Shocked, my skin goes cold. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Dude, it’s cool if you did. I don’t care.”
As refreshing as that revelation is, I still laugh uncomfortably through my dry throat and pull at the collar of my USA Olympic team sweatshirt. It suddenly feels way too tight.“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Like hell you don’t.” He laughs as our server drops off our coffee.
I take advantage of the situation and ask our server some questions about the menu before I place an order for a BLT with a side of crispy hash browns.
When she leaves, Bouchard takes a loud sip of his coffee and eyes me over the brim of the mug. “You don’t need tolie to me.”
“How can I lie to you when I don’t even know what you’re talking about?”
“Marshal, I’m a goalie, not a ref; the last thing I am is blind.” He pauses and points at me with emphasis. “And you’ve been eye fucking Connor Kennedy for a week now. Just do it already.”
“I have not,” I hiss at him and lean forward, bringing us closer together so hopefully anyone listening in at a nearby table doesn’t hear this conversation I do not want to be having. The last thing Connor or I need is to have our secrets blown up because Bouchard can’t use his indoor voice.
Bouchard points at me again, but at least seems to get my drift about the volume. “You have too,” he says, much quieter than before. He smiles and shakes his head. “I don’t know how I missed this about you.”
Knowing I’ve lost, I stop denying it. “Well, it’s not like I advertise it.”
With a half shrug, he says, “Neither does my brother, but that doesn’t make him any less gay.”
“I didn’t know your brother was gay.”
“Nobody does. That’s exactly my point.”
“How come he hasn’t come out?”
“For the same reason you haven’t, dumbass.” He reaches across the table and cuffs the back of my head.
I flip him off. “Yeah, but he’s not in the league.”
“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to be. I mean, fuck, he’s committed to St Louis. He’s just waiting to be called up from his college team.”
“Will he be?”
“Probably. The kid’s got silky mitts.”
“What’s he gonna do?”
“I don’t know. Be a miserable prick like you are, would be my guess.”
I stare at him. “I’m not miserable.”
“Yeah, you are. Happy people don’t end up with the title of king of penalty minutes.”
“Hey! I’m proud of my crown.”
“Are you?”
His question stops me in my tracks. I thought I was.
“Look,” he says as our food is dropped off. He waits until the server is gone, and he’s taken a bite of his breakfast to continue. “You’re a great forward and an excellent enforcer. I wouldn’t trade you for anyone. But you’ve changed since being put on a team with Connor.”
I pick at my BLT. “I don’t think I’ve changed.”
“You have.” He points at me with his fork, which has a chunk of pancake dripping in syrup hanging on the end of it. “I don’t want to say you’ve gone soft because that’s not it. But you’re playing with more heart and less bark and bite out there.” He shoves his fork into his mouth and chews. “It’s also nice to see you smile for once.”
