“No problem, Coach.”
I walked out without looking back, made it halfway down the hallway before I had to stop and grip the wall.
What the fuck was that?
CHAPTER 10
CHASING FREEDOM
JACE
The baseball cap was pulled low enough that it shadowed most of my face, and the glasses were non-prescription but thick-framed enough to change my profile. I'd left my watch at home, swapped my usual fitted shirt for something looser and cheaper that I'd bought specifically for this, and when I looked at myself in the rearview mirror before getting out, I barely recognized the guy staring back.
The bar was called Revive, tucked into a side street in Toronto's Church-Wellesley Village. I'd found it on online after an hour of research, cross-referencing reviews to make sure it wasn't the kind of place that attracted celebrity hunters or had TVs playing sports. The last thing I needed was to walk into a gay bar and see my own face on the screen during a highlight reel.
I stood outside for a full minute before I made myself push through the door, and the first thing that hit me was the music. Something with a deep bass line that vibrated through my chest, loud enough to drown out thought. The second thing was the smell—alcohol and cologne and bodies in close proximity, the specific scent of a Friday night crowd. The third thing was thelaughter. Everywhere. People at the bar, people clustered in groups, people on the small dance floor in the back, all of them looking relaxed and happy and completely at ease in a way I'd never been anywhere.
I found a spot at the end of the bar where I could put my back to the wall and watch the room. Old habit. Always know your exits. Always see who's watching.
Except no one was watching me. No one gave a shit. Two guys were making out in a booth to my left, hands all over each other like they didn't care who saw. A group near the pool table was laughing at something, loud and uninhibited. The bartender—tall, dark hair, sleeve tattoos running up both arms—was pouring drinks and flirting with a customer, easy and confident in a way that made it look effortless.
Everyone here was just living. Being themselves. No fear that someone would see them and decide they were less than.
And I was sitting here in a disguise, miserable, my pulse spiking every time someone walked past like they might recognize me despite the hat and glasses and the careful way I'd positioned myself in the shadows.
I ordered a beer when the bartender finally made his way down to my end, and I kept my voice lower than normal, rougher, like that would somehow protect me. He brought it over without comment, and I nursed it slowly while I watched the room and tried to figure out what the fuck I was doing here.
This was stupid. This was reckless. If anyone found out—if a teammate saw me, if someone took a photo, if word got back to the team or the media or my parents—I'd be done. Not just benched. Not just traded. Done. The league would claim they were progressive and supportive, but I'd seen what happened to the guys who came out.
I took another drink and let myself imagine it anyway. Coming out.
It would ruin everything. My career. My reputation. My relationship with my family. All of it gone because I couldn't just keep my head down and play the game the way I was supposed to.
The bartender appeared in front of me again, leaning against the bar with his forearms braced, and his smile was warm and easy. “You look like you're having a terrible time.”
I blinked, pulled out of my spiral. “What?”
“You've been nursing that beer for twenty minutes and you look like you're at a funeral, not a bar.” His eyes were dark, his grin crooked, and there was something disarming about the way he looked at me. “First time here?”
“Yeah.”
“Thought so. You've got that 'deer in headlights' thing going on.” He tilted his head. “You want another beer or something stronger?”
“I'm good.”
“You sure? Because you look like you could use stronger.”
I laughed despite myself, and it felt strange. Rusty. “That obvious?”
“Little bit.” He grinned wider, and I noticed the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, the way his tattoos disappeared under the rolled-up sleeves of his black shirt. “I'm Ethan, by the way.”
“Jace.” The name was out before I could stop it, and I froze, waiting for recognition to flicker across his face. It didn't. He just nodded like that was a perfectly normal name for a guy in a baseball cap and fake glasses to give.
“Nice to meet you, Jace. You in town for work or just slumming it in the Village?”
“Work.” Another half-truth. We'd played in Toronto two weeks ago, but I lived close enough to drive here on a day off when I was feeling reckless and desperate.
“Well, welcome to Revive. Best dive bar in the city, worst drink prices, friendliest staff.” He winked, and it was so blatant, so unapologetic, that I felt something unclench in my chest. “You gonna tell me what's got you looking so miserable, or do I have to guess?”
