spring is gone and it's deep summer when you come back to me. a couple months older and a couple months wiser. the last time we were like this, it was: bag in my hand, standing in your doorway. my hero and my country calling, and your soft face and stretched t-shirt. i don't want to go. now it's: you're in my car and you're complaining about canadian money. your bag in my backseat, your gear in my trunk. i was heartsick messy when i said see you later. you're so fucking casual when you say, hey, how's it been?
it's been fucking alright, and don't you know it. you and your city that loves you, me and my hometown i got to know in aftershocks. it's always back to the beginning. when i lost in switzerland, you said: you aren't cursed, mack. vancouver is no lover of mine. home is a word for a thing you run back to.
we talk about bullshit. the draft and traded friends. you think things have worked out pretty funny. i want to talk about playoffs. you say that i got stronger. i tell you that you look happy. you sent me so many pieces of your summer, i swear i could make a map of them. the city that loves you, shines all its light and luck down on you. i've taken you away from it, hoarding you in my hometown. boston can't touch you out here. they all loved you first, and don't i know it. i want to ask you if you've been fucking hockey players.
when a dog comes on first command, they call that good recall. i've never had the time for training hounds, but you've got me in the palm of your hand. look up, because you know i'm already staring. we knock around my bedroom like teenagers. you've got a puck i've kept since i was a kid and tell me, not that impressive, celly. i want to ask you if you've been fucking hockey players.
we go out for dinner and you kick me under the table because i'm taking too long to order. and leno was there, you throw in when you talk about the fourth of july. real slick, like he's an afterthought. my ankle is between your calves and your knee is bouncing. i want to ask you if you've been fucking hockey players. i am afraid that you've been fucking hockey players.
you tell me you've got a two drink maximum because you want to impress my mom. you've been raised to be a good guest, you say. colleen taught you everything she knows. reassurances stick in my throat. robyn already loves you. you look at me coy. you read me like you read the ice. second nature. why do you call her that?
you want to talk about mothers? i ask, and you laugh and look up at the ceiling because i've got you. i've fucking got you now. run your tongue along your upper teeth. you tell me that vancouver tastes like the ugly parts of desire. like sweat and spit and a cigarette. maybe you just need a shower, smit.
we're four or maybe five or maybe-it-doesn't-matter drinks in, and you're talking about the backhander i landed against italy two months ago. you talk about my hockey like it's art. like it's something beautiful. if i were an artist, i'd make it all about you. like one of those lunatic painters, i'd draw your face in everything. in a way, i think that i already do.
two months ago, we were standing in your apartment in boston. i was in the doorway on my way out, and you were in my t-shirt and if you'd told me to stay, i think that i'd have fallen right down on my knees. but i had medals to lose and you had old flames to melt skin over.
end of summer. we walk home and it's raining. it's warm and green. you're so fucking hot, even the rain wants to touch you. did you let them touch you. did you let them inside of you. did you take their fingers in your mouth. you let me put my fingers in your mouth. you let me touch the back of your tongue until you choke. you don't bite. you won't let me fuck you but you're a good dog when i hold you right.
have you been fucking hockey players?
you turn into me, all hands, all mouth. macklin.
vancouver is no lover of mine. i forgive it all as you come back to me.
gracieabrams
blakekathryn
