“It is people like you that make the LGBTQIA+ community remember that a friendly tone does not mean you didn’t just hide a slur in your question. We are not ‘gay’ representation—we are LGBTQIA+ representation. Do not lump everyone in as gay—that’s erasure for everyone who identifies as something other than that and their visibility is just as important as a gay person’s is. My people? Do you mean athletes? You must mean athletes because referencing anything else that is a federally protected class could mean a lawsuit, and I’m not sure if you’re aware, but that’s punishable by law for you and the channel you’re here withso I’m confident you didn’t mean it as a slur. How do I feel to be surrounded by my fellow athletes? It’s just another day at the office.”
“Oh no,” Noah says as Max turns his attention from the startled anchor to the camera.
“I know we’re in Florida and the governor has a stick up his ass as an old, privileged, white man quoting a fucking text, but hear me—are you listening? You can’t erase us. You can’t force us back into the closet. You can’t silence us. You can’t shame us. You can’t change us. You can force us to fight for our rights, but eventually, you’ll die, and the next generation will remake what you’re breaking. Youcan’tget rid of us. We are here, we’re proud, and we’renotgoing away. It’s time you learn some fucking respect.”
Max shoves the microphone at the anchor’s chest and releases it, leaving the anchor fumbling to catch it. He slips on the ice and nearly falls on his face. Meanwhile, everyone around us just stares at him as Max skates to the chute, dismissing everyone who tries to approach.
Noah and I look at each other.
“He’s going to get in trouble for that,” Noah says, sighing.
“Why?” I ask. “The douche was offensive. Anyone who has ears can hear it.”
Noah sighs as he stares in the direction Max left. Coach Tavis Davenport, Max’s coach in Philly, is following now, shuffling on the ice in his dress shoes, which is rather impressive. It’s clear he’s done that once or twice. Not going after Max, but shuffling quickly on ice in shoes.
Although, he’s probably gone after Max a handful of times too. I’ve heard Tavis is a great coach and a good person. I have no complaints about Arizona’s coach, but he’s not Tavis. My gaze catches on Adak Nemaczekk following and I smile a little. He’s not Adak, either.
“It was,” Noah agrees. “But Max is supposed to walk away.”
“I’m glad he didn’t,” I retort, and Noah looks at me with an eyebrow raised. I shrug. “It needs to be said. That guy was making little digs at Max the entire time. He’srequiredto present respectfully, but that doesn’t mean he is.”
Noah nods. He looks in the direction Max left again. There are others leaving with him; Larson, Azure, Ethan. It doesn’t take me long to realize it’s the Gays Can Play group. Noah offers me a smile and follows.
An unspoken show of solidarity. My feet itch to follow.
“Laurent.”
I turn to see the same anchor approach me, the asshole who Max just told off. A moment of silence falls around me and I realize I have a choice as this guy smiles. He knows I overheard, that I witnessed the entire thing.
“This was a good game for you,” he starts, and turns the mic toward me.
There are eyes on me and yet, the arena fades. The lights, the noise, the bodies. I’m left staring at this man who insulted me. He doesn’t know he did, but he sure as fuck did.
“You can’t possibly think I’m going to speak to you,” I say and turn away. I’d tried to keep my face neutral, but I’m also confident I didn’t succeed. I could hear the disgust dripping in my tone.
More so now than three seconds ago, I feel the weight of the arena surrounding me. My breathing feels heavy, so I concentrate on my skating. I’m heading for the wrong chute; I know that. But it’s about solidarity right now. It’s about support. It’s the statement of standing beside our fellow athlete more than turning my back on the anchorman.
As soon as I step off the ice, the world tips a little and I’m reminded that skates aren’t made for concrete. My hand brushesthe open boards and I continue to focus my attention on not falling.
It takes me a minute to reach the end of the chute where I find the others who’d left. Max is frowning as he listens to someone on the phone. Was the interview live? I bet it was. Damn.
Max looks up. His eyes meet mine and then move beyond me. I’m jostled a little and I shift, looking over my shoulder. I’m surprised to see more players filing in. Caulder is just walking through the door and my eyes land on his as if they’re magnetic. He gives me a smile as he comes toward me.
It’s tight when all four teams press together and I feel Caulder’s chest at my back, a mile of pads separating us, unfortunately.
Everyone is quiet while Max is on the phone. He sighs. Rolls his eyes. A glimpse of his trademark amused smile flashes across his face, then he lets his head fall back in annoyance.
“Yep,” he says and that’s apparently the end of the call. When he picks up his head, he looks around the room at all the faces. The forty-four players, guest coaches, celebrity coaches, referees, even a bunch of arena workers who’d been here for the two-day event and helped get everything set up between events. “Hi,” he says with a smirk. “What’re we doing?”
“Supporting you,” Lamar answers for all of us. “I have no idea what just happened, but I saw from across the ice that something went down.”
“I heard the whole thing,” Noah admits. “Please tell me you didn’t get in trouble again?”
“What happened?” Mattias asks. “I happy to support you and sounds like that man was asshole, but what he say?”
“I got this,” Larson calls out and holds up his phone. “My husband just sent me this clip.”
The question that the anchor gave Max that made him walk away echoes loudly into the space. Then the silence that follows it. And then Max’s angry reply. His words and voice send chills down my spine when I hear them again and I close my eyes, leaning into Caulder. Just a bit.
