Inside, the arena smelled of cold, recycled air and concession stand food. The concourses were still relatively quiet, a few loud voices echoing off the high ceilings.
Eventually, I found my section and started down the stairs, scanning the numbers. When I reached my row, I stopped short. Ethan Harrison was sitting there, his head bent over his phone.
He glanced up as I approached, his expression going from neutral to surprised to welcoming in the span of about two seconds.
“Sebastian, hey,” he greeted, extending his hand as I took my seat next to him. “Didn’t know you were coming.”
I shook his hand and glanced around, noting the seats around us were still mostly empty. “Taylor invited me. He’s being paired up with a new guy tonight to see if they click.”
Down on the ice, both teams had made their way onto the ice for warm-ups. I found Taylor immediately in his dark teal Marauders jersey, his movements efficient and controlled as he skated backward, pivoted, and then accelerated forward.
Ethan followed my gaze. “Bell says he’s like a different player this season.
“Oh yeah?”
“More focused. Faster. Said he’s playing like he gives a damn again. Whatever put that fire back in him, it’s working.”
I felt an absurd swell of pride, as if I could take any credit for Taylor’s improvement. But maybe I could, in some small way. Maybe being happy—being loved—had given him something to work toward instead of just going through the motions.
I cleared my throat and looked away. “I haven’t watched much hockey since college,” I said, changing the subject before I revealed just how emotional I could get when it came to that man. “I used to go to all of Taylor’s games back then. Before … well, before we lost touch. You might have to talk me through some of the plays.”
“Is it strange, being back in the stands cheering him on?” Ethan asked, his tone curious.
It wasn't strange so much as sentimental. Almost like looking at an old home movie of the person I used to be and feeling deja vu. That guy used to sit in the stands bundled in layers, screaming himself hoarse every time Taylor touched the puck. That guy tried desperately to learn the rules just so I could understand what was happening. That guy had memorized Taylor’s schedule so thoroughly that he knew exactly when he’d be done with practice, when he’d be at the gym, when he’d be free.
When he could be mine.
“It’s good. Makes me feel a bit nostalgic,” I said. “What about you? Do you miss being out there?”
Ethan’s eyes moved to the ice where Bell was down on all fours doing some complicated stretch that frankly looked pornographic. He was quiet for a good ten seconds before he shook his head. “Nah. I liked playing, but I didn’t love it. Not the way Bell does, anyway.” Reluctantly, he pulled his attention away from his husband, a sad-looking smile playing at his lips. “I had a complicated relationship with hockey. Or rather, being gay and wanting to play hockey.”
I cleared my throat, my fingers absently scratching at the stubble growing along my jawline. I hadn’t shaved in over a week. “That interview you did after you came out,” I said, meeting Ethan’s eyes. “Did that change things for you? With hockey, I mean?”
He lifted a plastic cup of beer to his lips, his shoulders hunching slightly inward. Then he glanced down at Bell again, who was laughing with another player, his head thrown back.
“Honestly? I don’t think I could have kept playing and been out. I’m not … I don’t have his confidence. Some of the shit that gets said in the dressing room and on the ice …” He shook his head. “I got into it once with one of our teammates back in Austin. I was two seconds away from slamming him into a stall when Bell pulled me back from the brink. Everyone in the organization knew what he’d said, too, but nothing ever changed. Mentally, I didn’t have it in me to deal with that shit. Not the way he does.”
“Is that … should I be worried about Taylor? Here, with the Marauders, I mean?”
Ethan shook his head. “No. The owner has a trans daughter. If he gets even a whiff of that bullshit fromanyonein the organization, they’re out the door.”
I let out the breath I’d been holding and stared down at my hands. “That’s good.”
While I didn’t know much about hockey, I wasn’t ignorant of the homophobia that was prevalent in professional sports. From everything I’d read, hockey had an especially bad reputation, despite events like Pride Night and campaigns centered on inclusivity. I’d been quietly worried that Taylor would face backlash within the organization if they knew about him. He wasn’t Stryker Bell, a guy you tried to build a franchise around, so I’d been concerned he’d have less protection. Face more open hostility.
“Taylor was thinking about coming out before … well, before,” I explained to Ethan.
The “me” part of that statement was implied.
“Ah,” he hummed.
“Yeah.”
Ethan leaned closer, speaking under his breath. “Look, I get why you feel like you can’t come out, so I’m not going to try and sit here and lecture you about how it’s so much better on the other side. Though it is better.”
I shifted to face him more fully, giving him my full attention, and bracing myself for whatever point he was about to make.
“And obviously,” he continued, “Bell and my situation is completely different from your guys’, but Iwillsay I had to learn the hard way that asking the man you love to deny there’s anything between you is a surefire way to blow things up.”
