“In the first place, I’m not Kristine. I’mKai.”
“What? Who’s Kai?”
“I am, dumbass.” She gives my ass a pinch. “Kristine wasn’t fashionable enough for my agency. They changed my name.”
Right—modeling. I’d forgotten she was making a go of that. “You let them change your name? That sounds extreme.”Says the man who hides his sexuality to play in the NHL. Okay, so a name change isn’t that weird. “Kai is kinda butch. I like it.”
She laughs. “Come dance with me. Let’s liven this place up.”
“Sure,” I say immediately. Talking to Kristine/Kai has put me in a better mood. It reminds me of simpler times, when she and Robbie and Cassel and I would look for trouble in the stodgy Boston bars. I wish we were there again instead of here, but you can’t have everything. And dancing with an old friend makes the swing music the six-piece band is playing more interesting to me than it was a few minutes ago.
I take her hand and lead her to the dance floor.
JAMIE
I’m folding some laundry on the sofa, half-watching a basketball game and poking at my phone. None of these things is very interesting.
The movie I wanted to see has one last showing, fortyminutes from now. If I’m going to see it, I have to decide in the next five minutes.
Will Wes be pissed if I go alone? Probably not. Not much, anyway. And if it’s great I can stream it again with him when it’s released for home video.
I fold two more T-shirts and try to decide. The movie ticket doesn’t cost much, but then there’s popcorn and overpriced soda. And two subway rides. It’s not free, and I try to save any spare dollars for nights out with Wes. The rent I insist on paying is almost more than I can afford, so I’m broke a lot of the time.
Also, it’s cold out there. Toronto has winter winds that just slice right through you. Living on the West Coast my whole life, I never really understood just how brutal a winter could be. Maybe that sounds like a lame reason to stay home, but the wind chill factor doesn’t tip the scales in the movie’s favor.
If Wes were here I’d go in a heartbeat, though. Weather be damned.
Still dawdling, I tap on Instagram. And—this is trippy—Wes is in the first picture I see. The shot is on the team’s account. Someone from the publicity staff is busy taking photos at the party. In the picture, Wes is smiling at a really hot young woman in a copper-colored dress. Their arms are wrapped around one another. The caption says, “Rookie forward Ryan Wesley dancing with model Kai James at #PartyForPsoriasis.”
Wes is swing-dancing with a model, while I sit here literally folding his underwear.
That’s it. That’s the shove I need to get off the couch and go out.
Twenty minutes later,I’m getting off at the Dundas stop on the Yonge line. The frigid wind slaps my face when I emerge onto the street from the subway station. I hurriedly slip into my gloves and lift my hood, but my entire face is half-frozen by the time I make it to the theater.
When I try to buy a ticket at the box office, the acne-ridden kid at the counter delivers the bad news. “I’m sorry, but that showing has been cancelled.”
“But it was listed on the theater website,” I balk.
“I know, butMorph-Botsopened this weekend and every show has been sold out since last Friday. We haven’t sold a ticket toThe Long Passin days, so the theater manager decided to use the auditorium for an extraMorph-Botsshowing.” He awkwardly rubs his pimple-covered chin. “Would you like a ticket forMorph-Bots?”
If he says the wordsMorph-Botsone more time, I’m going to lose my ever loving shit.
“—there’re a few seats left. All in the front row, but…” He shrugs sheepishly, as if realizing he’s not making a good case for this stupid robot movie.
“Naah, it’s all right. Thanks anyway.”
I shove my hands in my jacket pockets and amble away from the ticket counter. Crap. Now what? I came all the way here, but there aren’t any other movies I’m interested in seeing.
With a heavy feeling in my chest, I leave the theater. I’ve just stepped outside into the cold when my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a text from Wes. My heart squeezes as I read it.
Wish you were here.
Does he? Or is he relieved that I’m not, because it means not having to answer any uncomfortable questions from his teammates and fans?
Fuck. That’s not fair. I’m an ass for even thinking that,but these days it’s getting harder and harder to keep this up. I wasn’t raised to hide who I am. My parents encouraged all six of us kids to beproudof our identities, to follow our hearts and do what makes us happy and to hell with what anyone else thinks. All my siblings have taken that advice to heart.
Tammy married her high school sweetheart at eighteen, turning down a scholarship to an East Coast school in favor of community college, because her husband Mark and the Canning clan were the most important things to her.
