The memory makes me smile. My phone notifications are silenced; not because I don’t want to talk to Lo but because he’s a fucking distraction. I can’t get shit done when we’re texting.
I love how freaking flirty he is. Everything that comes out of his mouth, uh… via text, is a fucking innuendo. But he’s also just naturally sweet. I’m not sure he even realizes how sweet he is. There’s never a break between when my texts are read and his responses, so I know he’s not contemplating what the sweetest answer is before typing it out.
It’s been forty-eight hours and I’m confident we’ve been chatting for at least forty of them. I fell asleep texting him last night! That’s how long and often we chat.
He’s just… perfect. The perfect fucking man. I’m both relieved and annoyed that he lives so far away. If he were close,the temptation to see him would be immense, and I know would put both of our secrets in jeopardy.
There’s no denying the attraction between us. I can feel it burning under my skin. It makes me ache in a way I’m not used to at all.
But at night, when I’m alone in my bed, I don’t just miss the orgasms. They’re almost an afterthought. Almost. But I really miss his arms around me. I miss sleeping against his body, tangled in his arms and legs. I miss his body heat and the way his hot breath feathers against my skin. And the way he always pressed soft kisses to me, on every bit of skin that he could reach.
I miss him.
It’s unreal, perplexing, and a little alarming how much I miss him. I barely know this guy. I shouldn’t be missing him. It’s ridiculous.
I can’t help but feel maybe my connection with Lo is so strong because he truly gets me. He understands exactly why I don’t volunteer my sexuality in a way that even Creed wouldn’t. Creed made the choice to be out. I’ve heard him say many times how important it is to him to be an out athlete because it was important for him as a kid to see out athletes.
It’s not that I disagree. I know it is incredibly important. As a child, it was important to me, too. It was an assurance thatifI were to come out, or be outed, my career wouldn’t be over. I’d have support.
But it also screamed loudly about the different treatment and attention I’d get too. I don’t want to be part of the Gays Can Play agenda. Again, yes it’s important, but I don’t want that kind of attention on me. I don’t want to be a gay athlete. I don’t want to be a straight athlete or a bi athlete or an asexual athlete. I want to be an athlete. Just an athlete. Without sexuality attached to it.
I don’t want to see a headline that reads BUFFALO SKIDMOSS DEFENSEMAN CAULDER HAINES ANNOUNCED ON MONDAY HE’S GAY.
Or CAULDER HAINES MADE HISTORY WHEN HE BECAME THE TWENTY-FIFTH NHL PLAYER—RETIRED OR ACTIVE—TO PUBLICLY COME OUT.
I don’t know about the number I’d be, I made that up. I don’t actually keep a tally on how many out hockey players there are. The point is, I don’t want to be a headline for my sexuality. Ever.
After an hour, I decide that my legs are like noodles enough, so I quit the exercises and stand. Looking around the gym, I watch my teammates do their thing while I swallow large mouthfuls of water. There aren’t many here. The trio, Brighten Shepey AKA Three, and Lucien Medcalf, affectionately known as Meddy. Meddy’s also brought his six-year-old, who’s sitting on the machine next to Meddy and doing reps with a five-pound weight.
I grin and head for the showers. Meddy has nine kids. We’re well acquainted with all of them since we’re a rather close team and hang out with Meddy often. His wife is our Mama Bear, often rescuing us from drunk puck bunnies who don’t respect personal space and aren’t good about taking no as an answer.
As I strip off my sweaty clothes and toss them into my bag, a vision of doing leg presses with my partner standing over me holding our boy as we talk flashes before my eyes. No, I don’t imagine his face as Lo’s. That’s just ridiculous. But the vision is real enough, there’s a strong longing in my chest for this imagining, that I pause to catch my breath.
Having a family has never been super important to me. A partner, yes. But kids? I don’t know. I’ve thought about it a lot over the years because Meddy is determined to create a hockey team from his offspring alone, so every time he announces a pregnancy, I think about it.
I watch how happy he is. I observe the kind of attentive parent he is. How happy his kids are. How good his life looks. I don’t believe that it’s just for show. Meddy isn’t like that. He’s authentic and what you see is what you get.
I’ve often asked myself whether I want a kid. Two? A dog? What kind of far-off future do I want?
The only answer I ever seem to have is a partner. I want a partner. Someone sweet and kind. Thoughtful. Someone I have chemistry with in every part of my life. A man to share passions with and have adventures with. I want an epic love story. Not a story that the world needs to hear, but a love story that consumes me as I live it.
Lo flashes before my eyes again and I shake it off.
By the time I’m clean and back in the locker room, Creed and Ethan are there stripping. A question our team had been asked a lot when their relationship first came out was how it felt to have a married throuple in our locker room, and whether there are ever any uncomfortable moments.
My favorite response was from Sacha Ivanov, one of our wingmen. “I shall ask about your love life if you want to know about my teammates’. Quid pro quo—which is illegal, by the way.”
He didn’t have all his facts right but, technically speaking, doing press is part of our work. Therefore, any questions of a sexual context within the workplace that makes one or more persons uncomfortable, is illegal in New York State. That’s considered harassment.
Over the next several months, PR modified Sacha’s response to be accurate and kept the same message. We’ve since been remarkably irrelevant questions-free from the press.
But what those questions always made me think about is how much I love the backdrop of their love on our team. We all feel it. It’s not like they’re not aggressive with it; there are very rarelyany signs of affection between them and never any intimacy—including a kiss or even hand holding. Not at the arena.
That doesn’t mean we don’t feel their love. There’s a strong but quiet presence to it. It’s there. We feel it. We can see it when they look at each other. But we all feel it too in the way their support is extended to us. How their concern is inclusive of us. Their praise and their joy and their sorrow are always shared with us and for us.
It’s made this team stronger and closer in a way that I can’t really imagine living without. I love it. I don’t want to trade it for anything.
The one thing it always makes me feel is longing to have that kind of relationship one day.
