Elliot
Does this theory have anything to do with karma or juju or otherwacky universe shit?
Alex
If I answer that, it will ruin my experiment. Don’t fuck with the scientific method.
Elliot
Fine.
Good luck tonight, Alex. XOXO.
The Thunder is kicking ass so fucking hard tonight, its almost not even fun.
Who am I kidding, of course its fucking fun.
My guys have been on fire since the very first drop of the puck. Miles is on a whole other level, taking shot after shot on goal every time he’s on the ice. He’s scored once on his own and has two assists, letting the rookie left winger take some glory for himself against Vancouver’s defense.
And me? I’ve been a brick-fucking-wall. I feel like Superman out here, plucking bullets out of the air and keeping Vancouver from lighting the lamp. My D-men have kept the puck out of the crease, but on the few opportunities Vancouver has had to take a shot, my lightning reflexes have kept their score at a big old goose egg.
With only a few minutes left on the play clock andthis game in the bag, I’m content to sit back and watch as San Francisco takes this thing to the finish line. All the action is on the other side of the ice, but when the puck gets loose and Vancouver’s right winger comes at me, I’m back on high alert. I focus in, the roar of the crowd dulls, the chill of the rink is gone. It's just me, this guy, and the puck. Defense is there but they’re not quick enough. Vancouver takes his shot, the puck careening toward my left foot at the speed of sound. But I’m watching, I’m ready, I’m a goddamn goalie god. My stick snaps out, stopping the soaring puck in its tracks.
Across the ice, I see Miles completely uncovered and instinct takes over. Before Vancouver knows what hit them, I’ve sent the puck soaring to Miles’s awaiting stick, and then he’s flipping it past the goalie like a line cook flipping a pancake.
The lamp lights, my team tackles me, and the game is signed, sealed, and delivered ours.
I’m thrilled, fucking ecstatic, but the butterflies in my stomach are so much more than just that post-game adrenaline.
I think I might have just proven my own theory, the one I cooked up in bed hours after spending Thanksgiving with Elliot. After we kissed outside of my house, I played the best game of my career. Tonight, I got him to give me the text version of akiss, and would you look at that? Another W up on the board.
And now I seriously need to talk to someone as soon as possible.
Soon comes sooner than I thought, when, later that night, the hockey gods bless me with an open seat at the back of the team plane next to Mikhail Kovalenko, a defenseman who came to San Francisco from North Carolina. He’s a total grump who pretends he only speaks Russian when in the press room—even though he’s been in America for, like, eighteen years or something. But he’s an openly queer player who came out early in his career and has been madly in love with his husband for five years, so he’s exactly the guy I need to talk to.
Typically I sit closer to the front of the plane—the fourth row window seat on the left side, to be exact—but desperate times call for desperate measures. I take my usual seat at first, just in case. Once we hit our cruising altitude, I give Franny a little rub for good luck, and I’m on the move. The lights in the cabin are dimmed, the only sounds to be heard over the roar of the engine is the three rookies playing Fortnite in the middle row and Miles snoring like a freight train right behind them. Everyone else is either sleeping or trying to when I plop down next to Mikhail.
“Whatever it is, Holmes, the answer is no,” he mutters right away, crossing his massive arms over his chest and leaning his head on the window.
“How’d you know it was me?” I ask, since he hasn’t bothered to open his eyes.
“Could hear the rustling of that ridiculous butt-bag. Cheap plastic and nylon garbage.”
I gasp, placing two hands on either side of Franny to cover her ears.
“You are not cheap garbage, my sweet girl,” I whisper to my bag as I unzip her and pull out the bribe I brought along for this very occasion, quietly peeling the corner of the wrapper open. “I brought something for you, Kovalenko.”
“I don’t speak English,” he grunts.
I hold up the strawberries and cream protein bar I know Mikhail loves and wave it under his nose, hoping the cloying sweet scent of the world’s nastiest post-game treat will get the angry Russian to open his eyes and talk to me.
He doesn’t open his eyes, but he does snatch the bar from me.
“You have until I finish,” he says. I’ve seen Kovalenko inhale three of those gross protein bars in one breath before, so I hurry and say what I need to say as quickly as possible.
“I think I might be gay. Or bi. Or some kind ofqueer. I’m not sure but I keep having these sex dreams about this one guy in particular and I’ve ruined like, four pairs of pajama pants, so I need to know how you knew you were queer because I’ve never had sexual feelings for another man before, but it doesn’t feel like there’s anything heterosexual about the way I want him to pin me down and make me beg for it, you know?”
It all comes out in one long-winded run-on sentence, and I get the nervous urge to glance around and make sure none of our other teammates are listening. But the second I hear the words out loud from my own lips— “I think I might be queer”— I feel like a thousand pound weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Like something I didn’t even realize I’d been carrying is suddenly on the ground in front of me, a package arrived at its destination. The thought has been knocking around in my noggin since I met Elliot, but saying it out loud makes it feel…real. Right.
