It’s weird being the guy the camera is pointed at. I never asked to represent gay dudes everywhere. And I don’t really feel up to the task. Let’s face it—I lead a pretty self-centered existence focused on winning hockey games and spending as much time with Jamie Canning as possible.
Right now I’m failing at both those things. So this interview comes at a moment when I feel like I have very little to offer anyone.
My self-flagellation is cut short by the appearance of Dennis, who’s dressed like my twin, but with shinier hair and more self-confidence. “Ryan! Good to see you.” He pumps my hand and then sits down. “How are you feeling? Ready to answer a few questions?”
“Sure,” I lie. “I read through your list.”
“Is there anything on there that’s off limits?” he asks, straightening the lapels of his jacket.
“No.” Frank already warned me about the so-called list ofquestions. Dennis won’t necessarily stick to it. Since this interview is pre-recorded, I can always say, “Nice try, asshole,” and they’ll edit out the question. The contract I signed stipulates that I can strike out any topic that’s not on the list, but it’s up to me or Frank to flag it.
“Great,” Dennis enthuses. “Let’s get started.”
A producer comes forward to talk to us about timing and camera angles. I try to pay attention, but I’m wondering what Jamie is doing right now and whether he’ll watch this interview tonight. Jamie used to be my happy thought. His smile was the thing I pictured whenever I was stressed out.
It still is, I remind myself. I just hope he’s smiling, wherever he is.
Warm lights come on, and Tripp runs in to blot our faces one more time with a crackly piece of tissue paper. He gives my shoulder a squeeze on his way out.
Then the producer says, “Rolling.”
Dennis Haymaker pivots toward the camera. “I’m here tonight with Ryan Wesley, rookie forward for Toronto’s winning team…”
As his introduction rolls on, I feel my face freeze into a self-conscious mask. What kind of dumb idea was this, anyway?
But at least he starts off with softball questions. “How long have you wanted to play hockey?”
“Always,” I say easily. “When I was five my mother had my bedroom redone in the Bruins colors, because I’d taped up action shots all over my walls, and she was sick of fighting it.”
He takes me through the early years, when I played Peewee and Bantam. I haven’t thought about that stuff for years. I tell the story of finishing a tournament game with a broken arm, because this is my interview and I can make myself sound likea tough kid if I want to. Iwasa tough kid. “I was bummed out to miss the awards ceremony to go to the ER. I wanted to see the trophy after all that.”
Dennis laughs. “Ouch. What did your parents think about your obsession and the danger? Did either of them play hockey?”
Now I have to laugh, too. The idea of my dad sweating over anything but financial transactions is comical. “No sir, they did not.”
“Are they your biggest fans?”
I guess we’re going there now. “Not so much. My parents and I aren’t close.”
“Why is that?”
Here it comes. I give a nervous chuckle. “The truth is we’ve never been close. That time I broke my arm? It wasn’t my folks who took me to the ER.”
Dennis looks genuinely surprised by this plot twist. “Who was it?”
“My father’s driver. A guy by the name of Reggie. See, my dad liked to watch me win hockey games, as long as it didn’t take too much time away from his busy schedule. They sent me to all the away games with a driver. And Reggie was my favorite. I used to look into the stands after we scored and see him cheering. He’d be standing there in his blue blazer, yelling for me. I always thought he liked hockey, but now I have to wonder if my dad slipped him an extra twenty bucks to cheer for me. I had no idea that was a weird way to grow up, though. I was ten. That was just normal to me.”
“So…” It takes Dennis a moment to formulate his next question. “Your dad was too busy to take you to the ER with a broken arm?”
I shrug, because we’re getting off topic. “I don’t know.Maybe Reggie just took me out of common sense. You don’t deliver the boss’s kid home with a broken bone, right? Sounds like a good way to get fired. I didn’t care who took me, anyway. Even at ten I knew you were supposed to man up and not cry in front of the x-ray tech. It didn’t matter to me who was in the waiting room.”
The journalist clears his throat. “What other ways were you expected to man up, Ryan?”
That question was not on the list, of course. But I don’t stop the interview. “Well, Dennis, you’re not supposed to fall in love with your roommate from hockey camp. That was another no-no in the Wesley household. But I’ve never been good at following rules.”
His expression turns dire. As if we’re about to discuss the Iran disarmament. “When did you tell your parents you were gay?”
Man, are these lights hot, or what? I resist the urge to wipe my hand across my forehead, but just barely. “I was nineteen and in college. I was prepared for shouting and cursing or whatever. But they just sort of refused to hear it.”
