He punctuates the last sentence with an eye roll and a gagging motion.
My hands clench into fists and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to jump up and smack that smug look off his self-righteous, homophobic face. Fortunately, I don’t have to hold out for long because Lex does it for me.
Well, he doesn’t exactly punch Slaggert in the face, which is a more than a little disappointing, to be honest. But he does give him a good, hard shove. Hard enough that Slaggert’s stool almost tips over.
He grabs onto the edge of the table to avoid falling on his ass. Or his back. “What the fuck was that for?”
“For being a fucking douchebag. Coach would have your ass on a bus back home if he heard you talking shit like that.”
“So who’s gonna tell him?” Slags sneers.
“I will.” Lex gestures around the table. “Or any of these guys, if it happens again.”
The rest of my team members—there’s Cal and Cooper and Tate, who’s also headed to the Barons after graduation, and a few guys whose names I haven’t mastered yet—nod in agreement. The whole table is staring at us now, obviously aware of the tension between us.
I wonder what else they’re aware of. Like how close Slaggert’s jab cuts to home for me.
Slags pushes his chair back in disgust and stands. “Man, you’re a bunch of wet blankets. Can’t anyone take a joke?”
“Your jokes suck,” Lex says, biting into a wing.
“So does your slapshot.”
I think that comes from Cal. Whoever said it, it pushes Slags over the edge. He downs the rest of his beer, shoves his stool away from the table, and stands.
“I’m out of here. There’s got to be something better to do on a Thursday night than hang out with you assholes.”
Cal glares at him. “Just remember, us assholes are your teammates. You know, the ones who have your back on the ice.”
“And rookie,” Lex taps the table, “don’t forgot to leave some cash for your part of the bill.”
Slags pulls out his wallet, throws down a ten—which will barely cover his beer tab—and stalks off.
“Like my grams says, good riddance to bad rubbage,” Cal mutters. He’s well on his way to being drunk, so no one calls him on quoting his grandmother, who was probably also half in the bag if she actually used the wordrubbage.
“Until we have to deal with him in practice tomorrow,” one of the guys whose name I don’t know adds.
“Are you going to talk to Coach?” I ask Lex, trying to sound interested but not overly concerned.
“Fuck yeah, if he does it again. He gets one warning. That’s it. We don’t tolerate that shit around here.”
Lex may be a year younger than me and only a sophomore, but I admire him even more now. It’s no wonder the rest of the team looks to him for leadership despite the fact that he’s an underclassman.
He reaches for his wallet and adds a few bills to Slaggert’s ten. “I should get going, too. I’m supposed to meet Kaitlyn for some late-night studying.”
Kaitlyn’s our equipment manager, although you wouldn’t know it from looking at her, with her shiny lip gloss and expensive clothes. She’s surprisingly good at her job, though, and she and Lex have been hot and heavy since last year.
“Right.” Cal elbows him. “Studying.”
The rest of the team decides to square up, too, and we all head out together after leaving our waitress a healthy tip for putting up with our crap. Some of us head back to the hockey house, while the rest go to the dorms or off-campus apartments.
I say good night to my housemates and go straight to my room. Practice was good but grueling, and my body is begging for a hot shower and a good night’s sleep. What little homework I have will have to wait until morning.
The thought of homework reminds me that I’m going to have to figure out how to make up all the stuff I’ve missed in that stupid improv class. But as much as that sucks, it doesn’t bring me down from the high I’m on.
I learned something tonight at the Biscuit. Something more important than anything I’ll learn in any class this semester, probably. When I’m ready to go public about being bi, I can count on my teammates—with one glaring exception—to be in my corner, on the ice and off.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve got a million reasons why I’m not taking an ad out in the student newspaper announcing who I like to fuck—number one on that list being that, as accepting as my teammates may be, I still want them—and the coaches—to appreciate me for the kickass hockey player I am before I’m labeled “that bisexual hockey player.”
