I walk into my perfectly clean, organized kitchen. It looks exactly like it did the day I moved in, minus a few protein powder containers on top of the fridge. There are no photos on the walls. No throw blankets on the couch. No mess.
It looks like almost anyone could live here. It’s not a home; it’s more like the place of someone who’s ready to up and leave at a moment’s notice. No fuss, no trouble. Someone who’s low-maintenance.
I sit at my small, glass dining table, the surface cold against my forearms. I open my laptop, the screen casting a blue glow in the dim room.
The email from Carson is there with the details of the trade. If I want it.
It’s right there in black and white. A significant jump in salary, along with a bunch more bonuses for consistent play, number of games played, and even more if the team makes the playoffs.
I should be over the damn moon. This is it. This is the thing I’ve been grinding for since I was nine years old, dragging used pads across the ice in a freezing community rink. I’m looking at a starting job in the NHL. I’m looking at the proof that I’m not just a scholarship kid with secondhand gear.
The math says I’m ahead. So why do I feel like I’m going to throw up?
This is a chance for greatness. The chance to become the face of the team for as long as my career lasts. But looking at the offer, I don’t feel happiness or excitement. I don’t even feel fear or nerves. The only thing I feel is this sick, hollow nausea, churning in my gut.
I close the laptop with a snap and stand, needing to move, to do something with myself that isn’t sitting still.
I grab my duffel bag to start unpacking. I unzip it, intending to sort the laundry, to put everything in its place. Then I pull out the flannel shirt I wore yesterday morning.
The scent of cedar and wood fire hits me first. Underneath that is the clean, sharp smell of the ocean and the specific, warm scent of Louis.
Suddenly, it hurts to breathe, and I struggle to suck in a jagged breath.
Suddenly, I’m not in my sterile apartment, I’m back on the cliffside path beside the ocean, the wind turning my cheeks ruddy and the waves crashing below. Lou’s voice is rough and full of sincerity.
“You’re not a guest here, Tanner. Not with me.”
I grip the flannel shirt, my knuckles turning white.
Then I hear his words from half an hour ago, standing in his kitchen. “It was a break. It’s not real life.”
His expression was hard, his eyes cold. Like he was wearing a mask.
I look around my apartment that looks more like a show home or an upscale hotel. I am a guest in my own life here. If I go to Minnesota, I’ll get a bigger apartment. Maybe even a house that I’ll fill with expensive furniture I don’t care about.
I’ll be the starting goalie on the city’s NHL team.
But I’ll still be a guest. I’ll still be hiding my sexuality, hiding a huge part of myself so I don’t rock the boat for anyone or cause any inconvenience. I’ll be “low-maintenance Tanner.” Useful and efficient.
But I’ll be alone.
My brain, usually my best weapon, finally reboots. The emotional noise clears, and the analytical engine kicks in. I stop staring at the offer and start analyzing everything that happened over the last few hours.
I replay the conversation with Lou in his kitchen. I try to take my hurt out of it for a second and remember exactly what was said, what he looked like, his body language—all the variables. Looking at the data.
Louis stood there, telling me it was a fling. He told me it was just for fun, that it didn’t matter to him whether I stuck around or not.
But when I first got to his place, he didn’t look like someone who didn’t care. He looked devastated.
And when he said, “Look at the math,” he shrugged, trying to make me think he believed what he was saying, but he didn’t look at me. He looked down at his hands and then at the floor. The corners of his mouth were turned down.
If he really didn’t care, he would have been able to look me in the eye. He might have been feeling relieved, but he wouldn’t have been acting like he was hurt or like he was feeling guilty about hurting me. He wouldn’t have looked like he wanted to throw up.
“If you stay here, you’re riding the bench, kid.”
That’s what he’s afraid of. Not us. He’s afraid of me failing to reach my goal. He thinks the job is the most important thing in the world to me, because that’s what I’ve always shown him. That’s what I told him. That’s what I’ve believed. He’s pushing me away because he believes I need to take that job to realize all my dreams, and he’s trying to make it easier for me.
He thinks I want the starting job more than I want him. Maybe that was true a few months ago. Hell, maybe it was even true a few weeks ago. But it’s not true anymore.
