One of Boston’s final games in the regular NHL season was against the Buffalo Polar Bears, a rival of theirs. Buffalo’s captain, Jansen Nylstrom, was an old classmate of Quentin’s from college, and Quentin both loved and hated playing Nylstrom. Jansen had a temper and played a fierce and often violent game of hockey. He was harsh on and off the ice. He was hotheaded, but a very good player, and he could often back up his boasts with genuinely good hockey. He had boasted all season that he was the better captain and the better player, better than Quentin, and Quentin was hoping that Boston would defeat Buffalo again. He didn’t want to hear any more of Nylstrom’s arrogant boasts.
The Minutemen had been doing well in the regular season; Quentin was proud of his team. They’d done what he’d hoped they would do this year, and their shot in the Playoffs was looking good. Quentin was hoping to win against the Buffalo Polar Bears mostly for the principle of the matter.
It was a home game. Jaeger, one of Boston’s players, was out sick, and Dorsey had an injury, but Quentin still felt confident about their chances. He gave a rousing speech to his team before the game, with lots of calls to annihilate Buffalo, but to do so with class.
The game started well. Buffalo got possession of the puck first and drove it hard towards Boston’s goal, but the Boston defensemen intercepted the puck and sent it sailing back towards Buffalo’s side, where Quentin and the other forwards were waiting. They were playing a quick game, the teams’ styles butting up against each other. Buffalo was fierce and physical, while Boston played a more refined and restrained game. It was strength against finesse, and Jansen Nylstrom seemed confident that Buffalo could bully the Minutemen into submission. Quentin didn’t appreciate that and wasn’t about to give Buffalo that satisfaction.
By the end of the first period, they were tied at zero. Quentin was covered with sweat, and his muscles ached and burned, but it felt good. This was where he was meant to be, on the ice, leading his team. He hadn’t let Jansen get under his skin, and didn’t plan on letting it happen.
Halfway through the second period, he was on the bench, waiting for his shift. He watched the movement of the game carefully. His team was playing with all of their skill. Buffalo couldn’t get a puck past them, but was managing to block all of the Minutemen’s shots, too.
Henri had possession of the puck, and he was barreling towards the goal. He passed to Colfer, one of the wingers, who spun with the puck and sent it sailing back to Henri, who wound up for a shot.
Nylstrom crashed into Henri, knocking him to the ice. Whistles blew as players from both teams converged on Henri and Nylstrom.
Quentin was on his feet, gripping the edge of the boards. Henri was already up, and he was getting in Nylstrom’s face. It was loud in the arena, and Quentin couldn’t hear what Henri and Nylstrom were saying, but it was clear they were arguing about something. They were both red in the face, and the referees were trying to get in between them.
One word cut through the chaos. Quentin didn’t know how he heard it, but his ears picked out the slur that Nylstrom threw Henri’s way like a weapon. The word stopped Henri short, and he stood frozen on the ice.
Quentin saw red, and he hopped the boards.
The last thing he remembered was skating furiously towards Nylstrom, throwing his helmet to the ice, and shouting for Jansen to “fucking try that one more time!”
“He was ejected from the game, thankfully,” Quentin said quietly, “but I was, too.” He was lying on his back, on his bed, and talking into his phone, which rested on the pillow next to him. He liked doing his phone calls with Joel that way, because it almost made it feel like Joel was in bed with him, even if he was hundreds, or thousands, of miles away.
“What did you do?” Joel asked.
Quentin closed his eyes. His memories of the end of the second period were fuzzy, but he knew that he had tried to fight Nylstrom and that he’d gotten at least one punch in because Jansen had a fat lip. And Quentin had a black eye. He’d been furious at the other captain, more angry than he’d ever been on the ice. It had been Henri, in the end, who had pulled Quentin off Jansen and who had shouted “he’s not worth it!” over and over, finally getting Quentin to stop.
“I tried to kick his ass,” Quentin said, “and got myself kicked out of the game. He shouldn’t have called Henri that. It’s awful.”
“I think there’s a history of it in your sport,” Joel said wryly.
Quentin grunted. He was very familiar with the homophobic tendencies (past and present) in hockey and in other male professional sports. He didn’t like it, and he was only beginning to realize how personal it was to him. He could no longer ignore the truth of his own identity. He was queer. He preferred the term “queer” to “gay,” because it seemed more expansive and general to him. Not that he’d shared that with anyone else, not even Henri or Cort or Joel. He didn’t feel the need to define or defend his identity to anyone else.
When Jansen had so cruelly and so casually called Henri a “faggot,” Quentin hadn’t been fighting for himself. He had been fighting for his friend. He had been trying to defend Henri, though he knew Henri didn’t need him to do that. Henri was right, Jansen wasn’t worth the fight. He was being fined heavily for his misconduct and was receiving plenty of bad press about it. Henri had addressed the incident in a post-game interview. He was the son of a politician, and he was good in front of cameras and microphones. He said firmly to the reporters that homophobia and bigotry of any kind had no place in professional sports. He didn’t appreciate the slur being leveled at him, and he said he hoped that Jansen Nylstrom would take the opportunity to reflect, learn, and grow. His voice had been cool, but he’d been more gracious than Quentin would’ve been.
“At least you won the game,” Joel said.
Quentin smiled. “That’s true. Remind me what city you’re in, now?”
“Salt Lake.”
“How was the concert?”
“It was good. I’m in the phase of a tour where I get a little tired of it all. I’m practically performing it in my sleep, now. I need a break, and then I’ll be ready for the next leg.”
“Maybe we can get some more time together during your break,” Quentin murmured. He wanted to spend more time with Joel, where their time wasn’t limited to hotel rooms or the secrecy of his apartment. He wanted to have the freedom of unlimited time. There were things he wanted to talk about, and things he wanted to do that went beyond what they did in their beds.
“I’d like that,” Joel said softly. “I have to go, sorry. Braun wants to talk.”
“Good luck. I’ll talk to you later.”
A week later, the Playoffs started. The Minutemen had released a public statement in response to what had happened on the ice during the game against Buffalo. The statement condemned homophobia and bigotry, but also senseless violence. Quentin understood that his wrist was getting slapped, but Jansen Nylstrom was facing public condemnation. The world of hockey was changing, and he was surprised at how aggressively fans were turning against Nylstrom for his public display of hatred. Quentin almost found it encouraging. There had been several players in the league recently who’d had the courage to come out publicly and speak about the need for progress in hockey culture.
Sebastiaan Koning, a famous Dutch player for the Seattle Killer Whales, had been the first player to come out publicly. He’d been out already in college and had been open about his identity from the moment he joined the league. Quentin had met Koning a few times and had played against him many times. He admired the Dutchman, and sometimes envied his courage—and his happiness. He had a healthy relationship with a former Olympic figure skater named Adonis Costa, who now worked in sorts law in Seattle. They were a popular, famous, beautiful couple.
Of course, there were also Henri and Cort. They were both openly bisexual. Henri was more famous than Cort, because Cort hadn’t played hockey since college, but together they’d gained a large following on social media. They were beloved by their fans, and all of those fans were turning against Jansen Nylstrom with venom.
