Power Play

Chapter 5-2

Ryan creates a stats page for Dante’s web

site, scanning in an old hockey card and editing it until Dante’s

picture fills the border. “Now you’re a collector’s item,” he tells

his friend, who lies on his stomach on Ryan’s bed, leafing through

the latest issue of Sports Illustrated. Ryan glances at him

and his heart stops in his chest to see that wavy hair fall so

gently over Dante’s shoulders. He wonders if that dark length is as

soft to the touch as it appears.

Looking up from the magazine, Dante grins at

Ryan. “How much do you think I’m worth?” he jokes.

Ryan’s smile falters. It’s stuff like

that, he thinks, staring at his friend, that makes me think

you want more than this. Is this just the way he is, this open,

this flirtatious? Or does he mean something by it? Ryan wishes he

knew.

“I’m just kidding,” Dante says,

sitting up. He climbs across the bed to look at his makeshift

sports card on the computer screen. At the edge of the mattress he

reaches out, leans on the back of Ryan’s wheelchair to support

himself, his hand resting lightly against Ryan’s shoulder. “I like

it. Do you?”

Ryan likes the slight touch. He likes the

closeness, his friend in the space that no one else seems to want

to invade now that he’s in a wheelchair. Even his mother doesn’t

want to hug him or touch him when he’s in it, as if it’s an armor

locking him away from the rest of the world. Dante’s the only one

not afraid of the contraption. He’s the only one this barrier

doesn’t seem to keep out.

“Ryan?” Dante prompts, rubbing along

his friend’s back with a quick motion as if to rouse him. “What do

you think? Are you gonna put it online?”

“Yeah.” It’s the only word Ryan trusts

himself to say. His eyes slip close at his friend’s

touch.

Dante’s hand cups the nape of his neck, his

fingers working at the muscles behind Ryan’s ears, stiff and sore

from sitting all the damn time. His other hand finds a tense spot

between Ryan’s shoulders and rubs it away. “You like that?” he

murmurs, his voice low, his hands working, working into Ryan’s

flesh. Ryan nods, yes, he loves it, he’ll dream of this tonight,

these hands on his neck and shoulders and lower, these hands on his

body.

Continuing his massage, Dante moves his

hands over Ryan’s shoulders and down his arms, kneads through the

sweatshirt he wears. The tension slips from his body—he’s never

felt like this before, this relaxed, this soothed, therapy

never does this to him. You should talk to my doctor,

Ryan thinks, but he can’t find the words, he can’t speak, he

doesn’t want to scare this moment away.

As Dante’s hands move up to his shoulders

again, his thumbs rubbing at the hard knots tied into his muscles,

Ryan leans back, savoring this. He imagines the both of them naked,

he lying on his stomach and Dante straddling him, bare skin pressed

against bare skin, his friend’s legs on either side of his hips and

secret flesh sitting tight against his buttocks. He imagines these

same hands working into him then, kneading him, massaging

everything else away. He leans his head back further, the hint of a

smile curved on his face, and feels Dante’s hands rub into the fold

of his neck.

Tender lips close over his, softer than he

believed possible. Could a boy be this gentle? This sweet? His only

experience was a heated exchange in the dark but this, this

barely-there kiss, these hands on his shoulders, this is

nothing like that was, this is simply wonderful. Dante’s hair falls

to brush along Ryan’s cheeks, his hands continue their slow and

steady massage, his mouth covers Ryan’s and with every breath he

takes, he can smell his friend’s scent, a mix of sweat and sharp,

clean soap that reminds him of the ice. He doesn’t dare open his

eyes.

When Dante pulls away, his voice is gruff

with an emotion Ryan can only guess at. “I’m sorry,” he starts,

standing.

“Don’t be.” Turning in his chair, Ryan

looks at his friend and hopes everything he can’t say can be read

in his eyes. Don’t stop, he prays. He catches Dante’s hand

before it can slip away from the back of his chair, holds the warm

wrist tight to keep him here. Do it again, he wants to add.

Kiss me again, Dante. Please. But he can’t.

He can’t.

But Dante smiles now, a sunny grin that

melts away all of Ryan’s indecision and fear. He sits on the edge

of the bed and takes Ryan’s hand in both of his, strokes his

fingers and stares at him, studies him until Ryan thinks he’s going

to beg in a minute if he has to, anything for another kiss. Then

Dante looks down at the hand in his, watches his fingers smooth

down the lengths of Ryan’s own, and he says softly, “You know I

like you, right?”

It feels like there’s a balloon in his

chest, swelling until Ryan can’t breathe, rising in him until he’s

sure he’ll simply float out of this chair and up to the ceiling—the

only thing holding him down is Dante’s hands on his. You know I

like you, right? You know—with a laugh, Ryan tells him, “I

guess I sort of do now.”

That makes his friend smile. Ryan likes the

feel of Dante’s fingers stroking his, it makes him imagine them

curving along other places, hidden flesh that’s beginning to throb

for the touch. Ryan feels himself blushing again, he’s not usually

this bad, but those eyes, that smile, it’s like looking into a

mirror and seeing his own whirlwind of thoughts reflected back.

You know I like you, right? How easy would it be to tell

Dante he feels the same? Why can’t he think of anything witty or

sexy or coy or hell, anything at all, to say in return?

He doesn’t have to. Dante reaches out,

touches Ryan’s face with one tentative hand, and Ryan leans into

his friend’s palm, closes his eyes again. This time when lips brush

over his, he’s ready, and he holds his breath as a gentle tongue

licks into him, eager and hungry and bracing like the ice on a hot

day in August. He tastes sugary from the donuts they ate earlier

and as they kiss, he holds Ryan’s chin in his palm to keep him

close, as if he doesn’t want to let him go. His other hand tightens

in Ryan’s then rubs at his forearm, the crook of his elbow, his

wrist.

When they break apart, Dante rests his

forehead on Ryan’s and stares into him, his hand curving around the

back of Ryan’s neck to keep him here. A smile toys at the edges of

his mouth and under that intense gaze, Ryan feels his cheeks heat

up again. “Damn,” he whispers. Dante laughs, breathless.

“You ever been kissed before?” Dante

wants to know. He speaks low because it’s just them—the rest of the

world has disappeared.

With a shy smile, Ryan admits, “Not like

that.”

Dante’s response is another kiss, this one

just as tender, and then another, and another. Somewhere between

one kiss and the next, Ryan’s nervousness slips away and the next

time their lips part, he tells Dante that he likes him, too. “I

sort of figured that out,” Dante replies.

That sets them both giggling and leads to

more kisses.

The web site is forgotten. Ryan sets the

brake on his chair and climbs onto the bed beside Dante who lies

him down, props himself up on one elbow above him, runs his fingers

through Ryan’s thin hair. More kisses, sweet and lingering, nothing

rushed, nothing fast. A hand on his chest, warm and heavy, caught

between both of his. Fingers laced together, a gentle tongue, the

length of Dante’s body pressed against him. He wants to stay like

this all day, if not forever.

But Dante glances at the clock and sighs, he

has to get to work. “Can I call you tonight?” he asks, kissing the

freckles on Ryan’s cheek.

“What time?” Ryan wants to know. He

brushes the hair back from Dante’s face, tucks a strand behind his

ear—yes, it’s just as soft as he imagined, and it smells clean and

fresh.

Dante leans into Ryan’s hand, kisses his

palm, his thumb, his wrist. “After work,” he whispers. With a

laugh, he adds, “I don’t need Bobby to b***h me out again.”

Bobby. Ryan knows the guy by sight,

he owns the skate shop, but he’s never really spoken with him

before. But after what Dante’s said about his boss’s silly crush,

Ryan already knows he doesn’t like him. Tracing the curve of

Dante’s jaw, Ryan tells him, “One day, when I’m out of that chair?

I’m coming down there and telling him to keep his damn hands to

himself.” Dante laughs again and Ryan smiles faintly, not sure what

his friend finds so funny. “What?”

“You’re cute,” Dante murmurs. When

Ryan tries to protest, he kisses the words from his lips. “I’ll

call you tonight, about 9:30 or so, how’s that?”

Ryan nods. “I don’t want you to go yet,” he

admits. “Maybe tomorrow—”

Another kiss. Ryan likes that Dante feels

the need to punctuate every other word with a press of his lips to

some part of Ryan’s face, his lips or his chin or his cheeks, he

likes the way Dante’s breath tickles across his skin, how his mouth

feels hot and damp on him. “I’m off tomorrow,” Dante says. “I gotta

practice, though. Can we meet at the rink?”

Ryan has therapy at ten and that usually

wipes him out for the rest of the day, but he’s never had someone

like this waiting for him afterwards, he’s never had anything to do

after his appointment before. “I can meet you early,” he says.

“Like yesterday? I have to leave by ten—”

“Therapy,” Dante says, nodding. “I

know.”

Ryan likes that he remembered. “But I’ll try

to come back, how’s that? It’s only about an hour or so, usually.

How long does the skate club stay?”

With a shrug, Dante tells him, “Most

everyone leaves by noon, but I need all the time I can get out on

that ice.” His lips cover Ryan’s again, impossibly soft. In a

whisper, he adds, “But when it’s just you and me after they’re

gone…” He trails off, letting Ryan’s mind finish the thought.

He thinks of the stands, row after row of

darkened seats draped in shadow. He thinks of the wrestling mats

stacked up along the halls leading to the locker rooms, of the

benches in front of row after row of lockers, of the showers and he

has to stop there, that’s too much thought right now, it’s

overwhelming. Dante naked beneath the hard spray of water, his body

covered in suds, his hair slicked back and wet. No, he

definitely shouldn’t be thinking that.

Dante sees his smile and grins. “You’re

thinking what I’m thinking,” he purrs, his nose rubbing against the

earring Ryan wears high on the curve of his ear. “I’ll call you

tonight.”

“Tonight,” Ryan agrees, but it takes

another ten minutes for Dante to pull himself away. As he stands,

he steals another kiss or three, Ryan’s not sure, he’s lost

count.

At the door to his room, Dante gives him one

last, long look, that slight smile still on his lips. “I don’t know

if this is sudden to you,” he starts. Ryan shakes his head, no, it

feels as if he’s wanted the boy for years already, there’s

nothing sudden about this. “But maybe?” Dante continues. “Maybe I

can call you my boy, if that’s okay with you.”

Ryan laughs. “That’s fine,” he says. My

boy, he likes that.

Dante leans across the bed for one last

kiss. “So now you’re my boy, too,” Ryan whispers, and that gets

them giggling again. “Go on,” he tells Dante. “You’re going to be

late.”

“I have a good excuse,” Dante

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