“Of course, I'm happy to help. What's the player's name?”
“Ethan Tremblay.”
She types in her computer, smiling shyly at me.
“Ah, yes. Mr. Tremblay is in room number 1524. Those elevators, fifteenth floor.”
I smile and start to walk away.
“And, uh, if you'd like to have drinks later tonight, my shift ends at ten.”
I freeze in place, forcing a smile onto my face.
“I'll, uh, have to see what the boys are doing, you know?”
I back away toward the elevator, making a note to find a back way out later. As I enter the elevator, I wonder if Ethan is already in his room. By now, it's been an hour since the game ended. Will he come straight back? Will he go out with his team?
I follow the signs to his room, my heart beginning to race. Standing in front of his room, I take a deep breath and raise my hand to knock. The rap echoes in the hallway and my ears strain, listening for his footsteps in the room.
After two minutes, I realize they aren't coming. I sit on the floor, leaning my head back against the door.
Since I read the article, I've done nothing but rush – to pay the bill, to the car, to the airplane, to the hotel. Now, sitting here on this ugly, patterned carpet, it all comes rushing in.
He came out.
For all that I tried to talk him out of it, I can't help but feel proud of him, and even prouder forhow. It wasn't about me, or protecting me, or bargaining to bewithme. It was abouthim– telling his truth, and reminding everyone in hockey that there are more people like him, like me.
I scroll through my messages again, hoping against hope there will be a note from him. There's nothing, although I see a few texts from the team, making sure I've seen the article. I heart react to them, grateful the boys understand that I'd want to see this, regardless of where Ethan and I are personally.
I return to the group text, scrolling up through the supportive messages from the team, noticing that Price and Koskinen haven’tresponded yet. I reread his words, hearing his voice in my head as I do.
How stupid I was to try to back away. What if I've ruined my chance? On that voicemail, he sounded sad, but decided. He was ready to do this, with or without me. Still in the group chat, I start a text of my own.
Jamie Carter 10:07 PM
So proud of you, Cap. I'm happy you are finally able to live your life out loud. The team is lucky to have you.
As I hit send, I hear a buzz down the hall. I look up and there he is, standing at the end of the hallway. He seems to have come to a stop, and I feel my eyes begin to fill. I push myself to my feet, trying to blink away the tears. He still stands, silent and staring.
“Hi.”
I wish I could say more, could tell him how proud I am of him, how much I hope he's still willing to find space in his life for me. But my voice cracks on this single word, and I know more is beyond me right now.
“Jamie?”
His tone is not angry or sad, but almost...disbelieving?
I nod, aware of the tears starting to fall. In seconds, he is in front of me, his long strides eating up the carpet between us. As he arrives, he lifts a hand to my face, using his thumb to wipe away the tears. Then, without a word, he wraps his arms around me, and all my worries fall away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
ETHAN
The night has been wild– first the All Star Game, which was an unusually well-matched lineup. The Western Conference eked it out in the third, and I even managed an assist.
By the time I got back to the locker room, I had almost forgotten the interview and the prospect of the article hanging over my head. That didn't last for long, and most of my post-game press revolved around my conversation with Sam.
At first, I was worried – I hadn't seen the article and wasn't sure exactly what to say. But after a few questions, I remembered – there was no keeping my story straight anymore. All I had to say was the truth. With that, it suddenly became easier, and I spent the rest of my time with the press praising the Minneapolis organization and calling on the NHL to address the issues I'd mentioned.
