His voice is muffled. “Can we get in our bed now?”
“Uh-huh.” I close my eyes, though. Just for a second.
We fall asleep in the guest room, tangled up in each other.
THREE
JAMIE
Eight hours later, life isn’t so grand.
I’m on a bus with two dozen teenagers. That’s okay, though, because I like these kids. They work hard and they play some great hockey. I thought I’d seen a lot of amazing young players, but the Canadians grow champions in their gardens apparently. The team’s season isn’t going so great, but I have faith that we’ll turn it around. These kids have solid instincts and terrific attitudes.
My attitude is less stellar at the moment, though.
Since Wes and I fell asleep in the wrong room, my alarm wasn’t nearby. The reason I wasonlyforty minutes late was that the bed was too small. I woke up when Wes clocked me in the eyebrow with his tattooed elbow. The clock on the bedside table read ten minutes to six.
I sat up like a shot, heart pounding. I took the world’s shortest shower and then hopped around like an idiot, shoving socks onto wet feet and grabbing my things. The only saving grace was that I’d already packed for our tournament inMontreal. I’d been trying to save time to spend with Wes, so at least my duffel was sitting there, ready to go.
Wes came staggering out of the guest room, blinking at me. “You have to leave?”
“I’m late,” I mumbled, texting the coach I’d be traveling with.Running late. Don’t leave. Sorry.
“I’ll miss you,” he said.
That I’d miss him too went without saying. I gave him a quick, unsatisfying kiss and ran for the door. Somehow I managed to trip on Wes’s giant suitcase when I reached for my coat on the hook. “Do me a favor and unpack this thing?”
Those were my loving words as I departed, sweating, hating myself for beingthatguy who was going to make them hold the bus. And for grumbling at my boyfriend to put his stuff away.
He never does, though. The suitcase usually sits around until he needs it for the next trip.
Now I’m drinking the dregs of a really bad cup of coffee I bought at a gas station when the bus stopped for fuel, and I’m listening to my coworker shoot off his mouth. David Danton is only a couple of years older than I am. Technically we both hold the same title—Associate Coach. But since our boys’ head coach has several teams under his command, Danton steps up to act as head coach sometimes, especially on trips.
Things to know about Danton: he has a beautiful slap shot. And a hideous personality.
“This first team we’re playing?” he says, moving a wad of tobacco from one cheek to the other. “They’re the same pussies you beat in London last year. Their stats don’t look any better these days. Keep your lines tight and score in the first period, they’ll be crying into their gloves by intermission. Bunch of faggots, really.”
The bad coffee turns to battery acid in my stomach. In the first place, this is substandard coaching. The other team is defensively gifted and offensively challenged, and our kids deserve more cautionary detail. They need strategy along with a good helping of bravado.
And don’t even get me started on Danton’s slurs. He’s the kind of guy who uses “gay” to describe anything he doesn’t like—from an ugly car to a disappointing turkey sandwich—and “faggot” to describe any hockey player who doesn’t meet his standards.
Now, I’ve already asked this prick to stop with the slurs. It was after a game at our home rink. We’d won easily and I was proud of our boys. But Danton had yelled “That’s showing the faggots!” as the game ended, so I took the opportunity to mention that he could get in trouble for that.
“You never know who’s listening,” I’d pointed out. I’d been trying to hint that someone might call him on the carpet for using derogatory terms. But my real concern was for our players. I didn’t want their authority figure to validate that kind of hate. And God forbid if one of these boys was questioning his own sexuality. Nobody needs to hear that shit. Being sixteen is confusing enough.
Danton didn’t listen, though. And whenever he uses the f-word, I always picture a sixteen-year-old Wes, terrified of his own sexuality. He’d told me how badly it had freaked him out to realize he was gay. He’s over it now, of course. But they can’t all have Wes’s strength. If there’s a kid on one of these teams who’s struggling, I don’t want him to hear any bullshit from Danton.
Working with the guy makes me feel ragey, but not because I give one single fuck what Danton thinks of me. He’d lost my respect the first time I heard him spewing his vilebullshit. He uses the n-word, too (a real piece of work, our Danton). I wanted him reprimanded. I’d even mentioned to Bill, our boss, that Danton’s choice of words was often poor and rarely very inclusive.
“See if you can tone ’im down,” was all Bill said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Be a shame if he had a reprimand in his file. Those are permanent.”
A permanent mark on Danton’s record sounds fine to me, but I haven’t filed the complaint yet because I’m paranoid. In some ways, outing myself sounds like fun, because I can’t wait to see the look on the asshole’s face. But I can’t do that to Wes. He’s having a terrific rookie season, and the press needs to stay focused on his goals and assists, not his sex life. I think he’sthisclose to contending for the Calder trophy. I really do.
We sit in Montreal traffic on the way to the rink, and my guts are in knots. Our first tournament game is set for one p.m., and it’s past noon already.
“One more mile,” Danton says, checking the map on his phone. “Boys, we’re gonna have only fifteen minutes to suit up, I think. Next time maybe Coach Canning will get out of bed on time.”
Fuck. I hate that I was late. And I hate him.
