He frowns. “You look like shit.”
“I’m running off a hangover.”
He snorts. It’s the closest he gets to a laugh.
“We’re having dinner tonight,” I remind him.
My father tightens his brow. “I know. I’m not that old,” he says as he turns his attention to the weights.
I watch him in the mirrors that line the opposite wall. It’s impossible to deny how much we resemble each other. He’s like a bulky older version of me, with the same blue eyes and broad features, matching sandy eyebrows and big hands.
He’s a hockey legend and the definition of a tough guy, and he’s always seemed confused by me. His only child, his fussy son.
“Working on your endurance,” he says. “Good. That’s the right lesson to take from Australia.”
I gulp water, ignoring the return of my pounding headache. My endurance is fine. I made it to the semi-finals of the Australian Open and only lost because I let my defense slip. But I know the semi-finals aren’t good enough for the old man.
And they aren’t good enough for me, either. Unless I’m winning every Grand Slam, I’m not satisfied. It’s another quality I inherited from him.
When I first started playing tennis, it was a major disappointment to my father. Douglas Wilchins was a hockey man, and he expected the same of his son. He ignored my interest in tennis for as long as he could. But after Mom passed when I was twenty, he begrudgingly started coaching me from the side.
Not that I needed his help. My career was already taking off, and it was only a couple years after that I reached the finals at the US Open, establishing myself as a name to watch. A tennis player was best ignored, but a champion tennis player he could at least brag about.
“Alyssa in town? She should join us for dinner some time.”
“We broke up more than three years ago. Are you ever going to stop asking that?” I ask, ornery from the hangover and pushing back more than I typically would.
I can’t imagine he ever believed my arrangement with Alyssa was a real relationship in the first place. But I guess it was easier to pretend.
“Three years,” he grunts as he stands from a squat, his skin flushed. “Time to bring someone new home.”
There’s no encouragement in his voice. Just command.
“I’m busy,” I tell him. “I’ve been hovering at number eight in the global rankings for over a year. If I’m going to make it to number one, I don’t have time for a relationship.”
Gabriel’s face flashes in front of my eyes. Maybe if I simply explained that I got married last night, my father would drop the subject. It’s such a bad idea it almost makes me laugh.
After a few more squats, he answers. “A woman is good for you,” he says. “Healthy.”
I grind my jaw. Of all the days he could pressure me on this, he had to pick today.
When I was seventeen, I nearly came out to my father. We were home alone, working out in this very same gym, while Mom was visiting my aunt. I barely got two words out before he cut me off. His face got serious, his jaw tight. He didn’t say anything about me being gay, but he explained that being a professional athlete meant he couldn’t tolerate distractions, and that if I wanted my own career, I needed the same focus.
The Stanley Cup was around the corner, and he didn’t have time for a son coming out. There was no space for the public embarrassment that would cause. It was, in essence, the only lesson he ever taught me. Being the best meant that nothing mattered except for him on the hockey rink and me on the tennis court. Period.
Who I was reflected on him, and Douglas Wilchins expected his son to be a man in his image.
It was a punch in the gut when he shut me down, but he was right about one thing. I intend to be the best, and the pressure of being an out gay athlete would distract me from that goal. My father makes me want to slam my head against the wall. He acts like an ass more often than not, and getting a kind word out of him would be like wringing water from a stone.
But I want what he has. I want to be indisputably the best. So today, a hangover still throbbing to remind me of my horrible mistake, I do the same thing that I did when I was seventeen. I nod solemnly, grab my towel, and leave.
“Good man,” he calls after me.
Frustration grips me as I head straight to the rear bath, where I crank up the heat on the shower. I strip, trying to reason away the anger that I’m feeling. But my energy is still surging, and after the workout, I need a release.
As the hot water pours down my chest, my thoughts quickly return to Vegas.
I read about Gabriel on the plane and listened to a few of his hit songs, all hard metal that sounds like noise. I’m sure the music is good if you like that kind of thing, but it just seemed to make my hangover worse. He’s fronted two bands, a metal band called Hooked Hearts and then Lost Storm, one of the biggest rock bands of the past decade. Both bands are broken up now, and Gabriel seems dedicated to his recreational life, sleeping around with celebrities and partying across the globe.
