He looks up quickly, his bushy eyebrows lifting. “You’re the guy on the news.”
Unfortunately. “Where can I find the visitors’ dressing room?” I ask him.
He shakes off his surprise and opens the door. “Down this hall. You’ll see signs on your left.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
“Good luck out there,” he says as I start down the hall.
“Uh, thanks.” The new paranoid me actually spends a minute wondering what he meant by that. Do I need extra luck today? Or is it the same thing he says to every player who walks through the door?
Shit. I hope our practice will be sweaty and grueling. I need to get out of my fucking head.
It’s not so hard to find the dressing room, because I can hear my teammates’ voices as I approach the door.
“So, season ticket-holders are selling their seats on the cheap?” Eriksson’s voice asks.
“Not cheap,” Forsberg answers him. “But those seats never turn over. There’s guys waiting a decade for a season ticket. But the next few games are for sale by the hundreds of seats.”
I stop walking so fast that my duffel bag bumps me in the ass.
“But so what, right? It’s not like we’re gonna play in an empty stadium on Monday.”
“Nah,” Forsberg agrees. “Frank Donovan said the club is buying all of ’em up at the face price and donating them to some, like, LGSQ group.”
“You mean LGBT?”
“I dunno. I’m pretty sure there was a Q in there.”
“Ryan?”
I whirl around and spot Frank coming down the hall behind me, another man at his side. “Hey,” I say quickly, giving himan awkward wave. Is there any chance he didn’t see me standing here outside the door listening?
“Ryan, is everything okay?”
Nope—no chance he didn’t notice. “Of course. Never better.”
“Great.”
The other guy steps forward to offer his hand. I shake it, wondering if I’m supposed to know who he is. “I’m Dennis Haymaker.”
Oh. My father’s college buddy. “Sports Illustrated, right?” I ask, though I’m certain he’s the reporter I’ve been ducking since July.
“Yeah…” He clears his throat. “How is your partner doing?”
“Better.” It still weirds me out to talk about Jamie in public. I’ll get used to it, but it might take a while.
“Good,” he says. “You know, your dad stopped taking my calls all of a sudden.”
I laugh before I can think better of it. “Uh-huh. Lemme guess—he stopped returning them about three days ago?”
Dennis smiles tentatively. “About then, yeah.”
“Shocker.” I chuckle. “I wouldn’t hold your breath to have those calls returned. He’s too busy scratching my name out of the family bible.”
“This isnoton the record,” Frank Donovan stammers. I know he wants me to stop talking. But for the first time, this guy is someone I might want to talk to. That would really be sticking it to the old man—I could give my Big Gay Interview to his college buddy. If I’m lucky, it will make the alumni magazine at Dad’s alma mater.
“Well…” Dennis looks grave. “I’m still looking forward to writing about your rookie year.”
