“That doesn’t scare you?” the reporter asks.
“No.” Alexander barks out a laugh and slings an arm across my shoulders. “We’re hockey players. We fear nothing.”
Almost nothing. But I guess for Alexander, that’s true. When he’s not on the ice he’s at home with his perfectly acceptable fiancée and golden retriever puppy. Unlike me, who goes home to my shoebox of an apartment that is mostly empty and hides away, not wanting anyone to look too closely at my comings and goings. The less people know about me personally, the better, and that includes my teammates. I’m a private person and I’ve kept my life and my past hidden the best I can, so I don’t wind up being the center of some motivational rags to riches feature. Or worse, the face of the league’s increasingly controversial gay pride nights.
Still in the clutches of Alexander, who is now yucking it up with the reporters, I look across the locker room to catch our PR manager’s eyes. He gives me the nod that says I can be done. He probably feels like his primary job responsibility is keeping me from mouthing off to the press.
With his cue for me to exit, I excuse myself, slip out from under Alex’s arm and escape into the showers. As I walk through the locker room, I’m met with whoops, hollers, and fist bumps from the rest of my teammates and a nod of recognition from Coach Matthews as I walk past.
“Good game,” he tells me. “You’re earning that A on your jersey alright.”
My lips pull tight into something that resembles a smile, and I tap it twice with the thumb side of my right fist. Alternate captain. It’s my first season wearing it, and it came as a surprise when I saw it on my practice jersey on the first day of training camp in the fall. It’s rare for the team enforcer to wear the badge. Give it to someone less violent, the naysayers say. Give it to someone who the kids can look up to. As if every rink rat in training isn’t already practicing how to throw off their mitts and grab their opponent’s jersey when the time comes to remind their competitors what they’re there for. To win.
Regardless of what people say, or more likely, despite it, I’m proud of that A. Maybe more than I am of my title, king of penalty minutes. Don’t get me wrong, I like protecting my teammates. I like making sure they’re safe to do their job. I like enforcing the unofficial rules of the ice and reminding the other thirty-one teams in the league that the Blizzards are the last team you want to fuck with. Plus, if I fight hard enough, if I show my might and toughness out there, then if the secret that I’m gay gets out, maybe people will be too afraid to fuck with me about it. Hockey is all I have. I can’t lose it over something as trivial and inconsequential as who I like to go to bed with.
Connor
“It was a tough loss, but we fought hard,” I say to the reporters gathered around me after the game in the locker room. “Buffalo is always a challenge.”
“The team, or the stadium?” the reporter asks for clarification.
“Both.” I laugh. “You were in there. This is one of the loudest stadiums in the league with the most… dedicated fans.” That was a nice way to say it, right?
Maybe not. My father, who is also the general manager of myteam, is staring at me from behind the crowd of reporters and my teammates with his arms crossed.
I gulp. “But we’ll be ready for our revenge next month when we play them again in our barn.”
“What about the Olympic team announcement happening tonight? Are you prepared to see a member of the Blizzards on that roster?”
I make quick eye contact with my dad. He’s been spending all the spare time he has trying to influence that list of players. As a former Olympic gold medal winner and NHL player as well, his input is always considered. Despite the fact that everyone clamoring for one of the coveted spots considers his influence to be a bit corrupt. I don’t blame them. He should have retired as the Chicago Broad Wings general manager the moment I became eligible for the draft. Having your father say your name into the mic when you’re picked first overall is not the heartwarming moment people think it is. It’s pressure with a dash of nepotism for flavoring.
I swallow, then turn my attention back to the reporter. “Regardless of whether I’m chosen for the team, I will be proud and happy for every player that makes the list, no matter who they play for.”
“Even Gavin Marshal?”
I swear internally. Did the reporter really have to go there? More microphones are jabbed towards me, and the space goes completely silent. I’m supposed to hate Gavin. That’s the narrative my father and therefore the press have been pushing since the night before the draft seven years ago. I smile at the camera, getting ready to give them what they want even though it makes my stomach uneasy. “I thought we were talking about hockey, not mixed martial arts fighting.” I get an approving nod from my father, which allows me to turn away from the reporters. “Now excuse me. I have to get changed.”
Once in the showers, I lean against the tiled wall and let out a breath as I let the hot water spray down on me.
“We’ll get them next time,” James says to me with a thump of his fist to my shoulder.
“Yeah!” Lars agrees as he steps out from under the water and wraps a towel around his waist.
“Damn right we will,” I say back because it’s what I’m supposed to say. Honestly, though, it’s not the game that has me feeling dour. Losses happen in hockey. It’s a long season and you’ll never win all of your games.
“Gavin Marshal is a real prick,” Johnson says as he walks through.
“You can say that again,” James says and daps Johnson in agreement.
I say nothing. Because it’s not Gavin that has me feeling this way, either. Sure, he’s a menace out there, and easily the most frustrating forward slash enforcer to play against in the league, but he’s only doing his job. And he’s doing a damn good job of it. He plays his heart out on the ice. It just looks different coming from him than it does most other players.
After my shower I walk to the stall with my name above it. No, wait. With my father’s name above it. Sometimes I wonder if they just use his old placard. Sometimes I wonder if it wasn’t for sharing his name I’d even be here at all.
No. Don’t go there. I may have gotten my place as a Broad Wing under special circumstances, but I definitely earned my place in the NHL. There isn’t a team in this league who wouldn’t jump at the chance to grab me in a trade—not that my father would ever in a million seasons consider trading me. But damn it, do I sometimes desperately wish he would. If only so I wouldn’t have to see and live under his shadow every second of my career. Which is the main reason why I want a place on the Olympic team. Sure, he’ll travel to Milan to watch the games, but he won’t be able to travel with us. He won’t have access to the dorms in the Olympic Village. He won’t even be allowed to observe practice. He’ll have to watch from the stands like a regular fan and I could, for the first time in my life, play somegames in peace without being confronted by him the moment I step off the ice.
“Alright, everyone!” my father’s voice bellows as he strides across the locker room. “Listen up!” He walks right up to Coach Chris and requests he turn up the volume on the televisions showing clips from our game on ESPN while the commentators break down our loss, play-by-play. He looks right at me and grins. “They’re announcing the team.”
Gavin
