If I wasn’t so worried about Gavin, and the circling reporters and cameramen, I’d run across the room and hug Bouchard right now. He’s not the only one, though. The rest of the team is rallying to stick up for Gavin as well. Most of them repeat the sentiments of it being none of anyone’s business that Gavin Marshal is gay.
It’s working. The reporters seem to be running out of steam. But I’m not naive enough to think this will be the end of it. Gavin still hasn’t made an appearance. I’d be lying if I pretended to not be nervous about it once he does. I wish I could talk to him. I wish I could help him formulate a plan. After all, this is my fault. If I’d only stood up to my father years ago, this wouldn’t be happening. Gavin’s sexuality could have continued to fly under the radar and he and I could be together in peace. We could be working on planning how to make our relationship work back in the real world away from the Olympics instead of trying to keep it from being exposed here to his detriment.
He’s not dumb. He has to know it was my father who did this, and that my father has thought this through, weighing all the pros and cons of outing my lover but not me.
A hush comes over the room, and for a minute I’m dumb enough to think it’s the reporters leaving, having realized there’s no worthwhile story here. But then I see Gavin stepping out of Coach’s office. He’s still in his skates, though they’re unlaced and clinging loosely to his ankles. He’s out of his jersey and shoulder pads, but the bottom half of his uniform is still intact. The dry fit shirt he wears under everything is anything but dry. He’s still soaked in sweat from the exertion of the game. He has to be dying for a shower.
The reporters swarm him like sharks. He stands before them, looking bored and completely unbothered. It’s sexy as hell.
“Gavin Marshal, do you have any comment about the allegations you snuck a man into your room?”
He smirks at my father. “Who said I snuck him in?”
I gulp. There’s no way he’s going to out me, is there? He wouldn’t do that. I don’t think he would. He’s probably conveying to my father he knows it was him. But is it fair for me to let him go through this alone?
“Are you saying it was another athlete?”
“I’m saying that if I was straight, this would be a nonissue, and you should treat it as such.” He sits down and begins to finally remove his skates.
“Do you think this is going to affect your ability to play?” another reporter asks.
Gavin shakes his head and laughs. He looks directly at the camera. “I’ve been fucking men for a while now, and it hasn’t affected my game play one bit.”
The room goes silent again. Gavin will be levied a heavy fine for his use of crude language with the press, but he doesn’t appear to care.
He removes his other skate and places them into his stall with the rest of his gear. Then, looking back at the crowd of reporters hovering over him, he asks, “Does anyone else have any more ridiculous questions?”
“Just one.” A female reporter steps forward. “Is he worth risking your career over?”
Gavin stares right at her. “Yes,” he says. “He is.”
FIFTEEN
Gavin
Coach clears everyone but the team out of the locker room, including Connor’s father, who looks at me like he thinks he’s won something. I don’t know. Maybe he did. He’s at the very least painted me into a corner. I’m not going to out his son to take some of the heat off of me. Even if Connor decides to step forward on his own—which, looking at him and seeing the way he’s biting his lip as he looks at me across the locker room, I can tell he’s debating if it’s something he should do—I’ll advise him against it. This thing between us, no matter how wonderful it is, has an expiration date on it.
There’s no way this can carry on once we return home. Not publicly. How would that even work? Two rival players playing against each other. No one is going to accept that. Especially not Connor’s father.
“Listen up, everyone.” Coach steps to the middle of the room, but all eyes are on me. “I think this goes without saying that this changes nothing for us as a team. Ignore the press in regard to this. If any of you ends up on ESPN saying something stupid, you’re benched. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Coach!” everyone but me and Connor yells out.
“Good. Now finish hitting the showers. Bus leaves in thirty minutes. And I’m canceling tomorrow’s practice. I think we’ve earned a morning to ourselves.” He walks back into his office and slams the door shut. I can only imagine the size of the drink he’s pouring for himself right now. If I drank, I’d join him.
I look at Connor. He’s still biting his lip. I can see the war of his thoughts happening behind his eyes. His brow is furrowed, creating a deep worry line through the center. I want to smooth it away with my finger, then kiss it away with my lips. But now is not the time for me to do that. Not while everyone is here to witness it.
“Have you checked your phone yet?” Bouchard says, sliding down the bench to sit beside me.
“No. Should I?” It hadn’t even occurred to me to do that.
He shrugs and does a poor job of containing a smile. “You should probably ignore social media for a while,” he says. “And the sports blogs. And YouTube. And ESPN.”
“So in other words, don’t check my phone.”
He shrugs again, and that smile is still there. “At least check your text messages.”
Warily, I reach and grab my cell phone off the top shelf of my stall. It is loaded with notifications.But the most important ones I see are these two.
