Grady
May…
The room is painfully quiet. If I didn’t know better, I would think I was sitting in here all alone. I wish I were. But even though my eyes are glued to the concrete floor and I can see nothing but the sweat dripping off my face and hair, creating a puddle between my skates, I know I’m not alone. The room is filled with guys who gave it their everything and came up with nothing.
A minute, maybe two, later, Abbott breaks the silence. “We are not going to do this.”
His tone is firm enough that it forces me to lift my head. Abbott is standing next to the bin that collects are sweat-coated gear. He pulls off his jersey, which has crimson staining the white around the neck. Blood from when he took a high-stick to the face in the second period and needed stitches. He tosses it in the bin. “We are not going to act like we fucking lost the Cup. We didn’t. To really lose it, in my opinion, you gotta be in the Final and we weren’t.”
Is that supposed to help, I wonder, and then he continues. “We lost the conference finals. We lost the chance to play for the Cup, but we should still be proud. Because we fought hard. We didn’t lose because we shit the bed or because we suck.”
I drop my head and look at the floor again. And then I feel Landon’s hand on my shoulder. He must have gotten up and crossed the room. I know it’s his hand by the familiarity of the touch. I know him now like I know my own skin. “Grady, look at me.”
I look up. I can see everyone staring at us. The two besties… who spend an odd amount of time in each other’s hotel rooms on road trips. But… no one asks, and we don’t tell. If they did ask, we would tell. That’s our pact. “You did nothing wrong, Grady. We lost in game seven in triple fucking overtime. Anyone who blames the goalie for that knows nothing about the sport.”
Guys mutter their agreement. Maybe one day that will lift the guilt from my shoulders, but not tonight. Landon turns to the group. “This didn’t feel any different than what it felt like to win last year. You guys are fucking champions. I feel it. We’ve got what it takes, but luck… luck said fuck off. Next year, or the year after, it won’t. The fickle bitch will bow to us, and we will make it to the finals.”
“And we will fucking win,” Abbott adds and claps his hands. “Feel this. Absorb it. And then bottle it up and turn it into willpower. I love you guys. Do it again next year.”
There are a few confident, “yeah.” And “next year!” affirmations. The speeches were amazing. I’ll cherish them one day when the sting that feels like a wound I’ll never heal from actually wears off.
When I get through the painful necessity of the press conference, I shower and dress and find Landon leaning against my car in the player lot. We drive in together all the time now because I’m back in the Braddock cottage with him. Angie is living in my place until the baby is born. It’s an oddly perfect arrangement, and Angie seems happy with it. I love living with Landon, and we’ve started looking for our own place. A house we buy together, so we can start off the baby’s life in our very own home. It’s ridiculous how easy my life became once I let it.
“They asked about the baby. Tonight of all fucking nights,” Landon grumbles as I pull out of the spot and start out of the garage. “I mean, fuck, I just lost a huge game. Season’s over, and some idiot asked if my surrogate was here watching.”
“They love a good scandal, and a player having a baby without a wife is definitely a new one,” I remark. “I heard them ask Abbott if it matters to him that he hasn’t won the Cup since coming out.”
“You are fucking joking!”
I shake my head. “Now I think we should definitely keep our relationship under wraps until we win next year. Then reveal it to the first reporter we talk to afterward.”
“Or just make-out on the ice during the celebration.”
I smile. “Or I could fucking propose during the celebration. Lift the Cup, kiss it, hand it to you, and then get down on one knee. The fucking media would self-destruct. So would the league commissioner.”
I laugh, but it isn’t until a minute later, as I get on Route One, that I realize Landon hasn’t laughed or said a word. I glance over at him. He’s staring at me. “I’d be fine coming out like that.”
Oh. My heart stutters, tripping over its own happiness. “I gotta still be on the team for that to happen.”
“You will be,” Landon assures me. He got a contract extension right before the trade deadline. I’m still waiting for something to come in before July, or I’m a free agent.
“I love you.”
“I know,” Landon replies. “But feel free to show me by fucking the bad feelings over this loss right out of me. Or letting me fuck them out of you.”
“Both. This may require both.”
June…
When I get home from the gym, I’m surprised to see Landon pacing the front porch. He likes to sleep in during the off-season. I’m still an early-riser. Plus, I wanted to swing by the arena in Portland and wish Harlow luck. She has a qualifying event for the Olympics. If she makes it, she’s telling the family about this secret. I know she’ll qualify. She’s incredible out there. And her partner, in an odd twist of events, is a former hockey player. A goalie I know well, partly because he’s also related by marriage to Landon. Duke Hendricks is my cousin’s ice dancing partner. I’ve been allowed to tell Landon, but no one else. So I’ve got the news on the tip of my tongue as I walk up the stairs to the porch.
“Hey! You’re up! I’ve got news…”
Landon’s face is whiter than snow. His eyes are much wider than they should be as they dart between the phone in his hand and my face. “She’s in labor.”
“What? Now? How?”
All stupid questions, but Landon doesn’t call me on it. He just blinks a lot and says. “We have to go.”
