“Let me finish.” He takes a sip of his water. “We were married until Alex turned three. Before I finally admitted to myself what I’d known all along: I was gay, not bi.”
My brain struggles to process this. Coach Donovan, the man who’s been a father to me for three years, is telling me he’s gay while I’m in my underwear.
“The divorce nearly killed us both,” he continues. “Not because we hated each other, but because we didn’t. She knew, deep down, that I’d always been in love with Gerard’s father, and even though he was happily married, I was not.”
“Does Alex know about this?”
“Yeah, he does. I keep no secrets from my son.”
“Why are you telling me all of this then?”
He narrows his eyes, those hazel irises turning to stone as his jaw tightens ever so slightly. It’s the same look he gives right before benching someone who’s about to argue with him. “Because I see you making the same mistake I did. Not the marriage part—Christ, you’re too young for that. But the fear. You’re so scared of the emotions bubbling inside of you that it’s eating you alive.”
“It’s not that simple,” I protest. “Jackson’s straight. He’s only doing this to help me out.”
“Is he?” Coach leans forward again. “Because from where I’m sitting, that boy treats you like a king.”
“So, you’re saying I should tell him how I feel? But what if it ruins everything?”
“Then it ruins everything.” He shrugs as if it’s that simple. “But at least you’ll know. At least you won’t spend the rest of your life wondering what if.”
The plastic of the water bottle crackles under my fingers, my knuckles bleaching white against the label. A drop of condensation slides between my thumb and forefinger, tracing a cold path down my wrist. “I don’t know how to do this. Relationships. Real ones. My parents fucked me up too badly for that.”
“Your parents’ crumbling marriage has nothing to do with your ability to love someone.” His voice goes gentle in a way I’ve rarely heard. “You’re not your father, Drew. And Jackson’s not your mother. You’re allowed to want something real.”
“But what ifIfuck it up?” The question comes out small, scared.
Coach pushes up from the chair with a soft grunt. Two steps and he’s at the edge of the bed, lowering himself down next to me. The mattress sinks, sliding me an inch closer to him. His body heat radiates against my bare shoulder, and goosebumps prickle across my skin as I tug the sheet half-heartedly over my exposed thighs.
“You might,” he says simply. “Hell, you probably will at some point. But that’s what relationships are—fucking up and choosing to fix it together.”
“When did you become a relationship counselor?” I try for humor, but it falls flat.
“When one of my best players started playing as if he’d rather be anywhere else than on the ice.” He bumps my shoulder with his. “Hockey’s important, Drew. But it’s not everything. Don’t let fear prevent you from trying for something that could be.”
“The charity event?—”
“Is an opportunity,” he interrupts. “Whatever it ends up being, use it. Stop hiding behind the fake relationship excuse and show Jackson what he means to you.”
“And if he doesn’t reciprocate?”
Coach stands, his broad shoulders blocking the hotel room light. The hard lines around his eyes soften, and one corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Then you’ll hurt like hell for a while. But you’ll survive. And you’ll be able to move on knowing you tried.”
He heads for the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “Get some sleep, Larney. And ice that bruise on your ribs—it’s turning purple.”
“Coach?” I call as he opens the door. “Thanks. For this. For everything.”
He glances over his shoulder and throws me a smile that makes me feel seen and understood for the first time in forever. “That’s what I’m here for. Well, that and making sure you don’t embarrass us on the ice again.”
“No promises on that one.”
The door closes behind him, and I’m alone with my thoughts and a heart that has grown too big for my chest. I flop back on the bed, staring at the ceiling as his words replay in my head.
Could it be that I’ve been so focused on protecting myself from getting hurt that I haven’t noticed Jackson might be doing the same thing? Could those moments at the roller rink have been more than bodies seeking something convenient?
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Jackson’s name lights up the screen.
Jackson
