He comes with a broken sound against my neck, his hand fisted in the back of my shirt, and I work him through it until he’s done and his body goes heavy against mine.
We stand there for a minute. Just breathing.
He lifts his head. Still smiling, but it’s different now. Not as big, but somehow deeper.
“Tee and Zee,” he says.
“You’re still on that.” I shake my head laughing.
“I’m going to be on that for a while.”
We clean up. He fixes his hair. I fix my shirt. He leans against the wall, unhurried.
For a second, I think he’s going to ask for my number. He doesn’t. He pushes off the wall, touches two fingers to his temple in a lazy salute, and says, “‘Night, Zee.”
“Good night, Tee.”
He walks out. I watch him go. Nice shoulders. Nice walk. Nice everything. I head back to the bar. Seth has a fresh glass waiting. Guy finds me twenty minutes later, flushed and happy, and takes one look at my face.
“Don’t even try to tell me nothing happened.”
“Nothing happened.” I take a sip of my water, not looking Guy in the eye.
“Sure it didn’t.”
“I’m going home. I have work tomorrow.” I finish my drink and stand and he hugs me, tight and quick. I hug him back.
Outside, the air is still warm. September in Atlanta, the heat hanging on past midnight. I walk to my car with the bass still fading behind me and the taste of a stranger still on my lips and tomorrow sitting in front of me like a prize I’ve been walkingtoward for years. First day at the Firebirds facility. First day with Gary’s roster in my hands.
Tomorrow, everything changes. But tonight? Tonight was a good night.
Chapter 2 — TEO
The coffee at the facility is terrible, and I need everyone to know.
I’ve been in Atlanta five days. Five days is enough to find a running route, a carbonara I have opinions about, and a pour-over place on Piedmont that I intend to build my entire life around. Five days is not enough to fix whatever is happening in the facility break room.
But first: Training Camp Day One, Volume One. I’ve been building this playlist for three weeks because every playlist needs to tell a specific story and this one’s story is new city, new team, let’s go. It opens with a drum fill, brass hit, Janelle Monáe.
I pull my earbuds out and drop my bag at my stall. MARCHETTI on the plate, new font, new colors, same letters I’ve been reading above my head for four years. I hang my jacket and start unpacking. Slides, tape, the good pre-wrap from my guy in Montreal because the stuff they usually stock in facilities is garbage and I will not downgrade my wrap.
Jensen is already at his stall, lacing skates with the efficiency of a man who has been doing this for a very long time and doesnot need to look down. Murray is a couple stalls over, unpacking with the same settled weight. Vets. You can tell by how little effort goes into the process.
My phone goes into the cubby with the volume up because the playlist has found its groove.
“Quiet locker room is a crime against the sport,” I announce to no one who asked. Jensen glances over and gives a nod.
More guys filter in over the next twenty minutes, and I’m matching faces to the group chat. I’ve been talking to some of these guys for weeks. I know Jensen posts at odd hours and Murray is trying to find a place for his family and Berger sends multi-paragraph analyses of things nobody asked about. But the chat is one thing and being in person is another. The room fills the way every hockey locker room fills. A couple of faces that aren’t, and I notice them the way I notice the room’s temperature, quick and ambient. I scan the stalls on both sides of me, reading who’s easy and who’s performing, the math that happens fast when you’re a gay man walking into a room full of hockey players you haven’t met yet. Four years with my last team taught me that room was safe, but this is a new space and I don’t what it holds. I’m not nervous. I’m just paying attention.
Thompson finds his stall a few down from mine. Taller than I expected, hair going in three directions. He catches me looking and nods.
“Marchetti?”
“Thommo. In the flesh. You’re taller than I pictured.”
“You’re louder than I pictured.”
“Wait till I’m comfortable.” I grin and hold up my roll of pre-wrap. “You see this? This is the good pre-wrap. I get a special delivery every month from a guy I know. The stuff they stock here is garbage. I’ll get you a roll. I’m serious.”
