Chapter 23 #3
Zeke rubbed my back with his thumb, small subtle movements that reminded me he was right there with me.
I love you. This was the wrong place to say the words, but I shifted my gaze from the window to his eyes and tried to smile.
Then the door behind us opened and Petrosian and Yin came out. They didn’t look upset or angry. I turned to face them with Zeke at my side, his hand falling away. I missed that contact, held my breath.
Petrosian said, “Given that you’ve been almost singlehandedly dragging the Foxes towards the playoffs, I have no objections to the way you’ve been playing.
” He gave Yin a sideways glance. “I just want the Dragons to keep their goalies healthy so we have a chance at our own Cup. The pain of being a PHL team is losing our best guys to the NAPH right when we need them.”
My breath whooshed out.
Yin smirked. “Sure, I’ll keep two of the NAPH’s top goalies healthy, just to please you, Nathan.” He turned to me. “Send me the receipt from the You Can Play foundation, and the contact info for the Gambling Board officer in charge of your case.”
“It’s still an open case,” Zeke noted. “They may refuse to speak with you about it. And they would ask you not to discuss it with anyone.”
“I don’t need the details, just a basic confirmation.
” He kept his gaze on me. “I believe you, Fitzpatrick, however ‘trust but verify’ is my policy. You’re doing very well this season.
We had offers to trade you, but it’s my hope to see you in Dragons colours, if and when Anosov retires.
Continue honing your skills, and you’ll do very well.
” He pivoted and clapped Petrosian on the shoulder. “See you tomorrow, Nathan.”
We all watched his tall, slim form in the impeccable suit as he strode out.
Petrosian said, “Right. Anything else I can do for you, Fitzgerald? If not, go on out and win some more games for us.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. Some bit of me that couldn’t be quiet added, “Maybe pick up a good goal-scorer for next year?”
Luckily, he laughed. “Your words to the draft gods’ ears. Get out of here, Fitzer.”
Zeke and I made our way out of the building, my head still in a daze until the cool mist woke me up there on the plaza outside the main doors. I turned to Zeke and grabbed him, planting a big kiss on his smiling lips.
He kissed me back, but said, “You do realize we’re out in public right in front of the hockey arena where you’re pretty sure to be recognized?”
I glanced around and saw two people had stopped with phones out. After a second of panic, I waved to them. I’m out. I love Zeke. I don’t care who knows it. I pointed to Zeke. “Awesome boyfriend, right?” Wrapping my arms around him, I kissed him again.
After a minute, Zeke laughed, mussed my hair, and stepped back. “You need to eat something. I need to get to work. Before you do something to earn me a lecture about the dignity of the uniform.”
“Oops.” I quit reaching for him. “Will you get in trouble?”
“Nah. I’m off duty, and I’m allowed to kiss my significant other. But your hand on my butt was pushing the limits.”
“Sorry.”
“I’m not. I’m not sorry about anything with you.”
“You should go,” I told him. “I’ll call for a ride.” Lyft home wouldn’t be cheap, but Foxes’ and Dragons’ management had just confirmed they saw me in the NAPH in the not-too-distant future. I could splurge. “Wake me up when you get home tonight?”
“It’ll be late.”
“I know. Four in the morning. Wake me anyway.”
“Will do.”
I watched him walk away, strong and competent in that uniform, and all mine.
When the folks on the sidewalk approached with smiles and questions, I told them so.
Then I posed for some candid shots and signed a few things, and in the back seat of the Lyft, when it arrived, I was a good boy and messaged Foxes Media Affairs that there would be pictures of me and my boyfriend appearing.
I turned down the suggestion of a formal statement, agreed to post something online— and yes, to run it by them before posting— and smiled my way home.
It only took an hour for my phone and messages to start blowing up, but in a good way.
Sully: You go. Show off that hot boyfriend.
Hannah: Congratulations. Let us know if we can help.
Docker: That’s one way to do it. Welcome to the club.
Hobbes: Congrats. The team has your back.
Jos: One of the guys at robot club might want a jersey, since you’re with my brother. He’s an okay guy. Some of them were dicks but that guy said you were fire in net and they just wished they were half as good.
I texted back: Can do. How did they identify your brother so fast?
Jos: They said I wonder who the cop is and I told them.
That made me smile wider than any of the other messages.
I ignored who I didn’t hear from and stayed away from the comments online, because I wasn’t a masochist. But I did post a Foxes-approved photo of Zeke and me on my Instagram and tagged it “Living the good out life with my BF.” The Foxes put up a “Congratulations and we support you” post on theirs.
Grandpa came over and had dinner with Jos and me, and we watched a movie before he headed home and Jos went up to bed.
I stretched out on the couch, giving in to the temptation to scroll.
Mostly I was looking at who won and who lost that evening, and game highlights, but eventually I got sucked into the black hole.
Comments on my post were seventy percent support, twenty percent passive-aggressive “Who the fuck cares? Just play hockey,” and ten percent trolls.
I could live with those ratios, and the trolls were pathetic.
I resisted the temptation to reply, “jerseys are synthetics so sure, burn mine and breathe toxic fumes deep in your lungs as it melts” and shut things down before I got that stupid.
Even more than “never read the comments,” the rule was “never respond to the comments.” I knew that. Not like I didn’t experience similar trolling every time I had a bad game.
I hadn’t looked at my emails. I wasn’t going to for maybe three days.
Let the stuff just pile up. Zeke was off tomorrow, and once he’d slept in and I’d done practice, we’d have hours together.
We’d let the world go to hell and fuck each other’s brains out.
Or just hang out on the couch. Or maybe that axe throwing. That might be fun.
I slumped down and pulled the throw blanket over me, too lazy to climb the stairs although I would regret it later.
The brush of a cool hand across my hair woke me. I didn’t jump. I knew that touch, trusted it. “Hey.”
Zeke murmured, “Hey, yourself. Come to bed.”
“Yeah.” I stood, creaking a little. “How was work?”
“Meh. Been worse.” But his tone wasn’t happy.
I wrapped my arms around him. “Let’s go to bed. You can warm those chilly hands on me.”
“Greater love hath no man.” Zeke smiled. “Temperature dropped out there.”
“I’ll even let you warm your cold feet on me,” I offered rashly. “Call me your resident hot-water bottle.”
“I’ll call you hot, all right, babe. After I sleep.”
Satisfaction filled me, affection like a rising tide, the certainty that here was the man I wanted, loved. Through the scary and the nerve-wracking and the fucking mundane, this was the person I needed at my side. I bent and kissed him hard. “I love you so fucking much.”
“What brought that on?”
“You. Me. Life.” Grabbing his chilled fingers in mine, I tugged him toward the stairs. “Let’s head on up, skip the Mr. Yuck step, fall into bed, and do it all again tomorrow. You and me.”
Zeke paused for a second, resisting the pull, and smiled at me as I turned back, his eyes shining. “Sounds like a plan,” he said.