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The Chance of Life
for ultra_chrome
Hockey captures the essence of Canadian experience in the New World. In a land so inescapably and inhospitably cold, hockey is the chance of life, and an affirmation that despite the deathly chill of winter we are alive.
--Stephen Leacock
Ray had once seen a hormonal woman staring at a carton of Death by Chocolate ice cream. The woman behind the counter had that same look on her face, only she was looking at Fraser, not ice cream.
Just his luck they only had one pair of hockey skates left in their size. The woman, predictably, rented them to Fraser, never mind that Ray was ahead of him in line.
She handed Ray the scuffed figure skates with a death glare, looking for all the world like he'd killed her puppy.
The lace broke when he tied the right boot. Great.
All in all he wasn't in the best mood when they finally took the ice, and then he got a good look at Fraser with a hockey stick in his hand. Ray knew Fraser had grown up with Mark Smithbauer, and that he was scarily good at seemingly everything, but watching Fraser skate and play, alone, took his breath away - not entirely in a good way. It was like watching an artist dwelling in rec leagues when he should be in the NHL, and why would someone so perfect look at him twice?
But that's just what Fraser was doing, looking at Ray twice. He skated over, grabbed Ray's arm, and gently tugged him in the direction of the nearest bench.
Ray sat; Fraser kneeled in front of him and began untying the many knots holding the skate's laces together. After loosening the boots, he joined Ray on the bench, untied his own skates, and passed them to Ray.
"Fraser, what are you doing?" Ray asked, taking the hockey skates from Fraser's outstretched hand.
"I should think that would be obvious, Ray."
"Why?" Ray looked down, tying his laces and carefully not watching Fraser make the figure skates' laces work without all the extra knots.
"I should think that would be obvious as well. Enough questions. Let's skate."
Fraser stood, reached out, and Ray grudgingly but curiously took his extended hand and returned to the ice.
By this time the kids were arriving. Ray admired Fraser's skill with them, adored how he responded to their enjoyment of watching him play hockey in figure skates. Fraser looked up from where he was showing a tiny girl with chocolate-colored skin and eyes how to hold the stick to hit the puck farthest and fastest, and gave Ray a huge grin.
Ray hoped his returning grin, equally large, didn't look as goofy as he thought it must have.
An hour later, the kids were tiredly but happily recounting their lesson to parents preoccupied with not losing tiny mittens and hats. Fraser and Ray played some good-natured one-on-one. Ray pointed to one side, asking Fraser if the kid needed help; while Fraser looked away, Ray scored. Fraser enacted revenge by doing a sit-spin and hitting the puck between Ray's legs while Ray attempted to pick up his jaw from the ice.
They turned in their skates, the woman behind the counter glaring at Ray all the while, and walked off, side by side, hands in pockets, quiet but happy.
Fraser insisted on walking Ray to his door but absolutely refused all invitations inside.
Exasperated, Ray said, "Just come in, Fraser, and watch the game. You did three days ago, and last weekend, and the weekend before that. What's so different about tonight?"
Fraser did that thing with his eyebrow, the one that seemed to have a direct connection to Ray's groin.
"I am not going inside, Ray, because doing so after a date is rather presumptuous, and to do so after a first date implies that you think your date is easy. I respect you too much to be willing to risk your reputation, especially just to watch a hockey game."
Ray leaned heavily against the still-locked door, wishing he were inside and could sit down. His knees felt like they'd give out any second.
He took a deep breath, turned and twisted the keys, already in the lock, opened the door, and said, "In. Now." to Fraser in a tone that brooked no challenge.
Ray tossed the keys onto the counter, pointed to the couch, and told Fraser to sit down.
He paced in a tight circle. "Okay. One, this wasn't a date, and B, if it was a date, why am I the girl?"
"Ray. Of course it was a date. Did I not ask you several days in advance if you wanted to go out with me Saturday afternoon?"
"Yes, but we go out a lot of Saturday afternoons."
"I often come over because neither of us is busy and then we do something. As you would say, 'that's buddies.' But this time I specifically asked you in advance."
"Oh." Ray's pacing slowed significantly.
"Yes. Also, I acted as gentlemen do. That is why I traded skates with you, when yours made you unhappy. Chivalry and good manners should govern our interactions with all people, not simply in interactions between men and women. In no way do I think of you as a woman."
Ray stopped his pacing. "But what was all that about my reputation?"
"It was our first date. Good manners dictate that the first date end at the front door. Additionally, you gave no sign that you wanted to continue the date portion of the evening."
"I didn't know it was a date!"
"So you said, Ray."
"And in Chicago, first dates only end at the front door if there's not going to be a second date."
"Well, Ray, is there going to be a second date?" Fraser stood, a few feet from Ray.
"Can we finish our first date before we move onto the second?"
"Is our date not over? I've seen you safely to your door."
"What, no good night kiss?"
"It's not traditional, though I have no objections if-" Ray took two steps forward and silenced Fraser by planting a kiss on his lips.
Ray stopped, looked at a surprised but pleased Fraser, put his hand on the back of Fraser's neck, and proceeded to kiss him much more thoroughly. His objections thus quieted, Fraser pulled Ray to him, kissing him right back.
With that kiss, the second period of their first date began.
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