“When we were looking at apartments, you mentioned you're not close with your dad either, right?”
“Not close is probably an understatement. He and my mom splitup when I was super young. I'm not even sure they were ever reallytogether, if you get what I'm saying?”
I'm pretty sure I was conceived from a casual fling between two people who couldn't have been more different.
“At first he was an every-other-weekend dad, then a once-a-month dad. By the time I came out, he must've lost my phone number.”
The look on Ethan's face isn't dissimilar from the one he gets when someone gets too rough with me on the ice. Like he can smell something awful and is going to take the trash out.
“That's dumb. He'd be fucking lucky to have a son like you.”
Even with the therapy and the knowledge that I'm better off without him, it's nice to hear someone say the opposite – that he'snotbetter off without me. A tiny smile quirks my lips.
“Thanks. Honestly, these days I'm afraid if we win much more, he's gonna find it again.”
He laughs at that.
“God, I wish my dad would losemynumber. I mean, not to like, minimize your shit or whatever.”
“Nah, you're good, Cap.”
“He just...he's very much an old-school guy. When he played, they were still angry about being forced to wear helmets. You know the type – there aren't enough true enforcers in hockey anymore, and we're all too soft because we'd like halfway functional brains when we get out of the league.”
I grimace at his description.
“And I'm guessing he doesn't think gay guys belong anywhere near the sport.”
From the way he looks out the window, I can tell I've hit a nerve. For a minute, I think our conversation is over.
“That's what last night was about. He's always looking for ways to, uh, capitalize on my success.”
“To make money off of you?”
“Yeah. Deals, sponsorships, whatever. Anyway, he bringsthese guys from this hockey equipment company and they pitch me on this whole fucking ad campaign. And the theme? 'Hockey: It's for Real Men'.”
NowI'mthe one who feels like slamming someone into the boards.
“And you...said no?”
“I can't...you don't just saynoto my dad. Definitely not in front of people he's trying to impress.”
“Or what? I mean, don't you hold all the cards here?”
He's silent again, for even longer this time. He looks...confused? As though he's struggling to think of an answer for me.
“So you're gonna do it?”
That snaps him out of it.
“Oh. Fuck, no. Or, I mean, I really hope not. I'll call Jack – that's my agent – and have him deal with it. He's old-school, too – hell, he and my dad played together in New York for a season – but he's not a terrible person. Or, at least, he knows there's a financial incentive tomenot looking like a terrible person.”
“So your dad doesn't know...” I look around the plane, not willing to end that question no matter how distracted the guys are.
“Fuckno. And he never will.”
Well, that makes that clear. I think back to our conversation while apartment hunting, to his hesitance to ever really “come out”. I wonder how much of that has to do with his dad.
“What about Jack? Will he get that it's...important to you not to do the ads?”
