It’s a tale as old as time that a friends with benefits situation rarely remains just afriendswith benefits situation.
Neither Drew nor Quentin would be able to say who caught feelings first—Drew was almost positive Quentin had fallen first, though Drew had certainly fallen harder. During the summer off after their first season together, they spent a long time together at a lake house Drew had had built in New Hampshire, enjoying long days on the water, and long nights by the fire, holding each other and making love and reallytalkingabout things for the first time.
Drew had gone into their second season together hopelessly in love, not knowing that Quentin had gone into the same season holding reservations about their situation. At that point, even Quentin himself might not have consciously known about his hesitations—later, when he ended things, he wasn’t able to give Drew a clear answer about the timeline of his doubts.
They had no plans for the future, not really. Any time that Drew hinted he wanted to talk about what might be next for them, Quentin brushed him off. That was Drew’s first red flag. Though he supposed he couldn’t blame Quentin. What hopedidthey have for a future? Though the world of hockey, and professional sports in general, was slowly becoming less closed-minded about people who weren’t cis-het, it was still sometimes a dark place to be queer. And Drew had been publicly closeted for an almost ten-year-long career. He admittedly didn’t relish the idea of coming out now, but he would’ve done it for Quentin.
He had thought, maybe foolishly, that Quentin would’ve done the same thing for him. That maybe they would find massive public support of their relationship.
He was wrong.
The plan he had come up with wasn’t very detailed or complex. He wanted to keep it simple, like his subconscious knew it needed to protect him from too much nuance, which could hurt him more. Drew decided that before the Crawford Cup Final, he would tell Quentin what he wanted: a real relationship, where they could go out in public holding hands, where they could claim each other proudly as boyfriends.
He told all this to Quentin in his apartment before the game. He would never forget the way Quentin looked at him. It was almost a look of horror.
“No,” he said. “Drew, what do you mean? We can’t do that.” He shook his head. “Look, this is just sex, man. If that’s not enough for you…I don’t know what to tell you. I guess we can’t keep doing this anymore, then.”
Drew was dumbfounded, shocked, and hurt.
That was why he’d been so out of it in the Final. Why he’d hesitated to pass the puck to Quentin, leading to his injured knee.
And why he was so hesitant to let himself fall for someone again, so soon.
—
Wanting to take his mind off of Gabriel, after their walk around Orion, Drew decided that he would take care of his grocery shopping, and then visit Orion’s Belt Hockey Camp, which he had apparently donated money to. Estelle told him that his donation had been mostly anonymous, as it was funneled through his charitable foundation, but the family that ran the camp would no doubt appreciate a visit from him. She told him that she got the vibe that the family was discreet and wouldn’t spread the word that an NHL player was staying in Orion if he asked them not to.
“Midwesterners are nice,” she said. “They’ll keep your secret.”
He finished his iced latte, found a recycling bin for his plastic cup, and walked slowly from town to his rented house. He could already feel that he was getting a bit of a tan, so he applied sunscreen at the house, not wanting to get burned.
He took his car keys and drove back into town, hunting for the local grocery store. He loaded up with locally-grown fruits and vegetables, bread, pasta, eggs, milk, and plenty of meat that he would cook. Though for the past few years, he’d employed a private chef in Boston, he enjoyed cooking and was quite talented in the kitchen. He enjoyed going out for dinner and trying new restaurants, but when he was on vacation, he often took the time to revisit his love of the kitchen.
After bringing the groceries back to his house and putting them away, he looked up the address of Orion’s Belt Hockey Camp and saw on their website that they were about to start their first session of the summer next week.
The hockey camp was too far away to walk to, so he got back in his car, plugged the address into his phone’s GPS, and started driving.
It took ten minutes to get from his rented house to the hockey camp. It would’ve taken less time, but he’d gotten lost for a few minutes when his phone briefly lost cellular service. In the end, it wasn’t too bad, and he found himself on a dirt road bumping down to the camp. It seemed like a pleasant place, and he was glad that he could contribute to it. He didn’t know what they had used his donation for, and he didn’t plan on asking.
He followed the signs past several cabins and turned into a gravel parking lot, where he parked his car next to several others. He hadn’t called ahead. He figured he would poke his head in, see who was there, and if no one was available to talk to him, he’d try again another day. He just wanted to see the place he’d donated money to, maybe talk to the owners for a bit about their business and the camp’s ideas, and take a walk around the property if they were okay with him seeing it. He wasn’t familiar with amateur youth hockey camps like this, as most of his summer training in his youth had been done at official NHL training camps. He liked the idea of something more casual like this. Hockey, and all sports, should be accessible to all people at any level of ability, he believed.
The buildings of the camp were nice, but old, and it was clear that whatever money they had received and were making wasn’t enough to fully cover the various remodels and repairs that were needed in the various buildings. He was curious to see what their rink looked like.
The main building was a large log cabin with multiple stories. He looked around for any employees outside, saw none, and went in through the main entrance.
There were glass doors on his left, labeled “Office,” and he went through them.
A middle-aged woman with gray hair and sharp glasses sat behind a computer. A nameplate on her desk said “Danielle.” She looked up when he entered and frowned at him.
“Hello,” she said, in a tone that suggested the “bad cop” in an FBI interrogation.
Drew almost felt like apologizing for his intrusion. “Hi,” he said. “I’m staying in town for the summer, and I wanted to take a look at the camp. Are the owners or directors around? I would love to say hi.”
“They’re very busy,” Danielle continued, and it sounded very much like she thought he was a silly man for his request.
“Of course,” Drew said. “I understand.” He hesitated. He didn’t like pulling the “money” card, but he really wanted to see the camp. “You see, I donated some money to the camp a few years ago, and I’ve never had the chance to see the property. Is there any chance you could see if either of the owners is available to speak to me, and maybe show me around?” He knew from the camp’s website that it was owned by a married couple, Don and Laurel Ackermann.
Danielle’s countenance immediately changed at the mention of money. “Ah, well, you should’ve led with that,” she said warmly. “We’re always happy to have donors take a look at what they’ve helped sustain. I’ll radio and see if anyone is available.” She picked up a Walkie-Talkie and spoke into it. “Don, Laurel, are either of you available? We have a gentleman in the main offices who’d like to speak to you. He donated some money to the camp and would like to see the property.”
