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*

Hello, and welcome to the Hockey Hunk!

Today's chapter is a bit different from the usual. I felt dissatisfied with how the Friday's chapter turned out, so I have reworked it a bit, expanded on it, and then carried on right away into the fresh part of the chapter, so you're getting a kind of a double bang today - do enjoy! I feel much better about the chapter now, and how this is going on...I hope you'll like it too!

As always, I look forward to your feedback!

Have a nice read!

*

It always took everyone some time to file out of the room, mostly attributing to the number of artificial limbs and wheelchairs and respirators among us. The last of us to go was Dwayne as always, his electric chair driven by his assistant and through the swinging doors. He liked it that way. He wanted to give others room. Spare the fuss.

I pretended to be busy with the chairs. At least it gave something to do. At least I didn't have to look at the German Shepherd who laughed and said something to Dwayne's assistant, somewhere behind me, while I dragged the chairs.

I knew.

I knew from the moment he told me to do the chairs that this was going to end out like this. Both of us knew it was an excuse. What else could it be? A hospital tech would usually come around to pick them up, it was part of the deal. Send someone in to clean up after the cripples. We weren't really expected to do it ourselves. Sometimes we did, though, because we are nice and industrial furs, just like everyone else. Fuck it.

I heard the gentle rustle of wheels of gym mat, and then the distinct noise of Simpson rolling around and parking himself. He hit the brakes and I knew he'd have his paws against the brake handles. It was kind of a reflex you grow into, I suppose, when the chair is part of you. I'd had my own share of time in one. I knew how it worked.

I just hoped that he wouldn't start with that psychology shit. Sometimes he did. He'd learned this whole therapist thing a bit too well for his own good. Sometimes he also tried the good company sergeant thing, as if somehow it still mattered that on paper both of us still had some sort of military commissions and...ranks.

He cleared his throat. My ears braced for it.

"Well, Tate, we really didn't get to talk so much about your week this time, because it seemed that everyone had so much to say about everything else that we kind of missed some of the smaller things."

I slammed one of the plastic chairs on top of another and hobbled over for the next one in the cluster I'd created by dragging the chairs across the floor.

"I suppose so," I said, "lotsa talk."

"So how're things, Tate?"

Slam.

This was starting to look like a pretty good ol' pile of shit.

"All's fine," I lied.

Slam.

"How's everything going with work?"

"I've got a work practice placement. It's some kind of a small local company that does websites and support for local businesses," I replied. "It's starting sometime next month."

"Well that's great news, Tate!" he barked out. "How long is it for?"

"Three months," I said, "then a few classes over December and more classes and practice over the spring and then it's...whatever I want to do. Get a job or maybe carry on studying. I don't know yet."

"Sounds like you've got it all lined up," he said.

Slam.

"Yep," I let out.

"Well, that's something," the German Shepherd continued, "how about everything else? Family and friends and?"

What family? What friends? My fingers clenched on the backrest of the chair I was holding, and I was doing that really hard. I probably left some clawmarks on the plastic. My body was so tense. He could see it, I bet he could, the angle of my tail, my ears, my body...everything...just everything.

Slam.

"Well I phone my mom every Saturday," I said.

"Is your family well?"

That always sounded so strange, these small girly things coming from someone who frankly managed to look goddarn badass despite being all ass and no legs, sitting on that chair of his, with that drill instructor voice booming out of a big, noisy throat.

He was one sexy daddy, but don't ever say I said that.

"Everyone's got their own lives," I replied, "mom's doing alright. Keeping busy with herself now. She's joined the church choir, she says."

For fuck's sake, if anyone could see the two of us like that...Jesus Christ.

I was just lifting the last one when he spoke.

"Hold onto that chair," Simpson said, "why don't you grab that and sit down for a moment?"

I was just about ready to throw the entire pile of chairs to the wall, but I didn't dare to not to comply. I put the last chair down and sat on it. It meant I had to face him, and I didn't like that. I'd managed to avoid for most of the time now, but now....now he was looking back to me all too calmly with that goddamn therapist face plastered all over his muzzle.

"Alright," I said, and it came out sounding almost like a challenge while I looked at him while not really looking at him.

"Have you been to home recently?"

"I went earlier this year," I said. "Mom wanted me to see dad's grave."

His ears didn't betray much emotion. There was a brief smile of compassion, or so he thought it would be.

"I recall that your father passed some time ago."

"Back when I was in Iraq," I said, "pancreatitis."

"That is unfortunate."

"He drank himself to death," I said.

Now I looked at him, straight on.

"Indeed," he said.

Indeed...a word to cover the painful end of a horrible drunk's pitiful death.

"Well I can't help but notice that you're tense," he opted for familiarity again...man to man...soldier to soldier.

"I'm fine," I lied.

I wasn't fine. Goddamnit. I'd made a total fool out of myself and I'd spoiled any real chance of reconnecting with my old friends. How could Cobb be friends with me now? How could Victor even try to forgive me for bullying him if he was gay and I...and I'd been such a coward that I'd bullied him even though I was a goddamned faggot myself? I couldn't face them anymore...I couldn't face up to the idea that the ideas I'd had going on in my head for months now had been blown up in the space of a couple of seconds on Victor's nice leather couch.

"You know that if you don't want to talk to me, there're always options," he said.

Here we go.

"I think I'm fine."

"Is it your prosthetic? Sam Weller's workshop is always open."

"My leg's fine," I said.

"How about pain issues? Amanda Stokes - "

"I take my Elavil like the good boy I am," I cut him in, "she wrote my prescription."

He went in for the big move.

"There's Doctor Hopkirk, or Mrs. Juliet - "

"I don't need a shrink either."

Why did he even bother to list out these familiar names? I'd seen all of them, several times, in fact, because I was supposed to, meant to, because it was part of this whole deal of trying to get fixed again. Getting the names again didn't help at all. It just made me feel inexplicably angry.

"You know that I know the drill," I said, "And I'm fine. I don't need any maintenance on any part of me, thanks."

I just needed to feel happy again.

"It still doesn't seem like everything's fine," Simpson continued, "you've got a temper."

"I've always had a temper," I spoke back a bit too quickly, I knew immediately, because his ears jumped.

"It can be a good thing or a bad thing," he said, "on a soldier it's most often a bad thing, though on occasion it's been known to make men do extraordinary things on the field."

Oh, gee, like shove tongues down the throats of straight men you thought were gay simply because you were a blind fool?

"This isn't Fallujah," I said gently.

"Might as well be," he tapped one of his wheels, "We're at war with our bodies and minds every day. Didn't that come clear enough today, with all this talk about our bodies and how other perceive them? How sometimes we even gladly hide behind our injuries or illnesses?"

The things I hid from couldn't be even spoken aloud. Not here, not ever. It meant you were a sissy.

"I'm doing alright," I said, "my prosthetic fits, like I said, I had the beginnings of a sore but I took care of it so it's all good now, and my phantom pain is being controlled with Elavil - "

"You've done better, though, Tate," Simpson observed, "if there's something bothering you, it'd be good to talk about it."

You wish.

"Maybe I'm having a bad day," I said, my tail moving tensely behind me.

"It doesn't have to be," Simpson said, "even if you're feeling down just for today, it doesn't have to last."

Nothing he could tell me could make me cheer up, I thought.

"It's a beautiful day out there. You could go out and take a nice walk."

"I'm with Marker, you know" I replied, my excuse as good as ever, "he doesn't like going out in public much for obvious reasons."

"It'd do him good, too."

"I'm not his minder," I said.

Though in a way I was. We might've lived together only for a while but we'd gone through some serious stuff. Hell, we'd slept on each other's beds sometimes when one of us was too scared to simply be alone. We'd never talk about it afterwards, but we'd knew that one of us had been in Iraq again...and that was that. I wasn't going to start telling Simpson all that. We were entitled to just that much privacy, I thought.

"I didn't say you were," Simpson replied.

I shrugged.

"I can only occasionally tell him to stand up and just fucking do something, you know," I said, "It's kind of a limited option. He's a grown man, not a kid."

At least Simpson didn't mind the bad language.

"Maybe today is one of those days," he said.

"Well I don't feel like parading around," I grunted.

"Have you been going to the gym?" he interjected.

"Sometimes," I said.

"It does you good," Simpson said, "physical activity clears the mind, too."

If he started going on about how working out released all those good mood-uplifting endorphins, I was going to have it.

"I know," I said.

Simpson puffed out his chest in a big breath.

"I have to skip gym today," he said, "I'm taking the kids out to the mall to do shopping. The missus told me that they need new school clothes and supplies, and she says this is a good time to buy them. Well I don't know about that, but they'll probably be running their old dad around the place and making me buy all sorts of things to them."

It was so damn difficult to picture this tough as shit grunt dog with two teenaged kids strolling around the mall. Then again, it was difficult to picture him with kids at all, or even the fact that he'd had them after he'd come back from The Desert Storm.

Images.

"That's meant to make you smile, Tate," he rumbled.

I obliged.

"Good," Simpson replied. "That's better. Much better."

I harrumphed.

"Is there something else?" I asked. "Suppose we all need to get going. I've got homework to do."

He probably knew he wouldn't get anything else out of me.

I wasn't willing to.

He wasn't stupid.

"Could you ask Marker to come in when you go?" he said. "I know he's waiting outside, and there was something I wanted to talk to him before he goes. It won't take long."

"Sure," I said.

"Good!" he responded, paws falling to his sides as he clapped his brakes off again and rolled over towards the table that held the coffeemaker and stuff, and where he kept his bag. "Damn it..."

"Yeah?" I rumbled, already halfway to picking my crutch from where I'd left it.

"I was supposed to give out these brochures today..." he complained, paws rummaging through his bag, "I had planned that we would talk about body image and sexuality some more next week, and these brochures are brand new, and you could've looked at them and then we could've talked about it more next week..."

"Too bad," I said.

"Catch you next week then," Simpson said, "do remember you can always call if you feel like it."

"Sure, "I said, slipping into the corridor before he'd do any further embarrassing attempts to make me change my mind about talking. Give the guy some dignity.

Wasn't going to happen.

It was really quiet in the corridor outside, which Marker probably appreciated. He was sitting hunched on a bench and mostly hidden behind a plastic plant, when I walked over.

"The guy wants to see you for something," I said. "I don't know what it is."

"Eh?" he peeked from under the lid of his hoodie.

"Don't ask me," I shrugged, "he didn't say anything."

Maybe Simpson wanted a second opinion on me from the wolf, I thought, dully, as Marker got up and quietly went back into the room. I let out a deep breath and sagged down onto the seat he'd just left empty. My crutch banged against the side of it. I pulled my legs off close to the bench. You can't believe how painful it is when someone walks onto your peg leg and it bites onto your stump. I'd learned from experience.

"Ughhhrr..."

I rubbed my muzzle with my paws, squeezed my eyes shut really tight and let out another deep breath. Then another.

This was really getting so...so goddamn...stupid. I just wanted to go back to our place and get one of those beers I wasn't supposed to be drinking and then see if I could dig into that homework. Maybe that would take my mind off this...this whole shit. Give me a break from being such an asshole all the time.

Buuuuuuh.

Well.

My phone stopped my thoughts. It beeped the way it did when there was a text message coming through. I took it out and hit the button before even looking if the number was familiar.

GONNA CALL YOU IN MINUTE

WHETHER YOU WANT TO TALK OR NOT

I WANT TO AND IM NOT ANGRY WITH YOU

SENT THIS MESSAGE SO THAT YOU WILL

ANSWER THE CALL I HOPE

COBB

_ _

Jesus...

This wasn't happening now...no...no...this wasn't going to...

The phone started to ring, one of those awful in-built noises, making my ears flatten and my paw to clutch the phone, now flashing the name "JACOB HOLDEN" on the screen, because I'd programmed his number into it. The phone knew...and I knew...

What could he say?

What could I say?"

Not here, though.

I grabbed my crutch and hobbled across the corridor and through the door into the wheelchair bathroom. The noise the phone made in the tiny tiled room seemed to amplify. It almost made my ears hurt.

Click.

"Hello?"

HELLO?"

_ _

A cold rushed through my chest.

"Hello," I said again.

"THAT YOU TATE?"

_ _

"Yeah," I said, and it still sounded loud, even if I was trying to whisper, my own voice ringing in my ears.

"Oh good for a sec I wondered!"

_ _

Oh, God...

"Well I hope I didn't call on a bad time."

_ _

"Not really," I muttered.

"Oh good! How is it going?"

_ _

I...I just really couldn't tell.

"I'm...doing alright," I lied.

"Well I hope you are, considering how our afternoon turned out...I'm sorry about that."

_ _

I huffed.

"I'm very sorry too."

"I just...I just...I just can't really think...I'm sorry, man, I don't know..."

_ _

"You don't have to explain," I grunted. "I get it."

"Well I'm not sure what you mean, I mean...I don't know really what happened."

_ _

"A mistake happened," I said, "Is there anything else to it?"

"Well I think there is. You were...crying when you left."

_ _

Was I? I couldn't really even remember.

"And I think you hurt your nose too."

_ _

"My nose is fine," I said.

"Oh that's good!"

_ _

Like I didn't have bigger problems...

"Yeah."

"Look, Tate..."

_ _

Here it comes...the careful "I don't have anything against you gay folks but..."

"...I just don't know what to say, dude...I've been thinking for two days now...I'm kinda confused..."

_ _

"What more is there?" I snapped.

"You know, I just didn't know you were gay...I never even thought about it..."

_ _

"Well now you know," I said, "don't need to think about it any more than that."

That poor bastard.

"But Tate...it's just...you kissed me and all that...you wanted to..."

_ _

"Your ass is safe, "I snorted.

"Hey, nobody said anything about asses here!"

_ _

"Cobb - "

"Hey, I'm trying here! Do you think this is easy for me? Someone coming onto me like that?"

_ _

My blood was starting to boil.

"It's not like you were hurt in the process!"

"Well no, but - "

_ _

"So why don't you just get over it and we'll never talk about this damned thing again?" I said. "I won't bother you or Victor any further than I already did."

"What are you talking about, man? I'm not saying that!"

_ _

I grimaced.

"So what the hell are you saying?"

"Well I'm saying that we need to do something about this! If you thought I was gay that meant you wanted to do that to me...that means...that means something, doesn't it?"

_ _

Yeah, it meant goddamn lot once for a really scared kid who thought the locker room was a scary place because he liked it there a bit too much, the look of those bodies and that smell...

_ _

"Well like I said -"

"It's alright that you made a mistake, you thought I was the gay one, right? Because of that picture..."

_ _

If that's what he wanted to think, let him. No need to bawl out the fact that he'd been living such a fantasy life in my head for a long time.

"Yeah. Twins. Easy mistake to make."

"Me and Victor have been talking about it a lot, and I just wanted to tell you that we think it's alright, and - "

_ _

"I don't need to be told that it's alright."

"But you're..."

_ _

"What?" I hissed. "What?"

That goddamned temper.

"You're sad."

_ _

Shit goddamn yes I was.

"Well we're your friends, Tate, it's not like we suddenly stopped being your friends!"

_ _

Could I handle them being my friends?

Just friends...

"I'm sorry I fucked things up," I breathed, "I should be going now, too. My friend waits me, and he doesn't like being left alone."

"I was...I was hoping we could talk some more..."

_ _

"Well gotta go," I said, "he might be looking for me."

I just couldn't keep going. Not now. Not when it felt like my chest was going to burst.

"Oh...well, then..."

_ _

"Catch you later," I said, "bye, Cobb."

"Goodbye, Tate, I'll call you again soon, ok?"

_ _

"Yeah, bye."

Click.

He was gone.

I really had to go and find Marker before he'd get worried.

Couldn't afford to screw up any further.

*

Thank you for reading my story! I hope you enjoyed the read, and I look forward to your feedback!

See you on Friday!

Cheerio!