“We will,” I tell him, bringing one hand to cup his face and run my thumb over his pink cheek. “But if we don’t, I can wait until this summer. I love you.”
“I love you too,” he says, and now it’s my turn to kiss him in front of everyone right here on this dirty airport curb.
Connor
By the time my plane lands in Chicago two hours later, the sports world is buzzing with speculation about me and Gavin. The burner phone I grabbed at the airport has six missed texts from him all bearing links of proof. The first is to a list of coaches and general managers who have signed on to back the so-called Marshal Rule. More than half the teams in the league are voicing their support. No doubt because they’re tired of losing to Buffalo. One notable team missing from the list, though, is St Louis. Which does give me some hope we might be able to pull this whole thing off.
The next link is to the story my father wants theworld to believe. That what they saw was nothing more than two athletes getting caught up in the moment and excitement of winning Olympic gold. He’s maintaining they’re the ones turning it into something else merely because Gavin is gay. That it’s all a big misunderstanding. That the Marshal Rule has nothing to do with me. And that I, most importantly, am one hundred percent straight. Which is bullshit. I’m one hundred percent gay. Strictly dickly for as long as I’ve been interested in sex. But I know exactly what he’s doing. He’s planting the seed in everyone’s head so he can orchestrate that fake “image-preserving romance” with a woman he threatened me with. His effort to effectively make this “gay mishap” of mine disappear. Little does he know that Gavin and I are way ahead of him in curating my new image.
The third is to another social media video post. This one is going viral, and it’s of Gavin kissing me goodbye outside the airport terminal. It shows him caressing my face; it shows us whispering; it shows him kissing me with intensity, like he’d rather do anything other than put me on a plane sending me away from him and back to my father. I do the smart thing and ignore the comment section as I’m sure it’s an absolute shitshow.
The fourth link he sent is to a social media thread where a sports journalist broke the news that there’s a rumor I demanded a trade out of Chicago.
The fifth link is to a clip of my father saying there is no truth to the rumor I demanded a trade. I can see the anger on his face while he states I’m a Broad Wing and will forever remain a Broad Wing. Despite his world unraveling around him, he says that last part directly into the camera as if he’s trying to remind me of my place.
The sixth link he sent—and this one is my favorite—is of Bouchard. He’s in his home, speaking to a sports reporter via Zoom from his laptop. Displayed over one shoulder is his Olympic gold medal, and the other is his framed Team USA Olympic jersey. He must have been working on cleaning and pressing that thing perfectly all night so he could have it displayed behind him for an occasion just like this.
“Does it look like Gavin and Connor aren’t in love in that video?” Bouchard asks.
“Videos can be deceiving,” the reporter says.
“Not like that.” Bouchard laughs, then adds, “Look, I’ve been playing with these two for close to a month. The team spent every day together. There isn’t a single one of us who can’t vouch for what these two have as being genuine.”
“So the team knew they were together?”
“Aretogether,” Bouchard corrects. “And of course we knew. You can’t hide what they have.”
“If you all knew, why didn’t anyone come forward? Especially after Gavin was outed.”
“We didn’t come forward because we all agreed it wasn’t anyone’s business. No one has ever cared who I’m dating. Why do we care so much about these two?”
“Was it a team member who outed Gavin? Maybe someone who wanted him gone and wanted to take his place as alternate captain.”
Bouchard’s grin on the screen is wicked, ready to go in for the kill. “Someone wanted him off the team, alright. But it wasn’t a player. At least not a current player.”
“It sounds like you’re implying Connor Kennedy Sr is the one who outed Gavin.”
Bouchard looks directly into the camera. “I’m not implying it. I’m directly stating it. You can quote me. Connor Kennedy Sr not only outed Gavin, but he’s making up this ridiculous denial about their relationship.”
“You said they were in love. I find that hard to believe. Especially from Gavin Marshal. He isn’t exactly what anyone would call the lovey-dovey type.”
“Who are you to judge how Gavin shows his affections?” Bouchard challenges.
“Well, considering what we see from him is mostly violence…” the reporter counters, letting her statement dangle.
Bouchard doesn’t let her get away with it. He laughs, then says, “It’s hockey! This is a contact sport. We all have a history of violence out there. Except for goalies.” He winks. “We’re angels.”
That’s where the clip ends. I debate starting it from the beginning again. I’ve already watched it four times. Like I said, it’s my favorite. But the driver of the black SUV I’m riding in is making a turn into the Broad Wings stadium parking lot. Coach Chris and his wife are waiting for me at the players’ entrance.
Gavin
So far this day may be going according to plan, but it’s still a nightmare. I am a ball of stress, hiding in the Blizzards empty practice rink as I watch all of this go down. Coach Matthews was nice enough to let us in, even though as a suspended player, I’m technically not supposed to be here.
I needed this, though. If I can’t be with Connor while he navigates this next stage with his father, then I need to do something to keep me from jumping out of my skin. Skating, despite my reputation for being a bruiser on the ice, keeps me calm. This hour-long stick-and-puck session I’m having with my dad is the only thing keeping my head clear.After confronting the press, my dad and I could both use letting off some steam in the form of slap-shotting pucks.
Plus, Coach Matthews is here working on the trade deal with our general manager and waiting for it to be completed. Every once in a while he pops his head out of his office to give me updates. Apparently, the St Louis Mules, who are completely tanking this season, are willing to take on the excess of Connor’s contract if Coach Chris agrees to tell Chicago to fuck off and come coach for them. But who knows if that’s going to work. That’s a risky play for them to be making.
I skate to the boards where my dad is wiping his forehead with a towel.
