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It's gone. All of it. The knee took it on Thursday night at the blue line. There's nothing left to protect.

Except him. I told myself I was protecting him. His contract. His career. The kids with his poster on their walls.

"I thought I was protecting him," I say.

"From what?"

"From me. From being with me. From what people would say."

Laurel sighs. She takes my empty bowl out of my hands and puts it on the coffee table, next to my brace.

"Owen," she says, "that boy put pink laces in his skates on opening night and told the whole country he was going to score. He wore a rainbow pin at the draft. He doesn't need protecting." She stands up. She puts on the blue coat. "He needed you to stand next to him. That's all he ever asked you for. You're the one who needed protecting. From yourself."

She goes to the door. She stops with her hand on the knob.

"The game's at seven," she says. "Call your mother first. She's going to find out anyway, and she should hear it from you."

I call my mother at noon.

She picks up on the second ring. "Owen! Honey! How's the knee? Your sister saw on the news. We've been so worried. Are you eating?"

"I'm eating, Mom. Laurel brought soup."

"Laurel did?" A pause. "Well. That's nice of her."

"Mom." I'm sitting on the couch with the phone against my ear and my leg in the brace and my heart going so hard I can feel it in my teeth. "Mom, I need to tell you something."

She goes quiet. My mother is never quiet.

"At Christmas," I say. "When you asked if I was seeing someone. I said it was complicated. You said you hoped she was kind to me."

"I remember."

"It wasn't a she," I say.

The silence on the line is so long I think the call's dropped. I take the phone away from my ear and look at it. The seconds are still counting.

"Mom?"

"I'm here," she says. Her voice sounds strange. Thick. "I'm here, honey."

"It was a man. It's—it was Rémy. Rémy Castel. The rookie. The picture, the one on the internet. That was us." I shut my eyes. "I'm bisexual, Mom. I didn't know. I didn't let myself know. For thirty-five years, I didn't let myself know."

She doesn't say anything. I can hear her breathing. I can hear, in the background, the TV, and a dog barking, and my sister's voice asking who is it, and my mother saying shh.

"Is he kind to you?" she asks.

I put my free hand over my eyes.

"Yes," I say. "He's the kindest person I've ever met."

"Then that's all I need to know," my mother says. Her voice cracks. "That's all I ever wanted to know about anybody, Owen. Your father, too. That's all he would have wanted."

"I screwed it up, Mom."

In the background, I hear my sister say something, loud, and my mother say Karen, not now, and my sister say it again, louder.

"What's she saying?" I ask.