Jamie is awake when I walk back into the room. “Are you okay with me leaving for a couple hours?” I sit on the available few inches of mattress next to his hip. “Does anything hurt?”
He swallows roughly, as if his throat is on fire. “Go. It will be fine.”
“You need water?” I look around for the cup with the straw.
“Go,” he says more forcefully. “Just…”
“What?” I plant both hands on the bed and look down into his handsome face.
“Just come back later,” he says with a smile. “Maybe they’ll let me go home.”
I lean down and kiss his forehead. Then I pick up my duffel off the floor and go before I can change my mind.
I sleeplike the dead for two hours at home. Then I shower before heading over to the rink. I’m a little late, but I like it that way. Less time for chatter in the locker room. I’m too tired to hear whatever bullshit my teammates might be saying about me today.
That’s something I can’t even think about right now. If they’re busy trying to assign me to a separate changing area or some bullshit I don’t even want to know.
When I walk into the dressing room, all conversation comes to a halt.
Whatever. I don’t give a fuck. I toss my gym bag onto the bench and remove my coat. You could hear a pin drop. I hang up my coat and then kick off my boots.
“Wesley, you asshole,” Eriksson says. “Aren’t you going to tell us?”
“Tell you what?” I growl. My sex life is none of their goddamn business.
“Howishe? Jesus Christ. The TV news makes it sound like your boyfriend might be getting last rites.”
My fingers falter on the buttons of my bright green checked shirt. “W-what?”
Our backup goalie Tomilson speaks up wryly. “I think what Mr. Sensitive is trying to ask is, is your partner okay?”
It’s hard to keep my jaw hinged. First off, Tomilson and I have barely exchanged ten words since I joined the team. The veteran keeps to himself, and with two Stanley Cups under his belt I guess he’s earned the right not to show up for media events, because I’ve never seen him at a press conference or party. Blake told me he spends all his off-time with his wife and kids.
Hearing him refer to Jamie as my “partner”, and without a shred of judgment, unease or disgust in his voice, brings asting to my eyelids. Fucking hell. If I start crying in the locker room in front of my teammates, nobody will ever let me forget it.
I clear my throat of the massive lump lodged there. “He’s doing better. Fever’s down, and I think they’re going to release him today.” My voice sounds hoarse as I add, “The flu kicked his ass. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“At least it wasn’t that dangerous strain,” Tomilson says. “Coach said it was just a regular flu. So that’s something, right?”
I nod. Silence hangs over the room again, and I tense on instinct, waiting for more questions. This feels too…easy. Why aren’t they hammering me for details about my personal life or demanding to know why I didn’t tell them I was gay?
The thing is, though? My college teammates had eventually taken my sexuality in stride. I’d thought it was too easy back then too, and as I stand here waiting for my current team to judge me, I realize what a cynical bastard I’ve become. Maybe there’s more tolerance in this world than I thought. Is that possible? Are my homophobic parents the exception to a rule that’s slowly evolving?
A few more seconds of silence tick by, and then Eriksson pipes up again. “It was the shirt, huh?”
I blink in confusion, and he gestures to the green button-down I have on.
“I knew it. Made you gay,” he says gleefully.
“Matt,” one of our teammates chides, but it’s too late, other guys are already snickering, and hell, so am I.
“How many times do I have to tell you?” I grumble. “This shirt is the da bomb dot com. No, dot edu—because it’s damn near enlightening.”
Forsberg snorts. “It’s blinding me, that’s what it is.” Heambles over and smacks me on the ass. “Gear up already. Coach ain’t gonna go easy on you just ’cause your boyfriend’s got the flu. I was late for practice once because mi’lady was sick, and the old bastard made me do a hundred pushups—in full gear. And skates. You know how fucking hard that is?”
“Your lady? I didn’t know you had a girlfriend—” But he’s already disappeared into the chute, which leaves Eriksson to answer for him.
“He doesn’t.” Eriksson grins. “Milady is his dog’s name.”
