Stepping off the ice at the end of the game, I’m still amazed I scored that goal. Connor set me up perfectly. There was no way I could miss. Everyone is losing their mind as we head down the tunnel to the locker room. I’m beaming. This has been an incredible night.This win is exactly what we needed.
The entire team is buzzing. We’re all yelling, jostling, back patting, shoulder checking, and playfully hugging each other while we make our way down the tunnel back to our locker room.
“One game closer!” Bradley Warren yells out and slaps Connor a high five as he walks past him.
“Latvia didn’t stand a chance tonight!” Max Franklin says, and ruffles Bouchard’s sweaty hair with his gloved hand.
“Not just Latvia!” Connor says. “We can actually win this!”
Bradley grins at him. “I want it,” he says, then bonks his helmet against Connor’s before he takes a seat in front of his stall.
“That’s how it’s done, boys!” Coach yells as we all file into the locker room. Once seated, he holds up the game puck. “Every one of you deserves this, but I gotta give it to Bouchard.” He tosses it towards him, and he catches it. “That was a hell of a shutout.”
“Thanks, Coach,” Bouchard says, nodding at Coach in appreciation of his acknowledgement of his work as well as the team’s applause, hoots, and hollers. He rises and holds the puck up for everyone to see. “But I don’t deserve this.” The team tries to object. He waves us off and starts walking across the locker room towards me. “This one’s for you, buddy.”
I shake my head at him. “I won some fights, and I knocked out a guy’s tooth.”
“You scored a goal. That’s gotta be a first for you.”
Smiling, I punch him in the arm. “You know that’s not true. Keep it,” I say and wrap him in a hug. “It’s yours.”
The cheers from my teammates all around us agree. They all find their own way to congratulate him as he makes his way backto his seat to remove his gear. He earned that puck. Shutouts are not something that happen often. Especially not ones like that.
“I hate to break up this party,” Coach says. “But you all know the drill. Press is on their way in in five minutes.” He looks at me. “Marshal, in my office.”
“Why?” I laugh, still smiling ear to ear from our win. “I’ve already been outed. What else could there be?”
He grins at me. “I have someone in there who wants to see you.”
I’m quick to my feet and striding to the door. Coach already did me a solid by helping me get those tickets for my dad. I should have known he’d find a way to sneak him down after the game.
“Nice game, kid,” my dad says when I walk through the door into the office. He walks right up to me and gives me a giant bear hug. “God damn, was it good to see you play.”
SEVENTEEN
Connor
Gavin’s father, Garrett, is so similar to Gavin. I immediately like him. They’re the same height, the same build, they have the same deep brown eyes, and longish thick dark hair. They could be twins, except for the fact it’s obvious they were born decades apart. Garrett Marshal’s face bears more deep wrinkles. His beard, which is fuller, longer, and less maintained than Gavin’s, is peppered with gray. Most striking is while he is the same size as Gavin, he’s built like a dad and not like an athlete like his son. He’s also gruffer than Gavin. Which I didn’t think could be possible, but it’s easy to see that despite that gruffness he has extreme affection for his son. He keeps patting Gavin on the chest whenever anyone compliments Gavin on his game play or asks Garrett if his son has always been a bruiser.
But when reporters descend into the locker room, it becomes very clear where they are most alike. Garrett Marshal is having none of it with their questions. He stands behind Gavin with his arms crossed over his chest, covering the top part of the Team USA logo of the official team jersey he’s wearing that has Gavin’s name and number emblazoned across the back of it.
“Do you think your reputation as a goon is good for young gay kids to see?” one of the reporters asks.
“That’s interesting,” Gavin says, his expression blank. “You were all asking that same question when I was picked for this team back in January, except it was all kids, not just gay kids you were concerned I was influencing. My answer is still no. The enforcer is an important role to fill on every team. It doesn’t matter the sexuality of who plays it.”
“What about the coaches across the league who’d rather do away with enforcers like you?” a different reporter asks. “Are you afraid of them using your sexuality as a wedge to have you removed from the league?”
Gavin’s eyes narrow. “I dare them to find the page in the rule book that says fucking men means I can’t play hockey.”
The grin Garrett Marshal breaks out in behind Gavin is menacing. I’ve seen that look before. Many times from his son sitting in the penalty box, waiting to be let out to take care of unfinished business on the ice. It does its job. The reporters all take a step back.
It doesn’t stop their questions, though. Instead, they focus on the rest of us. Across the locker room, I see Bouchard boisterously answering questions about his shutout. He’s naturally gregarious, but this is extra, even for him. He’s doing his best to be a distraction from the Gavin show. I give him a nod.
Suddenly, there’s a camera in my face and a reporter holding up a microphone. “You could have scored that last goal, giving yourself a hat trick, but passed the puck to Gavin Marshal instead. Any reason why?”
I run a hand through my hair and give the reporter my best smile. “There’s no selfish play going on out there for us. He was there, and he had a better, clearer shot on goal. It’s as simple as that.”
“Gavin Marshal isn’t known as a scorer. Was it worth the risk?”
