“How much weight did you put on this thing?” I ask through clenched teeth as I lift.
“One sixty.”
“What!” I exclaim, as I lower it back down with the help of his guiding hands. Grunting as I lift it back up, I add, “My trainer has me lift one twenty-five.”
He helps me lower it back towards my chest. “Your trainer is wrong. You should be pressing eighty percent of your body weight.”
I breathe out as I push the bar back up. “I don’t think your math is right. That seems high.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I rounded up.”
“Asshole,” I say as we lower it again. My muscles are screaming, and my blood pressure is rising.
“Gimme one more,” he says.
I take a deep breath in, then begin to push up for one last time. A growl rumbles in my chest and up my throat as I push.
With ease, he places the bar back on the supports, then pats my shoulders. “There it is,” he says. “Told you I could make you growl.”
I laugh at him through labored breaths. “There has to be an easier way to do that.”
“There is,” he says, but then his face turns serious. “But that’s something we probably shouldn’t do.”
I deflate because he’s right. And up until last night, that could have remained unspoken. But now that we both know the other is gay, that exploring that easier way is technically a possibility, it makes it that much more disappointing.
Gavin
All I can think as I look down at Connor while he rests on the bench is that I’m playing with fire. I’ve been playing hockey my whole life and not once have I gotten close to blowing my cover and exposing to everyone around me all of who I am. For fuck’s sake, last night was the most I’ve ever even opened up about my childhood back in Alaska.
I’m fine with the image the league and its fans have of me. Grumpy, brutal enforcer, dirty white boy from no-place-good Alaska. That’s how they see me, want me, and need me.Finding out I’m gay would blow that entire image. Which is ridiculous. Being gay doesn’t change the fact that I am, indeed, grumpy, brutal, and dirty. But that doesn’t fit the accepted, mainstream version of gay men that is presented to the broader culture. The people who yell and cheer for gay men all picture the same thing as they promote us as their virtuous cause. Soft, slightly effeminate, male light.
It’s so stupid. Male light, my ass. I can say from experience, there is nothing more male than two men fucking. It’s the most masculine thing a man can do on either side of it. And here I am, standing above Connor Kennedy thinking about how much I want to press him over my head before I bend him over a bench and fuck his brains out. Grunting and growling with him to the finish line.
The irony is, Connor could probably come out and still be beloved by fans. I even get the sense that he’d like to do it, but his father, who has too tight of a leash on him, would never allow it. But the NHL’s PR team would eat it up for sure. Connor with his charm and good boy good looks could so easily be seen as acceptable by fans. Which in turn would make him acceptable to the higher ups in the league. Anything goes with them if it drives up profits. That doesn’t mean I would encourage him, though. Locker rooms all across the league would be a nightmare for him. Plus the chirping he’d get on the ice during games would be brutal.
In essence, he and I would run into two completely oppositeproblems if either of us was outed. At least in his case, he’s beloved by everyone enough that his paychecks would still roll in.
So yeah. We are playing with fire and this flirtation we’re engaging in is a terrible idea. Unfortunately, however, the way he’s looking up at me with wide, hopeful eyes as I needlessly help him off the bench, confirms that I’m doomed to keep making this mistake for the remainder of this Olympic experience.
The spell between us is broken when the gym doors open. We quickly let go of each other as two women, around our age, who are fully made up with perfect hair and makeup walk in. Connor takes a step and turns away from me, busying himself with removing the weights from the bar.
“Are we done?” he asks when he turns back to face me. The look of hope is still there, but it’s more about wanting to get away from what’s about to happen than hoping we both give in to what’s simmering between us.
“Yeah.” I toss him a towel so he can dry off his sweat. “We’re done.”
“Molly! Look!” one of the women says. I can hear the fake surprise in her voice. “That’s Connor Kennedy!”
Connor catches my eye, giving me a look that says we need to get out of here. I couldn’t agree more.
The women saunter towards us. The one who spoke has her eyes locked on Connor, while the spare looks at me. Her gaze is assessing as she tries to place if I’m someone she should know. Puck bunnies like this never know who I am. They’re so focused on players like Connor. It’s quite funny, actually. Connor is without a doubt the biggest prize in the league for one of these women to try to snag. He scores goals, he always plays in the all-star game, and he’s talked about every morning on every sports channel. He’s instant fame and instant money, which is, let’s be honest, exactly what these kinds of girls are always looking for. The sad truth is it usually works—when the hotshot player in their sightline isn’t gay.
Not today, ladies.They’re barking up the wrongest two trees in the league.
The woman with her eyes focused on Connor touches his chest with her finger. “I didn’t know you boys were staying here.”
“Bullshit,” I cough and Connor blushes.
She ignores me and clearly assumes the flush of Connor’s cheeks is because of her. “I’m a big fan of yours,” she says. “I watch all of your games.”
