“Mmm-hmm. But sometimes that's all it takes to know.” He flushed, and a sweet grin played on his lips. He was spot-on, even more so than he realized. But I needed to nip this in the bud and fast—before I found myself in deep shit.
The last thing the team needed was more scandal, and I needed my job.
Rune sat down and relaxed back in my visitor chair. “That's why I'm here. I wanted to talk to you about, ah… my relationship. I was hoping we could hash out a plan.”
seven
Brayden
There were ten minutes left in the final period. Rune had the Grizzlies locked at zero, and they were beyond desperate. Being one down during a pre-season game wasn’t the start any team wanted, especially not one who’d ranked as high as Vancouver’s newest team had last season.
We were steady. Rock solid. But the Grizzlies were bullies, and they were waging a war of attrition against us. We only had minutes to go. It might as well have been a lifetime. A slipup by any one of us would even the score, and we’d go into overtime. That wasn’t going to fly.
In the pre-season, we used each game to prepare for the ones that counted. This was game four, and Coach had been swapping lines, evaluating how I worked with the rest of the first line, and whether we were destined to stay together. It looked like our training in the off season had been worth it because he hadn’t dropped me to second. He was giving the other lines more ice time. Rune and Austin had equal time on goal, though, so anything could still happen.
During training we’d worked on our speed, tearing up and down the ice. We’d done drills until our legs couldn’t hold us up anymore and our hands were cramped, locked into position around our sticks. Our hard work was showing. We were fast as whips. Compared to Vancouver, we danced elegantly on our skates, low and fast, out maneuvering them on every pass. The accuracy drills we’d practiced were paying off too. When our sticks connected, the crack was as beautiful as the whistle the puck made when it met its mark—tape to tape.
But the Grizzlies were playing like it was game seven of the Stanley Cup Final. They were fighting hard and dirty, making up for a lack of finesse with their brawn. Fights happened in hockey, but no one got this worked up over a pre-season game, and the way they were crunching us into the boards instead of using skill to intercept the puck felt like they were making it personal.
It was taking its toll. Hux had gone down hard in the first minute of the period. He’d landed on his back and spun like a turtle for forty feet before he’d been able to stop his slide inches short of the boards. Dazed and winded, but not otherwise injured, he’d shaken off his dizziness, caught his breath, and skated straight back into the fray. Coach had ordered a line change, and within seconds Kreutzmann had been slammed against the boards near our benches. The crunching of bone or his pads—probably both—was audible from my spot fifteen feet away.
We were cycling through our lines, trying to avoid injuries and keep our lead at the same time.
Gauthier skated over to take the face-off after Hux’s goal. The Grizzlies’ center snarled, and Gauthier chuckled in response, not remotely fearful of the bully on blades in front of him.
It was the split-second before the puck drop, and I basked in the roar of the crowd. I breathed in the chill of the artificial ice, inhaling the ozone smell of the refrigerant that was as familiar asmy own skin. I visualized the weight of the disc against my stick, the perfect passes and a goal. It was my ritual, a manifestation I envisioned every time the puck dropped.
I was wearing different colors this season, but I was home. I had no doubt about it.
I’d never played with openly bi or pan players before. I’d always been the only out one. It hadn’t been easy. The Blizzards adopted a “don’t ask, don’t tell” kind of approach. Everyone knew I was bi and married to a man, but no one ever asked about it. I didn’t give any details either. He was only ever invited to events the team knew he wouldn’t attend.
Coming to the Seals was like joining a pride parade—all the acceptance and love and none of the trash hate. Every player on the team was accepting. Not one of them treated Hux, Minns, or Rune any different to the other players. There were only a few select people who knew about Gauthier—I probably wasn’t supposed to know, but it was hard to miss when his kid called his two “roommates” variations of “Dad.” I saw how much the guys respected him. If he ever chose to come out, I knew they’d be supportive, just like the Seals had welcomed me with open arms.
My trade was a last-minute change that would have caused hiccups anywhere but the Seals. There was always an adjustment period, weeks where we learned to read each other’s tells. But aside from those first few days, it wasn’t like that at the Seals. By the time we were ready for the preseason, it was as if we’d known each other for a decade. Of course, it helped that Hewitt and I played similarly. He’d been my hero when I was a pimple-faced teenager, and I’d tried to emanate his playing style. We were the grinders, the reliable ones who were there for our teammates when they needed us.
Play between Gauthier, Hux, and me was natural from the moment we’d hit the ice together. Gauthier was fast, and Hux set up the plays. He was the risk-taker, the player who was threesteps ahead of everyone else on the ice. Together, we flowed like water, finding the path of least resistance and becoming unstoppable.
We’d worked hard from the moment I was transferred, spending hours every day playing catchup, practicing drills, and playing pick-up hockey until we read one another instinctively. It said a lot that we were leading one-zero against a team who’d had a relatively stable lineup for a few seasons.
This spot at this time—playing as the starting right wing for the Seals—was exactly where I was supposed to be.
The face-off.
Gauthier was as quick as lightning, seizing the puck before it even hit the ice.
He one-timed it to Hux.
Hux was already moving, streaking down the straightaway, setting up the play on goal for us.
Gauthier was in pursuit.
He skated hard up to his right, then banked tight on the turn behind the net, shooting out the other side.
I was between Hux and Gauthier as I dodged, trying to keep a pass line open.
The Grizzlies’ defensive players converged.
But Minns was there. He cleared the line for Hux, sending players scattering as he charged through, keeping them away from his brother. It was like watching a forcefield in motion, repelling everything except Seals’ players.
