TWENTY-TWO
WES
Jamie isn’t doing well.
It’s been three days since he was released from the hospital. Physically, I can see him getting stronger. He’s not sleeping as much during the day. He cooked breakfast this morning without keeling over in exhaustion. He’s left the condo to go for short walks. But when I dragged him out to our favorite diner—the one we found the first morning after Jamie moved in with me—it was a total disaster. Right after we placed our order, some college kids hustled over for our autographs—plural. Then a couple of other people took photos. Jamie got all pissed off and started coughing.
We left without eating. And when I suggested a trip to this Chinese place we like, he said, “Let’s just order in.”
His body is healing, that I know for sure. But I have no clue where his head is at or what he’s feeling. He’s shut down on me. He alternates between snapping at me and apologizing to me for snapping at me.
I can’t remember the last time we kissed.Reallykissed, and not just the quick pecks we’ve been giving each other thisweek. I think it might have been during his first hospital stay. Yes…in the shower. That had been a damn good shower.
The one I’m in right now? Not as good. I’m in a stall with saloon-style walls, which means that I’ve got two teammates on either side of me. Staring at me. Not in a pornographic, check-out-his-dick way, though honestly, I’d prefer leering to their looks of deep concern.
“You don’t talk to us anymore.” The rushing water all around us doesn’t muffle the note of accusation in Eriksson’s tone.
“Sure I do,” I answer as I soap up my chest.
On the other side of me, Hewitt is quick to contradict my statement. “Naah, you’re being antisocial.”
They want me to besocial? When my boyfriend is at home moping and snapping at me every chance he gets? They’re lucky I’m even showing up to our games. My mind has been so focused on Jamie it’s a miracle I still remember how to play hockey.
“Blake says your man’s doing better,” Eriksson prompts.
I wash the soap off my body and reach for some shampoo. “Yeah. He is.”
“So then what’s with the glum face?”
My reluctance to confide in them has me taking an extra-long time lathering up my hair and rinsing it out. I hope it’s long enough for them to forget the question Eriksson had tossed out, but they’re still watching me when my eyes finally snap open.
“Come on, Wesley, spill. What’s going on at home?” Eriksson gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Can’t be any worse than what I’m dealing with right now.”
The reminder of his marital problems chips away at my hesitation. Fuck it. My teammates have gone out of their wayto support me since the “news” of my sexual orientation broke out. They’ve constantly asked me how Jamie is doing. They’ve had to deal with my sour face at every away game. They’ve been nothing but kind, and I feel like an ass for continuing to keep my distance from them.
“Jamie’s depressed,” I confess.
Those two words seem to suspend in the steamy air. I haven’t said it out loud. Hell, I haven’t even thought too hard about it, but now I realize how true it is. Jamie isn’t just moping. He isn’t just bummed out. He’sdepressed.
More words stream out of my mouth before I can stop them. “He still can’t go back to work, and last night his team won another game without him. He doesn’t have his full strength back. He can’t work out—it’s against the doctor’s orders. He can’t leave the building without getting harassed by a reporter or two.” My throat closes up. “I think he blames me for everything.”
Fuck, that’s the first time I’ve saidthatout loud, too. It makes me sick that it might be true, that Jamie might blame me for the media storm that refuses to die off.
Frank still calls me several times a day. The franchise has released numerous statements to make up for my refusal to talk to the press. My face and Jamie’s are on every sports blog. During our last home game, there were protesters outside the arena, wielding signs with Bible passages and nasty slogans.
Life…sucks. It really fucking sucks right now.
“I don’t know how to make it better,” I mutter. I shut off the water and grab a towel, wrapping it around my waist. “And it’s not like I have any reinforcements to call who can cheer him up. We don’t know anyone in the city—other than you guys,” I hastily add when I see their hurt faces. “But most of Jamie’s friends are on the West Coast, where he went tocollege. His family’s in Cali, too, and they can’t exactly drop everything and fly to Canada to be with him. His mom and sister already did that when he was in the hospital.”
Eriksson and Hewitt follow me into the locker room. Their faces are sympathetic. “That’s rough, man,” Hewitt says.
“Yup.” I turn toward my locker so they can’t see my desperation. Rough is an understatement. Rough, I can handle. But this? Seeing Jamie upset and being unable to help him?
It’s not rough.
It’storture.
When I get homefrom practice, Jamie is in our bedroom, his nose buried in a book. A science book about endangered species, if I’m reading the title correctly.
