Home and Away (15 page)

“See!” Callum said with a nod, addressing the whole group again. “If you don’t believe me, check out YouTube. There are tons of videos of hockey players figure skating. Even one of a guy doing an axel to avoid getting hit, right on center ice during an NHL game.”

Christian grinned up at Callum. Rupert wasn’t the only one on the ice with a crush now.

If they hadn’t been surrounded by children, Callum would have just given in and stared at Rupert non-stop. Instead he dialed it back to, like, eighty percent. Which was a fucking
achievement.

Rupert looked so different with his shirt tucked in tight, accentuating his flat belly and his magnificent ass. In hindsight, Callum had no fucking idea how he hadn’t taken one look at that butt and known instantly that Rupert skated.
A lot.

He’d come sailing over the boards like it was nothing, then skimmed across the ice as if he was floating. Spine straight, legs strong, shoulders back, head up.

Honestly, it was super hot. Callum wanted to rip Rupert’s clothes off and lick every goddamn inch of his perfect, beautiful body.

Which wasn’t really what he should be thinking about in front of a scout troop.

Rupert cleared his throat.

“Right!” Callum shouted enthusiastically, brain scrambling to figure out what the hell kind of skating drill would work for this group. “Let’s have everyone go around a couple times, counterclockwise to start, so we can see how you skate.”

Everyone took off as instructed, while Callum and Rupert followed. Callum fought the ridiculous urge to take Rupert’s hand as they glided along, side by side.

“You
are
sneaky,” Callum muttered, fascinated by how Rupert moved.

Rupert smiled. “Maybe a little.” His eyes tracked Christian. “And he’s quite good, actually.”

Even Callum could see as much, and he was decidedly ignorant about all things figure skating related. “I’m glad. I get the impression he gets a lot of shit for his interest.”

“Not just from the kids, either,” Rupert said darkly, indicating their audience with a tilt of his head.

Callum’s good mood soured. “What happened?”

“Let’s talk about it later.”

They made the kids switch directions a few times, which most handled well. Then Callum called for them to spread out and go around backwards. In under fifteen seconds, two boys were sprawled out on the ice and at least half the troop wasn’t far behind, either because of their skill level or because they were laughing too hard at their friends.

“I think we’ve found something we can work on,” Rupert said with a grin.

“Everyone back on the blue line!” Callum called, waiting at center ice with Rupert while the scouts lined up.

“We’re going to focus on skating backwards,” Rupert announced, taking the lead, which Callum was happy to concede. Rupert launched into an explanation of what he wanted them to do, but was soon interrupted.

“Why should we listen to you? We came here to learn from him,” whined their super-rude hockey-playing friend, gesturing at Callum.

“You came here to see Garrick LeBlanc, who was nice enough to send me when he couldn’t make it,” Callum corrected, his temper on a tight leash.

The boy didn’t seem bothered in a slightest. “My father will be pissed if Christian made us do all that work for nothing.”

Rupert frowned at the boy. “Is your father in the stands? Wearing a green shirt, perhaps?”

“No?” the kid replied, confused. “That sounds like Mr. Shaw.”

Rupert’s expression was grim. Callum was definitely going to ask about whatever that asshole had done.

“Yeah,” Christian said with another of his sad smiles, “the guy in the green shirt is
my
dad.”

Rupert looked stricken. Callum slid forward, blocking the boys’ view of Rupert while he had a chance to regain his composure.

Callum smiled at Christian. “The fundraiser was your idea?”

“Yeah,” he said shyly.

“Good for you,” Callum said. “You should be proud of yourself.”

Christian just shrugged. “I guess.”

“No guess about it,” Rupert said, returning to stand with Callum. “You’ve done a very good thing.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m Rupert,” he said, holding out his hand. “Rupert Smythe.”

Christian’s mouth fell open and he folded his hands high against his chest. He stared up at Rupert like he was witnessing a miracle. “You’re Rupert Smythe?” he said in a hushed voice.

Twin pink stains appeared on Rupert’s cheeks. “Yes, I am.”

“
Oh my god
.”

Callum was definitely missing something. Christian’s friends appeared just as lost.

“I don’t get it,” one of them said. “Is that a big deal?”

Christian gasped, outraged. “A big deal?
A big deal?
Mr. Smythe is
The Earl.
” Callum got the distinct impression that was supposed to mean something to all of them, as far as Christian was concerned. “He was supposed to be the first to win an Olympic gold medal in skating for Great Britain since 1976.”

The hockey dickhead frowned. “And he screwed up or something?”

“No,” Christian said, suddenly looking for all the world as if he might cry in the midst of his fanboy meltdown, “he didn’t compete. He was attacked by a bunch of—”

“Well! Yes, my goodness, what a wonderful trip down memory lane this has been. Thank you, Christian,” Rupert said gently, tempering his fairly rude interruption with a smile and a hand on Christian’s shoulder. “It’s humbling to think there are still those who have heard of me.”

“Heard of you?” Christian asked as if the words no longer made sense.

Callum was going to Google the shit out of Rupert the
second
they got home.

“Let’s begin the exercise now!” Rupert said quickly, sparing himself from their curious gazes. As soon as the boys took off to begin their first slow turn around the rink backwards, Callum turned to Rupert.

“
Soooo
sneaky.”

Rupert huffed in a combination of exasperation and amusement. “I am not.”

“You really are.”

Rupert spun, skating off backwards and talking to Callum about the boys around them before shouting his suggestions to those who needed help. Callum watched, fascinated, as Rupert seamlessly transitioned to each student, complimenting their form where possible, offering useful suggestions as needed. Callum also offered input, identifying several boys who had probably developed the bad habit of relying on their hockey sticks to keep them balanced and were struggling because of it. Rupert offered new exercises to those boys.

Christian did not have any issues skating backwards. Or forwards. Or sideways. He flew by them, time and again, while weaving in and out of his troopmates. The fifth time he slid past Rupert with a cheeky smile on his face, Rupert took off after him. Once he’d caught the boy, they changed roles, and Callum watched agape as Rupert flew around the rink backwards, dodging children and goal nets with barely a glance. Eventually, Rupert ordered everyone to center ice while he and Christian did another lap backwards, this time with Christian’s eyes closed.

He did it perfectly.

“Do a trick!” shouted one of the boys.

Christian grinned, his big, carefree smile transforming his face. “Okay!” His arms floated out and one foot hovered above the ice for a moment, then suddenly he was in the air, launching and spinning and perfectly landing a double axel. A cheer went up from the troop.

“Now you!” another boy shouted.

Rupert grinned, and it was the same carefree smile as Christian’s a moment before. Callum’s heart did funny things, then stopped altogether when Rupert leapt into the air, his legs spread wide, touching his toes as he flew over the ice and spun a half turn before landing gently and stopping not five inches from Callum.

A cheer went up from the bench where Alexei and Mike sat. He’d also clearly impressed their previously cynical audience, even their disgruntled hockey player. “That was awesome!”

“Thank you,” Rupert said, flushing.

Callum just kept staring. At Rupert’s hair, still perfectly in place. His long, strong, and apparently, really, really flexible legs. The pink in his cheeks. The sleek black skates on his feet.

“What are you thinking?” Rupert asked quietly after sending their merry troop out on another backward spin.

Callum met his gaze, fairly certain by the deeper reds staining Rupert’s cheeks that Rupert could guess well enough.

Rupert was feeling pretty satisfied that their clinic had been a success by the time he sent the boys to the locker room to change out of their skates. Rupert followed Callum toward the seats where they’d left their bags, nodding at Mike and Alexei as they came to meet them.

He hesitated for a moment when he saw the dark scowl on Christian’s father’s face, then squared his shoulders and calmly walked through the door Callum held for him.

He eyed the people around them as he and Callum changed back into their street shoes. He kept catching Callum watching him, then looking at the parents in the stands with a frown. Alexei, on the other hand, had a sparkle in his eye that Rupert didn’t trust at all.

“What did you think?” Rupert asked Oliver, hoping to deflect whatever Alexei was thinking about saying or doing.

“That was fun!” he declared. “Papa used to watch movies of you on his computer sometimes and he’d let me watch, too.”

Something tightened painfully in Rupert’s chest. “He did?”

Oliver nodded earnestly.

Rupert didn’t know what to say to that. Honestly, he hadn’t even been sure his father had cared when he’d almost made it to the Olympics. By then, Rupert had been training and living in Canada full-time.

“That’s nice,” he finally managed, his voice hoarse.

A gentle hand pressed to the small of his back and he smiled at Callum. He was infinitely grateful for the distraction of the troop returning to find their rides home. Rupert stopped Christian as he walked by.

“If there is anything I can do to help you, if you’d like to work together sometime, I’d be honored.”

Christian looked up at him with wide eyes. “
Really?
”

“Of course. Let me give you my number.”

Rupert had to pluck Christian’s cell phone from his hand as the boy stood there, agape and unmoving. He entered his information under R. Smythe and was handing the phone back just as the arsehole in the green shirt came up to them.

“Let’s go, Chris, we’ve wasted enough time on this shit.”

Christian blushed, a terrible combination of fury and humiliation crossing his face. “It’s Christian,” he said defiantly.

His father scoffed. “I named you, I can call you whatever I want. Now let’s go. You’ve got useful shit like homework and hockey practice to get to.”

“Sir, might I have a word?” Rupert asked stiffly, battling the strong desire to wring the man’s neck.

It was hard to tell who looked more worried—Callum, Alexei, Mike, or Christian.

Christian’s father just looked bored. “What do
you
want?”

“Might I ask your name?”

“John. John Shaw,” he snapped.

The expected, “
And yours?”
was apparently not forthcoming. Rupert noted Christian’s alarmed expression, Oliver’s curiosity, and Callum’s increasingly stormy scowl. “Might Mr. Shaw and I have a word in private?” he said to their audience.

“No,” Alexei said baldly.

Mike stepped forward and plucked Oliver from Alexei’s arms. “Christian, right?”

Christian looked up at Mike with wide eyes. “Uh, yeah?”

“I’m Mike Erdo.”

“Yeah, I know,” Christian replied, star-struck. “And you’re Alexei Belov, right?”

“I am,” Alexei said with a tight smile.

“Come on, Christian,” Mike said cheerfully, his gaze darting between Rupert and Christian’s father. “Why don’t you come with me and Oliver, and you can introduce me to some of your friends. I’d be curious to learn more about what teams they play on.”

Christian grinned. “Okay! They’re going to freak the fuuu—”

“Fadoodle,” Rupert supplied.

Christian smirked. “Right, they’re going to freak the
fadoodle
out.”

Mike laughed. “Sounds fun. Come on.”

Rupert waited, Alexei and Callum standing guard at his back, until Mike and the children were out of earshot before turning to Christian’s father. “Mr. Shaw, my name is Rupert Smythe. I’m the manager of the Moncton Ice Cats, and, as you saw, a figure skater by training.”

“So?”

Rupert barely held onto his already brittle smile. “So, your son has a great deal of talent. I’d be happy to work with him some, talk to you about coaching and training programs in the area if he’s not already enrolled—”

“No fucking way,” John Shaw snapped. “It’s bad enough I promised his mother before she died that I wouldn’t make him stop all this bullshit, but there’s no fucking way I’m going to let you drag him into it any further. The last thing that boy needs is more ways to act like some fucking queer freak.”

Rupert was momentarily rendered speechless, his cold disdain turning to hot, hot rage. When Alexei took a step forward, Rupert stayed him with a hand and kept his gaze locked on John Shaw.

“You, sir, have a lovely and talented son. You should be proud of him. You should be
encouraging
him. He clearly loves to skate, and he’s bloody marvelous at it, particularly given his age. But beside the fact that you may be too ignorant and bloody-minded to see that, you’re also a monster if this is the kind of thing you say to that child at home. There is nothing inherently
queer
about figure skating, but even if there were, it’s what Christian wants to do. And if he does happen to be gay, that’s not a choice. It’s not a decision you can influence. It either is or it isn’t, and to try to turn that into something ugly, into something that might make that kind, clever young man turn to self-loathing, puts you among the most despicable creatures I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. You don’t deserve that boy. And
he
certainly deserves better than you.”

Callum caught up with Rupert outside by the car after he’d stormed out of the arena, leaving a red-faced John Shaw stewing rinkside. Callum ignored the curious looks from Mike, Christian, and Oliver as he jogged through the lobby. Alexei could explain as needed.