Chapter 19
CALLUM
I skated out onto the ice for Sunday’s game against the Archers feeling like I might throw up right there in my own crease.
The last five days had been a total shit show.
Zeke’s friend’s friend, Valencia, was an awesome, tough-looking Black woman in her forties who’d listened intently and asked me a bunch of relevant questions, then recorded an official statement.
But the next day, before we Foxes flew off to Bakersfield, she handed me off to some underlings who seemed bored by my whole situation.
After two hours of going through online mugshots, trying to find “Mr. Smith,” I gave up without identifying him.
You’d think someone who loomed so large in my life would be unforgettable, but by the fifth guy who was a “maybe,” I realized I was shitty at remembering faces.
I hadn’t thought he was that important at the time.
All I recalled was middle-aged, short, stocky, white face, dark hair. Could’ve been anyone.
Uncle Wayne knew who he was, of course, but the GREC agents were just tracking my uncle, giving him a long rope, I guess.
And then, after being totally useless for the cops, I had to get on a plane and play like nothing was happening.
I tried to sleep in the air, tried to nap at the hotel, and failed at both.
I was so fucked up in warmups that Coach put Brosky in net for game one instead of game two.
We lost four to one that night, and even though I backstopped a three-two overtime win the next night, Coach wasn’t happy with me.
After our plane got in around noon Friday, I’d headed home, trying to get some rest, but things were awkward with Grandpa.
He said he hadn’t seen Uncle Wayne since he picked up his stuff, and also hadn’t seen the truck.
He asked if I’d been tracking Uncle Wayne with my app, and since I didn’t want to explain why the cops were involved now, I said no.
Pretty sure he knew I was lying, though. I’d never been good at that.
So another restless night. Another breakfast when Grandpa looked at me like he didn’t understand me.
A practice where I was marginally better than Brosky, though not by much.
Then last night, the game I was supposed to win.
I honestly thought about losing, but my competitive streak wouldn’t let me.
We pulled it off, taking down the Archers five to two.
This morning, Grandpa had gone to the store early, like he didn’t want to see me. And now, here I was. Game two of the back-to-back. Ordered to lose to the Archers tonight. About to lose my lunch, for one thing.
Zeke was up in the stands. I didn’t want to know where.
Not a distraction I could handle. Assuming he’d showed up.
He’d insisted he was coming, even swapped for a graveyard shift next week with someone, so he could make it.
I wanted him far from the whole mess, but he’d refused, and secretly I was glad.
I took my place on the blue line. The lights went down, then the spots came up. The anthem played. Just Canada’s this time, since the Archers were from Edmonton. I’d have been good with both, to delay the start.
Win? Lose? The GREC boys wanted me to lose.
Lose, take the payoff, keep stringing Mr. Smith along, wear a recorder, get evidence.
Uncle Wayne had called me last night to remind me of the threats, to my career, to Grandpa.
He laughed when I raged at him and I’d failed to make the recording work on my phone.
I want to win this one, more than I want a Cup. I’m going to win it. Fuck Uncle Wayne and fuck Mr. Smith and all the cops incapable of doing their jobs without turning me into a criminal.
As soon as the music was done, I skated to my net and began roughing up my crease the way I liked it. Nothing’s getting past me today. Suck it, Archers and Mr. Smith. I hunkered down and stopped a dangerous rush off the opening faceoff, totally in the groove.
By the second intermission, my groove was ragged around the edges.
I stomped down to the locker room and stopped in the doorway, staring around the room.
My teammates were subdued, reflecting the fact that the Archers had shut us out through two periods of play.
I had a shutout going too, but we’d spent most of last period scrambling to defend in our own zone, not scoring for shit. I really wanted a nice fat cushion.
I need this one.
“What the fuck is up with you losers?” I snapped.
The guys looked up, surprise on their faces because my intermission routine was to sit in my spot and drink my Gatorade and eat my snack and ignore everything around me.
Especially with a shutout in play. But I was beyond pissed off.
“How about scoring a goal or two? Last night, you had five. Tonight, you’re sitting around with your thumbs up your asses while they dogpile on me.
This is Edmonton, for fuck’s sake. Two games out of last place in the entire league!
Why are they whipping around you like you’re peewee players in the learn-to-skate class? ”
“Come on, Fitzer,” Sully placated me. “We’re having an off night, but we’ll get it together. There’s a whole period left, and we’re tied.”
“We’re tied because I’m doing my fucking job! How about some of you assholes—”
“Fitzer!” Hobbes snapped as he pushed to his feet. “Lay off your teammates. Everyone here wants to win just as much as you do.”
“I doubt that!” I strode to my locker, got out my drink, and slammed the door so hard it bounced open again. So I slammed it some more. Maybe five times.
Until Hobbes caught my wrist. “Quit that. Simmer down.”
I yanked free. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do. We’re going to win this game or I’m going to shove my stick up some asses. Blade first.”
“Why does it matter so much?” Sully asked. “It’s one game. We’re having a great season. Yeah, we all want to fucking win, but no one else is losing their mind over it. Why can’t you chill?”
“It matters!” I looked around. All the guys were staring at me, eyes wide, like I was some kind of freak.
I couldn’t tell them why I needed the win, but the sudden temptation to shock them, to give them an actual reason to look at me that way, rocked me.
Without thinking, I said, “My fucking boyfriend is out there watching me play and I don’t want him to see us acting like a bunch of losers! ”
I froze. What the fuck did I just say?
Hobbes blinked.
Docker said, “Really? Congrats, dude.”
Sully suddenly grinned. “Zeke? Tell me it’s Zeke. Hannah will say she told me so, but I can’t wait to see you co-parenting a teenager.”
“Fuck you.” His reaction soothed my worst fear.
I knew Sully didn’t have a problem with Docker or other queer dudes, but I’d still, in the dark of night, wondered if he’d treat me differently, if he knew.
Teasing was good. That was how Sully and I rolled.
“Anyway, we’re new and Zeke’s not even Jos’s parent. ”
“Just kidding. Jos is a lucky kid to have you around at all.”
Yablonsky frowned at me. “You too, Fitzer? Jesus. How many of you types on this team?”
“Types?” Docker turned an unfriendly look on him. “You mean gay men?” He glanced back at me. “Or bi or pan or whatever.”
“Gay,” I said, because if I was coming out, I wasn’t going to half-ass it. “Big fat one-hundred-percent gold-star homo.” I added, “And no, Yabby, I haven’t been checking out your tiny dick in the showers. Not even to realize my boyfriend can make two of you.”
“Fuck you,” Yabby retorted.
“Cool it.” Hobbes thumped my arm. “Congrats on coming out, Fitzer. Everyone here has your back, you know that. Right, Yabby?”
“Sure,” Yabby said. “Fine. Let’s have other Pride night with more banners and not so much skating. Is fine. Perfect.”
“I don’t want a fucking Pride night,” I told him. “I want you to do your job and not leave that asshole centre of theirs uncovered in front of my net.”
He glared at me because he knew perfectly well he’d been pulled out of position and we both got lucky that their centre had only managed a weak shot.
Docker said, “Tell us, though, Fitzer. How secret do you want us to keep this? Are you out to other people? Are you making an announcement?”
“No.” I shut my eyes and rubbed my face. “My agent doesn’t even know.”
“He’d better be okay with it, dude,” Sully noted. “Or else you need a new agent.”
“Mine’s great,” Docker said. “If you need someone.”
The locker room door swung as Coach strode in. “Right, guys. Listen up! Did we miss the definition of man-on-man coverage in front of the…” He broke off, looking around the room. “What’s going on?”
“Fitzer comes out as gay,” Yabby said. “Is shock.”
“It’s a surprise,” Hobbes countered. “Only because he’s such a grouch I didn’t think anyone would date him. Not a shock. Got it?”
Coach turned to me. “That right, Fitzpatrick?”
I shrugged. “I guess.”
“You couldn’t have picked a better time to announce it?”
“Didn’t plan on announcing it at all.”
“Right. Well, congratulations. Hockey is for everyone. Anyone gives you a hard time, you let me know and I’ll have my lesbian aunt kick ’em in the balls.
Oh, and if you plan to go public, make sure you coordinate with the media folks first, so they can try to find your best side.
Got it? Good talk. Now can we focus on hockey? ”
I wasn’t able to answer.
Docker said, “Yes, Coach,” for me.
Coach shifted his stare to the first-line forwards.
“Anyone got an explanation for why you can’t get the fucking puck to the fucking net?
Four shots the entire period? What kind of bullshit is that?
” He then proceeded to talk specifics about their second-string defense and our power play, while I sat in my seat and let my heart rate return to normal.