“It’s what I want.” I don’t know why I’m being so snappy. It just grates that Wes settled my hospital bill without even telling me. I get that he’s got oodles of money, but I’m not his...his fuckingmistress. We’re partners, and I’ll be damned if I let him pay for everything.
After a beat of hesitation, he steps forward and touches my cheek. He strokes my clean-shaven skin. I actually got to shave this morning. By myself. Woo-fucking-hoo. But I guess I should be thankful for small mercies.
“Jamie.” His voice is hoarse. “I’m glad you’re better.”
A lump clogs my throat. Goddamn it. The relief in his eyes spurs a rush of guilt. I know I’ve been an ass to him this week. I snapped at him when he came to visit me. I balked when he suggested that maybe my mom and sister should stay longer. I resented him when I watched him on the hospital TV, skating like a champion and scoring goals while I was flat on my back, pissing into a bedpan. And now I’m picking fights aboutmoney, of all things.
“Me too,” I murmur, leaning into his warm touch.
He rubs my bottom lip, then presses his mouth to mine in a soft, fleeting kiss. “Okay, go nap. I’ll be out here if you need me.”
I’m about to ask him to join me, but his phone rings before I can open my mouth. Wes’s hand leaves my face and slides into his pocket. His gorgeous face creases in frustration when he sees who’s calling.
“Frank,” he mumbles to me, then steps away to take the call.
I linger long enough to glean that Frank the PR Wonder is on Wes’s case again about interviews. Or rather, the lack of interviews, because Wes is still refusing to talk to the media. He was supposed to finally do thatSports Illustratedinterview, but then I got sick again and he postponed.
Just another bullet point on the long list of things fucked up by my illness.
I duck into our room and sit on the bed, leaning my head against the stack of pillows. I’m not tired. The steroids I’m taking to clear my lungs ensure that I’m wide awake and unnaturally alert, so sleeping isn’t an option right now. I only told Wes that because…damn it, I’m being an ungrateful ass again. But I need space. I need one frickin’ hour to myself, without nurses hovering over me or Wes asking me if I need something.
After five minutes of staring at the wall, I open my laptop and check my email. Holy shit. There arehundredsof them. My mom confiscated my phone in the hospital because she said I didn’t need anything distracting me from my recovery. At the time, I bitched like a pre-teen girl whose texting privileges had been revoked. Now, I’m glad she did it. My inbox is overwhelming.
There are messages from my college teammates—some asking me if I’m okay and some wondering why I didn’t tell them I was gay.Dudes, the joke’s on me, too.
There are Get Well Soon e-cards from my family and friends, but those are overshadowed by the scary amount of emails from media outlets. Every sports magazine I’ve ever heard of.People. Local and not local newspapers.
As I scroll through the interview requests, my stomach feels queasy. My life—mysexlife—is under a microscope, and I don’t like it. It suddenly gives me a new appreciation for Wes, because I realize his spotlight is twice as large as mine.
Another message catches my eye. It’s from my boss. He sent it when I was in the hospital the first time.
Dear Jamie,
You tried to tell me about an issue with your co-coach and homophobic language, but I didn’t listen as well as I should have. I’m truly sorry. Our policy is unambiguous—no employer or player should have to put up with discriminatory language or a hostile work environment.
Please allow me to help you do now what I should have helped you do then. Attached is the form for filing a complaint. As soon as you feel well enough to do so, fill it out so that we can properly investigate your complaint.
I’ve learned a difficult lesson this week, and I’d like to amend my previous response to your inquiry.
Sincerely,
Bill Braddock
I have no idea how to respond. Making a complaint now seems so petty. Since I was keeping my bisexuality a secret before, I’ll look like some kind of spy. Like I was taking notes while they weren’t paying attention.
Danton shouldn’t get away with spreading hate, but I have to walk back into that rink in a few days. I don’t want to give all my coworkers the impression that I’ve been writing down everything they ever said in the locker room.
I’m rereading the email for the fourth time when Wes enters the bedroom.
“Why don’t you put that away and get some rest?” my boyfriend suggests. His grip is firm as he takes the laptop from me and closes it. “You look tired.”
Damn it. Ifeeltired. I hadn’t five minutes ago, but now my eyelids are starting to droop. The act of checking a few measly emails drained me of energy, and that feeling of helplessness jams in my throat again. I hate being weak. Ihateit, and the anger drives me to snap, “Yes, Mom.”
Hurt flashes in Wes’s eyes.
Guilt pounds into me again. “I’m…sorry,” I whisper. “Didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“It’s okay.” But he still looks upset as he quietly leaves the room.
