Except smiling isn’t what I feel like doing right now. “Even if what you’re saying is true,” I say and take a bite of my sandwich, “I can’t act on it.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s an expiration date on whatever this is and it’s fast approaching.”
“There doesn’t have to be.” He shrugs and shovels more of his pancakes into his mouth.
“Bullshit.”
“Why? It’s not like the league has rules about this stuff.”
“Only because they never thought they’d have to.” I laugh.
“I still don’t see what the issue is. You two are obviously into each other. I won’t lie, it’s fucking weird.” He pauses and points at me again. “And not because it’s gay. Don’t wrap me up in some homophobic bullshit. It’s weird because you two are supposed to hate each other and it’s very clear that you don’t.”
I put my sandwich down and sigh. He’s right. I don’t hate Connor at all. “I don’t think Connor is capable of hating anybody.”
“I wish he’d hate his dad. That guy’s a real asshole.”
“No shit,” I say with a pointed tip of my head in his directionas I pick my sandwich back up to take another bite. “He’s a whole separate problem.”
“Let me guess: He has no idea his golden boy likes to suck cock?”
I drop my sandwich back onto my plate and flip my hands up at him. “Dude, come on.”
“Sorry,” he says. “Just observing that Connor Sr doesn’t seem like the kind of dad who won’t freak out about you and his son bumping uglies in the Olympic Village.”
“That is an astute observation.”
“Jesus, man, have you been taking diction lessons with him or something? Since when do you say shit like ‘astute’?”
I grin at him. “Since the word ‘diction’ is involved.”
He lets out a full belly laugh. “Alright. I walked right into that one.”
I shake my head at him, and we both concentrate more on our meals. The conversation shifts to general hockey shit, like who we think is going to be the toughest team to beat at the Olympics. Both of us agree that Canada is going to be the toughest, but teams like Finland and Czechia are bound to be a problem as well. Eventually, our bellies are full, and our plates are empty. As promised, I pay for the check, and we walk out together.
“That hit the spot,” he says to me as we head towards the elevators. He hits the button to go up.
“Are you going to your room?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He yawns. “I desperately need a nap. I might sleep straight through until our flight leaves tomorrow.”
The door opens and we both step inside. He hits the number for the team’s floor, and we ride up in silence. The higher we go and the closer we get to Connor, the more my heart begins to race. In some ways, Bouchard is right. Maybe I am overthinking this. Maybe there is a way we can make it work once we’re back in the regular world and out of our Olympic bubble. Unfortunately, even with Bouchard’s support, I still don’t see the path forward. There’s too much at stake and too many landmines we can’t skate past.
Will Connor still feel the same way about me when this is over, and everyone heads home? Will we be able to play against each other when our teams meet for a game? I don’t doubt that he’ll be able to make that particular switch, but there’s no way I’ll be able to do what I need to do in order for my team to win. If I give in, there’s no way I’ll be able to eye him like a target, an obstacle in the way of our repeat championship.
The elevator door opens on our floor, and I feel like I need to go back down and then up again a few more times to get a handle on how I need to conduct myself when I see Connor alone in our hotel room. With some luck, he might not be in there. He could be out avoiding me as well.
Bouchard steps into the hall. “Come on, jackass,” he says and starts walking away while holding two fingers up on either side of his head. “You have ‘captain stuff’ you need to do.” He stops and I bump into him. The grin on his face when he looks at me is treacherous. “In case you didn’t know, ‘captain stuff’ is a euphemism for sex.”
“Yeah.” I shove him hard. “I got that.”
Connor
I’ve been back in this room, sitting on my bed watching ESPN for an hour and I’m still miserable from breakfast with my father. He’s soured my entire day off.
I don’t know why I’m surprised. The man has never let me enjoy a weekend in my life. Even our family vacations revolved around hockey in some way. It was either taking me to camps, or junior league tryouts, or to watch foreign leagues and scout giant Europeans to pull over to the NHL.
