Jamie insists, “I’m fine,” and I’m tempted to slug him in the face. I don’t, though, because he’s the one lying in this hospital bed, so I guess I’m the one who needs to act like the adult.
“You’re not fine,” I say sternly. “You’re sick.” Possibly with a dangerous strain of sheep poison or whatever the hell it is, but I refuse to let myself believe he might actually have it. Thanks to Blake’s worrisome obsession with sheep, I know that at least sixteen people have died of this flu. And all I’m going to say is—Jamie willnotbe number seventeen. I’d sell my soul to the devil before I let anything happen to this guy. He’s my entire life.
We stop talking when we hear a loud beep. The door latch releases, and the nurse (who now officially hates me) stiffly enters the room. She’s decked out in her hazmat suit and facemask. I can’t see her mouth, but her eyes tell me she’s frowning.
“Mr. Wesley. Please follow me,” she orders, and I’m concerned by the note of unhappiness in her voice. Oh God. Are Jamie’s results back? Does she want to talk to me in private so she can confirm that the sheep got to Jamie?
My heartbeat triples as I stumble off the chair. Jamie looks as worried as I feel, but he doesn’t protest as I follow Nurse Death into the secondary room. Once the door closes behind us, she holds out a cell phone.Mycellphone, which she confiscated an hour ago after she caught me sending a text message to the Canning clan.
Apparently electronics are a no-no in quarantine.Truthfully, I’m glad she took the phone away, because it was lighting up like a fireworks display after the photograph was released. Jamie had still been asleep at that point. Yup, he has no idea that as of an hour ago, a shit storm has been brewing outside our glass cage, and I have no intention of telling him. Not yet, anyway.
My sole priority is to help him get better. If he finds out that our relationship is now being discussed and dissected by thousands of people—hell, probably millions of people? Who knows what it’ll do to his already fragile system. I can’t take that risk.
“We’ve been fielding an exorbitant number of calls this past hour,” she says flatly. “At least two dozen of them have come from a Frank Donovan. He insists on speaking to you, and frankly, my colleagues and I are getting tired of being yelled at. So we’re making an exception for you, Mr. Wesley. You can use your cell phone, but only in this room and only briefly. Now please call Mr. Donovan back before I give in to the urge to look into the cost of a contract killer.”
I snicker. Okay. Maybe Nurse Death isn’t all bad.
I wait until she leaves the room before pulling up Frank’s number, but I hesitate before hittingsend. Fuck me. I’m not prepared to deal with any of this right now. I had a plan, damn it. Finish out my rookie year, andthencome out. The story would have been controlled by Frank and myself. Presented to the media the waywewanted it to be presented.
But some greedy, nosy, inconsiderate asshole took matters into his own hands. Or…herhands, maybe? I suddenly think of Nurse Death. What if it was her?
Then again, it could be any of the nurses I’d seen beyond the glass today. Or the techs delivering test results. The doctorspopping in and out of the unit. The family members visiting their quarantined love ones.
Anybody could have snapped that picture. Trying to finger the culprit is like playing a nonsensical version ofClue. Nurse Death…in the Isolation Unit…with the Camera!
And does it really matter at this point? What’s done is done, and now it’s time for damage control.
“Ryan, about goddamn time!” Frank’s frazzled voice booms in my ear. “Why aren’t you answering your cell phone?”
“The nurses took it away,” I tell him. “Not allowed to have phones in the hospital.”
“Total myth. Studies have shown the effects of cell phones on medical equipment to be minimal.”
Is this really something we should be debating right now? “Frank,” I say, veering him back to issues of actual importance. “What kind of backlash are we looking at here?”
“Still too early to tell. Most of the media outlets are hopping on the rainbow train—”
I clench my jaw.
“—waving their gay pride flags and commending you for your bravery in coming out.”
“I didn’t come out,” I mutter. “Someone else did it for me.”
“Well, you’re out now,” he says dismissively. “And now we need to make sure we spin it the right way. The franchise is going to release the statement I prepared after we drafted you. I wanted to give you the head’s up about that—it’ll go out within the hour.”
Frank had sent me a copy of the statement a while ago. It featured a lot of politically correct language, as I recall.The team is—and always has been—supportive of our players and the rich diversity they bring to the sport of hockey…Blahblah blah.We are proud to call Ryan Wesley a member of the team.
“We’ll give the vultures the night to peck and gnaw at it,” Frank says in a cynical voice. “And then tomorrow morning, you’ll give a press conference and—”
“What?” I interrupt. “No way.”
“Ryan—”
“I agreed to a written statement,” I remind him. “A short follow-up to whatever statement you give to the media. I didnotagree to be on camera.” The thought of standing in front of a room full of reporters talking about my sex life and answering questions that nobody has the right to ask me brings bile to my throat.
“That was before pictures of you making out with your gay lover showed up all over the Internet,” Frank replies. He doesn’t sound angry or disgusted, just matter-of-fact. “They’re going to expect more than a two-line press release, Ryan.”
“I don’t give a shit what they expect!” Frustration claws at my chest. I want to hurl my phone into the wall, watch it shatter to pieces, and then stomp on them for good measure. I feel…violated. And that only intensifies the bolts of indignation whipping up and down my spine. These people have no right to shine a spotlight on me just because I like to fuck men. It’s none of their goddamn business.
