“C’mon, you gotta have someone,” Persson bumps my shoulder. He screamedEva Mendezfrom the top of his lungs a few minutes earlier while humping Caps’ right thigh, resulting in a punch to his chin.
“Uhm…” I look around the group of guys, their eyes fixated on me like it’s some sort of rite of passage to name your celebrity crush. We’ve reached the entrance to the locker room, but everyone seems to wait for my two cents before entering. Biting my bottom lip, I ponder for a moment but decide to be frank. No one seemed too bothered about the fact that Luke’s celebrity crush is a guy. Swallowing, I say, “Troye Sivan.”
Most of the guys look oblivious, a few nodding in vague recognition. He’s still a fairly unknown name in the US, though he’s becoming an icon pretty fast in the queer community.
“Who the fuck is Troye Sivan?” Nowak opens the doors to the locker room and the other guys start piling in after him.
“He’s an Australian singer,” Kennedy replies before looking at me. “Right, Mitchell?” There’s no judgment in his eyes, his face forthcoming as always, his piercing blue eyes blinking at me.
“Yeah,” I mumble as I head for my spot. “Yeah, he is.”
“Isn’t he gay?” Crane yells from the other end of the room, looking down at his phone. “He looks fucking gay. Shit, he looks like a fucking girl,” he smirks at me, holding up his phone, a picture of Troye wearing a tight corset and high heels.
“So, what if he’s gay?” Luke throws back at him. “What’s it to you, Crane?” His eyes are glowing as he engages in what seems to be a staring contest with his fellow D-man until Crane eventually shrugs, looking down.
“Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with being gay,” he rubs at his neck. “I was just sayin’. Jeez, relax, dude.”
Eventually, Luke relaxes his shoulders and heads for his cubby. The guys focus on getting ready, and an air of pre-game concentration settles in the room. Nowak, who’s to my right, sits down next to me while I’m getting my gear ready. After putting on my base layer and pads, I unwrap my jersey and pants, the smooth fabric cool against my fingers, the navy and teal stripes standing out on the sleeves of our white away jersey. Trailing my fingers along the roaring mountain lion on the front, I briefly close my eyes, trying to steady my heartbeat. Pre-game butterflies flutter around like crazy in my stomach, but overall, I feel good about tonight. I know the Tigers’ game. What I need to look out for. Who I need to watch. And my knee’s good. I rub across it absentmindedly, thanking my lucky stars, before I reach for my skates.
Nowak is dressed now too, browsing through his phone, AirPods in his ears, bobbing his head up and down. I put my phone away in my bag as soon as we got here. The last thingI need is my mom in my head before our first away game. She has probably posted a gazillion selfies by now in our away jersey. Yeah, I don’t need that.
I swipe at the fabric over my left hip and across my tattoo. Closing my eyes, I repeat the familiar words three times.I know who I am, and I know where I’m going.I do. I really do. I feel it. With each day playing for the Lions, I feel myself getting closer to the version of me I want to be.
Next to me, Nowak suddenly pushes at my shoulder, holding his phone toward me.
“Holy shit, bro,” he speaks much too loudly, Luke and Riley turning in our direction, looking up from where they’re tying their skates. “He looks just like you, dude,” he grins teasingly. A headshot of a soccer player with longish blond locks, a few days’ worth of stubble, and a shy smile stares back at me. Below the photo in italics, it saysAntoine Griezmann.And he does. He looks like me. An older version, but still. In another life, we could’ve been siblings. Warmth floods my chest, my mouth going dry as my gaze connects with Luke’s across the room. His eyes flicker nervously, a crimson blush spreading across his cheeks and further down his neck where it disappears behind the bright white neckline of his jersey.
Riley looks between Luke and me a couple of times, the quiet in the locker room deafening. Then he seems to catch on, his gaze softening as he looks at his friend. Tipping his chin toward Virtanen, who sits on the other side of Nowak, he shouts, “Yo, Finland. You never said anything. Who’s your celebrity crush?”
Virtanen looks up from his phone, a broad, toothy smile spreading across his face. Rubbing at his prominent chin, Virtanen’s eyes search the room until they land on our other goalie. Tapping his fist twice against his heart, a wet sheen to his eyes, the Finn booms across the room, “Buckhammer!”
The room erupts in hoots and hollering, some of the guys making kissy faces and pretending to swoon, right until Coach enters, telling everyone to, “Shut your traps and listen up.” Silence settles in the room as Coach sums up our tactics for the game. I realize that I’m still holding Nowak’s phone in my hand, an unknown French soccer player smiling back at me. ‘He looks just like you,’ Nowak’s words echo in my head until I push them away and focus on Coach’s voice, shutting everything else out. Well, almost everything else. Because as Coach drones on and on, I feel a pair of brown eyes burning into me.
Luke’s eyes.
Chapter Twelve
Luke
I quickly jump overthe boards as our team makes another line change. We’re still early into this one, with several minutes left in the first period, and it’s pretty obvious that the two teams are still testing the waters, checking out each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Although we know the opposing team’s players and they know us after hours of studying game tapes intently, every game is different. Someone may have an off day or be out with an injury. You never know, so you have to be on top of your game every time.
It’s our first game in a three-game away week starting in Utah and ending in California, and we are hoping to kick it off with a good start and a win against the Taylorsville Tigers. We’re still riding high on a wave of newfound belief that we can actually turn this season around.
As I come on the ice, it’s like being dropped into a war zone. Right away, I shift into defensive mode as their right-wing, Adams, comes flying at me full force, heading toward our net. He’s a big guy, pretty intimidating, but I know I’m way faster than him—which gives me an advantage I’ll be sure to use. Cody has already blocked seven shots on goal early in the game, the Tigers coming out blazing from the start. We’re going to have to do a better job at keeping the puck away from our net if we’re to stand a chance of winning.
I make myself as broad as possible, as I skate backward with my stick out, making it impossible for Adams to get a clear shot. As he sends it over to his teammate, the Tigers’ Ukrainian center Kovalenko, I plant myself in front of the net along with Virtanen, ready to assist Cody and get the puck back over on our side. I’m able to block one shot before it gets to Cody, but not able to get a hold of the puck to send it to a teammate or to the other side of the ice.
Kovalenko decides to shoot the puck again, and it goes straight between Virtanen’s legs but is skillfully caught by Cody and the play is called dead. Panting, I skate up to Cody, smacking my stick against his padded right leg for yet another great save this game. For a split second, his vibrant gray eyes catch mine as he tips his chin in silent recognition. High on hockey and Cody’s save, I salute him while skating off.
Although I’m focused on the game, I can’t help but wonder what Cody thought ofGriezmann Gateas I’ve already named it in my head. Was he offended? He didn’t look offended. I’m pretty sure that Cody is ace, but is he gay? The way he blushed as the name ‘Troye Sivan’ tumbled from his lips makes me think maybe he is. Either way, he’s fucking adorable.
We get a few minutes to catch our breath, and no additional line changes are made this round since we’ve just come on the ice prior to that play. The Tigers seem to be deflating a little,their initial pace slowing down just a tad. I get it. I know how it feels standing in front of a goalie who just keeps knocking them away as you send them flying toward the goal. Cody is a solid brick wall again tonight, and it makes the rest of us up our game too, knowing that we have him in the goal.Tough luck, losers. He’s ours.
We line up for the next puck drop. Bardét is lined up with the Tigers’ forward, Rogers, for the faceoff. Standing back near the net, I hold my breath, waiting to see who’ll win and which direction the puck will go. The ref drops the puck and when it’s batted toward me, I quickly snag it with my stick. I don’t make it far, though, before I’m checked hard into the boards behind the net and held there by one of their defensemen.
The puck is stuck between our feet and the boards, as Bardét and one of the Tigers both grab at it frantically with their sticks between our skates. Trying to push the huge D-man off me, a loud growl leaves my chest. I try to use all my muscle strength, but he has a good few pounds on me. Until they manage to get the puck free, or the ref calls the play dead, I’m stuck.
Bardét is finally able to get the puck free from our skates and manages to send it over to Riley. The damn Smilodon finally lets me go and we both go chasing after the puck. What I don’t have in size, I always make up for in speed. Quickly, Riley and I make it halfway back toward their net, but the Tigers catch up to us in a flash. They descend on Riley like a flock of starved vultures, so he’s forced to fire the puck over to me.
