“Because they expected someone to come back with a full facial recognition at some point,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “They were being proactive, so they could say that they had already addressed his misconduct.”
“That makes sense, but nothing has come up,” Denny says.
“I’m betting Felton was careful. Nothing’s come up because nothing exists linking them as the same person,” Carson guesses.
They were being cautious and have ended up making a mess of it.
Something still sits uneasily with me though. I can’t get the idea out of my head that it was definitely blown far out of proportion. And the question about whether the same reaction and consequences would have been had if it was a straight player just sits wrong.
Once, I would have said that his sexuality didn’t matter. I’d have been confident in that. But there’s just something niggling inside me that leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
I’m equally stuck on the fact that I want to protect Felton from it. The truth, whatever it is, needs to just bypass him so he can work on his own mental health. I think the truth is going to be ugly, and it sounds like he has a whole lot of ugly in his life already.
Can I keep it from him? Is that possible?
How can I assure he’s getting into a better place? I can help with the contracts and with the agent situation. But howdo I help him with his family situation? That’s not my place to intervene. And yet, it’s all too clear that someone needs to.
He’s being battered and bruised and he won’t put a stop to it himself. After I suggested he should, he even agreed. But I also saw that he wasn’t in a position to put those boundaries in place.
That’s not my responsibility. Even if it were, I don’t know how to facilitate that change.
I’m going to have to be satisfied with the help I’m able to offer him and hope that it’s enough to help him gain some confidence. I never took Felton to be insecure, but maybe his mask is as thick as his goalie pads.
EIGHT
FELTON
I’m notthe only one on the team. I know that. Beyond that, I’m not the one responsible for making goals. Even if I let nothing in the net, if we don’t score a goal, we still don’t win. All of this I know.
But when the buzzer announces the end of the game and we’re tied 2-2, I feel like I failed. We didn’t win. I let in two goals.
We do well to keep the puck on the opposite end during overtime, but after five minutes, we’re still tied. I hate shootouts. Even though I’m decent at them, I can hear everyone yelling and feel their weight on my shoulders. Their expectations grow around me like giant trees bearing down over me.
St. Louis’s fourth shot gets one on me and the screams of the fans push me down. I’m already on my hands and knees, but their jeers and disappointment hold me there. The trees with their long limbs close in over me, rooting me to my blue box.
I’m not sure how long I’m there but eventually, hands on me pull me to my feet, gripping me by my pads.
“It’s all right, man,” Dasan says. “Shootouts suck.”
It’s not all right. I need to be able to hold against a shootout too. I need more practice. I’ll tell Coach tomorrow. Lots of one-on-one. That’s what I need. Just keep the pucks coming at me.
The locker room feels loud. There’s a lot of bright, hot energy. Angry energy? It feels like everyone’s yelling. I’m not sure anyone’s actually talking to me, but I can’t help but feel their raised voices pointing in my direction.
Jab.
Jab.
I try not to flinch.
I’m not the only one on the team. Maybe if I remind myself enough, I’ll believe that the last goal I let in wasn’t the only reason we lost. What about the sixty-five minutes before that? Where were our scores then?
Team sport. Team sport. I’m not the only one on the team.
The voices around me remain loud. Yelling. Echoing in my head. Needing something from me.
Be better. Focus harder. Be quicker.
After what feels like days, I’m dressed and heading outside. The hall is blessedly quieter and I don’t have to think. I wish I could go home and interact with my fans. Not my hockey fans—there’s always critiquing happening there. They want something from me—always wins; always shutouts.
