands closest to Dante, batting her

eyelashes and flipping her hair over one shoulder as her friends

giggle into their hands. Jealousy stabs through him, a stupid

emotion, he has no right to feel this way, but he can’t help it. He

can hear Dante’s laughter from here when the girl says something

witty and cute, and he jams the camera into his backpack, shoves

the notebook in after it, turns his chair around and wheels

outside.

In the parking lot, he waits for his mom and

tries not to think about the way that girl was looking at Dante,

the same way he himself looks at the guy, he’s that far gone on him

already. But he’s calling me, he reminds himself, and that’s

some consolation, at least. Not her, me. Tonight. Seven o’clock,

he’ll call me.

He can make it through the therapy session

now, no matter how bad it is, because he knows he’ll talk to Dante

tonight.