An hour later,I walk into a bar on Moore Street, freshly showered and dressed in a new suit, gray with a subtle burgundy plaid. The lighting is low and I have trouble at first finding him among the other middle-aged businessmen in leather booths.
Finally, I see him in the back, facing away from me and telling a story that apparently requires him to gesticulate wildly. I approach quietly and stand beside him until the story – which seems to involve a woman who isnotmy stepmother – is done.
Once the tale is done, he waits for the laughter of his companions, whose eyes have been darting toward me for the past few minutes. Clearly they don't understand that Marty Tremblay won't be upstaged by anyone, even his own son.
Eventually he turns my way, giving me a once over.
“Wasn't sure you'd show up after that shit show. Where's your good suit?”
Of course he'd notice the suit.
“Some rookie spilled coffee on it today. Gonna have to take it to a cleaner.”
The lie was easier than negotiating the truth with my dad – that the suit wasn'tthatnice. That I felt better in these clothes, more like myself.
“Probably that pansy Carter. Was it a mocha frappucino with whipped cream?” He laughs uproariously at his joke, while the others chuckle along, eyes darting toward me.
Finally, he gestures toward the empty spot in the booth.
“I guess you might as well sit down, if these guys even want to talk to you after that disaster of a game.”
Their eyes continue to bounce between us, until finally the oldest of the three decides to speak.
“Well, of course, Marty. Logan Sportswear will always be interested in a star like your son.”
Strike one.
If Mr. Logan Sportswear had asked me for advice, I certainlywouldn't have advisedthatapproach. Sure enough, Dad's face is scrunched up, turning red around the edges.
“Astar? Hmph. Not likely. I mean, he's adefensemanfor starters. No flashy goals or speed skating out of this one.”
He elbows me a little too hard, unable to help himself after being forced to hear someone make me the center of attention. The more things change...
“Yes, well, certainly not when compared toyou. But he's a great role model in the league these days.”
Mr. Logan Sportswear Junior has made a better – if not more honest – choice. Flattery will get you anywhere with Marty Tremblay. Who cares if he spent most of his short career on New York's third line?
“Pfft. It's barely a league anymore. All theseinitiatives. Back when I played, hockey was a man's game. Now it feels like they'll let justanyoneon the ice. I mean, why should Ethan have to share the ice with that fa....fairy?”
Truly, one of the best indications of the ways the game is changing – slowly,glacially– is that even my father knows the first word he planned to use is beyond the pale, here in downtown New York City.
It hasn't kept it out of his texts for the past three months, though.
To their credit, the gentlemen of Logan Sportswear don't exactly seem comfortable with good ol' Marty. I wonder how many times they've even spoken before tonight. Vetting the business deals he brings me has certainly never been his strong suit.
“Yes, well, Ethan isexactlythe sort of man we want as the face of our brand. Rugged. Masculine. Dominant.”
Jesus fuck, is he trying to cast me in an ad campaign or rewrite my Grindr bio?
“Not that dominant tonight, though, huh? Hope you wrote Deacons a thank you note for that winning goal.”
“Maybe if he'd spent more time focusing on the puck and lesstime focusing on your boy Carter, he'd have scored it in the correct goal.”
The men at the table laugh loudly, but the only thing I can think isoh shit.
Oh shit shit shit.
As a kid I learned quickly not to talk back to my dad, and even as I grew taller and wealthier and more successful than him, that's a line I don't cross. It just isn't worth it.
