“You’re wearing your glasses.” Foot mid-air, I pause. My favorite gruff and grumbly voice now all I hear. “Forget to refill your prescription again?”
“James.” I squeak. “What are you doing here?”
“I work here, remember?” He looks me up and down. “What areyoudoing here? And by here and you, I mean why areyoudressed asyouwhile beinghere?”
It takes a minute to process that, because James is leaning against the wall beside me, but when I do, my chest puffs with pride. “I know it’s lame and no big deal, but I’m being me. The real me. Glasses, gay and geek.”
“It is a big deal. You look good. I’d almost say life raft worthy.” A rare, breathtakingly beautiful smile lights his face, before he glances over his shoulder, then hooks his little finger around mine.
HE’S HOLDING MY FUCKING PINKIE.
It’s fleeting. Over before I can pull out my phone and capture it, but even if nothing physical ever happens again between James and I, this is a touch, a moment, I will never forget.
“Good luck, Kid.”
“Thanks, Jamie.”
Hovering by the entry opposite Coach Harris, I fight with all my might to keep my face neutral. This kid, and I use the term affectionately, this fucking kid amazes me. Pride is blooming where it has no absolutely zero right to bloom, as are other emotions I dare not probe too deeply.
I know he’s dumbing this down by saying it’s nothing to wear the thick glasses and fluffy hair, but to me and every other kid that was bullied and shrank themselves down because of it, coming out not only as gay, but as the real Cory, before a group of young men that are part of a community known for past toxic traits, is a feat of Herculean magnitude.
Voice steady and calm. Face teetering on the edge of green, he speaks from the heart. Perhaps Brady and Troye had already greased the wheel, but this is an almost entirely new team to the one they came out to last season. Even so, fresh faces and old, sit and listen to their captain reveal the real him.
“I know it may seem weird for some of you, but I just want to remind you that I am still me, the same guy who washed cars with you last week, who consistently beats your sorry asses in speed races, and can check you into the boards as hard as a guy twice my size. Oh, and finally, please don’t worry about me hitting on you, ‘cause you’re all ugly as fuck and I wouldn’t touch any of you even if we were the last men on earth.”
Smelly socks, tape balls and anything else within reach rains down over Cory, who’s taking a bow on the bench in front of his stall. The whole team, bar a moody looking Hoffman, joins in.
It’s entirely too adorable, and I resign myself to smile.
“That boy grossly underestimates his likableness, and ability to lead,” Harris says, pride evident in his tone. “He’ll be a NHL captain one day.”
“You don’t think the gay thing will hinder him?”
David crosses his arms over his chest, eyes suspicious. “No, but I take it you do?”
“I think we both know the pro hockey world isn’t always pro-pride.”
“True, but guys like that punk Becker are laying the foundations. Maybe Cory can be the one to cement the change.”
For some reason I find myself matching Harris’ pose. Arms crossed over chest, right foot over left. “You know what, I think you might be right. If anyone can do it. Cory can.”
Watching as his team embraces him one by one, I get a little misty-eyed, and the fluttering of my heart has me roughly clearing my throat and standing like there’s a stick up my ass. Like they’ve all just scored the winning goal, they empty out of the room, fist bumping Coach and I as they go. Cory is last, the grin on his face full and deserved. Coach follows the team leaving Cory and I to walk down the chute side by side.
“Ya did good, Cubby. Take it easy on the ice, okay. It’s your first skate. Work into it slowly.”
“Sure thing, Doc.”
Hitting the ice, the smirk-wink combo he tosses me over his shoulder is damn near pornographic. Pity I can’t kiss it off his face the way my lips are tingling to do.
As though he’d missed a day, not three weeks, Cory glides effortlessly towards the goals, slowing to give his young goalies a helmet tap, before continuing his warm up laps. He really is the most talented skater I’ve seen, edge work I could only dream of and a burst of speed as impressive as anyone in the NHL. It’s his eyes that have my gut twisting, though. Pure joy lighting the navy blue to glittering turquoise.
Brady appears at my side, expression as solemn as I’ve seen. “You shouldn’t look so sad watching someone have so much fun. Do you miss it?”
My stock standard answer is there, ready to roll off my tongue. But after what Cubby just did… “For years I rarely thought about it. But now … yeah, Yeah, I do.” I look down at my soft belly and give it a tap. “I think my body does, too.” One look at the down turn of his lips, and I know the answer to my question before I’ve asked it. “What about you?”
“Shit yeah. Every day I wake up and look forward to practice. Then I remember. Sometimes I think the Docs may have got it wrong, ‘cause I feel so good.” He smiles. “But later that night after hours under the lights here or at Green Line, my head hurts so bad I can hardly open my eyes. I loved hockey, but I love Quinny and Troye more. One more game isn’t worth the risk.”
“You’re a lucky man. Some of us never find the perfect person for us, and you found two of them.”
