Okay then. I guess Forsberg has a dog named Milady. Which is just another reminder of how little an effort I’ve made to get to know the men I skate with every day.
The lump in my throat is back. I gulp it down and quickly change for practice.
Only a handfulof press is allowed into the rink this morning, reporters and journalists who were no doubt handpicked by Frank and his team of publicists. The franchise doesn’t typically grant the media access to practices right before game days, but Frank is making an exception today. People need to see me on the ice with my teammates, so that’s exactly what we give them.
I’m painfully aware of the cameras that follow me around like the beam of a laser pointer. Every move I make is documented and photographed, and I can practically see the captions below the images.
When Coach snaps at me for missing an easy shot:Tensions Rise—Hal Harvey and Ryan Wesley battle it out at practice!
When Eriksson chest bumps me after I give him a sweetassist:Matt Eriksson shows support for gay teammate!Or if we’re talking tabloids, I guess the headline would be:Matt Eriksson and Ryan Wesley—gay lovers??
When I wave and smile at one of the reporters (after a pointed look from Frank):Proud to be gay! Ryan Wesley embraces media attention!
I hate my life right now. I really do. The only saving grace is that the man I love is no longer lying “unresponsive” on some hospital bed. Jamie is getting better. I was so terrified I might lose him, and knowing that he’s going to be all right is the silver lining I cling to during this sideshow of a practice.
After Coach blows the whistle to dismiss us, I can’t get off the ice fast enough. That gets me another glare from Frank, but he can go fuck himself. I told him I wasn’t chatting up the press, and I meant it.
In the locker room, I change out of my gear as fast as I changed into it. When I hear a flurry of activity in the hallway, my stomach drops. Great. I guess Frank is giving the media free access to the facility today. Unfortunately, there’s only one way out of the locker room—and it’s through the door that probably has a wall of reporters standing behind it.
Tomilson flashes me a sympathetic look as I warily creep toward the door.
“Just smile and wave,” Eriksson suggests.
“Give ’em the Queen Elizabeth wave,” Luko says helpfully. He then proceeds to do the slow, stilted hand flutter that every member of British royalty has perfected, and everyone bursts out laughing.
“Did you just call me a queen?” I quip.
Luko’s smile slides off his face. “N-no! I…”
“No, man. I’m teasing. Swear to God.” Shit. I never got a chance to figure out what I wanted to say to these guys. “Idon’t get offended too easily. And—just for the record—none of you uglies is my type. Except for maybe Eriksson. But I don’t want to be his rebound lay.”
Eriksson snorts and I make my exit, stepping out the door just in time to hear Coach Harvey deliver a statement that nearly makes my eyes bug out.
“If being queer means skating like Ryan Wesley, I’m going to have to encourage the rest of my players to give it a whirl.”
The hallway breaks out in grins and chuckles, which immediately turn into shouts when the press notices me in the doorway.
“Ryan! Do you have a message for any gay athletes who are too afraid to come out?”
“How does it feel to be the first openly gay player in the NHL?”
“When did you first know you were gay?”
“Do you have a response to Coach Harvey’s statement?”
I was prepared to utter the words “no comment” today until they lost all meaning, but after just hearing my coach voice his support for me (albeit in a colorful way), I can’t stop from addressing the last question.
“Hal Harvey is the best coach I’ve ever skated for,” I say gruffly. “I hope to continue making him proud for seasons to come.”
The reporters fire another explosion of questions, but I’ve said everything I wanted to say, so I duck my head and push through the swarm, letting their eager voices bounce off my back. There are clusters of journalists and media vans stationed in the parking lot, but I ignore them too and hurriedly unlock my SUV. Thank God for tinted windows. I’m sure the cameras caught me lunging into the front seat, but hopefully nobodycan see me scrubbing both hands over my face and releasing a tortured groan.
I’m zooming out of the lot a minute later, and my Bluetooth kicks in as a call comes through. Frank’s name flashes on the dash.
I hit the Ignore button on the steering wheel. When the phone rings again, I nearly rip the steering wheel off its frame. For fuck’s sake. Can’t he give me even a second’s peace?
Wait, it’s not Frank. I relax when I see Cindy Canning’s name, and this time I waste no time picking up.
“Hey, sweetie,” she greets me, the warmth in her voice doing more to heat the car than the hot air blasting from the vents. “I just spoke to Jamie. He says they won’t be releasing him today. He didn’t want to call you in case you were still at practice.”
