I nudge him with my elbow. “Let’s tell ’em that all of Canada has been exposed. They’ll cough up the puck every time on the back check.”
He gives a big, bellowing laugh and slaps me on the chest with his big paw. That’s when my phone lights up. Unfortunately, the name I see on the screen is my father’s, so there’s an instant knot of tension in my chest.
Things haven’t improved much with my folks since I graduated from college. They still insist that my “gayness” is a phase. My dad still treats my success in the pros like it’s somethinghemade happen. My mom still forgets she gave birth to me half the time.
I spent the holidays with Jamie’s family in California, and when Jamie’s mom Cindy suggested we invite my parents to fly out, I responded with five minutes of hysterical laughter, until Cindy finally chided me into stopping. Then she gave me a big hug and told me she loved me, because that’s the kind of mom she is.
All I got from my folks was a brief phone call wishing me a happy holiday and reminding me that if I want to come home for a visit, I need to show up alone. Yup, Jamie isn’t welcome. Scratch that. Jamie doesn’texist. My parents don’t acknowledge that I am living with a man. To them, I’m a heterosexual athlete bachelor who’s crushing pussy all over the place.
“I need to check this,” I tell Blake.
I unlock the phone and give the email a quick read. Quick being the operative word, because the message is all of two lines.
Ryan, your schedule indicates you’ll be in Boston next month. Your mother and I expect you to join us for dinner. Hunt Club, Saturday, 9:00pm.
He doesn’t sign it “Dad” or even “Roger”.
“Dinner with the parentals, eh?”
I jump and find Blake peering over my shoulder. Fucking hell. It’s a good thing I have a lock on my phone, because this dude probably wouldn’t think twice about snooping around in it.
“Yeah,” I say tightly.
“You guys aren’t close?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Shit. That’s no good.” Blake leans back in his seat. “I’ll introduce you to my folks after the next home game. They’re awesome. Trust me, after ten minutes they’ll be your surrogate family.”
I already have a surrogate family—the Cannings. But I keep that to myself. And then I feel annoyed about keeping it to myself, because goddamn it, why does everything in my life have to be a secret? I fuckinglongfor the day when I can proudly introduce Jamie Canning as my boyfriend. When I can talk to my teammates about my personal life and tell them about Jamie’s amazing family, or invite them over for drinks without having to see Jamie duck into theguestroom when hehas to go to bed. Because he’s not a guest in our condo, dammit. It’s his home. And he’smyhome.
I’m not usually one to wallow in the injustice of it all. I understand the world I live in. I know that being gay still has a stigma attached to it. Doesn’t matter how many strides are being made, there will always be people out there who won’t accept that I like dick, people who will judge and spew their filth and try to make my life miserable. The fact that I’m in the spotlight now only makes it worse, because there are so many other factors to consider.
If I come out, what will it mean for my career?
For the team?
For Jamie?
For Jamie’s family?
The media will swarm like a horde of bees. The bigots and assholes will crawl out of the woodwork. The spotlight will no longer be just on my game, but on the personal lives of everyone I care about.
A queasy feeling churns in my gut. I remind myself that it won’t be like this forever. Next season some other hot new rookie will take the media by storm, and I’ll be forgotten. And by then, I will have proved to my new team that they can’t survive without me, gayness be damned.
“Ooooh ya,” Blake suddenly exclaims. I look over to see him reading something on his phone. “Guess who just went on IR?”
My breath hitches. “You’re shitting me.”
“Nope. Right here in black and white.” He holds up the phone, then twists around in his seat to address Eriksson and Forsberg. “Hankersen’s out. At least five games.”
A whoop sounds from behind us, and then Eriksson’s loud announcement blares through the cabin. “Hankersen’s out!”
There’s a collective burst of excitement. Don’t get me wrong—we all feel for Hankersen. An injury is the worst thing that could happen to an athlete, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But at the same time, hockey isn’t just a game—it’s a business. We’re all playing toward the same goal. We all want that championship cup. A win in Chicago tonight gets us one step closer to that goal.
My phone flashes again. This time it’s Jamie’s name looking up at me with the text message icon next to it. But Blake is settling in his seat again, so I don’t give in to the urge to unlock the screen.
My teammate, of course, sneaks another peek. “Text from your roomie,” he says helpfully, as if I’m not fucking aware of it.
