NHL 30

Dylan lifted the heavy skates that had finally freed Joeon’s feet with one hand and turned his stiff face toward him. Joeon stood up from the bench, following his lead. Even in slippers, Dylan was still a head taller than Joeon. His blue eyes, which beautifully revealed dark green patterns resembling the mane of the sun, looked down at Joeon from a low angle. His lips, wearing a faint, slightly arrogant smile, parted.

“I thought you might say that.”

The air rushed out of Joeon’s tense chest at the confident voice, as if he had never been discouraged to begin with. It was such a quintessential Dylan way of speaking that Joeon couldn’t help but laugh, feeling foolish for having been tricked.

“I was, well… I was surprised.”

“I understand. Then, from now on, I’ll just have to be a little more careful. Right?”

Dylan patted Joeon’s shoulder, as if soothing a tantrum-throwing nephew, and led him toward the locker room. As they entered Dylan’s private sanctuary, steeped in his history, the awkwardness that had been hovering between them melted away like snow in the heat of the blower.

“That’s true, but…”

Joeon trailed off, staring at Dylan’s back as he approached his locker, and asked,

“Careful how, exactly?”

Dylan, who had thrown off his uniform and unfastened the chest guard connected to his shoulder pads, turned around, puffing out his chest and straightening his shoulders as if to boast about the volume of his pectorals and abdominals.

“Was three seconds too fast?”

“…”

Joeon’s eyes wandered, finding nowhere to settle. Because his gaze kept drifting to the wrong places, he couldn’t focus on the conversation. When the silence grew long, Dylan asked again.

“Would five seconds be enough?”

It seemed that Dylan’s promise to ‘be careful’ did not imply ‘stepping back.’ Whether moving fast or moving slow, either way, the conclusion was only ever directed forward. Joeon, left with no options, would only continue to be pushed backward. And if he kept being cornered like that, eventually…

He racked his brain for ways to politely refuse and escape, but while Joeon lacked even a shred of quick-wittedness, his opponent was a forward—an attacker with the aggression and persistence to create goals by controlling a 100 mph puck with a slap shot.

In the end, all Joeon could muster was the largest number he could offer.

“Te—ten seconds.”

Dylan, who had wiped his dry lips with his tongue and bit down to suppress a laugh, repeated the words as if engraving them into his mind.

“Ten seconds. I understand.”

Dylan readily agreed and took off his pants. Joeon, sitting on the bench, pretended not to see him, turned around, and busily began unlacing his shin guards. He had worked out so hard that cold sweat was running down his spine.

🏒🥅

The streets, swept away by the holiday season, were so desolate and quiet that daily life couldn’t seem to return. The sky was as gloomy as ever, lowering the light levels to create a dull atmosphere that felt like late afternoon despite it being morning.

The ends of Joeon’s scarf, which he had pulled tight to keep the biting wind from digging in, fluttered in the breeze. On the ground stepped over by his neat, dark-colored sneakers, white steam rose from the ventilation ducts connected to the subway below, obscuring his vision. Pushing through it with the back of his hand, Joeon reached the subway station and ducked into a cafe he saw immediately after passing the turnstiles.

Inside the empty cafe, the part-time workers, having nothing to do, were chatting away. The sound of their conversation cut off with Joeon’s arrival. However, the cashier’s voice still carried a smile as they greeted him.

“What can I get for you?”

“An Americano, please.”

“Please wait a moment.”

On his way out with his ordered coffee, Joeon didn’t forget to say, “Have a happy end of the year.” It was a greeting customary for this time of year, but seeing the young people working part-time jobs regardless of the field while balancing their studies—needing the money before starting their careers—brought his own school days to mind. He felt a sense of camaraderie, and as an adult, a pang of pity.

Now, Joeon was able to make a living with just one job, but even just hearing stories from friends of friends, there were plenty of young people around who didn’t mind working two or three jobs. It was to handle the expensive cost of living and rent.

Beyond mere economic poverty, worries about an identity they couldn’t clearly define and anxiety about an uncertain future often forced them into the labor market. It stemmed from the thought that they had to at least earn some money to prepare for contingencies.

What you want to do and what you can do, what you like and what you are good at, are clearly different things. It wasn’t wealth or power that could unify them into one. It was only possible when talent, environment, and motivation formed a trinity. It only applied to a very small fraction of people—the chosen few, whether by God or destiny.

Of the people in Joeon’s circle, Dylan was arguably the only one who possessed that ‘chosen destiny’ which felt like a dream to everyone else. Not to mention the enormous rewards that accompanied it.

Since hearing the price of the Zamboni that Dylan had mentioned offhandedly while grilling steak at the McClain estate a few days ago, Joeon’s mind had been entirely occupied by the astronomical figure, to the point where he couldn’t tell if he was eating the meat Dylan grilled with his mouth or his nose.

If Dylan hadn’t stolen his lips again while holding a glass of wine and looking intently at him as he huddled in front of the fireplace, asking if the meal wasn’t to his liking, Joeon would likely have spent the whole night thinking about the Zamboni, which cost nearly several months of his salary.

Fortunately, at the very last moment before falling asleep in the unfamiliar guest room, he had thought, at least a little, about the host.

He replayed the awkward atmosphere when they exchanged goodnights standing before the bedroom door, the disappointment in Dylan’s eyes when Joeon had subtly pulled back at the thought that he might have his chastity threatened if their lips met again, and the moment Dylan had soothed his disappointment with an embrace, saying it was just a goodnight kiss and not to misunderstand. Even the way Dylan had lingered, not wanting to let go while holding Joeon, was vivid.

As soon as he boarded the subway train pulling into the platform, his fingers, fiddling under his coat sleeve, stroked his chapped lips. Reminded, Joeon applied lip balm and stared blankly at the subway floor.

The inside of the train was as empty as the streets, and no one was looking at Joeon. Yet, for no reason, his face felt itchy and grew hot.

He pulled up his scarf to cover half his face, hiding his expression underneath. He was curious what kind of face he was making, but he didn’t have the courage to face his reflection in the window.

He couldn’t even remember the last time he felt sexual awareness toward someone. Perhaps it was his first time. Especially with a man, it was certain.

If this is what people mean by ‘physical attraction’ that he had heard of somewhere, it made sense. They say even if you’re just friends, you naturally become aware of each other the moment your hands touch.

But if they had even rubbed their lips together, it was undeniably a physical attraction born of sexual excitement.

‘Is my single life too long? To think I’d feel weird about contact between two men.’

He wouldn’t deny that he had a subtle attraction to Dylan, but Joeon wasn’t a person so detached from reality as to entertain the absurd fantasy of wanting to be his lover. It was certain that the other party was just doing this out of curiosity as well.

He had often seen it back in school. Boys would often bully introverted peers who were quiet, like Joeon, to show off their masculinity or establish a hierarchy.

However, there was no way there would be genuine interest and affection there. They usually turned away without a second thought once they had satisfied their desire, whether that method was through violence or insult.

The interest Dylan was showing Joeon right now might be like a passing breeze; it might disappear as if it had never been, once he had gotten what he wanted from Joeon.

The extent of Joeon’s worry was whether he should willingly cooperate with Dylan’s curious experiment or resist fiercely and only provoke unnecessary competitiveness, leading to an unpleasant drift apart. Either way, it wouldn’t be a relationship that lasted long.