And I know, because I always know, the only message I really want is the one that will never come.
But I keep checking, anyway.
Because I’m an idiot.
And because there’s nothing else left to do.
———
The stink of the locker room is a comfort, weirdly.
Not because it’s good, Jesus, it’s like if a gym sock could fart, but because it’s the only thing left in my life that hasn’t been rebranded by the internet.
Today’s practice was suicides and shooting drills, and the only thing holding my body together is tape, aspirin, and spite.
I sit at my stall, left foot propped on the metal rim, slowly unlacing my skates like a man defusing a bomb.
Across the aisle, the rookies are whispering, heads ducked, pretending not to stare. I give them a wave, waggle my tongue through the gap in my teeth, and they look away fast enough I worry about whiplash.
Tommy Biel, built like a bomb shelter and about as communicative, ambles over.
He drops a brand-new roll of white tape onto my bench, thunk. It’s not subtle. He stares at me until I look up.
“You need anything,” he says, voice low and flat, “you come to me. That’s it.”
He walks off before I can reply. Most words he’s said to me in two years. I want to laugh, or cry, or throw the tape at his retreating back, but instead I tuck it into my bag like it’s a medal.
Kai’s next.
He’s vibrating so hard I can hear the mesh in his jersey rustle. He plops down beside me, butt-to-bench, and leans in like we’re about to talk trades.
“So, like,” he says, “when did you know?”
I take a breath. “Dude.”
He ignores it, grinning. “I mean, was it always guys? Or was there a moment? And is it the goalie?”
He says “goalie” like it’s a code word for sex, or drugs, or both at once.
I palm my face, but I’m smiling. “Kai, I’ll make you a deal. If you stop asking, I’ll let you buy me a beer after the next win.”
He snorts. “Easy. I was just curious, man.” He slaps my shoulder, then is up and gone, already chirping at the next stall down.
He posts a selfie with me five minutes later, both of us flashing peace signs, the caption: “Love wins, motherfuckers.”
The comments are split fifty-fifty between “hell yeah” and “who’s the top?”
Across the room, Marcus Reed, alternate captain and accidental dad, is watching all of this from the corridor to the showers.
He’s got that look, like he’s prepping for a big talk, running the script in his head but not sure it’s gonna land.
He catches my eye and nods toward the tiled hallway.
I follow, towel around my waist, skin still sticky with sweat and adrenaline.
He waits until we’re out of earshot, then leans against the wall, arms crossed. “I don’t…I mean, I’ve never had a friend who was—look, I’m probably going to say something stupid at some point, and I want you to tell me when I do.”
I stare at him. “Okay.”
