His glare does not suggest he finds this helpful.
“It's just...probably not the time to stir the pot or whatever. Keep quiet and work hard, and I'm sure the press will stop.”
“I’m sorry, were we in the same press conference just now? I don’t think I was the one to bring it up in there. But sure enough, I can’t set foot in a press room without some dumbass asking about it. And you know what? That’s fine. I've known for years that entering the draft as the first openly gay player would come with press, good and bad. I'm prepared for the realities of that and so is my agent. I will absolutely work hard; but I don't think I can promise to keep my head down or my name out of the press.”
“Look, I know you being the first gay player is gonna draw attention–”
He cuts me off.
“Firstoutplayer.”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“No, you said the first gay player. And statistically speaking, that’s not likely.”
Why are we talking about statistics?
The confusion must show on my face.
“On average, five percent of men are queer. There are over one thousand men in the NHL. You do the math.”
Ishetellingmethat there are other gay players in the league? That’s fucking rich.
“Yeah, but none of them are talking about it. And they sure asshitaren’t hanging rainbow flags up in their lockers.”
If looks could kill, I would be dead. Not just dead, but a pile of ashes on the floor.
“Wow, Cap. Thank you so much for your advice. As though I never thought that being less gay could solve the problem.”
Christ. I’m just trying to help this kid find success in the league. Would it kill him to listen?
“Not be less gay, just act less–”
“Nope,” he says, cutting me off. “Don’t finish thatsentence. And where were you? Where was your support for me as a player on your team, Captain? ‘Hockey comes first’ is the best you’ve got?”
I don’t have an answer for him, and my face shows it.
Instead, I grab my bag and leave.
CHAPTER THREE
JAMIE
Isit too early to ask for a trade?
I’m exactly twelve hours into my time with the Minnesota Huskies organization and not eager to play even a single game with this team.
Dave's suggestion – that the team thought I was good enough to “overlook” the gay – seems to have been fully borne out.Shit. I wonder if Toronto still has any interest? I turn to my stall, determined to finish with the decorations I didn’t have time for this morning. First, I put up a picture of my mom. Then, I look at the rainbow flag. It was important to me to bring this with me, a sign of my unwillingness to compromise in the face of NHL culture.
But now, looking back at the day I just had, I wonder if it's too much. In some ways, Tremblay is right. I'd love to focus on hockey and winning, without having to give sound bites every 30 seconds about whether my gayness got in the way of a block or goal. But until that happens – until I can justbea hockey player who happens to begay – well, I need to be a Gay Hockey Player. And that means putting up this flag.
With my flag hanging in the stall, I change into my street clothes, ready to go back to the hotel where the team is putting me up, for now. I pick up Chinese food on the way from a place nearby with decent Yelp reviews. After spreading it on the small table in the corner of the room, I pull out my phone and call my mom.
“Baby! How was practice?” She answers before the phone can even complete one ring. Her warm voice washes over me and I feel my muscles begin to loosen.
“It was...it was hard, Mom.” I don't know what more to say. Itwashard – not the skating, not the drills, but the unending feeling of being separate. Is that how it will always be?
“Are they assholes? Do we need to call a lawyer?”
