What the hell will I do then? If Wes decides he needs another year of professional hockey under his belt before he comes out, I don’t think I’ll be able to suck it up.
Suddenly our apartment is just too small. “Going for a run,” I announce.
“Right now?” he asks. Usually we spend his pre-game hours together unless I’m away at a game or practice.
“Just for a little while,” I mutter, not looking him in the eye.
After a quick change, I stick earbuds in and leave the apartment. There are treadmills in the “health center” on the roof of our building. I set a machine to a blisteringly fast pace and pound my frustrations into the rubber conveyor belt.
I know you’re supposed to talk this shit out. The problem with that idea is that I know just what Wes will say. He’ll promise me that in June the secrets are over. But now that date seems so arbitrary to me. Why not May? Why not July?
Why ever?
Even though I know Wes is a man of his word, I can’t help but worry. It’s a hard thing I’m asking him to do. I hate beingthe one who makes him do it, too. If it goes poorly, he might actually resent me.
I will fuckinghatethat.
A half hour later I’m sweaty but no less miserable. As I head back down to our apartment, I wonder what I’ll say if Wes wants to talk about it.
As it turns out, we don’t talk about it.
Getting off the elevator on our floor, I hear pounding. “Wesley! You crazy beast! Open up!”
Blake Riley is standing in front of our door.
“Hey,” I say, because I’m not smart enough to retreat to the gym for another mile or two until he gives up.
“J-Bomb!” Blake’s expression lights up when he sees me. “I have the most vicious hangover. It’s like a sheep with fangs, gnawing on my head!”
“A...sheep?” What? I nudge him out of the way and open the door to our apartment.
“Dude, you need a shower,” Blake motor-mouths as he follows me inside, heading for the kitchen. “I need two pizzas and a quart of coffee. How’s your team doing, man? What do you like on your pizza?”
“Um…” I don’t know which question to answer first.
“Sausage or mushrooms?”
At least that’s a multiple choice question. “Both?”
“I knew I liked you. Go shower. I’ll make coffee,” the guy says from the center of my own kitchen.
A bathroom door opens from deep inside our apartment. “Babe?” Wes calls.
Fuck!“What do you need,Ryan?And Blake wants to know what you like on pizza!”
Blake looks up from his phone. “Your nickname is Babe? Like that pig in the movie?” He snorts.
“No, moron,” Wes says as he rounds the corner. “Like Babe Ruth.”
“You grumpy, Wesley? Hungover, too? I’m ordering pizza.” He puts the phone to his ear. “Sure I’ll hold. But please hurry, we’re desperate.”
I leave them without another word and take my shower in our en suite bathroom. Blake is too busy talking his ass off to notice. When I come back ten minutes later, he hasn’t moved from the kitchen. Now he’s holding a cup of coffee in one of the mugs my mom made, and it makes me feel stabby to choose one with the Toronto team’s insignia on it instead.
Given the mood I’m in, coffee is probably a poor idea. But I pour it anyway.
It’s no comfort to me that Wes looks at least as miserable as I do.
The pizzas arrive during a Blake Riley monologue about the movieBabeand the model he hooked up with last night and something about sheep being scary. I’m not listening too carefully. While Blake steps into the hallway to pay, Wes reaches across the counter and puts a hand on mine. “How was your run?”
