A Light That Burns The Pain Away
A/N: While this is obviously a fan work based on Rachel Reid's Game Changer, it also an homage to the fabulous "Lamphouse" by Naedre, found on GayspiralStories.com. The most important thing to know is that "The Lamphouse" is about a magical lighthouse in an unspecified vacation town in Spain, that grants it's "owner" (including renters) one wish every 24 hours.
July 2010
It wasn't often a 20 year old American man found himself with enough wealth to rent out an entire lighthouse in Spain, certainly not two years into a global recession. But Scott Hunter was in a unique circumstance. Since the recession had begun he had gone from orphan college dropout to a mutl-millionaire star hockey player for the New York Admirals. It was more wealth than he ever imagined a person having, especially not now a days, and yet there was his bank account sitting at seven figures. What do you do with all that money after you've already achieved your life long dream? Well you share it with your loved ones of course, except…
Well, except…
…
The whole orphan thing…
And the fact that Scott was…
Gay.
It was getting easier to say that to himself. It's not that he didn't accept it, far from it.
He'd known since before his mother died, though he'd never gotten the chance to tell her. No, it wasn't that Scott did not accept his queerness. He just had spent so long not thinking about it, purposefully picturing anything but the pink elephant, that it had become difficult to summon the words, the images in his mind. The idea of him with another man. Unfortunately that gap in his thinking had become infected and was starting to atrophy his confidence, his happiness away.
But it didn't need to anymore. Because Scott had achieved his life wrong dream, right? Right? And so, having inadvertently spent the last half of his teenage years and his early adulthood so far completely celibate, Scott had decided to fly somewhere, anywhere, far away, where no one knew what a hockey puck was. His mother had always wanted to go to Spain, and heard tell that the men were beautiful there, and many of them were even gay. So he logged onto this newfangled website called Airbnb and typed in Spain.
A couple listings down he saw a stunning stucco spire under the name La Casa de la Lámpara. The title did strike Scott as odd- growing up in New York he'd been exposed to enough Spanish to know that translates to "The House of The Lamp" but perhaps it was a distinction of Spain Spanish, as opposed to the Puerto Rican Spanish he was used to. Still, it wasn't just the funny name that caught Scott's attention. The interior looked positively palatial compared to any place Scott had ever stayed before.But the most important thing Scott had noticed was the price point. It was absurdly cheap for a bedroom private building in coastal Spain in the middle of the summer. And this high up in the searches and it hadn't been claimed yet? Scott decided then that it was fate. This would be the place where he would temporarily step into the life of a(n attractive, affluent) gay man for the first time.
Scott's eyebrow raised once again when he finally did arrive at the place. It sure did resemble a lighthouse but it was set quite a ways inland- Scott couldn't see the beach from where he was. He wondered how the light from the tower could possible have ever reached ships out at see. But honestly it didn't matter that much. It was about 5 o'clock in the afternoon when he stepped through those giant wooden doors and into the palace he had all to himself for the week. Well himself, and hopefully whichever male guest he invites to join him. Speaking of…
He pulled out his phone and opened his map app to find the closest route to the beach- A 30 minute walk but he was a hockey player in the prime in his youth, so that was not a problem. He showered the airline grossness off himself and looked at his reflection in the foggy, gold trimmed mirror. One some intellectual level he knew he looked good. His intense blue eyes pierced through the fog, glassing up with tears… but of what? Certainly not sadness… Relief? Uncertainty? Fear? What if he went to the beach right now and someone recognized him? What if he went to the beach right now and he didn't find any other men, who were interested in men? Who were interested in him? What if all the people who have told him how handsome he was all his life were lying? Or worse, what if all his dreams came true and he found the love his life, but just as he had true love's first kiss some hockey savvy photographer snapped a photo of him and plastered it all over facebook and twitter and then his burgeoning hockey career came crashing down and this gold trimmed life went away? Or what if he had a really nice time? 1,001 scenarios raced through his head one after another. He took a deep breath to try slow his mind down. Come on. It's just a thirty minute walk and then a nice time at the beach. That's all that has to happen. Some pipes settled or something and a noise echoed though the Lamphouse as if to spur Scott into action. All the echo did was make Scott realize how empty this place was. It made Scott realize how alone he was. It wasn't a new experience to him, but that was in fact the problem.
He let out a deep sigh and said "I wish I could do this."
Up in the spire, unseen by Scott, the titular lamp flashed briefly. The light reflected all throughout the house bouncing off the porcelain, gold, and glass till it reached the bathroom and burn the fear right out of him. It was like someone had loosened a pressure release valve and suddenly Scott's mind could move on from the what if's and turn them into why nots. Instead of 1,001 fears his mind was filled with 1,001 hopes, many of them tiny little details about the man he was going to bag tonight. He turned away from the mirror, finally moving like an Ozian Tin Man who just received oil in his joints and a new heart. He dressed himself in his lightest shortleeve button down shirt (unbuttoned) and tight swim trunks with a modest but respectful inseam.
He faced the wind as he walked, causing his shirt to practically blow clean off his body if not for the his bowling ball delts keeping his shirt sleeves tightly in place. It did reveal his absurdly tight torso to the entire beach as he arrived, heads turning by the dozen as he walked across the sand. Some part of him worried that these people were recognizing him, that he shouldn't make a move with all these eyes on him, but that tiny little voice currently had a ball gag in his mouth, (and yet another part of himself was getting turned on at that idea.)
With a single shake his beach chair unfolded and he plopped it down in the sand. Wary of tanlines he took his button down off (struggling a bit to pull it from his thick shoulders) and draped it across the back of his chair. He then sat down and scanned the beach. The various gazes that were following him from the moment he stepped on the sand were averted the moment he went to meet them. Did he have something on his face?
Somewhere down the beach a short but statuesque man was tossing a rugby ball with what appeared to be some friends of his, but Scott paid no attention to them. His eyes were affixed to the curly brown hair, and deep brown eyes, and wide set jaw and masculinely dimpled chin of this absolute adonis that had entered his vision. He felt his heartbeat quicken and his shorts tighten and his mind reached hastefully for something, anything, to say to this man, to get his attention, to see if he was even gay ("Of course not, Scott, he's playing RUGBY!") but not a single word managed to reach his lips.
Scott returned to the Lamphouse, drunk on Spanish wine and stomach full of paella, but just as alone as he was when he departed for the beach earlier that afternoon. By this point the exhaustion of traveling had finally caught up to him, and has he stumbled in through the double wooden doorway he wondered if he'd make it up to bed in time or if he'd rather lie his head on the cold brick floor of the entranceway.
He leaned against the wall, at the very least, to catch his breath after stumbling back here so drunk and full. His mind kept returning to the rugby player. The image of the man was burnt into his retinas. He had watched the man and his bros play for hours, hoping his sunglasses kept him from being too obvious (They didn't.) Tears streamed down his face, informing him of a sadness that not yet registered to his barely conscious mind. It was like he had been shackled to that chair with duct tape across his mouth- and not in a sexy way either. Waterboarding might be less painful, he imagined, before chastising himself for being so dramatic.
"I just wish I didn't have to say anything! I just wish the guys that were interested would come to me!"
Had Scott been more awake he might've noticed another flash of light flit about the walls before hitting him square in the chest. Right then and there, as he nearly lost his balance, he decided at last to muster up the strength to climb up to bed.
The next morning (nearly afternoon) Scott grabbed breakfast (brunch) at a cafe he had passed on the way to the beach. He sat outside, sipping a sweet but bitter burnt cafe con leche, and munching on a delicious bocadillo sandwich. He had purchased a local newspaper in order to put his Spanish to the test, as well as to see if there was anything exciting going on in the area while he was in town. Or at least that was his intention. Even late into the morning the grogginess from yesterday clung to him and he found himself drifting off.
Someone cleared his voice behind him and uttered "Disculpa, señor?"
The voice was resonant like a crystal bell. Scott closed the news paper and turned around and found himself falling into twin whirlpools of chocolate that were staring into his soul.
IT WAS HIM!
"Hi! (A little too excited there, Scotty boy), Er, Um, Hola? En qué le puedo ayudar?" Scott sputtered.
Rugby man flashed a sparkling grin. "You are American, yes? Hablo ingles?"
"Uh yeah yeah, I am. I do. Is it that obvious? What gave it away."
"Your accent. And I uh, I recognize you."
Scott's heart sank to his stomach.
"Would you mind if I sat down?" God his teeth sparkled when he spoke.
Scott snapped himself out of it. "No, no, yeah, of course!"
He began clearing what little he could from the tiny patio table so the man could sit across from him. "I'm uh, I'm Scott by the way."
"I'm Tomer. It's a pleasure" the veritable gladiator said as he sat down, eyes hungrily scanning up and down Scott's torso. Scott took that as a sign to let his eyes scan back and soon they found themselves sinking deep into each other's eyes. But then a pinch of anxiety pulled Scott back to consciousness.
"You, uh said you recognize me?"
"From the beach yesterday. You made quite an impression."
"Oh!" Phew… Scott could feel his shoulders loosen immediately… "That's very kind! You certainly made an impression with me too!"
"Seriously though man, you've got a fantastic body! You should've come and joined us yesterday. You seem like quite the athlete."
Oh boy, Scott though… How do I navigate this?
"Yeah… I play a bit of this and that back in the state."
"A Friend of mine said he swore he saw you on a poster when he visited the states last year."
"Oh uh… I don't know anything about that…"
Tomer grinned and leaned in close.
"Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me, Scott Hunter."
A rainbow of emotions flashed across Scott's eyes. Fear. Relief. Lust, Frustration. Tomer grinned, and laughed.
"Besides, I've got a secret too." Tomer eyed the news paper currently sitting beneath Scott's elbow.
Scott looked down and immediately felt like a fool. Right there in the sport section he had just turned to when Tomer arrived, was an action shot of the man himself covered in mud in a tight red rugby Jersey, gripping the rugby ball mid run. He looked glorious.
"Tomer… Garcia. You're Tomer Garcia. Of Team Barcelona."
"Si, senor. And you're Scott Hunter of the New York Admirals."
Scott's cheeks turned bright pink.
"I'm sorry I don't get the chance to watch other sports often."
"Neither do I. But I made an exception last night. Watched one of you games. You play very well."
"Well from what I saw on the beach last night you could probably rip me in half."
"Would you like me to?"
Scott turned away from Tomer, pondering his next move. He was rock hard, so standing up could be risky, but he desperately needed to get this man back to the Lamphouse and into his rented bed.
"So since we, uh, both have secrets we need to keep, would you like to go back to my lodging? It's actually way too spacious for me and-"
Tomer's hand on Scott's stopped the words in their tracks. The two of them got up, to hell with their tightening pants. As they walked back to the lamphouse, Scott felt something light up deep inside him. He knew moments like this would be kept secret for a long time, but he was so relieved that he had finally found the courage to seek it out.