A similar themeruns through each thing I read. Dad was just as overwhelmed as I was. And not just when we were kids. There’s notes here, copies of emails and texts that show Dad struggling to get help for Dylan. Evidence of his quest to grant Dylan the right of independence. Records of almost monthly medical tests, searching for answers to what ailed him, and notes John left insisting he was healthy. It was anxiety. He was burnt out right to the end of his life and I never knew.
A knock on the door draws my eyes from an application Dad had made for Dylan to receive funding for an independent living complex designed for adults with autism. It’s a place I know well, Dyl has stayed there for respite weekends several times. He loves it and poor Dad had all but begged for permanent funding five times and each was rejected.
“Fuck I hate this,” I sob, wiping my cheek with the sleeve of my hoodie. “I wish he was still here, John. I’d tell him he never failed me, or Faith or Dyl.”
“He knew that in the end, I think Jamie. He was so proud of Faith becoming a professor and of you for pivoting to study physiotherapy.”
“I’m glad he got to see some of his wishes fulfilled before I went and fucked everything up.”
“You didn’t fuck everything up. You just fell for the right person at the wrong time. He’d still be proud of you, Jamie. He wanted you to be happy in every aspect of your life, and that includes your love life.”
I rub my chest, my tattoo almost burning beneath my fingers.
Balance,playing through my mind over and over.
I need to right myself. To find some balance. To make Dad proud, and I think I know where to start. Crinkling, my gown slips from my shoulder as I roll from the bed and start dressing.
“Please don’t talk about my love life, not only because it’s weird, but because I’m done with that shit. I have no time for men, especially not now that I have a mission.”
“Ten minutes ago, you thought you were on your death bed, now you’re off on a quest? Are there eight other members of your fellowship hiding in here?”
“No, and yes. I can’t do much about a boyfriend when the only one I want is out of reach, but I’m getting my job back, and I’m getting Dyl into that place, John. I swear.”
Six months later.
Connor Hoffman. Connor fucking Hoffman is the first face I see when I’m lead into the Mountie’s change rooms. With everything that’s happened over the last few months, I’d forgotten about him, his admittedly hot cousin, and his asshole brother. Thankfully, I’m certain it would go both ways. He’s a big deal in the NHL. I am not. There’s every chance he won’t remember who I am. Or that I hooked up with his cousin in a cupboard the second last time I was here.
Bent over tying his laces as we enter, he looks up when he hears Gary, the equipment manager’s heavy Québécois accent. “Cory Malkovich,” Connor says, adding a double finger gun. “They call you Cubby, right? Great to see you again, man.” Ahh fuck it. “You’re here early? Nate’s not coming ‘til next month.”
“Yeah, I know. He messaged me this week.” Which is true. After running into each other during the finals, I’ve struck up a friendship with him and his boyfriend, Tom. Going as far to have an apartment in the same building as them.
Accepting Connor’s outstretched hand, I shake it and try really hard not to wince. The dude’s a beast. “I had nothing keeping me in Boston, so I thought I’d come up early and get a jump start. Congrats on a great start to the playoffs.” In truth, the second I was off the NCAA ice, Coach Parker called me up. Obviously I’ve not played, but I have with the Missiles, The Mountie’s AHL team.
“Thanks, dude. Going well so far. Looking forward to having you with us next time.” With an up-nod, he sits again and goes back to his laces. I really want to ask him about Trent. With what I remember from last year’s development camp, and this re-introduction, Connor is nothing like his brother. He knows his cousin is queer, and hasn’t made a fuss. Maybe I’ll have nothing to worry about.
Following Gary, who politely waited as I spoke to his team’s star winger, I slide my phone from my pocket just enough for a discreet check. Brady, Sam, and Lucas are flying in this afternoon to help me move into my apartment.
I’ve been in Montreal since the Bears second consecutive Frozen Four win in April. Like I said to Connor, I had nothing to keep me there and everything to escape. James and I have only spoken twice since our split. Once when he returned some of the things I’d left at his place. And again when he sold his apartment—thankfully to a private investor who was happy to keep us as tenants, even with an increased rent. Both times felt like a dagger being reinserted into my heart, that was then twisted then left to rust.
Time has helped me see maybe it was the right thing to do, but nothing can takeaway the pain. James helped form who I am, and that’s the kind of love you just never get over.
Pretty sure that’s why the boys are coming to help me settle in. As witnesses to the mess I became, and the arbitrators of my somewhat resurrection, they deserve to enjoy a taste of my success. I’ve got the whole weekend planned. Limo transfers too and from the airport. A fancy dinner tonight at one of Montreal’s best restaurants. A private, guided tour tomorrow, Cirque du Soleil tickets,andwhatever cheap crap I can think of in between ‘cause I am broke.
“Coach tells me you’ve got some pretty fancy accommodation over in The Village?” I can’t help but note Gary’s raised eyebrows as he points me towards a long hallway I think leads to the administrative area. After Nate made me aware of it, renting in The Village, a suburb also referred to as, “The Gay Village,” was as deliberate a move as chasing Jamie was, and one I hope to also come to love. Since I’m not quite sure of the reception I’ll receive as one of a few openly gay players in the league, I thought I would at least pick a neighborhood where I knew I’d be accepted. “You rooming with any of the other rookies, or … a friend?” Nate, I know he’s thinking.
“Nope. Just me. Back home in Boston I was living with my mom, my sister and a toddler.”
“Oui, je comprends.”
“That’s … you understand, right?”
“Yes, oui. Well done, Cory. You’re learning to speak French?”
“Trying. It’s a lot more difficult than I imagined it would be. Probably should have started the second I got drafted, but with school and practice, I never seemed to have time.”
“Never mind. You seem like a smart boy. You’ll pick it up. Now, would you like to see the most important part of the complex?”
“The rink?”
