Quick links:

• Chapter 1 – Scroll down!
• Chapter 2
• Chapter 3
• Chapter 4
• Chapter 5
• Chapter 6

***

Chapter 1

“You look like hell.”

Fede scowled back at his coworker Alex. “Fuck off.”

“Aw, honey,” Alex cajoled, slinging an arm over Fede’s slim shoulders. “You having another rough night?”

Fede shook off the arm, “Rough night, rough day, rough everything. Is always same. Now fuck off.”

Smiling back at him, Alex offered, “Here.” He pulled out a little tube of ointment and proceeded to dab  it under Fede’s eyelids before he could swat his hand away. “This’ll help get rid of those ugly bags.” He winked, explaining, “A little trick I learned years ago when I went out clubbing late at night.” He pursed his lips into a coquettish moue, “Can’t have our favorite tender looking like something the cat dragged in. You need those tips, doll!”

“Not a doll,” Fede grunted, pulling away and eying the ointment tube skeptically. “What is this?”

“Hemorrhoid cream,” Alex replied and then laughed at Fede’s horrified expression. He grabbed his hand before he could wipe it away, though, soothing, “Relax, Fede. Unlike my tongue, this ointment has never gone anywhere near an asshole. It’s exclusively for eyelids.”

“You are sick.”

Alex grinned, “High praise, coming from you. Now go on. Your shift is starting!”

He patted Fede on the butt before pushing through the swinging double doors of the kitchen. Scowling, Fede grabbed his usual black half-apron from the rack and tied it around his slim hips.

He looked over the bar–his domain–once again struck by the irony of a Russian tending bar at a zero-proof lounge. He hated the so-called drinks he was forced to mix and couldn’t wait to go home each night and drink some real alcohol. Still, he was good at mixing and, as the club/bookstore’s owner Colleen was always telling him, he was strangely popular with the customers. Fede didn’t get it but his pocketbook wasn’t complaining. Canadians apparently loved being derided and ignored by their bartenders…as long as they were cute. And Fede was definitely boyishly cute.

And speaking of customers who loved abuse, the bar was already overflowing with the usual horde of masochists: A dozen beautiful, young women (and some handsome young men) were lined up, waiting for him to serve them bland, alcohol-free drinks…along with an ample serving of attitude.

“Fede!” one of them called out. “Make me a faux Negroni!” She winked, “And an insult to make it extra bitter.”

Fede rolled his eyes, giving her his usual surly sneer. “You have the taste of an unwashed Cossack,” he snapped. “Choose something else.”

There was a collective sigh from the assembled group as they admired his lithe arms covered in bold tattoos, his piercing blue eyes, angular cheekbones, pouty lips and wavey, blond hair. He practically screamed ‘bad boy’ to anyone who saw him and it worked to his advantage. He’d never cease to be amazed how stupid people were, himself included. Although in his case, he’d been monumentally dumb for a reason that had nothing to do with self-abuse.

The evening went by in a blur which was a blessing for poor Fede. He lost himself in mixing drinks and snarling at customers, only half aware of the hubbub across the bar where that evening’s entertainment, a local Acadian fusion band was doing sound checks. People were filtering in from the bookstore attached to the lounge, grabbing their seats and ordering drinks, eagerly awaiting the band’s first set.

This was Fede’s golden hour, the time he loved best when he was too busy to think about Yulia, Beltrán or his miserable existence in exile from Russia. He could lose himself in mixology, serving drinks he hated to customers he despised. It was the very definition of masochism: He hated his customers just as much as the mocktails he crafted and yet they loved him even more for it. Super fucked up.

Things didn’t used to be like this for him. He used to love his life, his career and his girlfriend. He was a millionaire, a man who was high on life and knew he was on the up and up. He and Yulia were so happy. They were even planning to have children. He was going to be a father!

But then, just as he believed he really could have everything he wanted, he met Beltrán and it all fell apart. Now he was here in the middle of Nowhere, Canada, serving zero-flavor, zero-alcohol drinks to people he had zero interest in.

How had he fallen so low?

He sighed to himself; he knew the answer all too well: Diego Beltrán.

Swallowing bile, he turned his attention back to the awful faux crème de cassis mocktail he was mixing.

“Hey, bartender!”

He looked up at the unfamiliar sound of a boy’s voice. A pimply teenager with thick glasses and unruly brown hair was trying desperately to get his attention. Fede frowned back at him. “You are not old enough,” he snapped, pointing to the bookstore, “get away from bar.”

“But it’s a sober bar!” the youth protested. “Besides, how do you know I’m not old enough to be here? You haven’t even asked for my ID!”

“Have eyes. Is obvious you are too young,” Fede stated coolly. “We are licensed as bar. Does not matter if we only serve non-alcoholic drinks.” He pointed to the bookstore at the back of the bar, “Minors not allowed.”

The boy looked stricken and the other customers–all women–came to his defense, fomenting rebellion against his arbitrary rules. When they grew too loud, Fede raised his hands, warning, “Stop or I close bar. You want that?”

“But,” the boy started to say. Then he looked closer at Fede, his eyes going round. Fede’s stomach fell when he gasped, “You’re him, aren’t you? You’re Anton Fedorov!” Before Fede could interject, he swooned, “Fuck! Anton Fedorov! Here in Côté Cœur! I can’t believe it!”

The other customers who were clearly not hockey fans (the main reason Fede had settled in this remote part of Canada after his disastrous humiliation at the hands of the Russian government) looked from the boy to Fede, completely perplexed. One of them murmured to her friend, “Qui est Anton Fedorov?” Her friend shrugged, not having the faintest idea.

He had no choice but to nip this in the bud. Fede strode around the outside of the bar counter and hauled the boy by the elbow off of the stool. The kid might be young but he was already quite a bruiser, being built like a defensive man. He must’ve weighed over 100 kilos even though he appeared to be barely seventeen years old!

Fortunately, Fede might weigh less than him (by a lot) but he still retained traces of his old hockey muscles and had the advantage of leverage. He was easily able to pluck the boy off of the stool and drag him into the bookstore, the designated child-safe part of the establishment.

Shoving him through the door, he made eye contact with the owner, Colleen, who was at the cash register and grunted, “Is underage. Keep him out of bar.”

Ignoring the kid’s cry of protest, he returned to the bar where he was greeted by a sea of mutinous faces. Apparently, the little shit had triggered the women’s maternal instincts and they now thought Fede was a complete monster for treating him like a sack of potatoes. Fede didn’t care. He found people’s derision easier to bear than their goodwill. He knew from experience with Beltrán that goodwill was only skin deep and even the most well-intentioned friends would turn on you when you were down.

If he thought he was done with the kid, though, he was wrong. He was waiting for Fede at two o’clock in the morning when he finally exited the Phénix. Fede was preoccupied with counting his tips and not paying much attention. It was late but he was a night owl and he had a couple hours before his usual bedtime. He sighed, knowing how he would spend the time: Nursing a pint of vodka, getting himself properly sloshed until he fell into an alcohol-induced coma. It was how he fell asleep every night.

A hand grabbed his arm and he looked back to discover the boy lurking beside the door. “Hey!” he shouted, trying unsuccessfully to wrench himself free. When he recognized his assailant, his annoyance spiked and he turned on him, ordering, “Let me go or I kick ass.”

Unexpectedly, the boy’s eyes welled with tears. At first Fede assumed he’d hurt the kid’s feelings but, no, that wasn’t it at all. “Mr. Fedorov,” the boy cried, “I’m so happy to meet you! You’re my hero!”

“Fuck off,” Fede spat, in no mood for idolization. That part of his life was over. Dead. Just like the shriveled heart inside his chest.

“Please, Mr. Fedorov!” he persisted. “I know it’s a lot to ask but you’re not playing hockey no more so I was wondering if maybe you would give me a few pointers? You know, tell me how to improve my skills?” He lowered his head, confessing, “I love hockey and I know I’m good but my coach sucks and my mom can’t afford to send me to a trainer.” He paused, swallowing hard as he screwed up his courage, “You’re the best player in the whole world. I just know you gotta know more than my dumb coach! Would you please teach me?”

“Absolutely not,” Fede declared, finally managing to extricate his arm from the boy’s grip. “I am not coach. Besides, you are clearly D-man and I am–er, was center. Completely different positions.”

It turned out this was the wrong thing to say. Instead of dashing his hopes, the kid’s eyes lit up and his dopey face filled with disbelief, “So you are Anton Fedorov! I knew it was you!”

Fuck. Fede kicked himself for being so dense. He’d walked right into the trap and it made him furious. “Go!” he shouted, marching off down the street towards his car. “Is after bedtime. Go home.”

“It’s Friday night,” the kid pointed out, jogging along beside him. “And I’m not tired.”

“Leave me alone.” Was Fede’s English so bad that the kid couldn’t understand him? He pointed down the street in the opposite direction he was heading, “Do not follow me.”

The boy stopped, hurt written across his face. “But–!”

“Do not,” Fede warned. “Do not even.”

He turned and did not look back. Even so, the sight of the boy with his protruding lower lip and stricken expression haunted him for the rest of the evening.

***

The kid didn’t give up. Every night for the next week, he was waiting for Fede outside the bar when his shift was over. He didn’t say anything but the hope was written in his big, pleading, puppydog eyes. Fede had to look away as he walked past him because he couldn’t stand seeing the raw hero worship written across his face. It made him want to do violent things.

After five days, he had a couple days off. Coming to work after his hiatus, he was hung over and in a terrible mood. He half-hoped the kid would have given up but, no, he was there waiting at the door to the bookstore when Fede walked up, his round face lighting up at the sight of him. Fuck, Fede thought as he glowered back at him. Isn’t this just fucking great?

“Just once,” the boy said as Fede shoved past him. “Just one session on the ice. Please, Mr. Fedorov!”

Later, Fede would wonder what came over him but he shocked himself by grudgingly agreeing. “Ok,” he growled. “Once. It will have to be during week, late at night after I am done with shift.

“Yes!” the boy cheered, pumping his fist. “How about Wednesday?”

That was tomorrow. Fede considered it, nodding curtly. “Good.”

“Alright! I’ll reserve some ice time for us at 3am. Is that Ok?” The boy was practically dancing with happiness, his big, ungainly body bouncing up and down in the most unflattering manner.

“Ok.”

Fede pushed past him and entered the Phénix, feeling like he was going to be sick. He hadn’t been near a hockey rink in more than a year and hadn’t worn his skates or uniform in even longer. The city of Côté Cœur had an ice rink, of course, every Canadian city did. But Fede made a point of avoiding that part of town. He’d even chosen his tiny apartment because it was as far from the hockey rink as you could get in the city. He had no idea how he would ever do this. Why the fuck had he said yes?

***

The next evening came too quickly. Even drinking heavily and putting himself through a grueling fifteen kilometer run followed by a severe weight workout in the garage beneath his apartment could do nothing to quell his anxiety over being on the ice again. Still, there was no way around it. He’d given his word and Fede was many things but he wasn’t someone who went back on a promise, even when it made him feel all sorts of feelings he’d tried to bury over the past year.

His old practice gear was stowed in the back of his closet. He didn’t know why he’d kept it because there was no way he could play hockey on a professional level again. Maybe there was a deeply buried part of himself that was sentimental? Just smelling the gear made his stomach clench. There was nothing quite like the stink of hockey equipment, especially the skates and gloves. You couldn’t clean them so they absorbed all of your body odors, fermenting over time. Even after a year, his gloves smelled terrible. And yet he loved them.

Fighting back tears, he leaned his forehead against the closet door. Hockey had been his life since the age of six. For twenty years, it had been the only thing he did besides go to school and, since he turned sixteen, it had been basically the only thing he did besides have sex and drink vodka. Now he did only one of those things and he could tell his liver wouldn’t be able to take the vodka for much longer. That was fine with him. He didn’t want to live anyways.

His hands were shaking as he pulled on his practice clothes. They hung loose off of his slight frame. Despite his best efforts in the garage gym, he’d lost more than twenty kilos of muscle after quitting hockey. The clothes that used to show off his buff bod were now draped over him, making him look like a child wearing grownup clothes. God, why had he ever agreed to do this? It made him crave vodka, anything to kill the feelings of humiliation and shame that overwhelmed him.

In the end, he had no choice but to carry on. Wearing his ridiculously baggy uniform, he slung his skates over his shoulder and hauled his gear bag into his old Honda CRV, making his way with increasingly clammy hands towards the rink on the other side of town.

Hockey was so popular in Canada that even a rink in the middle of nowhere like Côté Cœur was open 24/7. However, even 3am was late for all but the most desperate and Fede was relieved to find there were only a smattering of people on the ice. He’d picked the late hour both for privacy–he had no desire to be recognized–and because he hoped it would deter the boy from showing up. After all, what parent would allow their child to play hockey at 3am on a school night?

“Mr. Fedorov! Over here!”

Fede’s shoulders fell. Apparently, this boy had been raised by wolves. Wolves who never slept, that is. There he was, waving wildly at him from across the rink. As he stared, the kid skated over to the end of the rink closest to the entrance. He was dressed in a uniform that was two sizes too small and wearing skates that were two sizes too large. Besides that, the skates appeared to be the cheapest pair you could find at the secondhand sports store.

“You’re already dressed?” the kid asked, eying Fede’s practice uniform with surprise. “But the changing rooms–?”

“Shut up and let me put my pads on,” Fede said, cutting him off. He sat on the first row of seats in the bleachers and strapped on his pads before lacing up his skates and sliding on his gloves. A minute later, he skated out onto the ice, feeling his pulse pounding and his head throbbing with an impending migraine. Just being in the cool air and feeling the blades of his skates on the ice was enough to jangle his nerves. For the millionth time, he regretted ever agreeing to do this. At least the pads made him feel more substantial in his overly large uniform. He scowled when he realized he was the opposite of the boy: He swam in his padding whereas the boy was bursting out of his.

“Where do you want to start?” the boy asked as Fede neared, slinging his stick over his shoulder and executing an easy stop before him. “Do you want me to do some drills?”

“First,” Fede stated in a voice as cold as the ice, “tell me your name.”

The boy grinned, looking down at him through fogged-up glasses. “I’m Maxime Saint-Denis but you can call me Max, Mr. Fedorov.”

Maxime? Fedorov wondered. The greatest? Really? Hmpf. We’ll see about that!

Looking at the hulking ox, Fede thought this kid’s parents had unrealistic expectations when they named him. Nothing in the way Max carried himself on the ice convinced Fede that he was anything other than a mediocre hockey player. He had a good eye when it came to assessing talent and he could already tell this boy had none.

Ah, well. At least it was clear what he needed to do. Rather than prolonging Max’s delusions of becoming a professional hockey player, he needed to crush his dreams once and for all. He could do that. He was Russian after all.

Narrowing his eyes, he ordered, “Do not call me Mr. Fedorov. Call me Fede.” Max became breathless at being entrusted by his idol with such informality. He opened his mouth to reply but before he could say anything, Fede warned, “And if you ever tell anyone who I am, I kill you. Understand?”

Max flinched, “Ok, Mr.–I mean, Fede.”

“Good, let’s start with basics,” Fede continued, “like how to hold stick.” He nodded at the way Max was clutching his hockey stick. “Is this how you masturbate?” he teased. “If you hold dick like you hold stick, will fall off.”

Max flushed red, abruptly loosening his grip. “Like this?”

“Is better,” Fede agreed. “Stick-handling is important. Hold it like a lover. Caress it like this with hands.” He demonstrated by skating around in long, slow circles, the stick gliding effortlessly over the ice, sliding through his gloves with perfect control. Max watched him, eyebrows lifted. Clearly, no one had ever demonstrated this most basic technique. Fede came to a halt before him, his skates arcing, ice spraying elegantly. “Now try.”

Max followed his example and Fede had to admit he learned quickly. Convinced the kid was at least marginably educable, he threw down a puck and they passed it back and forth between them. Fede grunted brusque commands, telling Max where to place the stick and how to position his feet. Max did well but had trouble with holding the puck in the right position against his stick. It was always either too far forward or too far back. After barking at him over and over about it and watching Max struggle, Fede began to understand why.

“Max, come here,” he ordered. Maxime dutifully skated over to him. His curly, brown hair was damp with sweat beneath his helmet. For his part, Fede was barely winded. Even after a year, he still had his hockey muscles.

“Yes?”

“We do simple drill,” Fede explained. “I play offense and try to forecheck you. You walk line. Got it?”

Max nodded. “Yeah, walking the line! We do it all the time during practice.”

“Yes, simple,” Fede agreed. “But difficult to master.”

He proceeded to talk Max through it as if it was the boy’s first time. Max listened intently, face betraying the fact that his coach had never gone over the subtleties of the drill. By the time Max tried to forecheck him the first time, Fede realized it was basically Max’s first time walking the line because his movements were hesitant, uncertain.

It would have been too easy for Fede to steal the puck from him and be done with it but he had a theory he wanted to test. As he critiqued Max’s cross-to-backwards and ten-and-two skating, he was watching the boy’s face as he stared down at the puck. For one thing, he should be keeping his head up. It was the most basic thing a D-man could do. If their head was down, the offense could sneak up and steal the puck. But Fede suspected something else was going on. Max’s face was scrunched up, his brow furrowed. Was this from concentrating too hard? Fede shook his head. No, it was something else. Hmmm…could it be? Yes. Yes, it could.

Fede smiled grimly, now convinced he knew what the problem was. It was right there, plain as day. Plain as the way Max struggled with puck positioning…

“Ok, stop.”

Max drew up beside him, cheeks red, breath puffing out hot, almost in Fede’s ear. Christ, the kid was tall, too! He had a good ten centimeters on Fede. Of course, Fede was shorter now than he used to be, having lost at least ten centimeters in height over the past year. It was possible that Max was as tall as he used to be. This did nothing to bolster Fede’s grim mood.

As Fede struggled with the humiliation of being the short man, Max looked down at him, lips curving into an exuberant smile, “Yeah, Fede?” It was almost cute how he flinched as he uttered the shortened form of his name as if he expected to be reprimanded. However, at the same time, there was something in his gaze that unsettled Fede, something that reminded him uncomfortably of Beltrán. He shoved the thought away.

“Do you have contact lenses?” Fede inquired, noting how fogged-up Max’s glasses were behind the grill of his helmet.

Max shook his head, admitting, “Nah. Can’t afford them.”

Fede was confused. “They are not covered by Canadian Medicare?”

Max made a face, “No, ‘course not! They don’t even cover glasses.”

“How old are these glasses you wear now?” Fede pressed.

“I dunno,” Max’s brows drew together in thought. “I’ve had ‘em for maybe five years?”

“Five years,” Fede repeated. “Is too long. You need contact lenses and new glasses if you want to play hockey.”

Max hung his head, working his jaw.

“What?” Fede asked, impatient. “Is truth.”

Max sighed in exasperation, “Mr. Fedorov, I mean, Fede, I can’t afford new glasses, let alone contacts. My mom can barely afford my hockey gear.”

Fede stared at him, blinking.

Suddenly, it was clear why Max’s uniform was two sizes too small and his skates were two sizes too large, not to mention their inferior quality. Clearly, the boy was undergoing a growth spurt and had outgrown his uniform. Likewise, his feet were probably growing so quickly that the poor woman had to buy skates that were too large in order to delay having to purchase another pair again right away. Hockey was an expensive sport and good quality gear costs hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars. And that didn’t even include the cost of training.

No wonder Max’s stick handling and puck control were subpar!

Fede quickly revised his opinion of the boy’s talent, realizing his deficiencies probably had nothing to do with his lack of potential and instead had everything to do with poor eyesight, substandard gear and amateur coaching. If he ever hoped to develop into a player with professional potential, he would have to overcome all three. The question was how?

Max’s head was still lowered so he could not see the emotions warring across Fede’s face. Finally, Fede exhaled. “Is enough for tonight, Max.” He reached out and put a cautious hand on the boy’s shoulder, feeling him melt into the touch like an eager pup. “Meet me at bookstore in Phénix after school tomorrow and we begin next lesson.”

Max  lifted his head, eyes ablaze with adoration, “What? Does that mean you’ll be my coach, Fede?” When Fede made a gruff sound that may or may not have been encouraging, Max interpreted it as the former and his face broke out in a beatific grin, “Really?”

“Maybe,” Fede conceded. “Have not decided yet.”

He turned to skate away but Max called out after him, “Hey, Fede. Where’re you going? The changing rooms are that way.”

Fede’s skating faltered slightly before he replied tersely, “I change at home.” Then he skated over to the bench where he’d left his stuff and set down his stick before pulling off his gloves and unlacing his skates. Max watched him with his brow furrowed for a moment before shrugging and heading to the changing room.

***

Fede dreamed of Yulia after drinking himself to sleep around six in the morning. In the dream, she was standing in a darkened wood, illuminated by a creepy blue light. Her face was ghostly, her body naked, her long hair hanging over her eyes. “Come,” she commanded before turning to walk away from him through the forest. He followed, heart longing to reach out for her, to hold her, to kiss her. But he froze when he saw her standing on the shore of a wide, still lake. Its waters were milky blue. “Come,” she repeated but he stalled, reluctant to take another step closer. “Come,” she ordered once again, pointing down into the water. “COME!” His gaze flicked down and his eyes went wide when he saw what was hiding in the lake, lurking just beneath the surface of the dark water.

He awoke in a cold sweat.

***

That afternoon, ‘Max the Golden Retriever,’ as Fede had taken to referring to him, nearly peed all over himself when Fede entered the bookstore.

“Fede! You came!” he cried, galloping over. Fede shook his head, unable to understand how Max could be so graceful on the ice and such an ox on dry land.

A few customers turned to look at them quizzically when Max threw his big arms around his waist and hefted him over his head, spinning him around with joyful abandon. Fede’s face soured in distaste and he angrily disengaged himself from the boy. Where was Max’s dignity? Worse, where was his? Had he lost so much muscle that he’d become a child’s plaything? The only other person whom he’d allowed to spin him around in the air was Beltrán. Even then, Fede’s reaction had ensured Captain Beltrán never did that again. Max was far more clueless than Beltrán, though, and merely laughed at his reaction.

“Where’re we goin’, Fede?” he asked breathlessly. “Tell me! Did you reserve us some time on the ice? You must have a lot of pull if you can do that. Normally, the junior hockey league has priority in the afternoon.”

“We not go to hockey rink,” Fede informed him, still annoyed at being treated like a child. “Come with me.”

He turned on his heel and headed out onto the street. Max bounded along beside him, overcome with happiness. When they reached Fede’s CRV, he sternly indicated that Max should get in the passenger side. Invisible tail wagging, Max happily did so, all but barreling into the car. Fede shook his head. A golden retriever, indeed.

They drove across town to a strip mall where Fede parked in front of a high-end sporting goods store. Max eyed the place skeptically, asking, “Why’re we goin’ here, Fede?”

Fede ignored him and got out of the car, not even waiting for Max to follow him. Upon entering, he led the boy over to the section of the store with hockey gear and ordered him to sit. He motioned for a clerk to come over. When the young man approached, he asked him to fit Max for new skates. “These,” he said, pointing to a pair of CCM Jet Speeds.

Eyes going round, Max stood up and would have bolted from the store if Fede hadn’t grabbed his elbow and ordered him to sit back down. “But, Fede!” he protested. “I can’t afford–!”

“Shut up,” Fede growled back at him before turning to the clerk, “He probably takes size 46 but measure first.”

The clerk bowed and knelt before Max, waiting for him to unlace his beat up shoes. Max stared pleadingly up at Fede but Fede shook his head. Finally, Max relented and allowed the man to measure his foot size. He looked like a deflated balloon.

An hour and ten thousand dollars later, Max finally had gear fitting an aspiring hockey player. They left the store laden with boxes. Far from elated, though, Max’s tail was between his legs as if Fede had beaten him. When he tried to argue inside the car, Fede cut him off. “I am millionaire who lives like pauper. Shut up and accept gifts.”

He steered the car across the busy intersection and parked in front of an optometrist’s office. Max looked from the storefront to Fede, lower lip thrusting out mutinously. “No, Fede!” he begged. “Please! I don’t need new glasses! The ones I have are fine.”

“They are not fine,” Fede countered. “You need new glasses and contact lenses. Now come.”

And so he led a sullen Max into the office where he waited while the clinician performed an eye exam and wrote out a prescription for glasses and contact lenses. Max was almost catatonic by that point and Fede had to prod him to try on some frames. Not surprisingly, the boy had terrible taste in glasses so Fede ended up choosing a pair that suited Max’s wide, innocent face. He put down a deposit and made an appointment to return in a week to pick them up.

Afterwards, he led Max out of the shop and opened the door on the passenger side of his car, helping the boy inside. Max’s mood had done a one-eighty from back in the bookstore and he sat in withdrawn silence as Fede drove back to the Phénix.

“Fede.”

“What?” He looked over at Max. The boy was sitting with his hulking frame squeezed into the bucket seat, his hands folded awkwardly in his lap.

“This is too much. I can’t accept all this.”

“Is not too much.”

“It is, too!” Max insisted. “And, besides, how will I explain it to my mother? She’ll flip out when she sees all of this expensive gear. It cost more than she makes in a year!”

Fede was silent, considering this. “I pay for locker at hockey rink. You keep gear there.”

Max looked over at him with red-rimmed eyes. “No! No, you can’t do that! I won’t let you.”

“You have no choice,” Fede informed him. “I do it.”

“Fede, why are you doing this for me?” Max pleaded. “You don’t even know me! Plus, I suck at hockey. This stuff is wasted on me.”

“You do not suck at hockey,” Fede replied, gesturing to the boxes in the back seat, “With proper gear, I judge if you have talent. With bad gear and bad glasses, I cannot tell if you are good or if you are great. Now I will know.”

“But what if I’m only good?”

Fede smiled, an exceedingly rare event in his life. “Then you keep as gift from me.”

Max flushed, happy in spite of himself. “And what if I’m amazing?”

Fede shrugged, “Then you pay me back after you sign with professional team.”

The grin that spread across Max’s face was priceless.

***

Chapter 2

A week, a new pair of glasses and a much-needed haircut later and Max was unrecognizable, both in person and on the ice. When Fede had first met the boy, he’d been unimpressed. He’d thought Max homely and unkempt with a bad complexion and a blobby physique. Cleaned up and wearing gear that properly fit him, he realized how wrong he’d been. Max was a handsome and very fit lad! Even his acne was coming under control after Fede got him a prescription for tretinoin.

The first time Max skated out to meet him, decked out in his new gear, Fede blinked. At first glance, he’d mistaken Max for Beltrán. Both Captain Beltrán and Max had nearly identical physiques and skating techniques. Like Beltrán, Max was big and broad-shouldered with a solid waist, powerful thighs and a meaty butt, all qualities that suited a defensive man. His practice uniform fit him perfectly as did his pads, helmet, gloves and skates. Fede could see other guys turning to stare at him as he executed a backwards figure eight, showing off the fancy footwork that Fede had been teaching him.

Fede knew from experience how the right gear and proper grooming could boost a man’s confidence. He was glad that he had the means to teach this important lesson to the boy. So what if he was now thousands of dollars poorer as a result? It was worth every penny. Just seeing the smile on Max’s face was worth it. Besides, he had plenty of cash stowed away. Better to spend it on a future hockey star than on vodka.

“Hey, Coach!” Max called out in a voice that sounded deeper and more self-assured than ever.

He pulled up in front of Fede and lifted the guard on his helmet, face glowing with happiness. He was wearing his new contact lenses and this was the first time Fede had seen him without glasses. Fede inhaled sharply, momentarily taken aback by the boy’s gorgeous brown eyes. They were flecked with gold and shone the color of warm caramel in the overhead lights. Jesus, the boy was attractive! Fede shook away the realization, burying it deeply before it could disturb his good mood. He couldn’t afford to get side tracked right now, not when Max needed his full attention and expertise.

“Coach?”

That deep baritone sent an unwanted thrill down Fede’s spine. He found himself studying the ice at their feet rather than looking up into Max’s beautiful, soft eyes. Finally, he managed to say, “Yes, Max?”

“Thank you.”

Max’s glove was on his shoulder. He squeezed and, for some reason, Fede’s eyes grew moist. He blinked rapidly, forcing himself to remain steady as he replied, “Mmhmm. Now that you see properly, we do proper drills,” He clasped his hockey stick firmly. “Ready?”

“Ready, Coach!” Max replied, holding his own stick lightly, in just the way that Fede had taught him.

Fede proceeded to run Max into the ice with a series of grueling drills that left him red-faced, bent over and panting. He drilled him relentlessly on edge work, puck control and gap control before playing him one-on-one to teach him how to guard against stealing.

It wasn’t just the proper gear that made Max shine. Contact lenses with the correct prescription were a game changer. Fede watched in utter amazement as the boy blossomed before his eyes into a savagely skilled and unexpectedly aggressive defensive man. Even though Max was only seventeen, Fede would have been intimidated going up against him in the rink even if he was back to his old size and weight. He shook his head. Talent hobbled by poverty was nothing short of a crime in his mind. He was doubly glad he’d been able to give the boy the boost he deserved. Now Max could be a real hockey player with a real chance at the big leagues.

Still, he had to be judicious with his praise, lest Max’s ego get the better of him.

“Keep legs wider,” he chided, goosing him from behind with the stick to emphasize his point. It was gratifying watching the boy jump and clap his hands over his butt as he glared back at Fede. “Maybe you have small testicles, yes?” he teased. “Need something to keep legs apart.”

In answer, Max’s cheeks flamed crimson and he grumbled, “That’s not a problem. Trust me. If anything, it’s the opposite.”

“What was that, hmmm?” Fede asked, circling closer.

“Nothing,” Max replied, straightening. “What’s next?”

Fede looked at his watch. “Is past four in morning,” he said. “Practice is over.”

Max stifled a yawn. Unlike Fede, he was not a night owl and found it hard to stay awake during their early morning lessons. Getting only a few hours of sleep before school was particularly brutal. He’d never complained, though. He was too delighted to have Fede as his personal coach.

Fede observed the tired droop of Max’s eyelids and smiled, “You go to bed now, yes?”

“Yes, Coach.”

“Good boy,” Fede said, taking off his helmet and shaking out his sweaty curls. “Good night.”

He skated away, oblivious to the look of pure longing that Max gave his retreating back.

***

The next night at the bar, his coworker Alex gave him the once over, teasing, “Well, I never thought I’d see the day! Our little Fede’s actually chipper. Is that a smile on your face, bro? Better watch out or you’ll scare away the customers. They expect you to abuse them, remember?” He patted Fede on top of the head, chuckling to himself. “You’re well rested, too. Guess you don’t need any Preparation H for your eyelids tonight.”

“Fuck off and keep your ass cream,” Fede grumbled as he tied his apron around his exceedingly slim waist. When Alex didn’t move, he glanced over his shoulder, asking, “What? You not have work to do?”

Alex shook his head, grinning to himself. “Man, you really have changed! I’m almost ready to call a search party to find the real Fede. Who abducted our grumpy Russian refugee?” He sniffed the air, nostrils flaring as he inhaled, “Are you wearing cologne, too? And are those a new pair of jeans? Christ, they really make your butt look extra big and juicy.”

“Alex,” Fede sneered (or tried to. He actually kind of sucked at it.) “I told you to fuck off.”

Lifting his hands innocently in the air, Alex backed away. “Alright, bro. Have it your way. But if I had to guess, I’d say you finally met someone. You have that air about you, the air of a boy in love.”

Fede was about to snarl back at him when he froze. In love? What the fuck was Alex thinking? He wasn’t in love! He didn’t have anyone in his life to fall in love with. Not since Yulia died. And certainly not since Beltrán–he stifled the thought. The last man in the world he wanted to think about right now was Beltrán.

He choked back sudden tears, hating himself.

Yulia.

He couldn’t even be there with her at the end. He’d never be able to change that, either. For the rest of his life, he would live with the knowledge that he was not only the cause of Yulia’s death but he had also failed her. He hung his head, habitual bad mood descending upon him like a familiar, smothering blanket. He had no right to be happy. He’d lost that right forever.

He was cursed.

He pushed through the double doors behind the bar, his features hardening and his eyes watering with pain. How the fuck was he supposed to get through this shift? It was a good thing nobody expected him to be cheerful.

***

The November weather suited his bleak mood; it was tipping down rain when he left the Phénix at the end of his shift. He pulled the collar of his peacoat up around his neck, shivering. He couldn’t wait to get home and drink some vodka. He had a feeling it was one of those ‘two-pint nights.’ Only by drinking a lot of alcohol could he drown the memories of Yulia. (And Beltrán.)

He was so lost in his private misery that he nearly tripped over Max. Standing on the curb outside the club, the boy was drenched and shivering. Lacking even a coat, he was completely soaked and his lips were blue.

“Max!” Fede scolded. “What the fuck? Why are you not home?”

“C-C-Coach,” Max stammered, teeth chattering. “C-C-Can I, um, maybe stay at your place tonight?”

He hung his head but not before Fede saw the bruise forming on his lower jaw and the swelling over his right eye. Sucking in a sharp breath, Fede reached out and took the boy’s face in his hand, forcing him to look at him. “Who did this?” he demanded. When Max remained silent, he repeated, “Who the fuck do this to you?”

Max flinched, wresting his chin out of Fede’s grip. His swollen jaw worked up and down for a long time before he reluctantly revealed, “My mother has a new boyfriend. He moved in this week and we, uh, don’t get along.”

“I see.” Fede’s hands were clenched. He was suddenly filled with a murderous rage and had to talk himself out of driving to Max’s house and beating the shit out of the fucker who had done this to his boy. “You fought back, yes?”

Max shook his head, “No. If I had, I’m afraid I would’ve…”

His voice trailed off but Fede could complete the sentence on his own. He knew from playing against Max on the ice that the boy was more than capable of defending himself. In fact, he doubted he’d ever met anyone so strong, even among his former teammates on the Maple Leafs. The boy was a bull. It was probably a good thing he knew how to keep his aggression in check.

“Come,” Fede said, taking Max by the elbow and leading him to his car.

Max was like putty in his hands and he all but melted against Fede, inadvertently soaking him with secondhand rain as he did so. Fede slung his arm over his shoulders and helped him into the car. They drove the short distance to Fede’s apartment in silence, pulling into the little garage beneath his apartment as the storm raged outside.

Max’s eyes went wide at the top of the stairs when he beheld Fede’s living quarters for the first time. It was kind of embarrassing. He acted like the apartment was the lap of luxury even though it was spartan even by Russian standards. Fede observed his reaction with grim amusement, wondering about the boy’s living conditions. If Max thought this humble apartment was posh…

While Max untied his shoes at the door, Fede grabbed some towels from the bathroom and handed them to the boy. “Take warm shower,” he instructed. “I dry clothes.”

Max gratefully accepted the towels and disappeared inside the bathroom. Fede waited patiently outside the door. After a moment, Max stuck his hand out of the door and deposited his soaking wet clothing into Fede’s hands. Fede promptly tossed them into the dryer in the utility room. Eventually, he heard the shower turn on, followed by the sound of Max’s bare feet squeaking on the tiles. He smiled to himself, busying himself with putting sheets on the foldout couch. By the time Max exited the bathroom, wearing only a tiny towel around his thick waist, his clothes were nearly dry and Fede had found an old pair of Captain Beltrán’s sweatpants large enough to fit the boy’s plus-sized frame.

Max’s curly brown hair was still damp from the shower and he was wearing his new glasses, a titanium-rimmed pair that lent him a very sophisticated air. His dark skin was tinged pink and there were little tufts of hair around his large nipples. A distinct trail of fuzz ran down from his navel and disappeared beneath his towel. His body was both muscular and soft with a roll of soft flab overhanging the towel. He really did have a D-man’s body! Just like Beltrán’s…

“I, uh, used some of your shampoo,” he admitted sheepishly. “And I, uh, borrowed a toothbrush. It was still in the box. I hope that’s Ok.”

“Is fine,” Fede said, plumping up a pillow on the sofa bed. “You may keep. Is extra.”

Max’s awkwardness only grew when he saw the sofa bed. Swallowing, he said, “Gosh, Coach, I mean, Fede, you didn’t have to–”

“Where else would you sleep?” Fede countered. “On floor?”

Max shrugged, “Uh, yeah. The floor would be fine.”

“Nonsense. You sleep here.” He pointed to the sofa before adding unnecessarily, “And I sleep in there.” He pointed to the apartment’s sole bedroom. Max followed his finger, eyes going round for some reason. Is he really that starstruck? Fede wondered, shaking his head before changing the topic, “Are you hungry? I have food.”

Max looked like he wanted to decline but, as if on cue, his stomach growled and they both laughed. Fede immediately headed into the kitchenette where he warmed up a plate of Tefteli he’d made the night before. Max padded in behind him and looked over his shoulder, still wearing just a towel. He had to clutch it with one hand to keep it from falling off.

“Jesus, those smell amazing!” he praised, his breath hot on Fede’s neck. “Did you cook those yourself?”

Fede glanced over his shoulder at him, “Of course.”

“Wow! You’re amazing!”

“Is not rare to find someone who cooks, no?” Fede challenged. “I cook since I was child.”

“Me, too,” Max said. “But nothing like this.”

He accepted the plate of steaming meatballs from Fede and would have stuffed them into his mouth with his hands if Fede hadn’t cleared his throat and handed him a fork. They sat down at the small counter between the kitchenette and the living room and Max busied himself wolfing down the food. He moaned exuberantly–almost embarrassingly–the whole time as if eating the Tefteli was the most exuberant experience of his life.

“Fuck, Fede,” he gasped, partway through the meal. “This is fuckin’ great!”

Fede made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. The truth was he was enjoying watching Max eat a little too much. The way the boy’s extremely large Adam’s apple bobbed down each time he swallowed was particularly distracting. And the way his long, thick tongue curled up and over his soft, succulent lips to reach every last bit of sauce…

He got up abruptly and went into the bathroom to get some painkillers and antibiotic ointment. Returning to the counter, he sat down and dabbed at the abrasion on the boy’s cheek. Max grew very still and appeared to be holding his breath. The longer he dabbed, the redder Max’s complexion became until his face was beet red. When Fede went into the kitchen to get a glass of water for the boy, he returned to find him holding his hands over his crotch, a panicked expression on his face.

“Take these. Will help to sleep,” he said, folding his arms and waiting until Max did as instructed.

Max didn’t budge.

“Go on,” Fede urged. “Drink.”

Max looked pained and squirmed on his chair. Belatedly, Fede realized he was still mostly naked, clad only in the tiny towel. As he stared, he swore he could see Max’s hands rising ever so slowly off of his crotch. After a prolonged minute, it was too much for Max to bear and he pushed him up and fled into the bathroom.

Fede watched him go, perplexed. Finally, he got up and padded over to the door of the bathroom and knocked. “Max?” he called out. “You alright?”

“Yeah, sure. Just fine.” But he didn’t sound fine. His voice was strained like he was panting.

“Are you hurt?”

“Nope! Definitely not hurt!” came the boy’s prompt reply.

Fede sighed, “What do you need?”

Another long, anguished pause. Finally, “Um, I could use something to wear to bed if you got anything my size,” Max said after a pause. “If not, I can wear my boxers. You think they’re dry yet?”

Fede grabbed the pair of sweatpants off the sofa bed and knocked on the door again, saying, “Here, you wear these.”

There was a pause and the door opened a crack as Max’s hand emerged. Fede deposited the sweats into his hand and the door closed again. After a very long time, Max finally emerged from the bathroom, wearing Beltrán’s old pants. They were tight but not as tight as if he’d tried to squeeze into a pair of Fede’s.

“Whose are these?” the boy asked, nodding down at the sweats. “They’re too big for you.”

Fede didn’t feel like explaining how he’d come to possess a pair of the captain of the Toronto Maple Leafs’ sweatpants and lied, “I was fat. Lost weight.”

Max didn’t look convinced. Nonetheless, he washed his plate in the sink and returned to the bathroom to brush his teeth again. While he was busy, Fede laid out his now dry t-shirt on the sofa and was relieved when the boy pulled it over his head, covering his hulking, bare chest.

They stood in the living room, awkwardly looking at each other for a minute before Max cleared his throat, “Uh, Coach?”

“Yes?”

The boy looked down at his feet, “Thank you so much for taking me in.”

“Is no problem.”

Max swallowed, “No, it is a problem. I’ve been nothing but a problem for you since we met. I’m sorry! I’m really sorry!”

“Is alright.”

Fede’s throat was dry and it was difficult for him to talk. He was standing very near to Max and the boy’s potent but pleasing odor filled his nostrils. He was reminded once again how attractive he was. With his smoldering French Canadian looks and dark skin, Max was already well on his way to becoming a total stud. In another couple years when he was a supremely trained and conditioned D-man, he would have his pick of women. They would fall at his feet, begging for his attention. His bed would never be empty.

For some reason, this made Fede both angry and sad and he found himself clenching his jaw and craving vodka. He turned to go, intending to pour himself a shot in the kitchen, but Max caught him by the elbow and hauled him into a warm embrace. Fede gasped as the boy’s strong arms wrapped around him and pulled him tightly against his magnificent chest. His mouth was against his armpit and Max’s hand was stroking his hair.

As Fede stood there, frozen, a multitude of emotions warred inside him. He was furious to be treated like a kitten by a boy ten years his junior and appalled by the liberties that Max was taking with his body. But he also couldn’t deny a part of him longed to be held this way. Not since Beltrán–

He stiffened and was about to push Max off of him when the boy lowered his lips and kissed the top of his head, murmuring, “Good night, Fede.”

***

Chapter 3

The next few weeks saw them falling into a new rhythm. It startled Fede to realize how effortless it was to live with Max. The boy refused to go back home and apparently his mother was fine with that because she never asked if Fede was Ok hosting her son. Perhaps even stranger was Fede’s reluctance to get rid of him. If he was brutally honest with himself–he was Russian so brutal honesty came easy–he liked taking care of Max. He liked teaching him, working out with him, cooking for him, spending time with him, watching TV, basically having him in his life.

He shook his head both at himself for being such a softy and at Max’s mother for neglecting her son. How could anyone possibly neglect Max? He was delightful in every way, so eager to please, so helpful, so sweet, so kind. But then he remembered his own parents. Fede had been neglected as well, although he wasn’t delusional enough to believe he was anywhere near as appealing as Max. Still, he had been overall an obedient and faithful child. In return, his parents had ignored him. They never even attended his hockey matches and he was forced to work odd jobs to pay for his gear until he was accepted into a prestigious training academy and awarded a generous scholarship. After that, he barely saw his parents except on holidays. So, maybe he did know what it was like having neglectful parents? At least he had never been physically abused. Even so, If he hadn’t escaped home to live at the academy, he would have self-destructed.

Maybe he and Max weren’t that different after all?

On paper, his new schedule of parenting, coaching and bartending should have killed him. He worked until two o’clock in the morning most nights and Max had to be up by seven for school. Besides that, they trained at the hockey rink three nights a week which meant even less sleep. But Fede had never been much of a sleeper and was used to taking cat naps during the day. For his part, Max was very disciplined about going to bed early and usually Fede would return from work to find the boy sprawled across the sofa bed, snoring soundly. Sometimes he’d stand over him, smiling at the way Max’s curly, brown hair was pushed over his face and how he clutched the pillow to his chest like a lover. Very sweet. Very adorable.

Max came alive when he was around Fede. He would race home from school on the days that Fede had off and beg to lift weights with him in the garage or go for a run. He was great at the weights but sucked at running, barely able to match even Fede’s slowest pace. Yeah, Max was a D-man through and through, just like Beltrán. They were built heavy, bulky and slow but also very strong. Fede could remember how Beltrán used to complain when they–

No.

He was not going there. Both Beltrán and Yulia were dead to him and his life was over. He was now only a ghost of Anton Fedorov and may as well be dead himself.

He forced his attention back to the present.

After their runs, Max would watch Fede cooking dinner in the tiny kitchenette, his chin resting on his hands, a silly grin on his face. Their evening ritual concluded by eating together at Fede’s tiny table and then sitting on the couch to watch the ridiculous rom-coms that Max favored and Fede barely tolerated. (Max had been appalled when he found out that Fede didn’t have WiFi in his apartment. Fede had only agreed to get the service after Max found a used TV on Facebook Marketplace and insisted on connecting it to the Internet.)

A cuddler, Max invariably wormed his way closer to Fede as they watched the movie. He always wanted Fede to stroke his hair while he rested his head on his lap but sometimes he would move behind him on the cushions, cradling him like a child behind his thick legs, wrapping his muscly arms around him and leaning his chin over his shoulder. Fede should have put a stop to this sort of behavior but he found himself increasingly incapable of refusing anything Max wanted. Plus, he liked the boy, probably a lot more than he should have. It was telling that he’d barely thought about Yulia or Beltrán since Max moved in.

Two days after Fede took him in, Max made a brief foray back to his mother’s house to pack up his things. Fede accompanied him, idling outside the modest home in his CRV. He was ready to step in with his fists if things got out of control but fortunately Max timed it so nobody was home. The boy worked quickly to gather his things and Fede was relieved when neither Max’s mother nor her abusive boyfriend showed up while they were there.

Fifteen minutes after they pulled up, Max came out of the house carrying an armful of boxes that Fede helped him stow in the back of the car. He had remarkably little in the way of belongings, testament to his poverty. Besides the hockey gear that he kept stored at the rink, he had only three boxes consisting mostly of clothes. Back at the apartment, Fede cleared out the drawers in the end table next to Max’s sofa bed and the boy managed to stuff more of his clothes in there but still needed more room. Trying his best to make him feel at home, Fede offered him a couple of drawers in the dresser in his bedroom and told him he could hang his dress shirts in his closet.

While Max showered, he paced around in his bedroom like a mother hen, fighting back a sense of déjà vu. Five years ago, after Fede’s first season on the Maple Leafs, he and Beltrán had moved into a highrise apartment near downtown Toronto. They’d shared everything, including a bedroom, and soon their stuff was so thoroughly mingled they often wore each other’s clothes. Fede had been bigger back then and was only slightly smaller than the captain. Somewhat perversely, he’d particularly enjoyed wearing Beltrán’s underwear. He loved his musky scent, so reminiscent of Max’s, and he especially loved imagining how the pouch of those same underwear had contained Beltrán’s big, thick–

Christ. What was his problem?

He forced himself to turn away from his closet where Max’s shirts were already mixed in with his own and instead opened his dresser only to be surprised by the pile of Max’s stained jockstraps crammed in next to his own orderly row of black briefs. This was yet another way the boy took after Beltrán. Beltrán was a total slob, the complete opposite of Fede, and his jockstraps could be found everywhere in their apartment. In the bathroom, the bedroom, hanging off the lampshade, between the cushions in the couch, and, of course, on Beltrán himself. The big captain loved to strip down to his jock when he got home and saunter around the apartment, trying to catch Fede’s eye. Those valiant undergarments strained to contain his oversized male genitalia and Beltrán would sometimes–

Fuck.

He had no idea that living with Max would do this to him. Still, what did he expect? Like Beltrán, Max was an athlete–apparently a very well-endowed athlete–and he needed protection. It only made sense he would store his oversized jockstraps in the dresser drawer. What could Fede do? Toss them out?

He sighed, sliding the drawer closed but not before Max’s rich, pubic scent filled his nostrils. It was enough to leave him weak in the knees. He had to sit on his bed and take deep breaths to collect himself. Beltrán and Max were starting to merge in his mind and he couldn’t let that happen. Max was just a boy who looked up to him if not quite like a father than certainly as a coach. He didn’t want to poison their friendship with these inappropriate urges.

He distracted himself by remembering that Max’s birthday was coming up and made a mental note to purchase some new jocks. That wouldn’t be too weird, would it? He used to buy Beltrán jocks all the time…

Gah!

He had to stop this!

Just take a deep breath, Fede, and think of something else.

As if on autopilot, he got up and reopened the dresser drawer, pulling out one of Max’s yellowed jocks and examining it. Judging by the size of the stretched-out pouch, Max needed a lot of extra room in front. Fede’s cheeks flushed at the thought of what this meant. Just how big was Max?

“What’re you doing?”

Fede promptly dropped the jockstrap and slammed the drawer shut. Max was standing in the door of his bedroom, dripping wet from his shower. As always, he had to clutch the towel tightly around his thick waist to keep it from falling off. His soft, brown hair was even curlier when it was wet and his eyes were dancing with mischief. He knew he’d caught Fede red-handed!

Max wasn’t wearing his glasses and looked even more grownup than usual. In fact, he was indistinguishable from a man now, such was his size and confidence…to stay nothing of his rapidly growing body hair. The curly, black hair on his chest had spread out from the tuft in the center and now was starting to encircle his big, puffy nipples…

Fede’s cheeks, already pink from being caught handling Max’s jockstrap, flamed crimson and he tried to escape, darting around the boy in the doorway. Max caught him by the waist as he tried to push past, though, and held him in place. Fede found himself looking into his gold-brown eyes and felt his heart quiver.

“You know my birthday’s coming up?” Max asked in his deep, gravelly baritone.

Fede nodded, trying ineffectually to extricate himself from the boy’s grip. “Yes, I was just thinking that.”

“You know what I want from you?” Max pressed Fede more tightly against his big, firm bulk.

Fede swallowed, feeling panicked. “I do not.”

Max smiled, “I want you to come watch my hockey match. We play at eight that night.”

Fede tried to squirm out of Max’s grip but the boy was too strong and he was too small. This close to Max, he felt like nothing more than a wispy young girl. “I-I-I have to work that night,” he pointed out somewhat lamely.

“Then get it off,” Max ordered.

Fede was struck by his commanding one. When had ‘Max the Golden Retriever’ turned into ‘Max the Rottweiler’? He started shivering in Max’s grasp, feeling like a nervous French poodle.

Max continued reasonably, “Alex’ll cover for you. He usually has Thursday’s off anyways.”

Fede was surprised Max knew Alex’s schedule so well. Come to think of it, the boy seemed to know everything about Fede’s life, almost as if he had been watching him closely for months.

“Will you?” Max prompted when he didn’t reply. “I really want my Tosha, er, I mean, my coach to be there to see me play.”

‘My Tosha’? Did he really just use my Russian nickname? Fede couldn’t look into Max’s eyes any longer. The burning hunger in them was too much. Once again, it reminded him of another man of the same size, with the same scent and the same beautiful, brown eyes. One who also called him Tosha. Averting his gaze to the floor, he murmured, “I will see what I can do.”

“Good.” Max released him but he swatted Fede fondly on the buttocks as he made his getaway. His hand felt hot and alive on Fede’s sensitive behind.

***

The tension between them dissipated for a few days after that and Fede had almost convinced himself that he’d imagined everything. Well, mostly. From that day forward, Max had a habit of leaving his jockstraps in obvious locations throughout the apartment. Fede even found one in between the sheets of his bed once. Picking up the soiled garment, he looked into the living room where Max was asleep on the couch. When had he been in Fede’s bed? He resisted the urge to sniff the jock–he didn’t need to because it was so redolent with Max’s odor that he could smell it very easily–and then tossed it into the laundry basket. Was Max purposely fucking with him? If so, it was working.

Worse, even though the two had never met, Max took another page out of Beltrán’s playbook. Fede would frequently look up from cooking dinner to find the boy exiting the bathroom nonchalantly, clad only in a jockstrap, his bulky buttocks jiggling behind him. At other times, Max would saunter into the kitchen, naked save for a jockstrap, and thoughtfully scratch his balls through the mesh of the pouch, waiting for a reaction. Fede’s cheeks would color when he spotted the outline of Max’s giant anaconda lurking inside the nearly transparent mesh. He’d swat the boy’s hand away from his crotch and push him out of the kitchen but was unable to keep himself from appreciating the boy’s furry backside as he strode away.

He was so screwed.

The only blessing, if there was one to be found in Max’s war on Fede’s self-restraint, was the boy didn’t take it any further. Fede could feel his eyes burning with heat on his back sometimes but Max always looked away when he looked up. He soon learned that this didn’t mean that Max had given up trying to break him; he just learned to be more creative, opening new fronts in his assault.

One day while Fede was cooking dinner and Max was seated in his usual spot, watching him across the counter, the boy asked, “Why’d you quit hockey, Fede? You were the best player on the Leafs. They were headed for a championship win and you just, you know, disappeared. Nobody knew where you went.”

Fede had known this day was coming and had prepared for it. He was therefore surprised by the upwelling of emotion–and bile–that accompanied Max’s innocent question. “Had no choice. Could no longer play hockey. My…body…is not suited for the game anymore.”

“What do you mean?” Max stood up and paced around the counter, staring down at him in concern. Fede was struck by the sheer difference in their size. This should have told Max everything he needed to know. A year ago, Fede was just as tall as Max, if not taller. A year ago, he’d been nearly twenty-five kilos heavier, all of it muscle. A year ago, his body had been covered in a thick pelt of body hair. A year ago, he’d sported a close-cropped beard. A year ago, he’d been a man. Now he was–

He cut the thought off before he could finish it.

“I mean what I say,” he choked out. “I can not play hockey like this.” He spread his hands, indicating his reduced physique. “Is not possible.”

Max’s soft brown eyes trailed down over Fede’s body and Fede sighed inwardly. He could tell that Max was seeing him as he wanted to see him, not as he was. This was the problem with hero worship; eventually your heroes disappoint you. All of Fede’s certainly had.

“I don’t get it,” Max said finally. “You look great and I’ve seen you on the ice. You’re a powerhouse!”

Fede shook his head angrily, “Is not true. I am shadow of man I was.” Getting emotional made it more difficult to properly speak English. He felt like he was regressing back to his secondary school grammar.

“You’re beautiful, Fede.”

Fede’s eyes jerked upward. Max was standing very close. Too close. Wearing an old t-shirt and a tattered pair of boxers, his musk tickled Fede’s nostrils and he had to fight off unwanted arousal. The problem was that Max was no longer the awkward, clumsy boy from a few months ago. Thanks to puberty, Fede’s attention, training and sponsorship, Max was in the full bloom of manhood. His body was thick with new muscles and his hockey-playing skills were honed to a near professional level. He was even starting to grow his first beard; his cheeks were covered with a surprisingly thick layer of dark brown fur. Fede hadn’t noticed until just now but all traces of Max’s boyhood had departed and he was looking up into the feral eyes of a very confident young man. A young man who licked his lips as he stared down at him.

“I need a drink.”

He pushed past Max and hauled a pint of vodka out of the freezer. He was trying to pour it into a shot glass when he realized that the vodka had frozen in the bottle. Stupefied, he tilted it higher, not believing what he was seeing. Vodka was almost pure alcohol, it didn’t freeze!

“It’s water,” Max explained behind him. “I got rid of all your vodka.” He stepped forward and took the frozen bottle out of Fede’s hands and placed it on the counter. “I won’t let you drink yourself to death, Tosha.”

“Tosha,” Fede repeated. Ghosts of Yulia and Beltrán danced before his eyes.

“I saw what it did to my dad, Tosha,” Max continued, his voice thick in his throat. “And I won’t ever let anyone I love suffer like that.”

Anyone I love.

Fede couldn’t take any more of this. He was no longer capable of love. Love was nothing but a cruel joke. Besides, he knew what happened to the people who had the misfortune of loving him. Yulia’s dead eyes still gazed back at him from behind the FSB agent’s camera. They had livestreamed her murder and he’d been forced to watch the whole thing. It made what they’d done to his body seem like a gentle reprimand in comparison. The way she had pleaded for them to stop…the way she had cried out his name…

He shook his head.

Never.

Never again.

White hot anger surged inside of him, incinerating the grief and making him crazy.

Rounding on Max, he raged, “Why won’t you listen? Why won’t you leave me alone? Why can’t you see what is in front of your face? Why can’t you see what I am? Open your eyes, Max! Open your fucking eyes! I am not man I was and I cannot ever be man you want me to be!”

He dodged the arm that Max flung out to catch him and darted out of the kitchen. He was still wearing his running shoes and took off out of the apartment, forgetting about the food on the stove and ignoring Max’s calls behind him. He just had to get out of there.

He didn’t run far. Côté Cœur wasn’t a big city and his apartment was on the outskirts. Eventually, he found his way to the little sheltered cove by the ocean, accessible only via a hidden path that he was certain only he knew about. It was late November and very cold but the pines blocked the worst of the wind and the water lapped almost passively against the rocky shore. Being near sunset, the sky was vast and dark and everything was illuminated by a strange blue half-light.

Fede had chosen to relocate to Côté Cœur for two reasons after the FSB punished him for his rash act of defiance against Putin’s state. The first was that he was unknown here and second was for its foreboding climate. Being on a peninsula jutting into the Atlantic meant that the town was blanketed in mist most of the year and covered by clouds the rest. It matched his inner state. He felt even more at home here in Côté Cœur than he had back in Russia.

The bluish-white light, the damp chill, the lapping of the waves, tang of salt in the air and the fresh scent of pines soothed him. Overhead, the mournful cry of gulls only augmented his dour mood. He sat there on a little rock, holding his knees and staring out at the darkening waters. Unbidden, the scene from his repeated nightmare came back to him. In the dream, he’d usually wake up when Yulia’s ghost commanded him to look into the water but last night he hadn’t been able to stop himself. He had looked. He closed his eyes, shuddering at the memory.

In the dream, the pool of icy blue water stretched out before him. “Look!” Yulia cried, her voice a high-pitched scream. “Look!” Fede pleaded and pleaded but she would not let him be. Finally, he had given in and made himself look.

He flinched away from the memory.

Vodka.

He needed vodka!

Clenching his fists, he fought the urge to go to Société des alcools and buy a pint right then and there. Somehow he stifled the urge. He was too far away from the store and it was too cold to walk there. He was already shivering after running out in just a thin shirt and pants. And he certainly wasn’t going to go back to his apartment to get his car, either. The keys were upstairs which meant he would have to face Max.

So much for the vodka.

How long had it been since he’d had a drink? Since before Max moved in? Wow. He cradled his head in his hands, realizing in hindsight that he’d experienced the classic symptoms of alcohol withdrawal but he’d been so focused on taking care of Max that he’d ignored them. He’d had headaches, tremors, hot flashes…the works. Ignoring his body, he’d just taken some painkillers and gone back to work, making sure that Max felt welcome in his home and in his life.

He shook his head, realizing belatedly that Max’s presence may have saved his own life. He’d been drinking heavily for over a year, enough to put himself in an early grave, at least that had been his plan. But now he’d been clean and sober and it had happened without him even knowing it.

No matter which way he looked at it, he was forced to admit that Max had helped him as much as he’d helped Max. Apart, their lives were spiraling out of control but together…together, they were Ok.

He didn’t know why but tears were running down his cheeks.

***

Max was waiting for him when he returned. It was somewhat gratifying that Fede’s abrupt departure had shaken his confidence and he was back to being ‘Max the Golden Retriever’. Throwing himself into Fede’s arms, he begged for forgiveness.

“I’m sorry, Fede! I’m so sorry!”

He sounded so pathetic. How could Fede stay mad at him? He was just a teenage boy inside even though physically he looked like a full-grown man. When Max burrowed his face into the crook of Fede’s neck, he stopped him, complaining, “Beard is scratchy! You need to apply some softener.”

Max pulled away, looking at him in confusion, “That’s a thing? They make stuff to soften your beard?”

“Not my beard,” Fede explained. “I cannot grow beard anymore but, when I could, yes, I used softener.”

“What do you mean?” Max asked. “Why can’t you grow a beard anymore?” He reached out and rubbed the back of his hand over Fede’s smooth cheek, causing him to brace. “I just thought you shaved.”

“Is what I tried to tell you,” Fede said heavily. “Why I no longer play hockey. Why I am no longer a man.”

Max’s brow was so furrowed, there was a tight line between his eyebrows. “If you’re not a man, then what are you? You look like one to me.”

Fede sighed, “Someday you will understand but not tonight.” He turned and, extricating himself from Max’s grip, went into the bathroom where he came back with a little bottle. Holding it out to Max, he said, “Here. Use this on your beard.” The bottle had actually belonged to Beltrán but he wasn’t going to mention that.

He proceeded to teach Max how to care for his new, surprisingly thick beard. But when the boy applied too much oil, Fede took the ointment away and demonstrated the proper technique. He gently rubbed it into the boy’s cheeks and Max let out a little moan of contentment. He was about to dab on a little more when the boy sat bolt upright on the sofa and then fled the room, holding his hands over his crotch. Fede watched him leave, understanding dawning on him for the first time. Prior to this, he’d been mystified by the boy’s tendency to flee the room at certain points. Now that he got it, he wished he was still oblivious. It was easier than acknowledging the growing tension between them.

***

Chapter 4

Max’s birthday arrived and Fede surprised him with a new iPhone. He’d debated buying him a few new jockstraps as well but decided against it and instead gave him a gift card to an online sports gear site. Max was more than capable of shopping for himself and knew better than Fede what size to get. The thought of helping him pick out jockstraps, however, left him feeling hot and breathless.

“Fede!” Max yelped, holding the iPhone like it was the crown jewels. “I can’t accept this!”

“Is better than your flip phone,” Fede pointed out. “And screen is not broken.”

Max’s eyes welled with tears as he clutched the new phone to his heart, “Thank you, Fede! I can’t wait to show Delisle! He’s always telling me I need to get an iPhone so we can chat on Whatsapp.”

Delisle? This was a name he hadn’t heard before. He wanted to ask Max who this Delisle was and what sort of friend he was but he didn’t want to pry. On some level, it was reassuring to know Max had other friends besides Fede. Teenage boys needed their peer groups after all; someone besides an alcoholic Russian with a bad temper and a deathwish, that is. Max was such a great kid, he had to be popular at school. In fact, it was strange that the boy didn’t seem to spend time with anyone when he wasn’t at school or at hockey practice. Nonetheless, he felt a pang of an unfamiliar emotion at the mention of the friend. He promptly shoved it aside just like he did with every other feeling. Emotions were useless; they only brought him pain.

It turned out that he didn’t need to wait long to find out who Delisle was. That evening he attended Max’s hockey match, making his way onto the bleachers overlooking the rink. Craning his neck to see over the heads of the people in front of him (something he hadn’t needed to do since puberty), he spotted Max on the bench, sitting next to another kid with thick, black hair and dark skin. When the announcer introduced the players, he learned the dark-haired boy was Jacques Delisle.

At first, he couldn’t see him well but then the kid turned toward the crowd. Fede gasped. Jacques Delisle was incredibly handsome! With shiny, black hair, strong indigenous features and a physique nearly as burly as Max’s, he cut a fine figure. Fede wondered if the boy was part of the First Nation’s Mohawk tribe. He knew they had a reserve nearby. Just seeing the boy’s casual masculinity and the ease with which he leaned against Max on the bench made Fede clench his fists.

As soon as the game started, Fede could easily see that Jacques and Max were the top pair of D-men on the team. The two had more ice time than anyone else that night and used it to the team’s advantage. Despite the way his stomach curdled at the sight of the two boys together, he had to admit it was a thing of beauty to watch them play. They were perfectly matched, their strengths complementing each other. Their chemistry wasn’t just beautiful; it was also brutally effective, combining into a near shutout of the opposing team.

Whereas Max tended toward brute force, slamming like a battering ram through the other team’s line, Jacques preferred a more tactical game. He always managed to place himself in just the right position to steal the puck away from the other team after Max scattered them. Then he would shoot through the tightest lane imaginable, usually getting the puck to a waiting forward near the net. In the game, Jacques racked up an incredible four assists. It was gameplay nearly on par with the NHL and it left Fede both astounded and beside himself. He fidgeted in his seat, unable to get comfortable.

The other team didn’t stand a chance. By the end of the second period, the score was an unbelievable eight points in Côté Cœur’s favor, thanks largely to Jacques and Max but also to their team’s goalie who controlled the net like a pro. At one point, Max scored a goal on his own after stealing the puck away from a hapless forward and slammed it into the net from the opposite side of the rink. It was a feat worth celebrating but Fede shook his head at the boy’s ridiculous celly, a nearly obscene combination of twerking and crotch grab. Until witnessing it for himself, Fede wouldn’t have believed it was possible to twerk on ice skates. He would have to speak with Max later about more appropriate conduct on the ice.

As the game wore on and Fede witnessed the miracle unfolding on the ice before him, he slowly became aware that there were more than just the usual parents and friends in the crowd. Skin prickling, he spotted several men in suits stalking along the outside of the boards, taking notes and making earnest phone calls.

Scouts.

It shouldn’t have surprised him. He knew Max was better than simply good and had the makings of a great player. Watching him with Jacques Delisle, though, Fede could tell they had pro hockey written all over them. Separately, the boys were great but together they were unstoppable. It was only expected that they would attract the attention of scouts! Canada was the home of ice hockey after all. Even a backwater like Côté Cœur wasn’t too far off the map.

A movement on the other side of the boards caught his eye and he froze when he recognized a familiar face. He immediately pulled his hat down and collar up to hide his face because it was none other than Bruce Caruthers, one of the scouts for the Toronto Maple Leafs. Bruce knew Fede well, having scouted him when he was a teenager in the MHL. He even spoke rudimentary Russian, something that was uncommon for a Canadian scout. Fede had no desire to talk to him, having declared his hockey life over, but seeing him sparked another, deeper worry: Bruce was good friends with Beltrán. He couldn’t afford to be recognized because Bruce would immediately tell Beltrán.

He abruptly forgot about Max and Jacques and panicked. Had Bruce already spotted him? He prayed to God that he hadn’t. Hopefully, he was too focused on watching the performance on the ice to look behind him at the people seated on the bleachers. Fede kicked himself for picking a seat so close to the front. He should have known this might happen! I can’t believe I let down my guard.

Stewing in his seat, Fede nearly got up and left but then he caught Max looking up at the stands, searching for him, and forced himself to wave. All worries about Bruce Caruthers evaporated when he witnessed the broad smile spreading across the boy’s face. It warmed his heart and kindled more complicated emotions in other parts of his anatomy. He shifted on the hard aluminum of the bleachers, wishing he’d brought a cushion. The temperature in the ice rink was predictably low and he was shivering despite the fact he was wearing heavy pants and a winter coat.

The sad truth, though, was that the cold was only part of the reason he was shivering.

The other part was all Max.

Why did he feel this way about the kid? Even if he wasn’t a decade older, he could never return Max’s love in the way he deserved…if Max even felt that way about him in the first place. He had to be realistic. It was entirely possible that his stupid, simmering crush was entirely one-sided. Max was a teenage boy and teenage boys acted provocatively. Max’s embarrassing celly on the ice was a perfect example of this. When he strode around Fede’s apartment in his jockstrap, he was simply being a normal teenager feeling his oats. It had nothing to do with Fede. Fede was just his audience, much like the cheering fans in the bleachers right now. It was really no different.

Besides, Max seemed to have another love who was sitting next to him on the bench. Fede recognized the longing and adoration on Jacques’ face when he looked at Max because it mirrored his expression whenever he spotted Max in a crowd. The way Jacques launched himself into Max’s arms after they scored a goal was too passionate to be a simple friendship. He knew with certainty that chemistry between Max and Jacques wasn’t just that of a pair of closely-matched athletes; it was the same chemistry he’d shared with Beltrán. People often wondered how Beltrán and Fede worked so seamlessly together on the ice. The answer was that they fit together just as seamlessly in bed. Beltrán was Fede’s first and only boyfriend, the man responsible for his bisexual awakening. Unfortunately, he was also the cause of Fede’s downfall and Yulia’s death…

Remembering Beltrán soured his mood and he looked away from Max. He was being foolish. In love with a teenage boy who already loved another boy his own age! Pah. What the fuck was he thinking? It was embarrassing. Thank goodness he hadn’t acted on his attraction because he never would have survived the humiliation. He could imagine Max’s disgust when he found out not only that Fede had fallen for him but also when he learned what a freak he was. Max was better off with Jacques, a handsome boy his own age who was also a fully intact male. Max deserved a boyfriend who could satisfy his needs and Fede was not that person, especially now that he wasn’t even a man any longer.

He got up and walked out of the game.

***

He got drunk. Really drunk. So drunk that he forgot about everything. He awoke hours later after passing out in a pool of his own vomit. Max was kneeling beside him, shaking him and pleading, “Wake up, Fede! Please wake up!”

Fede’s eyes fluttered open and he groaned, trying feebly to push Max away. “Fuck off,” he said in Russian. English was just too difficult right now, especially when his tongue was so thick in his mouth.

Max ignored him and lifted him in his brawny arms, carrying him to his bedroom. There, he deposited him on the bed as easily as if he was a child’s toy and then went to the bathroom to get a washcloth. When he returned, he proceeded to wipe the vomit away from Fede’s mouth. After he was cleaned up, he got a glass of water and a hydration tablet, forcing both of them down Fede’s throat.

Propped up on pillows, Fede’s vision gradually cleared and he realized with surprise there were tears sliding down Max’s cheeks. Transfixed, he reached a shaky finger out to brush them away. “Why are you crying?” he managed after struggling to translate the words from Russian into English.

Max wiped a hand across his face. “Fede,” he said with a wavering voice, “don’t ever do that again. Do you hear me?”

“Do what?” Fede countered, feeling obstinate. Part of him took evil glee out of forcing Max to tell him exactly what he meant.

Max blinked and suddenly the tears were gone, replaced by blazing anger. Fede watched, entranced, as a full-grown man burst forth from the boy’s body almost like an insect shedding its pupal skin. Max became bigger, stronger and infinitely more macho as the anger pulsed through his veins. It left Fede feeling both cowed and more than a little turned on. This was the Max he’d seen lurking beneath the surface, the one that had shown itself a handful of times before now. The exciting thing is that he could tell this time it was permanent. Never again would Max regress back to being a boy.

“FEDE!” he roared, shaking him by the shoulders. “STOP IT! DO YOU HEAR ME? YOU’RE KILLING YOURSELF!”

“So what?” Fede replied, sinking back into the pillows. “Is better to be dead.”

Max inhaled sharply, staring down at him in complete disbelief. After a long pause, he stated, “No, it is not. I won’t let you die, Fede.”

“Why not?” As much as Fede enjoyed seeing this more manly version of Max, he also knew that Max was destined for better things. Now that he was being scouted, it was only a matter of time before he woke up to the fact that Fede was just a washed-up, former hockey star. Fede was merely deadweight holding him back.

Max’s mouth sealed into a tight line and his eyebrows drew together. Finally, he couldn’t contain the raw emotion boiling inside him and he shouted, “BECAUSE I LOVE YOU. THAT’S WHY!”

Fede sighed heavily. “You do not. You know nothing about love.” He was feeling so tired. Why wouldn’t Max just leave him alone? “Besides, you have Jacques. He is boy your age and he loves you.”

Max blinked. “Jacques? What the fuck are you talking about? He’s not my boyfriend!”

“But he wants to be,” Fede pointed out. “Is obvious.”

Max sat back on the bed. Slowly, understanding dawned in his beautiful eyes. “That’s why you left the game early, isn’t it? Because of Delisle and me? You really think–?”

“Don’t think, know,” Fede clarified.

“Fede,” Max pronounced in his new, deeper, more authoritative voice, “you know nothing. Nothing.”

“Is good,” Fede said, closing his eyes, “because I am nothing. Makes sense.”

Max shook his head. “I don’t understand you. Why are you like this? You’re the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me! Why are you so fucking stubborn? Why don’t you see it? I’ve done everything I can to show you how I feel about you and you still won’t believe me.”

“You want to know?” Fede challenged, sitting up on his elbows. “You want me to show you?”

Max nodded, “Yes. I want to understand you, Fede. I want to understand everything about you! Please tell me!”

“You asked for it.”

As Max watched in puzzlement, Fede unbuttoned his jeans and shimmied out of them, pushing them down around his ankles. Clad in just a pair of his little black briefs and a t-shirt, he slipped his hands under the elastic band of the briefs and eased them down his slim hips.

Max’s mouth slowly fell open as Fede’s shaved genitalia were revealed. He stared transfixed as the delicate, pink folds of his labia and his tiny clitoris, the ridiculous remnant of his once big and thick prick. Not content to leave it there, Fede also stripped out of his t-shirt, pulling it up to reveal his small, soft breasts with their large, pink nipples.

“This,” he spat as venom filled his throat, “this is why I want to die. This is why I can never play hockey again and why I can never be the man you want me to be.”

***

Chapter 5

Max was stupefied by the revelation that Fede had been turned into a woman against his will. It was precisely the reaction that Fede was expecting. Even though he knew it was cruel to crush him like that, it gave him a grim sense of satisfaction. It was better that Max learn this now.  He deserved to find happiness with a real man. Maybe he would take Jacques as his boyfriend now and forget about Fede?

“The tampons in the bathroom cabinet,” Max asked finally, intent on putting all of the pieces of the puzzle together. “They weren’t left by a girlfriend? They’re for–?”

Fede nodded, unsurprised that Max had found his feminine hygiene supplies. He’d made no effort to hide them. “They are mine.”

“You have…periods?”

Fede nodded again.

“You can get pregnant, too?” Max’s eyes were circles in his head.

Fede sighed, “Yes, theoretically. Have no desire to bear young.”

“That’s why you’d never go with me into the changing rooms.” It was a statement, not a question. When Fede remained silent, he continued, “But…how? Fede, how did this happen? Men can’t suddenly change into women!”

Fede laughed bitterly, “Tell Putin that. He figured out how and used me as an example.”

Max’s jaw dropped open once again. Finally, he managed to stammer, “B-B-But why? Why would Vladimir Putin take away your manhood, Fede?”

“He did much worse,” Fede replied cryptically but refrained from explaining. He didn’t feel like talking about Yulia’s murder. “Was my punishment for daring to speak out.”

“Speak out for what?” Max looked thoroughly mystified.

“For trans rights.” Fede sighed. “I released a public announcement in support of trans rights on social media. It went viral and,” he sighed heavily, “was noticed in Russia.” He jerked his chin down at his vagina, “And this was my punishment for standing up for human rights. Putin made me trans. Is crime in Russia to be trans. I can never go back.”

“Oh, Fede.”

Max took him into his arms and cradled him on the bed. Even though the boy’s pity galled him, Fede was too defeated to resist and allowed Max to spoon him. Max curled his big, hulking body around him, urging Fede to use his bulging bicep as a pillow. He wrapped a protective arm over his chest and pulled him in close. Fede fell asleep with Max’s warm breath on his ear and his hard, manly body nestled against his soft, much more feminine one.

***

He awoke to find Max on top of him. He was naked and aroused, his penis pushing insistently against Fede’s delicate, virginal pussy. “Max!” he protested. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t worry,” Max soothed. “I put on a condom.”

“What?! No!”

Fede shoved the boy off of him and reached for his clothes. Max rolled over onto his back, his erection slapping against his belly. Fede got his first view of the boy’s massive schlong and had to bite his tongue to keep from blurting out something embarrassing. Max had a monster cock! A huge monster cock between his legs!

“What’s wrong?” Max demanded, looking a little sulky. “Don’t you want me?” He smiled, a particularly sultry expression on his handsome face, “‘Cuz I sure as fuck want you!”

“You are crazy,” Fede muttered, pulling on his briefs and covering up his moist, throbbing pussy. The feeling of Max’s heavy body and hard cock was forever burned into his mind…and onto his body.

“Yeah, crazy for you,” Max amended. He reached out and pulled Fede onto top of him, kissing his ear. “You’re even hotter than I ever imagined!”

“But I’m woman!” Fede protested. “An ugly woman!”

“No, you’re a trans man and a super sexy one. You said so yourself last night. There’s a big difference.”

“There is no difference.”

Max’s smile deepened, “I don’t care. You’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, Fede, and I am going to make you mine whatever it takes.”

“You are insane.”

“You already said that. And I already told you I don’t care.” He took Fede’s hand and moved it over his heart so Fede could feel the soft thud against his sternum. Fede sighed at the pure cheesiness of the gesture. “I love you no matter what you look like, no matter what gender you are. It doesn’t matter.”

“How is possible?” Fede was legitimately perplexed. He’d never even considered that someone could find his body attractive like this.

Max rolled his eyes, “There’s this thing called bisexuality. You may have heard of it. It’s when a person finds both men and women attractive.”

“Sarcasm does not suit you,” Fede grunted. “And I still think you are crazy. Or ill. Or confused. Or all three.” He extricated himself from Max’s embrace and, grabbing his t-shirt, pulled it over his head and padded out of the bedroom. “I am late for work. I have to cover Alex’s shift in cafe today. Was only reason he agreed to work for me last night.”

“But Fede!” Max whined, sounding like a petulant little boy.

“But nothing,” he snapped. “Get up and show your love by making breakfast. I have to shower…and take pain pills for headache.”

Entering the bathroom, he closed and locked the door behind him before the boy got any further romantic ideas.

***

He never worked mornings and never worked in the cafe. After burning himself on the steam from the espresso machine for the third time, he silently cursed Max. Between his hangover and the simmering feelings the boy had awakened in the once deadened heart, Fede was beside himself. He tried to tell himself that Max was delusional or suffering from a particularly bad case of puppy love but part of him didn’t believe it, or didn’t want to…which was even worse in some ways.

He sighed, shaking his head at himself. What was wrong with him? Max was way out of his league. Snap out of it, Fede! Forget about him!

The owner, Colleen, had to step in and help him because Fede was unable to keep up with the rush of customers, each one eager for their morning brew. He was out of his element in so many ways. How was anyone expected to be cheerful at this hour? He was best suited to scowling and abusing clients from behind the bar late at night. He wasn’t cut out for this shit.

After nearly scorching the frothy milk for a customer’s latte, he turned and held out the sloppy beverage, only to find himself staring up into Beltrán’s startled eyes.

Oh, fuck.

His stomach fell and his heart clenched.

Beltrán towered over him, astonishment and hurt warring across his handsome face. “Fede?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper in his throat. “Is that really you?”

Fede froze, cursing his bad luck. Just as he’d feared, Bill Caruthers must have seen him last night and told Beltrán. There was no other explanation. For the hundredth time, Fede kicked himself for agreeing to go to that fucking game. It had come back to bite him in the most humiliating ways.

“Fede?” Colleen prompted beside him when he remained unmoving. “Hey?” She nudged him. “Fede, we have customers.”

In response, Fede tried to flee the coffee bar. He only made it to the opening at the end of the counter, though, before Beltrán blocked his path. Heedless of Colleen’s bark of surprise and the protests of the customers, the big man grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him bodily out of the cafe, shoving him out the door. Outside, he picked him up by the shoulders and slammed him against the brick wall.

“FEDE!” he yelled, tears welling up in his eyes. “WHAT THE FUCK, FEDE?! I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!”

“Am dead,” Fede replied flatly. “Died a year ago. Am nothing but ghost. The man you loved, Diego, is dead.” He was surprised by how unaffected he was by the sudden appearance of his former lover. It took him only a moment to realize this was because he was numb. Totally numb.

Beltrán lowered him back down onto the ground before violently bashing his fist into the brick beside Fede’s head. “You are NOT dead, Fede.” His voice choked off and a strangled sob came out of his throat. His yellow-flecked, brown eyes searched his face, “Why, Fede? Why did you leave me? Fuck, Fede! I was in love with you–No, I am in love with you!” Tears were rolling down his cheeks, soaking into his black beard, “Fuck, Fede, I love you so much! I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you!”

“Not anymore,” Fede assured him. “Not now. Is why I left you.”

“You let me be the judge of that,” Beltrán countered, chest heaving. “You don’t get to decide whether I love you or not.”

He opened his mouth to say more but flinched, letting out a startled grunt. Then he turned and swatted something away. Much to his surprise, Fede looked over and discovered Colleen was going after Beltrán with a push broom! “I don’t care if you are the captain of the Maple Leafs,” she spat. “Get off my Fede!”

Behind her was a line of aggrieved customers, all glowering at Beltrán. A couple had their phones raised, videoing the entire exchange. Despite himself, Fede was touched by the inexplicable loyalty of strangers and also amazed by Beltrán’s notoriety. Even Colleen–who, by her own admission, had never watched a game of hockey in her life–recognized him. Then again, it made sense people would recognize Diego Beltrán here; the Maple Leafs were undefeated this season and the toast of all Canada.

Beltrán stepped away from Fede and held up his hands, “It’s alright, folks,” he soothed. “I’m not going to hurt him. I would never hurt the man I love.”

This news was greeted by a chorus of wonder from the small crowd as people realized just how incendiary this announcement was. He and Beltrán hadn’t tried to hide their relationship (although perhaps in hindsight it would probably have been wise) but they also hadn’t announced it publicly. Hockey–even in Canada–was still a generally homophobic sport and the other players could have made their lives difficult if they knew.

His love for Beltrán had made Fede careless and that carelessness had led to his downfall. He couldn’t help worrying that Beltrán had just made a similar mistake by declaring his love while being livestreamed. Would it ruin his reputation? Such a proclamation would almost certainly rock the sports world. There were no openly gay players in the NHL.

In spite of everything happening around him, Fede was only human and took the opportunity to survey Beltrán’s studly bod. The captain had grown even bulkier in the past year, putting on even more muscle. And he apparently liked to show it off because he was decked out in compression gear from head to toe. The clingy fabric displayed every sinew of his taut body. Better yet, no amount of compression could conceal the mound of his oversized package in the crotch of his tights. Diego had always been vain about his big cock.

Yes, there was no doubt Diego Beltrán was just as much of a stud as ever and, judging by the juices trickling into his briefs, Fede was still hot for him. He cursed his horny, feminized body for betraying him at this most inopportune time.

“C’mon, Fede,” Beltrán said, draping his arm over his shoulders and leading him away, “let’s get out of here. We have serious stuff to discuss and I wanna do it in private.”

Fede cast a questioning look over his shoulder to Colleen. It was bad form to leave in the middle of his shift, even if he’d been doing a shitty job at making coffee. She shooed him away, though, saying, “You go, Fede. And don’t worry! I’ll call Alex and have him come in. Go be with your man!” The other customers cheered behind her.

He took Beltrán home to his apartment. What other choice did he have? He wasn’t about to go back to Beltrán’s hotel room! Diego took in his modest apartment without comment. He raised an eyebrow at Max’s stained jockstrap on the couch but, to his credit, he didn’t say anything about it. Fede quickly tossed the garment into the laundry basket in his bedroom before reemerging and settling down on the opposite side of the couch from his former boyfriend.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked awkwardly. “Coffee? I am terrible at making it but can try.”

“Fede, please.” Beltrán’s face was stricken. “Just tell me what happened. Why did you disappear?”

He closed the distance between them, holding him so he could examine him closely. Fede endured his scrutiny stoically but inside he was squirming. This was exactly what he hoped to avoid, why he had fled to this remote part of Canada after being released from the secret Russian hospital. Sadly, Beltrán’s reactions were almost exactly as he’d imagined them to be. The captain’s jaw clenched and an angry fire kindled in his eyes the longer he surveyed his face and body.

“What happened to you, Fede?” he finally demanded. His voice was shaking. “Please tell me! What the fuck happened? You’re…different.” He nodded at Fede’s reduced physique and reached out a hand to caress his soft, hairless cheek. When his eyes landed on the small but distinct mounds of Fede’s breasts, his eyebrows lifted. “Are you transitioning? I always wondered–”

“No!” Fede said sharply. “I am not transitioning! I am man! Or was man! I am not trans!” His voice broke off when he realized what he’d just said was untrue and he clarified, “Was not trans but am now. Against my will.”

“I don’t understand,” Beltrán admitted. “How–I mean, why? I mean–God, I’m so confused, Fede! What are you saying?”

For the second time in as many days, Fede found himself doing the unthinkable. Taking a deep breath and steeling himself for what he knew was coming, he said, “Is easier if I show you.”

***

It took a long time for Beltrán to calm down after Fede showed him what had been done to him. (He didn’t reveal what the FSB had done to Yulia, though. He didn’t have the strength yet to talk about that particular horror.) He waited patiently while the captain worked through the various stages of acceptance, smirking when Beltrán came up with some particularly inventive things he would do to Vladimir Putin if he ever got his hands on him. Finally, though, Beltrán was left with the inevitable disbelief at the sight of Fede’s womanly body.

“You’re still just as beautiful as ever, Tosha.”

“Do not use that adjective to describe me ever again,” Fede stated, covering his breasts and pussy from Beltrán’s searching gaze.

Beltrán patiently removed his hands from his body and leaned forward to plant a tender kiss on his lips. Fede tried to resist but Beltrán was too insistent and, quite honestly, he was too starved for affection. Max’s morning attention had gone straight to his pussy and he was ripe, juicy and ready for a man to take charge of him.

“I love you, Tosha,” Beltrán breathed, his rich scent filling Fede’s nose. “I want you. More than ever.”

“And I–” Fede choked out only to be interrupted by Max’s arrival home from school.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?!” the boy demanded, slamming the door shut behind him and rounding on Beltrán. In short order, he’d torn the two of them apart and was holding Beltrán back despite the captain’s best efforts to fight his way free. Fede stared dazedly up at them from the sofa, amazed that Beltrán had met his match in a boy who had only just turned eighteen.

After Max had worked Beltrán into a headlock, he turned back to Fede, hurt and betrayal etched across his face. “What the fuck, Tosha?!” he demanded. “I thought we–”

“Tosha?!” Beltrán exclaimed angrily. “You don’t get to call him that! Only I do!”

“The fuck you do!” Max rejoined. “He’s–”

“Stop it,” Fede ordered, getting up from the couch and standing naked before them. “Neither of you get to call me anything.” He picked up his discarded clothing from the floor. “Please, just leave me alone. I can’t do this right now.”

He got dressed calmly and then, grabbing his jacket from the hook near the door, made his exit. When Max and Beltrán tried to follow, he held up a finger, “No. Let me be. Do not come after me.”

He closed the door on them, feeling like his heart was splitting in two.

***

Chapter 6

He went back to his secret cove on the ocean and sat on his favorite rock, cradling his knees and listening to the mournful cry of the gulls overhead and the soft lap of the waves. It was late in the year and the daylight was already fading, turning everything around him a deep blue. He smiled. He liked the gloom here so much!

His head was a mess and his heart was even messier. So much had happened in the past two days! He could scarcely believe it. First, he’d come out to Max as trans and, rather than being grossed out, the boy had been delighted. And then Beltrán. Christ, who could have predicted the captain would have the same reaction?

As unexpected as this turn of events was, it also left him feeling deeply conflicted. He knew in his heart that Beltrán would not leave without him or at least not without his promise to get back together. And Max would demand the same thing. How cruel was fate to put him in this position? There was no way he could possibly choose between the two when he loved them both equally.

There was only one solution and that left him breathless: He would once again have to leave. This time, he would find a place where no one knew him and where neither Beltrán nor Max would ever find him. He knew it was the best decision because a future with either man was impossible. Fede didn’t want to be their plaything, an object of curiosity to be gawked at. That would happen whether he chose Beltrán or Max because both were famous hockey players–or would soon be in Max’s case. If Fede was with them, he would always be under the public’s scrutiny as the former Russian hockey star turned into a woman against his will. He shuddered at the thought. He’d rather die than be subjected to that kind of publicity.

He sighed, the sea breeze rifling through his curly hair. His heart ached in his chest and he craved vodka. He regretted what he was going to do but knew it was the best decision. He’d go back to the apartment and play it cool. Then he’d sneak out in the night and never come back. It made him want to cry. Why was life so cruel to him?

***

Beltrán and Max were in his tiny kitchen when he returned, cooking dinner. He stopped in the doorway of the apartment, shocked at the sight of the two big men standing side by side. From behind, you couldn’t tell them apart. They were the same size, had the same blocky buttocks, and even had the same hair and skin color. It was almost like they were twins, if twins could be separated by a decade in age.

“Diego is teaching me how to make Pelmeni,” Max called out when he saw Fede standing behind them. “He says you taught him the recipe. How come you never showed me?”

Beside him, Beltrán turned and grinned, slinging a big arm over Max’s shoulders as Max beamed happily. Fede stared at them. Max and Beltrán were being nice to each other? This was the last thing he expected.

“We realized how dumb we were being,” Beltrán explained when he noticed Fede’s confused expression. “After all, we both love the same things: You and hockey. What’s the point in fighting about it?”

“Um.” Fede was flummoxed by this and also deeply touched in a perverse sort of way. Anyone else would have been offended to be ranked in the same place as a professional sport in a man’s heart but we were talking about hockey here. Fede considered it an honor. Still, the sight of the two being so friendly together was kind of a mind-fuck and he staggered over to the counter, saying, “I need to sit down.”

Beltrán laughed, “Yes, please. Sit down and let us take care of you, Fede.” Max looked over his shoulder and grinned as he stirred the dumplings in the frying pan. They smelled delicious; Beltrán made them even better than Fede’s bahbushka. He’d almost forgotten how it felt to have the big man cook for him.

It turned out that Beltrán planned to do more than cook with Max. While the boy minded the stove, he stood on the other side of the counter from Fede. Fede looked up at him, losing himself in the captain’s sultry gaze. “Fede,” Beltrán began, “Max is a virgin and you may as well be one now. We were thinking we could, you know, ‘show our appreciation’ for you after dinner.” He cleared his throat, “I’m the most experienced one here so I will take the lead, of course. I want both of your first times to be special. But we’ll only do it if you want to. Max is in. What about you?” Behind Beltrán, the tips of Max’s ears were turning red and he stared down at the stove as if it was the most interesting thing in the world.

Fede swallowed. “You mean… you want…all three of us to…at same time?” When Beltrán nodded and Max gave him a shy glance from over the captain’s shoulder, Fede had to grip the table. Beltrán…and…Max?! Together? With him?

Beltrán’s smile deepened, “Well, yeah, that’s the idea.” He held up a hand when Fede took a breath to protest, “But only if you want to! We’d never force you to do anything, Fede.” He reached and took his hand, squeezing it in his much bigger, more calloused one. “We…care…about you, Fede. We want to show you, not just talk about it.”

Max finished loading up three plates with dumplings and a dollop of sour cream and brought them over to the counter, sitting them down in front of Fede. “I’m a little scared,” he admitted shyly. “I mean, Beltrán is my fucking hero after all.” He cast an adoring look over at the big man who flushed. “But I can’t think of two other guys I’d rather be with for my first time. I trust Beltrán. He’ll take care of me. And he’ll take care of you, too.”

“We’ll both take care of you,” Beltrán clarified. It wasn’t clear if he meant he and Max or he and Fede but maybe it didn’t matter?

Diego put a hand on both of their shoulders and drew them to him. Fede’s nose filled with the combined scent of both men and it nearly undid him right then and there. He might have even had his first vaginal orgasm in that moment such was the intensity of the sensations down there.

They ate together in silence. Both Fede and Max were like nervous young brides but Beltrán was relaxed, confident as always. When they were finished, Diego led them both into Fede’s bedroom where he helped the very awkward Max to undress. “Here,” he instructed, pushing Max’s hands away from the buttons of his shirt, “let me do that.” He proceeded to very carefully and very seductively strip Max bare of every last shred of clothing, leaving the boy naked and aroused before both of them. Fede blinked at the size of Max’s endowment. The kid might even give Beltrán a run for his money down there!

“Niiiiice,” Beltrán praised, openly admiring Max’s erection. “You’re huge, bro!”

“Thanks,” Max said, lowering his head. “I’ve always been self-conscious about my size. It’s kind of embarrassing how big I am, actually.”

“What?!” Beltrán protested. “No way! Be proud of who you are, Max! Yer a big man! Show it off!”

Max’s shoulders lifted hesitantly and he gave Beltrán a small smile.

Beltrán then made his way over to Fede. “And now for tonight’s main course,” he announced, doing a funny impression of a maître d’, complete with a bow. He held out his hand and Fede took it, allowing the big man to guide him next to the bed. “You Ok with this, Tosha?” he inquired, searching Fede’s face. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t wanna.”

“No, I want,” Fede said hoarsely. “I really want.” His heart was pounding against his sternum and he was so turned on he thought his clothes might incinerate at any moment if Beltrán didn’t remove them.

Beltrán grinned. “Good. Come over here, Max. Let’s get started.”

Fede was treated to the slowest, most romantic stripping of his life. Both men took their time, removing one item of clothing at a time and covering his body with lavish kisses. “We are gonna kiss you everywhere,” Beltrán mumbled in between licks and caresses. “We’re gonna drive you so crazy yer never gonna wanna be a man again.”

Fede could only moan in response.

Max got the honor of removing Fede’s underwear…with his teeth. He looked up at him from his knees, brown eyes pleading and hard cock leaking between his hulking hockey thighs. “Can I, Fede?” he asked. “Will you let me? I really wanna lick your pussy.”

Behind him, Beltrán pulled Fede back into his arms and took both of his nipples in his fingers, gently teasing them. Fede made an inarticulate sound that Max interpreted as consent and pulled down Fede’s briefs with his teeth. When Fede’s shaved pussy was revealed in its pink nubile wetness, both men stopped and a reverential silence descended. Fede could feel Beltrán’s smoldering gaze locked on his cunt and Max’s was equally feverish.

In tandem, both men breathed, “Fuck, Fede!”

In response, Fede grabbed the back of Max’s head and propelled his mouth onto his pussy. After a startled grunt, Max commenced licking and lapping, learning very quickly the art of eating pussy. Even better, he was soon to demonstrate that he was equally adept at eating ass. It’s a rare man who excels at both and Fede was lucky enough to find two.

After a delirious minute, Max pulled back and exclaimed, “You’re delicious, Fede! Your pussy is sweet!” He went back at it with gusto, careful to keep his gaze locked on Fede’s the whole time. It was adorably sweet but Fede was too busy writhing in ecstasy to pay much attention.

While the boy eating his first pussy, Beltrán lowered himself down onto his haunches and buried his face in Fede’s butt. “Fuck, Fede!” he praised. “Your ass! It’s even better than before!”

Fede didn’t quite know how to take that. Before, he’d had a big, beefy, hairy butt. Now it was still just as big, just rounder and heavier and very smooth. As soon as Diego’s tongue scored his butthole, though, he stopped thinking about the backhanded compliment and lost himself in wave after wave of pleasure.

Nothing prepared him for being licked at both ends at the same time and he collapsed to his knees, requiring Max and Beltrán to lower themselves down to floor level in order to reach his orifices. Fortunately, they were professional athletes (or would soon be in Max’s case) and this was no obstacle.

After he orgasmed so many that he lost track, the guys upped their game. Max turned around and rummaged in the nightstand beside him. Finding a package of extra large condoms and some lube, he tossed the lube over Fede’s shoulder to Beltrán and then tore open the condom wrapper and carefully worked it over the length of his pulsating shaft. Unlike Beltrán, he was uncircumcised and took great pains to pull back his foreskin before putting on the condom. Fede knew this trick from back when he had a foreskin and a penis. Exposing his glans had helped offset the loss of sensation from wearing a rubber.

Behind him, he could hear the wet fap-fap-fap as Beltrán slicked up his cock with lube. Then he reached out and slathered it over Fede’s quivering hole. Leaning his head over Fede’s shoulder, he asked, “You still Ok with this? We’re both pretty big guys and it might hurt when we fuck you at the same time.”

“Do it!” Fede ordered, breathless and on fire. If he didn’t get his muff and hole stuffed soon, he was going to pass out.

Beltrán huffed out a moan in response and worked a finger inside him. In front, Max grinned, walking on his knees closer until the head of his enormous cock was pressing against Fede’s pussy. Then he leaned forward and kissed him, undulating his hips and using Fede’s own juice to lube up his cock. With excruciating slowness, he gently parted Fede’s tender labia with his penis and thrust inside. Max’s eyes went wide and his mouth formed an O as he experienced the slick warmth of a pussy for the first time in his life.

Fede was just as stunned, if not more so. The sensation of Max inside him brought tears to his eyes. He felt his heart blossom and he leaned forward and kissed the boy. It was their first real, open-mouth kiss. Tears were streaming down Max’s face as he cried out, “I love you, Fede! I love you so much!” Then his mouth was sealing Fede’s once again and he pushed deeper inside, rubbing the tip of his cock against a peculiar location that made Fede squirm. It was so fucking hot!

Beltrán was busy behind him, easing another finger in and then another. When he was sure that Fede was prepared, he gently eased his cock into the tight ring of his anus. Fede moaned. He’d been fucked by Beltrán more times than he could count but this…this was different. It was so much more intimate and so much more passionate. Beltrán kissed the back of his neck and then bit his ear, pushing deeper inside and whispering, “I love you, too, Fede.”

And then the two men showed him exactly how much they loved him by fucking into oblivion.

“AAAAAHHHH, FUUUUCK!” Fede hollered, throwing his head back. He could feel himself stretching down there to accommodate Max’s monster cock at the same time his asshole was straining under the onslaught of Beltrán’s equally giant monster. Being penetrated by both cocks made his vision burn white and his nervous system overload. He came in a noisy climax only to discover he had more orgasms left where that one had come from. Many, many more.

“That’s right,” Max purred against his mouth. “Let us take care of you, Fede. Give in. We’ve got you.”

Beltrán wrapped his arms around him before extending his grasp to include Max. Max did the same and Fede became the middle part of their sandwich as both men found their rhythm and rocked him back and forth on their cocks, pushing ever deeper until Fede could have sworn those dicks were banging against each other inside him.

Max kissed Fede and Fede kissed Beltrán and Beltrán kissed Max. They became a sweaty, redolent mess the longer Fede orgasmed and deeper he was fucked. Finally, Max came in a truly earsplitting climax, his hips shaking as he emptied himself into the condom. Behind him, Beltrán wasn’t far behind, lodged in Fede’s behind, and soon Fede could feel the captain’s hot seed pumping into him.

They collapsed in a heap on the floor, never having made it onto the bed. Fede’s whole body felt like it had been burned away, leaving something new and uncertain in its place. As he lay there cradled in his two lovers’ arms, he realized that, for the first time since he’d been forcibly changed, he actually liked who he was. He never would have chosen to become a woman–or a trans man, rather–but he had finally come to embrace both his new identity and his new body.

They showered together and then Fede repaid Max and Beltrán by lavishing his own praise on their ‘back doors’. He made them lie naked and face down on the bed. Standing behind him, he admired their ridiculously big hockey butts. Their posteriors were truly massive and massively muscled. They were almost freakish. But they were also hot as fuck with their dark skin and the ample black fuzz covering those giant peaches. He got down on his knees and straddled Max, prying those hefty cheeks apart and treating his virginal butthole to the deepest, most intense licking of his young life. Of course, it was the only arse-licking he’d ever received so he didn’t have anything to compare it to. Even so, Fede was gratified when he felt Max’s body quivering with a hands-free orgasm as he probed deep into his hot hole.

Then he moved over to Beltrán and did the same thing. Something about the flavors of their holes mixing on his tongue got him aroused. They tasted so profane it was good. He wasn’t done yet, though, and flipped them over. Their huge clubs flopped onto their bellies as they looked down at him with searing gazes. He smiled coquettishly and then took a cock in each hand and gave them alternating blowjobs. He was an expert at deep throat, having practiced on Beltrán many times, and was proud of how he could almost swallow their entire lengths in one go. Max in particular demonstrated his appreciation by yodeling at the top of his lungs as his cum rocketed down the back of Fede’s mouth. Yet another first for the boy that night!

Their final act before finally collapsing in a pile to sleep off the night’s festivities was when Beltrán took Max’s ass virginity while Max fucked Fede’s pussy. Fede had thought it was fun being in the middle of the action but he changed his mind as he watched Max’s eyes roll back in his head and his mouth fall open when Beltrán entered him.

“Ow! Fuck!” he cried. “That hurts!”

Beltrán stopped midway, his cock about halfway inside Max’s tight hole. “You want me to stop, Champ?”

Max made an aggravated sound in the back of his throat, “Fuck, no! I want you to fuck me even harder! Make me scream! Tear me open!”

“Well, Ok!” Beltrán replied, laughing.

Despite Max’s entreaty, the captain was careful but persistent and only very gradually worked himself into a frenzy the more Max begged him to nail him harder. Fede rode Max’s cock, absorbing the shock of Beltrán’s pounding with his own pussy. The captain’s pelvic abuse finally pushed him and Max over the edge. They came in a fiery orgasm with Beltrán’s hips slapping against Max’s bubble butt.

Fede had never had so much fun and, for the first time in more than a year, he didn’t dream of Yulia after he faded into sleep, embraced by his two, beautiful men.

***

“Will it go back to normal?” Max whined the next morning after getting out of the shower. “I can fit my whole hand inside!” He couldn’t stop touching his ruined asshole and was extremely dismayed by how stretched out it was after Beltrán’s fucking.

“It’ll tighten up some,” Beltrán assured him. “But I’m sorry to report that you’re gonna have a permanent gape back there…just like me!” He turned and parted his beefy ass cheeks, showing Max the long vertical line of his man cunt. “It’s the hazard of being fucked by a hung dude. Fede did this to me back when he had a dick.”

Max’s mouth fell open at the sight of the captain’s ragged hole. It was impossible to tell if he was entranced or repulsed. Maybe a little of both?

Beltrán laughed at his reaction. “Don’t worry, bro. I’ll let you ride me tonight so you can get even. It was super fun taking your maidenhead last night, though. Obviously, I’m not as tight as you were but yer cock is so big, it won’t matter. You’ll probably stretch me out even more.”

Fede regarded them both with a look of distaste. “I don’t ever want to hear the word ‘maidenhead’ from your mouth again, Beltrán,” he said, shuddering. “And I really don’t want you to talk about my penis, either. It’s done. Past.”

“C’mon, Fede,” Beltrán cajoled, wrapping an arm over his shoulders. “It doesn’t have to be the past. You could get bottom surgery, you know. And top surgery for that matter. Did it ever occur to you that you could take hormone replacement therapy? With HRT, you could play hockey again.”

Fede made a sour face. “I don’t want doctor to see me like this. Ever.”

“Fede,” Beltrán chided, drawing out the middle syllable of his name, “c’mon! This is Canada, not the United States or Russia. Gender-affirming care is a thing, you know. In fact, I know a good doctor in Toronto who–”

“Don’t want to hear about it,” Fede complained, waving the ludicrous idea off. “Don’t want to see doctor. Don’t want gender-affirming care.”

Beltrán and Max folded their arms skeptically and exchanged a knowing look.

“What?” Fede demanded. “Why this look?”

Beltrán sighed but he was smiling, “Forget about it. Let’s talk about us right now.” He looked over at Max as he said this, clarifying, “and I mean all three of us. Max is going to be signed by the Maple Leafs if I have anything to say about it. What do you think about the three of us living together in Toronto? You could coach our D-men. Bill Caruthers was telling me how you transformed Max’s game. We could use someone like you with the Leafs. And who knows? Maybe someday you’ll play hockey again?”

Fede was caught off guard by this proposal and even more surprised when his immediate reaction wasn’t to ridicule it. He went silent, weighing the pros and cons of living with Beltrán and Max in Toronto. Part of him felt selfish for even considering the notion, especially after what had happened to him the last time he’d gotten carried away with the pursuit of happiness for its own sake. It was very hedonistic to be in a thruple, definitely a very un-Russian thing to do. But then he realized it wasn’t really hedonism because he loved both Max and Beltrán. And apparently they loved him, too, despite the fact that he’d been turned into a total freak of nature.

Somewhere, a rusalka was dying a quiet death. It was so quiet that he never even heard it. He never dreamed of Yulia again after that day and he was never forced to look into the depths of that haunted pool. He didn’t need to. With Max and Beltrán’s help, he’d faced his nightmare and lived. After all that, he deserved his freedom. He deserved his happiness. And, yes, he deserved to be loved.

***

A year later, Fede was unrecognizable. He’d put on over thirty kilos of muscle and had regrown his beard and all of his precious body hair. He couldn’t regain his former height, of course, and would always be more of a fireplug than a hulk but he didn’t care. He had his body back…for the most part. And, better yet, he had hockey. He was practicing again with his old team and had been hired as an assistant coach. He doubted he’d ever play professionally again but it didn’t matter. He was immersed in the game he loved with the men who loved him. He was whole. And he had a pussy. Life was strange that way.

After being signed by the Maple Leafs, Jacques Delisle moved into the apartment with him, Max and Beltrán. It was awkward at first. Fede had been correct when he deduced that Jacques’ feelings for Max went further than simple friendship. Jacques wasn’t inclined to share Max, either, and he certainly didn’t want to be romantically involved with the much older Fede and Beltrán. It was just too weird for him.

They worked it out like adults. Max and Jacques shared a bedroom and Fede and Beltrán shared their own. Most of the time, the two couples stayed separate but, once a week, Jacques would go out with his buddies and leave Fede, Beltrán and Max to amuse themselves. Fede could tell it wasn’t his favorite thing but he loved Max and part of the way he showed that love, he said, was to let Max be with the men he loved. Fede and Beltrán grew to like Jacques a lot and soon he was part of their family.

The real winner was the Toronto Maple Leafs. With the combined starpower of all four men, the team flourished and won the Stanley Cup three years in a row. Would Fede have preferred to be a biological man? Of course. But, with Max and Beltrán, he came to realize that he’d gained much more than he’d lost. So maybe Putin was the real loser in the end?

***