At her outburst, I felt Hartley’s attention swing in our direction. Which probably meant that everyone in the room would be staring in about two point five seconds.
Fanfuckingtastic.
“Oh, hell no,” Hartley said. He stepped right onto my end of our bench, his pads in my face. With his fingers, he scrubbed away the lettering. “What asshole wants to tell me this was his idea of a joke?” Hartley turned, looking around the room.
Nobody spoke up.Shocker.
“Just leave it alone,” I muttered, pulling my chest padding over my head.
“No,” Hartley argued, hopping down, red-faced. “We’re not saying that shit in here. This room is a jackass free zone.”
The thing was, nobody had actually said it out loud. That would take actual courage. And I’d learned a long time ago that you had to choose your goddamn battles. “It’s just a word,” I grunted. “The only time I really don’t want to hear it is from a bunch of guys chasing me with baseball bats.”
There came a loud crash from the corner. When I turned to look, Graham was busy gathering up the armful of gear that he’d dropped. And then he seemed to abandon it all and turn away, speed-walking through the doorway leading toward the toilets.
Breathe,I coached myself.In. Out. In. Out.There was still a lot of gearing up to be done. So I got busy with the pads and the socks. When I’d almost finished, Bella reappeared in front of me. “Coach wants to see you,” she said softly.
“Ohfuckno,” I groaned, wanting to kill her for making a federal case about this. I stepped around her and headed for the hallway.
Coach was sitting on the end of his own desk when I walked in. “Sit down a second,” he said.
I dropped my ass in a chair and waited.
“Sorry about that bullshit in the locker room,” he said.
I put up two hands. “Let’s not blow it out of proportion.”
He shrugged. “Chickenshit move, right? I only told Bella to let me know if it happened again.”
“Works for me.” I felt my shoulders relax.
“Unfortunately, there’s something else we need to talk about. There’s a reporter at theConnecticut Standardwho’s sniffing around. She’s figured out that it’s pretty unusual to see a transfer approved to another Division One school. She wants the story.”
“Oh, Holy…” I stopped myself from cursing in front of Coach. But I would rather find “faggot” written on myforeheadthan talk to a reporter. “What happens if I just say no?”
Coach chewed on his lip before answering. “If you turn down the interview, let’s call it a twenty-five percent chance that the story just goes away. But if she’s any damned good, she’ll call Saint B's and ask them what happened. She might find someone who feels like weaving the tale. And then you’re letting the other side tell it.”
I let that sink in.Rock? Let me introduce you to Hard Place.
“…And if we keep winning, and I think we will, ESPN will be asking the same questions pretty soon. It’s unfortunate, son. But the media lives for this shit.”
“So what are you telling me to do? I’ll do whatever you say.” And I would, too. “I mean, you didn’t sign up for any of this shit.”
He grinned. “Actually, I think I did. It’s the price of doing business with you, kid. You keep feeding Hartley those lamp-lighters, and they can cover you on Good Morning America if they want.”
I groaned. “No they can’t. I don’t want to be that guy. I just want to play hockey.”
“I know that,” he chuckled. “Not everybody wants to be an activist. But you don’t have to come off that way. You can just meet the nice lady and tell her the boring version. You lost your place on the team because a coach broke the new regulation. A couple of lawyers argued about it, and the ACAAagreedwith your petition. End of story.”
The way he put it was nice and casual. Coming from Coach’s mouth, it didn’t sound like daytime television. Still… I’d rather not talk to any reporters. Ever.
“Think about it,” Coach said, standing up. “We can stall a couple of days, because it’s a holiday weekend, you know? Now I need you out there skating.”
“Will do.”
I went back to the locker room and hurried to suit up. Coach gathered everyone else to talk strategy. Alone in the locker room, I took another look at my whiteboard, which was now blank, except for smudges. I took a second to wipe it down. And then, with Hartley’s marker, I wrote “YOUR AD HERE” in the space.
There is nothing like a hockey game to clear your mind. You can’t skate that hard while stewing over your life. It just isn’t possible. When I’m on the ice, every particle of my consciousness is taken up by the essential activities of breathing, pushing hard and watching that little black rubber disc.
