June 21st- Settling the Score by m. butterfly

Thursday, March 2, 2017

The goalie was a prick. Gorgeous, but still a prick.

Okay. Maybe Dave Starsky was being a bit harsh. He’d met Kenny What’s-His-Name only a few hours ago, along with the rest of the team. But he’d bet his left nut that the big blond barnacle was going to make it tough for him to get much one-on-one time with the target.

Starsky squared his shoulders and approached the bench where the two men were chatting intimately—something they’d been doing all evening.

“Hey, fellas. Hate to interrupt, but I’m supposed to work on Sam in—” Starsky checked his iPad. “— well, right now, actually.” He hoped he looked more apologetic than he felt. “Uh, you are Sam, right?” he asked the dark-haired nearly-naked man while doing his best to ignore the fair-haired nearly-naked one.

Sam Miller, the Los Angeles Blades’ left winger—and, more importantly, the only son of drug lord Jackson Miller—arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “You’ve got a good memory.”

Oh, if Sammy boy only knew…

“Better than mine, obviously, um—”

“Dave.”

“Right. Dave.” He gave Starsky a thorough once-over and appeared to approve of what was inside the tight white t-shirt and even tighter white jeans. “Dave, the hot new trainer. I’ll try to remember that, Dave.”

Starsky accepted the compliment with a wolfish grin, and noticed that Kenny’s pretty smile was in danger of sliding off his pretty face. “Sam, if you want to shower and change first, I can take, uh—” He consulted his iPad again. “— Paul Martinez now, if he’s available.”

“Yes. Why don’t you do that, Dave?” Although Kenny’s demeanor was cool and composed, his blazing blue eyes gave him away.

Miller patted his teammate’s thigh. “My shoulder needs some TLC, and I shouldn’t put it off.” He got to his feet and adjusted the towel around his slim waist. “I’m good to go like this,” he told Starsky. “Unless you want me to put my clothes on.”

“Why would I want you to do that?”

Miller winked at him, then addressed the goalie. “See you Sunday, Kenny.”

So. Maybe they weren’t boyfriends after all. Maybe just fuck buddies. Maybe nothing but close friends. And maybe that would make Starsky’s goal—convincing Miller to turn against his old man—a little easier to achieve.

All six-foot-something of Kenny stood—slowly. “Sure, Sam,” he drawled, one hand lazily scratching an impressive six-pack. “I guess we can grab that drink some other time.”

Miller tapped the side of his head with two fingers. “Geez. Yeah. Shitty memory, right? Next week for sure.”

“Sounds good.” Give Kenny kudos for trying to sound chill. With a parting glance at Starsky that was anything but pleasant, he stormed off toward the showers.

Oh, my. He had one fine ass under that towel.

Starsky gave his own ass a mental kick. What was he thinking? It had been too long since he’d gotten laid. Or even had a date. Didn’t matter. This was the job, and he couldn’t let anything—or anyone—prevent him from getting it done. Besides, Kenny only had eyes for Sam Miller. That much was clear.

As Starsky held the door for Miller, he took in his new surroundings once more. It was quite the place: the total opposite of the frozen-in-the-’50s locker room of the Bay City Police Department, which likely had never been and would never be occupied by this many fine specimens of the male form. The Los Angeles Blades—the first openly gay ice hockey team in the U.S.—practiced here twice a week.

He reflected how grateful he was that, as the team’s trainer, he didn’t have to be a good skater. Or even know how to skate. Several successful undercover stints with the BCPD and, before that, two tours of Afghanistan as a combat medic had made Starsky the natural choice for this assignment. He was more than certain that being an out-and-proud cop sealed the deal.

The fates had been more than generous to him on his first day with the Blades. In moments, it would be just him and Miller in the PT room.

And time to start putting his theory to the test.

“How’d you get hurt, anyway?”

“Tripped over my own goalie’s stick and landed hard. Hurt my pride worse than my shoulder.”

“Speaking of goalies,” Starsky said, standing behind the seated Miller, “I hope I didn’t get you in trouble with your boyfriend back there.”

Miller tensed under Starsky’s hands. “Kenny’s not my boyfriend.”

“Oh. Okay. He’s cute, though.”

“Not bad for an unemployed librarian from Minnesota. Jesus—Minnesota.”

Starsky gently repositioned Miller’s right arm, then grabbed what he needed from his cart. “Okay, that’s enough stretching for today. Now I’m going to do some cold laser therapy on you. A few minutes’ worth ought to do it.”

“Whatever. So, what about you, Dave? Seeing anyone?”

“Who, me?” Starsky sputtered. “Nah.”

“Why not? You’re cute, too.”

“Thanks,” Starsky said, holding the laser in place above Miller’s injured shoulder. “But when it comes to relationships, I’m a loser with a capital L. Keep nice and still, okay?”

“Sure.” Miller resumed looking straight ahead. “I’m just surprised.”

“Anyone can have bad luck. Maybe not quite as bad as mine, though.”

“Want to bet?” Miller mumbled.

“I missed that. What did you say?”

“Nothing.” Miller sat silently for a couple of beats. “C’mon, Dave. I know I just met you, but you seem like you’ve got a lot to offer a guy. So, what’s your deal?”

It was a good thing that Starsky was still out of Miller’s line of sight. He could feel an inappropriate smirk coming on, and it took some effort to prevent the satisfaction he was feeling from spilling over into his voice. “Forget I said anything. I’m here to solve your problems—not burden you with mine.”

“Honey, my sore shoulder is the least of my fucking problems. Spill.”

Starsky took a deep breath. “I had… I had a terrible experience with my first boyfriend, and I guess I’ve never gotten over it.”

“Poor baby. What did he do that was so awful? Cheat on you? Dis your wardrobe?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“So, what happened?”

“I shouldn’t be talking to you about this. It’s—unprofessional.”

“I’m the one who asked, so relax. I’m not going to tell anyone.”

“I don’t know. It’s really personal, and I just met you.”

“They say that talking to a stranger is easier than talking to someone you know. Or some such bullshit. Might do you some good. So, go on.”

Starsky counted silently to three. “My father was the one who—” He swallowed. “—was the problem. He caught me and boyfriend fooling around.”

“Ouch. When was this?”

“A lifetime ago. When I was seventeen. Jeff and I didn’t get the chance to be alone much, so we skipped final period one day and went to my house. I thought we’d have the place to ourselves for at least an hour. But my dad—he came home from work early, for some reason. I don’t remember why. Anyway, we didn’t hear anything until my bedroom door flew open.”

“You didn’t lock it?”

“It didn’t have a lock.”

“And?” Miller prompted.

“And he started whaling on me.” Starsky sighed. “Jeff tried to pull him off, but that just made things worse. I was terrified that he’d also get a beating, so I told him to get the hell out of there. And he did.”

“Jesus,” Miller said softly. “Then what?”

“I tried to fight back, but the old man was too strong. Too angry. The next thing I remember was waking up in the hospital. I had a concussion and a broken jaw. And lots of bruises.”

A fine sheen of sweat was now visible along the base of Miller’s neck. “Did your father serve any time for it?”

“You kidding? He told the cops that I must have gotten into a fight after school, made it home, and then passed out. I was lucky he found me, he said.”

“You told them he was lying, right?”

“Uhn-uhn. That would’ve made life even tougher for my mom and my little brother. And who’d take my word over his, anyway?”

“Tell me you didn’t go back home….”

“For a while. I had no money and nowhere else to go. It wasn’t easy, but I kept my nose clean and stayed out of the fucking bastard’s way as much as I could. As soon as I turned eighteen, I enlisted. Haven’t seen him since.”

“What about Jeff?”

“While I was recovering, he—” He cleared his throat. “He killed himself. Took a bunch of sleeping pills, I heard.”

“Jesus.” Again, softly.

“Yeah. He was always scared shitless that his parents would find out he was gay. We both were.” Starsky cleared his throat. “What about you?”

Miller began clenching and unclenching his left fist. “My mom knew all along, so when I turned 16, she encouraged me to come out to my father. He was shocked at first, but then he seemed to be okay with it.”

“You’re one of the lucky ones.”

Miller made a non-committal grunt.

“Seriously,” Starsky pressed. “Your father’s not a monster, like mine. I know that Jeff committed suicide, but I’ll always blame my dad for it. He might as well have killed him himself.”

Miller was perspiring heavily, which made Starsky practically shiver. If what he’d learned from some friends and reliable sources in L.A.’s gay community was true, Miller was still grieving for the love of his life. Someone named Joey. The apparently happy couple had been a fixture of West Hollywood’s most popular bars and clubs for quite some time. Then, more than a year ago, they stopped showing up. Several months later, Miller started coming back every Friday night—alone—but always left with a different guy, each one bearing more than a passing resemblance to Joey: tall, blue-eyed, and blond.

“You okay?” Starsky asked. “Just another minute to go….”

Miller wiped at his forehead with the back of his left hand. “Yeah. Fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes! Stop trying to change the subject. You said you have bad luck with, and I quote, relationships. Plural. Did all your boyfriends kill themselves?”

Ah. Starsky had hit an emotional sore spot. “No. No, of course not. It’s just that I keep going for guys who remind me of Jeff. And when they turn out to be nothing like him, things go south fairly quickly.”

“Maybe you’re just afraid to fall in love again.”

“Maybe. You ever been in love?”

“Yeah.”

“So, what happened?” Starsky prodded.

Miller sat there like a Greek statue.

“Your story couldn’t be worse than mine.”

The stony silence continued.

“What could be worse than—?”

Three loud, quick raps on the closed door startled both men.

“Uh, Dave?” the culprit called out. “It’s Paul Martinez. Your 9:45. I don’t mean to sound pushy or anything, but I’ve got a hot date tonight, so—”

“Just finishing up here, Paul.” Starsky shut off the laser and traded it for a towel from the equipment cart. “Be right with you.” He wiped Miller down before draping the towel around his shoulders and giving them a brief squeeze. “All set, Sam. Just do those exercises I showed you, okay? Twice a day.”

“Yeah. Sure. I think I should have another treatment. Maybe after the game.”

“Good idea. Let me book that right now.” He checked his iPad. “Okay. You’ll be my third. Is that all right?”

“Fine.” Was it just Starsky’s imagination or was Miller paler than he was when the appointment started? “Uh, Dave?”

Starsky stopped entering data and looked across the room at Miller, who stood clutching the doorknob. “Yeah?”

“I… Nothing. See you Sunday.”

Then Martinez charged into the room like the bull in heat that he was, and Starsky had to put all thoughts of his next encounter with Miller on hold.

Friday, March 3, 2017

The day started with a text that anyone snooping through his messages would have deemed perfectly innocent.

“Need to see you. My place. 1 hour.”

It was from “Harold.” As in Captain Harold Dobey. As in his boss.

Shit. He had somewhere to be at noon: the clinic where he was also working as part of his cover.

Starsky doubted he was being watched by any of Jackson Miller’s people, but he wasn’t taking anything for granted—not when the stakes were so high. He traveled via the most byzantine route imaginable to Bay City PD headquarters and parked his motorcycle two blocks away.

There wasn’t much action in the bullpen, which suited him just fine. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk. Bypassing the coffee station, he strode into Dobey’s office at 9:55 a.m.

Damn. Five large Styrofoam cups and a box of donuts were front and center on the captain’s desk.

“’Morning, Cap’n.” He helped himself to a coffee, set his bike helmet on one of the two mismatched chairs, settled into the other, and made himself comfortable. “Who else is coming to this little party?”

Dobey shook a meaty finger at his detective. “Get your damned feet off my desk, and put that damned helmet somewhere it won’t be in the way. Assistant Commissioner Johnson and two members of the DEA will be here any minute.”

“Aw, not the feds!” Starsky stomped over to the nearest filing cabinet and banged his helmet down. “You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?”

“What do I look like: a damned fortune teller?” Dobey patted his belly. “Calm down and eat the last chocolate glazed before I do. I’ve already had two, and I promised Edith I wouldn’t have more than three of these things a day.”

Starsky shook his head. “My stomach’s been in knots since I got your text. So just tell me: am I done with Miller?”

“The only thing I know is that the DEA also wants to get the kid to rat out his father.”

“So, they’re going to replace me with one of their men?” Starsky’s fist hit the desk hard enough to make the donuts nearly jump out of their box. “That’s just great.”

“Temper, temper, Detective Starsky.” Assistant Commissioner George Johnson moved awfully quietly for someone his size. “Let’s wait to hear what our friends at the Drug Enforcement Agency have to say before you start destroying the furniture.”

“Sorry. Sir.”

“I’m sure you are.” Johnson selected one of the cups of coffee before seating himself. “Good morning, Captain.”

“’Morning, sir. Did you want to fill Starsky in on the rest?”

Johnson made sure he had Starsky’s full attention. “Has the Captain told you that the DEA already has a man on the inside?”

Starsky shot to his feet. “What? For how long? Who is it? One of the players? I would’ve been able to—” His eyebrows separated and threatened to disappear into his hairline. “Wait a minute… Son of a bitch!”

The three men turned their heads in unison as a uniformed officer cleared her throat in the doorway. “Captain Dobey, your guests are here.”

The two exquisitely dressed strangers had barely crossed the threshold of Dobey’s office when one of them—a tall blond—froze. “What the hell?”

“I knew it!” Starsky yelled back.

“You’ve already met, of course,” Johnson said calmly, “but you have me at a disadvantage, Special Agent…?”

“Hutchinson. Ken Hutchinson.” His composure somewhat recovered, he pushed past Starsky to shake the Assistant Commissioner’s hand.

Johnson then greeted Hutchinson’s supervisor, Special Agent Gabi Novak, before introducing Novak to his people.

“Have a seat, everyone,” Dobey directed at Hutchinson and Novak just as Starsky was about to reclaim his spot.

Maybe Johnson didn’t mind standing, but Starsky sure did—especially in his own house—so he planted his right butt cheek on the arm of his chair. The one Hutchinson had appropriated. His antics earned him a sharp look from Dobey that he chose to ignore.

“I’ll start,” said Novak, brushing invisible lint off the sleeve of her designer suit jacket. “The DEA and your department came up with the same plan—although we thought of it first, of course—to bring Jackson Miller to justice. Hutch has made excellent progress earning Sam Miller’s trust, so it’s just a matter of time before—”

“I know I’m just a lowly police officer,” Starsky snapped, “but I’ve only had one interaction with Miller Junior and I need just one or two more to get him to tell me that his dad either killed his boyfriend or had one of his goons do it. How long has Kenny had?”

“It’s Hutch.”

“Huh? Whatever,” Starsky said with a wave of his hand. “And what’s he got to show for it? Besides a decent goals-against average, I mean.”

Hutchinson twisted in his seat and glared up at Starsky. “I was this close—” He held his right thumb and forefinger a fraction apart. “— to having him spill his guts about his old man. But then you just had to show up and interfere—”

“Interfere?” Starsky’s face was burning. “His appointment was booked before I came on board, so don’t go and blame me for following the fucking PT schedule.”

“Starsky!” Dobey bellowed. “Language!”

“And I made more headway in one day,” Starsky continued, now standing toe to toe with Hutchinson, “than you did in however long you’ve been trying to—”

Johnson managed to wedge himself between the sparring partners, placing a paw flat against each man’s chest to separate them. “That’s enough, boys. Take your corners.”

With one last death stare apiece, they retreated to opposite sides of the crowded room, Starsky leaning against the wall as though it too had slighted him, while Hutch dropped heavily into his chair.

Novak, now tapping her fingernails on the arm of her chair, spoke directly to Johnson. “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, Special Agent Hutchinson is perfectly capable of finishing this assignment without any so-called help from Detective Starsky.”

“Oh, really?” Starsky sneered. “And how would it look if I just disappeared after only one day with the team? Don’t you think that would look suspicious?”

“He has a point,” Dobey chimed in. “The last thing we want to do is spook the target.”

“Gabi.”

All eyes turned to Johnson.

“It took this department a great deal of effort to convince the Blades to allow Detective Starsky to join their staff, and to find somewhere where he could work as a physical therapist the rest of the time.” He held up a hand before Novak could get a word in. “And I appreciate what you and your colleagues went through to find Special Agent Hutchinson a spot on the team.”

“You damn well should,” Hutchinson muttered.

“So why don’t we just combine forces and let this play out a little longer?”

“Seems like a ridiculous waste of resources, George,” Novak scowled.

“Seems like you’d rather make a pissing contest out of this instead of giving a shit about what matters, which is putting Jackson Miller away, in case you’d forgotten,” Starsky said.

“Starsky! Don’t make me warn you a third time.”

“C’mon, Cap’n! You know I’m right about this arrogant piece of—”

Hutchinson rolled his eyes. “Are you always this diplomatic?”

“Oh, shut up, Kenny.”

Hutchinson was on his feet again, waving a finger in Starsky’s face. “You’re the one with the big mouth, pal.”

Novak also rose. “Forget it, Hutch. You can’t work with a Neanderthal like this. We’re leaving.”

“I’m sure Starsky and Hutchinson can put their personal feelings aside to get the job done,” said Johnson. “Don’t make any rash decisions, Gabi. Talk it over with your people. It makes sense to collaborate. But don’t take too long. The Blades’ game is two days from now.”

“Fine. I’ll be in touch,” Novak said. “But don’t expect any miracles.” With a brief nod to Johnson and Dobey, she left the meeting with Hutchinson in her wake.

“See ya, Kenny,” Starsky called out.

“Not if I can help it, asshole,” Hutchinson shot back.

Christ. Starsky had been right from the start: the guy was a prick.

Friday, March 3, 2017

The call came shortly after Starsky got home from a busy day at the clinic. He was surprised when Dobey told him he was still on the case—and shocked to learn that Hutchinson wanted to meet with him to compare notes.

“Now?”

“You got something better to do?” Dobey barked.

He didn’t, but that wasn’t something a single gay man liked to admit on a Friday night. “Where, Cap’n?”

“The Culver Hotel. Velvet Lounge. Second floor. And try to stay out of trouble.”

Starsky wolfed down the rest of his dinner, flossed and brushed his teeth, showered quickly, and shaved. But figuring out what to wear took longer than it should have. By the time he left the apartment—dressed in faded Levi’s and a long-sleeved tee-shirt that fit him like a coat of sky blue paint—his bed was covered with a rainbow of discarded clothing.

He sped toward Culver City feeling strangely giddy, telling himself he was merely excited about Hutchinson’s choice of where to meet. Starsky loved classic films, and the Culver Hotel had played a big part in a whole bunch of them. John Wayne had once owned it, and stars from movies like Gone With the Wind and The Wizard of Oz had stayed there. Today it was what they called a “boutique hotel”—the kind of place you’d hardly run into Sam Miller. Not when West Hollywood was teaming with clubs full of available men.

When Starsky arrived at the Velvet Lounge, he knew immediately why Hutchinson had picked it over the hotel lobby bar. Between the dim lighting and all the secluded corners, it took him several minutes to find the DEA agent.

“Hey.” Starsky slipped off his black leather jacket and draped it over the back of the upholstered chair across from Hutchinson’s. “Don’t let me forget this,” he said, placing his helmet under the table.

Bathed in the warm glow of candlelight, Hutchinson’s golden beauty rivalled that of any matinee idol, past or present. “What’s your ride?”

“Huh? Oh. Kawasaki Ninja. But I usually drive a ’75 Gran Torino. Fully restored. Cherry red with a white racing strip and mag wheels. But a bit too flashy for this assignment, so my mechanic is babysitting for me.”

Just when it looked as though Hutchinson was going to respond to Starsky’s mindless babbling, a server with a Marlene Dietrich vibe materialized.

“Welcome to the Velvet Lounge. My name is Vivian. What can I get for you, sir?” she asked Starsky.

“Beer, I guess.”

Hutchinson reached over and tapped Starsky lightly on the wrist. “I’m buying.”

“In that case, I’ll have whatever he’s having.” Starsky indicated the crystal tumbler Hutchinson was toying with.

“Scotch. Neat.”

“And expensive?” Starsky asked brightly.

Vivian nodded. “Would you like another, sir?” she asked Hutchinson.

“Please.”

God, Hutchinson was something else. His shirt was dark and clingy, open at the neck, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He had forearms to die for.

They waited quietly, awkwardly, for their drinks. Starsky was grateful that their server proved to be fast and competent, because there was something he really needed to say to Hutchinson. Without an audience.

“About this morning—”

“I need to apologize—”

They both stopped in mid sentence.

“You first,” they said, again at the same time.

Hutchinson held up a hand. “After you.”

Oh, boy. Starsky manned up and met Hutchinson’s eyes. “I should never have got up in your face like that and acted like a jerk. It’s just that—that Novak woman got on my last nerve and I—”

“Hey, it’s okay. I get it. She’s usually not that condescending, but she’s always competitive. Gabi wants to win this case. Badly. And sometimes her combative attitude is contagious. I never should’ve called you an asshole or accused you of messing up my plans with Miller.”

Relieved, Starsky raised his Scotch. “Can we start over, Special Agent Hutchinson?”

“To new beginnings, Detective Starsky,” he said, raising his own glass and clinking it against Starsky’s.

“I don’t suppose you usually go by Kenny. So, is it Ken? Or Kenneth?”

He grimaced. “It’s Hutch. And what do you prefer? Dave? David? Davey?”

“My friends call me Starsky.”

Hutch smiled, triggering long-dormant butterflies in Starsky’s stomach to take wing. “Okay, Starsky. Why don’t you tell me what approach you’re using with Miller?”

By the time Starsky finished, he and Hutch were into another round of drinks.

“How much of what you told him about yourself is true?” Hutch asked.

“Most. I was born and raised in Brooklyn, I do have a younger brother, I did move to California after my last tour of Afghanistan, and I studied physical therapy. But I had a happy childhood, I enlisted after college, and admitting I was gay didn’t change my relationship with anyone in my family, including my dad.”

“So, no suicidal boyfriends?”

“None that I know of. What about your story? It’s obvious you’ve played hockey before. And you look like you could be from Minnesota. But I’m guessing you were never a librarian.”

“You guessed right.” Hutch sipped at his Scotch. “Never a librarian, but I spent the first 18 years of my life in Duluth. And, as I told Miller, the way my parents—especially my father—reacted when I came out was why I decided to pursue a higher education as far from home as I could get.”

“I know it’s none of my business, but how did you manage that? It sounds like your family wasn’t much help as far as supporting you was concerned.”

“You got that right. But I was extremely lucky because my paternal grandmother always had a soft spot for me. Nanna June offered to foot the bill for my tuition and subsidize my off-campus apartment. I joined the DEA not long after graduation. Within three years, I’d saved enough to pay my grandmother back every dime she’d lent me. But she refused to take it. And when she died a few years later, she left me—well, let’s say it was enough to cause a lot of resentment. My family has basically disowned me.” Hutch chuckled, shaking his head. “Sorry. I should be talking to you about Miller instead of boring you with the minutiae of my life.”

“You’re not boring me. In fact, you can tell me anything you want to about Hutch—the English major?”

“Uh, no. My degree is in law enforcement.”

“You wanted to be a cop ever since you were a kid?”

“Pretty much. When did you decide to change careers?”

“Not long after I moved to California. For the first few months, I lived with a family I’d known back in Brooklyn. The husband, John, was one of New York’s finest, but he moved here because of something to do with his wife’s health. Anyway, when he saw I wasn’t making much money from doing PT seven days a week, he encouraged me to consider a different line of work.”

“I’m glad.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

This wasn’t a date. Starsky was well aware of that. But it sure didn’t feel like work. Still, he thought he should get back on track. “Uh, you were going to tell me more about our mutual friend Sam.”

“Another round, gentlemen?”

“Sure. Why not?” Hutch didn’t bother to check with Starsky, who hadn’t heard their server arrive. Nor had he realized they’d finished their drinks. It was unusual for him to get this distracted while on the job.

Once Vivian had slipped away, Hutch scratched his head. “Where were we? Oh, yeah. Miller and I have something in common: wealthy, controlling fathers whom we despise, albeit for completely different reasons. So I made sure he knew that right from the start.”

Starsky nodded, his admiration for Hutch increasing by the minute.

“And I was positive he’d be drawn to me because I fit the description of the missing-and-presumed-dead Joey. Sure enough, I caught Miller checking me out the first day I met him.”

“The guy’s got taste. Gotta give him that.”

Hutch shrugged adorably. “What he’s got is a type. But thanks. Anyway, I let him know I was on to him. Then he sat down beside me—we were in the locker room after practice—and I thought, ‘Here we go. He’s going to hit on me.’ Instead, he told me what a shame it was that we’re teammates because he only has sex with strangers. People he never wants to see again.”

“Charming. And not at all what I was expecting.”

“Me, neither. I had to throw my playbook out the window. I told him I was okay with that because I’d just been dumped by my long-time cheating dick of a partner and wasn’t interested in dating anyone or having a fuck buddy. I spent the next week keeping mostly to myself, all quiet sighs and sad puppy dog eyes. Then, after the second game, he came up to me and said he knew what it’s like to have a broken heart, and he’d just like someone who’s not always thinking with his little head to talk to. So we talk.”

“Has he said anything, uh, interesting about his scumbag father?”

“One time, when I asked Sam what he did for a living, he said that even though he was ‘technically’—” Hutch used air quotes. “—part of the family business, he didn’t see his parents anymore.”

“Did he say why?”

“He said he learned the hard way that his father wasn’t the person he thought he was. When I asked him for details, he said he wasn’t ready to talk about it. I’m thinking that going out for a few drinks, just the two of us, will loosen him up a bit.”

It occurred to Starsky that maybe Hutch’s current goal was to loosen him up. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

He was once more caught off guard by Vivian’s stealthy return to their table, and made a mental note to start paying less attention to Hutch and more to his surroundings. But he was finding that increasingly difficult to do as the night wore on. Later, he wouldn’t be able to say exactly how long they talked for. He just knew that the topic of Miller kept getting pushed off to the side.

And he knew he’d had enough to drink. More than enough. When Vivian swung by again, he held his hands up in surrender. “Do you serve coffee here? I don’t think I can drive for a while. Not like this.”

“A whole pot of espresso wouldn’t help either one of us, Starsk,” Hutch said with a slight slur.

Starsky thought about the last time a man had called him that, and the butterflies he’d felt earlier started migrating somewhere south of his stomach.

“But don’t worry,” Hutch continued while he settled the check. “This place has a much better option for customers who have too much to drink. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere, ’kay?”

No chance of that happening.

Just when Starsky thought he’d been ditched, Hutch returned carrying a small white bag. With a flourish, he held up his other hand and displayed something else that was made of plastic.

“Oh.” Starsky blinked a couple of times to be sure what he was looking at was indeed a hotel key card.

“You coming?”

“Not yet. I thought I’d wait ’til we get to the room.”

Hutch laughed. “Sexy, smart, and funny. If you can cook, too, I might just have to marry you.”

“Without even knowing what I’m like in bed?”

Hutch waggled the key card. “Want to show me?”

“I do.”

“Then grab your helmet and jacket, Mrs. Hutchinson, and follow me.”

The stairs were closer than the elevator, making the decision to walk an easy one. They climbed energetically, side by side. As they neared their floor, Starsky’s elbow gently nudged Hutch in the side. “Any chance there’s condoms and lube in that bag?”

“’Fraid not. Just run-of-the-mill toiletries. The front desk has no imagination when it comes to emergency supplies.”

They were all over each other before their room door shut behind them, and it didn’t take them long to figure out that undressing each other wasn’t as efficient as shedding their own clothes. Once they were both naked, they feasted on each other’s mouth, each other’s bodies.

Much later, spent and drifting off, Starsky hoped like hell that he wasn’t having a booze-induced dream in the back of a cab on his way home.

Saturday, March 4, 2017

“Hutch. Hutch. HUTCH.”

“Hmmm?”

“You’re snoring.”

“Am not. ’Time is it?”

Starsky cracked open one eye and peered at the bedside clock, finding it a struggle to bring the red digital numbers into focus. “Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“I’ve got to be at work in less than two hours.” He flicked on the light and began rummaging around for his clothes. “If I leave now I might be able to make it on time.”

“What? Two hours is plenty of—Oh, wait. You don’t need to go home first.”

Starsky stopped in mid rummage. “Of course I do. I have to shave and get changed.”

“No, you don’t. You put on fresh clothes last night, correct?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Put down that sock and come here.” Hutch reached up and pulled his obedient slave down for a long, probing kiss. “Hardly any stubble, which means you also shaved before you went out.”

It was clear that Hutch had, too.

“So,” Hutch continued, “have breakfast with me and go to work from here. You can jump in the shower while I order room service.”

Starsky straddled Hutch’s thighs and cupped his face in his hands. “Here’s a better idea. Why don’t we both jump in the shower? Then you can order room service.”

They left the Culver together, Hutch reasoning it’d be no fun to be there alone.

As much as having to go to work made Starsky want to punch something, he couldn’t stop grinning like an idiot. The lot where Hutch had parked his car was in the opposite direction of where Starsky’s bike was, but Hutch said he had nothing better to do and wouldn’t mind going with Starsky to check out the Ninja.

“Starsk? Uh, I think we need to talk more about what we’re going to do tomorrow. About Miller, I mean.”

“What’ve you got in mind?”

Hutch rubbed his hands on the front of his tight black jeans. “If you’re free tonight, would you—would you like to come over to my place? I could feed you. Put a couple of steaks on the grill. Do you like steak?”

“I love steak.”

“Yeah? That’s great. Really great. Uh, there may be some alcohol involved so, if you want, you know, you could bring an overnight bag. If you want.”

Had they really just met a few days ago? Things were moving fast. Crazy fast.

“Anything else I should bring?” Starsky asked. “Wine? Dessert? Astroglide?”

Hutch laughed, which erased the cute little wrinkle that had developed between his beautiful blue eyes. “No, I’m good. Give me your phone.”

Their hands did more than simply brush during the exchange, and Starsky seriously considered blowing off his shift at the clinic.

“Here’s my number,” Hutch said as he worked Starsky’s cell. “What time do you finish today?”

“Five.”

Hutch handed back the phone. “Okay. Text me when you’re ready to come over and I’ll text you back my address.” And, with a quick, sweet kiss, he was gone.

Starsky figured he was either the luckiest guy on the planet. Or the biggest fool. He’d soon find out which.

Sunday, March 5, 2017

“What do you do when you’re not healing me and my teammates?” Miller asked.

“I work at a sports injury clinic,” Starsky said. “In West Hollywood.”

“Do you have a business card?”

“Sure do.” When Starsky went under cover, he didn’t fool around. “I’ll give you one when we’re finished.”

The appointment was coming to an end, and, up to this point, the main topic of the post-game conversation had been the Blades’ easy win over one of their biggest rivals, the Warriors. Miller was justifiably proud of his contributions: a goal and two assists.

Starsky, on the other hand, had been disappointed that things hadn’t picked up where they’d left off the last time. But now that Miller had re-opened the door…

“What about you, Sam? What do you do besides play hockey?”

“I work out. I go to bars and clubs. I watch TV. I read.”

“So, no job?”

“In name only. Daddy dearest put me on the payroll after I finished college, but my history degree wasn’t the best prerequisite for any of his business interests. Still, I hung around until—until he did something utterly unforgiveable.”

Starsky shut off the laser. “What did he do?”

“Nothing anyone can prove. Ever heard of Jackson Miller?”

“Uh, the guy who’s always in the news for donating big bucks to children’s hospitals and animal shelters and places like that? That’s your father?”

“That’s him. And stop being so fucking polite. You know damn well that he’s also the guy who’s always in the news for being accused of committing all sorts of horrible crimes—but never getting caught.”

“Wow. I don’t know what to say. You don’t deserve a father like that.”

“Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. It is what it is. Now, if we’re done here, the boys are waiting for me.”

“Oh?” But Starsky knew what was coming.

“We’re going out for drinks and dinner. It’s what we do after a win. Or a loss. You should come. Maybe you’ll hit it off with one of the players and your luck will change.”

Starsky couldn’t help himself. “Actually, I think it already has.”

“Oh my god!” Miller removed the towel from around his neck and flicked it playfully at Starsky’s mid-section. “You like someone on the team!”

Starsky snatched the pseudo-weapon away from Miller and tossed it into the hamper. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do! You’re blushing! C’mon—tell me who it is. I know how to keep a secret.”

Ah, that he did.

And so did Starsky. “It’s a guy I know from my other job.” Sticking to the truth as much possible made working undercover somewhat safer. “We hooked up the last couple of nights and I think—well, I’m not interested in meeting anyone else at the moment.”

“Hey, I get that. Are you seeing him again tonight?”

“Yup.” In his dreams. Over breakfast that morning, he’d told Hutch he’d be staying away from the post-game activities. The reason given was to let Hutch continue getting closer to Miller, free of any distractions. What Starsky had kept to himself was that he didn’t want to spend a night sitting at the same table as Hutch, making small talk with other guys. Besides, he had two days’ worth of redacted reports to write up.

“Good for you, Dave.” Miller slapped him on the back jovially. “You can celebrate with the team some other time. Have fun tonight with your new man. And don’t forget to give me one of your cards. I might need to see you between the next two practices.”

Starsky was tapping away at his keyboard when his phone pinged with a text. It was from Hutch.

“What are you wearing?”

Starsky chuckled to himself. “Where r u?”

“The john at the sports bar near the rink. We’re staying for dinner.”

It was nearly 7:30. Starsky had finished eating more than an hour ago. “Who?”

“Five including our boy.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I might learn something.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. When do you work tomorrow?”

“8 to 4.”

“Any plans for the evening?”

“No.” Starsky’s grin widened.

“Come for dinner.”

“U could come here.”

“Sure. When?”

“How’s 6?” That would give Starsky time to get groceries and put a decent meal together.

“Perfect. Text me your address.”

“K.” He was keying at record speed.

“Thanks. What should I bring?”

“The usual.” He was counting on Hutch figuring that out on his own.

“Okay. Have a good night.”

“U 2.”

“I love that band.”

Starsky sent his last text—a smiley face emoji—and goddamn if he didn’t feel like he was 18 again.

And, with the energy of a teenager, he started getting his apartment ready for his first house guest in a very long time.

Wednesday, March 8, 2017

“This is crazy.” Starsky said.

Hutch kissed Starsky’s head absently. “I know.”

“It hasn’t even been a week.”

“I know.”

They were relaxing in Hutch’s soaker tub, Starsky in front, his back pressed against Hutch’s chest. “I feel like I’ve known you forever,” he said.

“Me, too.”

“Well, it’s not normal.”

“I know. But what do you want to do about it?”

Starsky twisted his body so he could meet Hutch’s eyes. “I dunno. Just keep going and see what happens, I guess.”

“Don’t look so happy about it.”

“Shit.” Starsky wiggled around until sat facing Hutch, planting his feet on either side of Hutch’s hips. “I am happy, dummy. But I’m scared, too.”

Hutch sighed noisily. “So am I. I’ve never—I’m not used to—”

“Yeah. I know. Speed of light, huh?”

“Something like that.” Hutch pulled him close and kissed him, taking his sweet time. “Oh, I really like you, Starsk. Even if you are turning into a prune.”

“Like you’re not.” Starsky climbed out of the tub, wrapped himself in a super-sized towel, and held another open for Hutch. “C’mon. I have to work in the morning, and you’ve got a big day ahead of you.”

“No last-minute appointment for Miller this time?” Hutch let Starsky enfold him in cozy terrycloth.

“Nope. Unless he’s hurt himself since seeing me at the clinic this afternoon, he’s all yours after practice tomorrow.”

“I know. I’m just giving you a hard time.”

“Keep squirming against me like that and it’s not the only hard thing you’ll be giving me.”

Hutch freed a hand to do some exploring. “Uh, too late.”

“You’re a bad influence on me. Or a good one. I can’t decide which.”

“Sure you can.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Starsky kissed Hutch soundly. “I hope things go great for you with Miller. Twenty-four hours from now, you could have the case all wrapped up.”

“If not, you’ll have a chance with him soon.”

“Looks that way. I guess my dead boyfriend story’s working, huh?”

Hutch led Starsky by the hand into his bedroom. “What you’ve accomplished in a week took me more than a month.”

“Right place, right time.”

“No. Right man for the job.” He got into bed, pulling Starsky in after him. “Now let me show you my appreciation for your multitude of talents.”

“Uh, Hutch?”

Hutch stopped nibbling on Starsky’s earlobe. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Absolutely nothing. “I just—I really like you, too.”

“I should hope so.”

Then Starsky shut up before he said anything stupid, and let Hutch have his way with him.

Sunday, March 12, 2017

Starsky only had a couple of appointments following the Blades’ game, which was another decisive win over the Jackalopes. Better yet, “Kenny” had a shutout, and most of the team was going out to celebrate.

Not Starsky, though. He wanted to give Hutch and Miller as much time together as possible, without distracting either one. Hutch had managed to get Miller to talk a bit about Joey the other night, when just the two of them went out after practice. Sam had even gone so far as to imply that his father was responsible for Joey’s disappearance. Now all Hutch had to do was convince him to take his revenge. And that was looking entirely possible.

“You joining us, Dave?”

Starsky held the door for defenseman Frank Capelli, and walked out with him to the rink’s parking lot. “Not tonight, Frank. Maybe next time.”

“Still seeing the same guy?”

“Yup.” He sure was. In fact, that guy was just a few yards away. He was talking with Miller, who was stuffing his hockey bag into the trunk of his Lexus convertible.

“Have fun, sweetie.” Capelli blew Starsky an exaggerated kiss, laughed, and made a beeline for the sports bar where everyone was meeting.

“Thanks. You, too.” Starsky put on his helmet and took his time starting up his motorcycle so he could observe Hutch for a few moments longer, on the sly. Oh, he had it bad.

He was just about to drive off when a black limo with dark tinted windows pulled up beside where Hutch and Miller were standing. Three men jumped out, and Starsky recognized one of them: Jackson Miller.

What the hell?

Starsky couldn’t hear a thing, but he didn’t need to. After father and son exchanged a couple of angry-looking words, Miller Senior’s goons stepped behind Hutch and Miller Junior. And Hutch’s body language told Starsky that the goons were armed. In an instant, Hutch and Sam were forced into the limo, which then peeled out of the parking lot.

With Starsky following at a safe distance.

He was two car lengths’ behind when the limo came to a red light. Hoping for the longest red light in history, Starsky pulled out his phone and started texting. Calling dispatch or 911 while on a motorcycle in the middle of traffic wasn’t going to work, so he had to improvise.

“Hutch n SM kidnappd by JM and 2 man guns hurry,” his first text message to Dobey read.

For the second, he carefully keyed in the limo’s details, including license plate, current location, and the direction it was traveling. And pressed send. That was all he had time to do before the light turned green.

Unfortunately, that was it for red lights. Starsky cursed each green light, then cursed again (only worse) when the Miller-mobile hit the freeway. It was now far too dangerous to check his phone to see if Dobey had received his message. He fought to stay cool and focused because, if he didn’t, Hutch wasn’t going to live to see another day.

When the limo finally exited the freeway, Starsky knew where it was headed because he’d done his research. Jackson Miller had recently purchased a parcel of land that once included a private airport, and announced he was planning to build a state-of-the-art rehab facility there. Therefore, it was possible that some of the people who bought drugs from him could end up paying him to help them get off whatever shit he got them hooked on in the first place. Talk about double dipping!

At this point, the traffic was starting to thin out, so Starsky pulled into the first parking lot he saw to avoid being spotted. Besides, he needed to call Dobey to tell him about the limo’s destination.

Starsky was back on the road a few minutes later, and arrived at the abandoned airfield sooner than he’d expected. He was relieved to see that the limo was parked between the small, ramshackle office and what was left of the hangar. Better yet, there were no other vehicles to be seen on the property. So, unless the limo had dropped additional henchmen off earlier in the day, the cavalry would only have to deal with three bad guys. Keeping out of sight, he called Dobey to report his findings.

“Starsky, you’re not armed. Stay where you are. Help is on the way and I don’t want you getting killed.”

“Can’t do that, Cap’n. This whole thing has execution written all over it.”

“Starsky! Don’t you—”

“Gotta go. Tell them to hurry.”

After muting his phone, Starsky left his bike in front of the huge real estate sign so that the Ninja was visible from the road only. Staying low, he dashed over to the side of the closest building—the office—and hunkered down. This was the place, all right. Miller must have been confident that no one else was in earshot because he was making no effort to keep his voice down. Starsky had no trouble hearing every word he said.

“—an idiot. How could any kid of mine turn out to be such a moron?”

“Leave him alone.” That was Hutch. Thank god he was alive—and conscious. “He’s nothing like you, which makes him a decent human being.”

“It’s okay, Kenny,” Sam said. “I have a few choice words for him, too.”

Jackson Miller laughed, and it was ugly. “Kenny, huh? You couldn’t come up with anything better than that, Special Agent Ken Hutchinson?”

“What are you talking about?” Sam asked.

“Your new friend here is a narc.”

“Huh?”

“He’s with the DEA.”

“You’re wrong. Tell him he’s wrong, Kenny.”

Where was that damned backup? Starsky was trying not to lose it.

“Sorry, Sam. I guess your father’s been keeping a closer eye on you than we thought.”

“Jesus Christ! You were just using me to get to him!”

“Of course he was, you little shit,” Jackson snapped. “And you had no clue.”

“So how did you find out about me?” Hutch asked. “For curiosity’s sake.”

Keep him talking, Hutch. Keep stalling. It was Starsky’s mantra.

“You’re not very smart, but you were right about me keeping an eye on sonny boy. My associates noticed that you spent a lot of time talking with him.”

Poor Sam. Seemed like he was always being watched, even in parking lots.

“But they didn’t think it was a problem—until you went out on your little date, that is. They followed you home and then to where you work. Between the dark car, the dark suit, and the dark shades, you couldn’t have looked any more like a G-man if you’d tried. Very careless, Agent Hutchinson.”

“You fucking bastard!” Sam yelled. “You had me totally fooled. I really thought you gave a shit about Joey and me.”

“I do, Sam. I—”

“For God’s sake!” Jackson snapped. “Your stupid Joey’s been dead for how long and you’re still crying over him?”

“So he is dead!” The anguish in Sam’s voice was heartbreaking. “Why did you kill him? What did he ever do to you?”

“Listen, you dumb kid. I know you were planning on ripping me off and running away with him. When you drink, when you’re finished having sex, you talk too much. You told him things you shouldn’t have. Things about the business. Things about me.”

“How—?”

“Your condo—the one I pay for—has been bugged since the day you moved in. I know every disgusting detail of your life.”

“You sick son of a bitch!”

There was the sound of skin striking skin, followed by a cry of pain.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for years, but I promised your mother I wouldn’t hurt you. Or let you get hurt. But no more promises. Not after you let yourself get conned like this. You’re nothing but trouble, and I’m done putting up with you.”

“So you’re going to kill your own son?” Hutch asked.

There was another slapping noise, and Hutch—it was definitely Hutch—grunted.

“Where r they” Starsky texted.

“I’m not going to kill him. Louie is. And he’s going to take care of you, too.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Starsky scanned the area for something to use as a weapon. An old hammer. A big rock. Anything.

“Don’t cry, son. You and Joey will soon be together. Forever.”

Starsky found what he needed and picked it up. Perfect. Next, he grabbed a medium-sized stone with the other hand, then crept to the back of the building to check things out. Good. There wasn’t a single a window, or even a big hole in the wall, so the only way in or out had to be the front door. This was going to work. It had to.

His confidence growing, he took careful aim and tossed the stone to a point just past where he’d been spying earlier.

“To show you what a good father I am, I’ll even let them bury you—What was that?”

“Probably just a rat or something.”

Starsky didn’t recognize the voice.

“One of you go look. Now!”

Starsky held his breath and readied his makeshift weapon. Sure enough, he heard the door squeak open, then saw a shadow coming his way. As soon as the tip of a black shoe was visible, he stepped around the corner and swung the two-by-four as hard as he could. Caught squarely in the face, the gunman dropped to the ground. There was no time to tie him up—and nothing to tie him up with—but Starsky was satisfied that the board, which had two rusty nails sticking out it, had done the trick. Big time.

Stuffing the discarded gun into the back waistband of his jeans, he dragged the body around the corner and waited for his next victim.

“Louie! What’s going on out there? Louie!” Jackson called.

After a period of silence that felt like a century to Starsky, the door opened again—slowly, this time. Miller’s other minion was trying to be quiet. Aw, how cute. Once Starsky was sure the guy was within striking range, he sprang from his hiding place and fired three quick shots. He was able to snatch the revolver before the bloodied corpse hit the dirt, and was bounding through the office door within seconds, a gun in each hand, half expecting to be greeted with a hail of bullets.

But Jackson Miller—and only Jackson Miller—was just standing there, arms in the air. “Don’t shoot! I don’t have a weapon. I never carry one. By the way, my lawyer’s going to eat you for breakfast.”

“Shut up and put hands on your head. Do it now or I’ll blow your fucking head off!” Staying out of Miller’s reach, Starsky kept both guns trained on the asshole but risked a quick look around the room. “Hutch! Sam!”

The two men were both bound tightly to old wooden chairs, bleeding from the mouth. Nothing too serious, apparently. It pissed Starsky off anyway.

“You okay?”

“We’re fine,” Hutch said. “You look like a cowboy.”

Starsky couldn’t suppress a small smile. “Kinda feel like one.”

“These ropes hurt. You gonna untie us anytime soon, Butch Cassidy?”

“Yup. In a sec, Sundance. But first, I need to send a text. I wouldn’t want the good guys to rush in and shoot us to pieces.”

The words had barely left his mouth when a small tide of men and women in dark suits and uniforms began pouring through the open door—with weapons raised. Luckily for Starsky, one of the peace officers was Gabi Novak, who recognized him immediately.

“Took you long enough,” Starsky told her as Miller was seized and cuffed none too gently.

She ignored him and strode over to Hutch. “You okay?” she asked while working to free him from the chair he was bound to.

“Only because of Starsky.”

“What the hell happened?”

He shook his hands to bring back the circulation. “We need to talk about this. Later,” he said tersely, turning his back to her. “Walk away, Gabi. Now.”

As much as Starsky wanted to be with Hutch, he realized that no one was tending to Sam, who hadn’t made a peep since his father hit him. “How’re you doing, buddy?” He knew it was a ridiculous question. Sam’s face was as pale as death and streaked with tears.

Sam finally spoke. “So you’re a cop, too, huh? Is your name really Dave? Are you even gay?”

“Yes to all three. But I’m sorry—truly sorry—that just about everything else was a lie, Sam. Hutch and I only wanted to help you.”

Released from his ropes, Sam stood and started rubbing his wrists.

Once Starsky was certain that Sam wasn’t going to keel over, he walked up to Hutch. “Your lip is bleeding.”

“I’ll live.” He held onto Starsky’s arms, and he was shaking slightly. “Thanks, Starsk. You’re a one-man army, you know that?”

“Oh, go on. I mean it. Go on.”

“Ouch! Don’t make me laugh. It stings.”

There was nothing that Starsky wanted to do more than kiss that injured lip and take Hutch into his arms. Wouldn’t that curl Novak’s hair?

Suddenly, someone cried out, and when Starsky and Hutch turned toward the commotion, Sam Miller was pulling a gun out of a uniformed officer’s holster. And pointing it at his father.

“This is for Joey!” he yelled. And fired. He got one shot off before he was tackled to the ground by Novak, but one shot was all he needed.

A small red circle bloomed in the center of Jackson Miller’s high forehead. He fell where he stood, dead eyes open wide.

Hutch clutched at Starsky’s jacket. “Oh my god!”

Starsky opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. He squeezed Hutch’s arm and exhaled loudly.

Sam was pulled to his feet, handcuffed, and dragged away, all the while repeating “it was for Joey” in a soft, calm voice.

The adrenaline no longer coursing through his body, Starsky would have collapsed if Hutch hadn’t been holding onto him.

“Hey. Hey! Are you all right?”

Although the office was mostly empty now, and the few stragglers didn’t seem to be paying attention to them, Starsky spoke quietly. “Yeah. Fine. It just hit me how close I came to losing you. And it’s really freaking me out.”

Hutch drew him in tight, not quite hugging him. “If you think you’re getting rid of me that easily, you’re sadly mistaken, my friend.”

“Hutch! Starsky!” Novak bellowed, all business and buzzkill. “The paramedics want to see you both. Stat. Then we’ll take you downtown for processing and debriefing.”

“So much for going home and crawling into bed,” Starsky whispered into Hutch’s ear.

Hutch wrapped his arm firmly around Starsky’s shoulders. “Yeah. It’s going to be a long night. And not in a good way. Rain check?”

“Rain check.”

It wound up taking hours upon hours to answer all the questions and sign all the forms and schedule a series of PTSD assessments. But just minutes after Hutch got home, Starsky knocked on his door.

And it didn’t just rain. It poured.

May 19, 2018

“You’re doing great, babe,” Hutch said.

“Don’t let go!” Starsky said.

“I won’t,” Hutch reassured him. “I won’t. I’ll never let go of you.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys you teach how to ice skate.”

“Only the sexy ones.”

Starsky figured that poor Hutch was probably going to have bruises on the arm Starsky was holding onto like an angry pit bull. He loved him all the more for not complaining about it, and loosened his grip. Somewhat.

“If I ever get good at this, it doesn’t mean I’m going to play hockey.”

“That’s not why I’m teaching you. I just like doing this together.”

“Skating around the rink a zillion times.”

“Yup. It’s fun.”

“You’re weird, Hutch. You know that, right?”

“Next time, we take it up a notch and do this holding hands.”

“What? I don’t think I’ll be ready for that.”

“Sure you will. You’re better than you think you are. Want to pick up the pace a little?”

“No!” Starsky would have stopped—if he knew how. Which he didn’t, unless it involved ending up on his ass. “Only if you want to be running the show by yourself on Monday, on account of me being in the hospital. Or dead.”

Hutch started skating faster anyway. “Relax, drama queen. I’m not going to maim or kill you. Not here, anyway.”

“Ha, ha, ha. Maybe we should be opening a comedy club instead.”

“Let’s try the private security route first. The comedy club can be our backup plan.”

God. Starsky still couldn’t believe it. In just two days, he and Hutch were starting their own business. Two days! Their dream of working together—of being partners in everything—was coming true.

Hutch had resigned from the DEA shortly after the Miller mess, appalled by the lack of support he’d received and concerned that he wouldn’t survive another undercover operation. And because he didn’t need a big paycheck, due to his late grandmother’s generosity, he would have been perfectly happy to be part of the BCPD. But the force had rules forbidding domestic partners—straight or gay—to be work partners. And there was no way in hell he and Starsky were going to lie about their relationship.

In the end, Starsky put in a few more months in Bay City, helping out with plain clothes assignments, while Hutch researched the shit out of their employment options until he found one they both felt good about. And they were going to start doing it in 48 hours.

Starsky was scared to death. He was thrilled beyond measure. He was happier than he’d ever been.

“Do you miss playing?” he asked Hutch.

Hutch patted Starsky’s arm. “Yeah, I do. But September will be here in no time and I’ll be back in the crease.”

“I’m glad the team made you an offer when the original goalie moved away.”

“Me, too.” Hutch squeezed Starsky’s hand. “You’re thinking about Sam Miller, aren’t you?”

“How do you—? Never mind. Yeah. Every time I think of the Blades, I think of Sam.”

“He’s going to be okay, Starsk. Not the same as when Joey was alive, but okay.”

“He did the world a huge favor. He shouldn’t have to serve any time for that.”

“I’m sure he won’t. His mother hired the best defense team in the country. And he’s got us and his doctors to testify on his behalf. All we can do is wait until the case goes to trial and hope for the best.”

“I hate waiting.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed that about you.”

Starsky snorted. “That’s because you’re not very observant.”

“And you are?”

“Obviously.”

“If you’re so clever, Sherlock, why don’t you tell me how long we’ve been skating like this?”

“Skating like what?”

Hutch raised his right hand, which was attached to Starsky’s left one, and offered up a smug little smile. “I told you: you’re better than you think.”

“And—and you’re one sneaky little—”

“Careful, Starsk. There are children present.”

“Yeah. Including a certain big blond one.”

“Still love me?”

“Maybe.”

“Still going to watch me play next season?”

“We’ll see.”

He did, of course.

Because that’s the kind of thing good husbands do.

THE END