Chapter Overtime
overtime
ROOK
Two weeks later…
The community center smelled like industrial cleaner and burnt coffee, and the overhead lights had that harsh LED quality that made everyone look washed out and tired.
I'd been here twice before with Soren, and both times I'd felt the same low-grade discomfort that came from sitting in a plastic chair that was definitely not designed for someone my size while listening to strangers talk about their worst moments.
But Soren had asked if I wanted to come tonight, and I'd said yes without hesitation.
We were early, which meant the room was still mostly empty except for a woman setting up the coffee station and a guy in a Leafs jersey who nodded at us when we walked in.
The space was functional and plain — white walls, linoleum floor, a bulletin board covered in flyers for other support groups and community resources.
Soren grabbed two chairs near the middle and I sat down next to him, our knees almost touching.
He reached over and laced his fingers through mine, and I felt some of the tension ease out of his shoulders. “Thanks for coming. You didn't have to.”
“I wanted to.”
And that was the truth. I wasn't here because I thought Soren couldn't be trusted to show up without supervision, or because I was trying to fix him, or because I needed proof that he was taking recovery seriously.
People started filtering in as we sat there.
A woman with gray hair and a kind face. A younger guy who looked like he hadn't slept in days.
A man in a suit who kept checking his phone until the meeting started and he had to put it away.
They all knew each other by name, greeted each other with the easy familiarity of people who'd been doing this long enough to stop feeling self-conscious about it.
Soren knew some of them too. He waved at the woman, said a quiet hello to the guy in the Leafs jersey, and when the meeting officially started he introduced himself the way he always did.
“I'm Soren. I'm an alcoholic.”
The words still made my chest tighten every time I heard them, not because they were shameful but because they were honest. Because Soren saying them out loud meant he wasn't hiding anymore, wasn't pretending he had it all under control, wasn't trying to carry the weight of it alone.
I listened to the meeting unfold — people sharing their stories, talking about relapses and hard weeks and small victories that probably seemed insignificant to anyone who hadn't been there.
Soren didn't share tonight, just listened, and I kept my hand in his and tried to absorb what these people were saying without making it about me.
This wasn't my meeting. This was Soren's. I was just here to sit next to him and be present for whatever he needed.
When it ended, people stood around talking in the way people did when they didn't want to go home yet. Soren talked to the woman with the gray hair for a few minutes, and I hung back, giving them space. The guy in the Leafs jersey wandered over and grinned at me.
“You're Rowan Kincaid, right? Wolves captain?”
“Yeah.”
“Hell of a season you guys are having. Think you can take the conference finals?”
“That's the plan.”
We talked hockey for a minute, and it felt surreal in the best way — standing in a Toronto community center after an AA meeting, talking playoffs with a stranger who knew Soren from recovery.
This was what Soren's life looked like now.
Therapy twice a week with Dr. Lin, AA meetings on Wednesdays and sometimes Saturdays, medication he took every morning that helped level out the depression, a support system that included his siblings and the band and me but didn't rely on any single person to hold him together.
He was doing the work. And I got to be part of it without having to be the whole thing.
When Soren finished his conversation, we walked out together into the cool night air. He was quiet on the drive home, staring out the window with that thoughtful expression he got sometimes when he was processing.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah. Just thinking.”
“About?”
“About how different this feels from the last time I tried to get sober.
Back then I was doing it because I thought I had to prove I wasn't a mess.
Now I'm doing it because I actually want to be here. Want to be present for all of it.” He looked over at me.
“That's because of you. You know that, right?”
“It's because of you,” I said firmly. “I'm just here for the ride.”
He smiled. “Well, thanks for riding along. Even when it's boring community centers and bad coffee.”
“Especially then.”
We got home and I made us dinner while Soren sat at the kitchen island and told me about the conversation he'd had with the woman from the meeting.
She'd been sober for eight years and had just gotten her kids back after losing custody during her worst period.
Hearing stories like that gave him hope, he said.
Reminded him that recovery wasn't a straight line but it was possible.
I listened and chopped vegetables and felt grateful that this was what our life looked like now.
“Big day tomorrow,” Soren said, watching me work. “You ready for the interview?”
“As ready as I'm gonna be.”
“You nervous?”
“A little. But mostly I just want it done. Want to stop splitting myself in half every time I walk into a room.”
“You're gonna be great,” he said. “And if the internet loses its mind, fuck 'em. We've survived worse.”
“Yeah. We have.”
I finished cooking and we ate dinner on the couch with some action movie playing in the background that neither of us were really watching. Soren fell asleep halfway through with his head on my shoulder, and I sat there listening to him breathe and thinking about how far we'd both come.
Tomorrow was going to be a good day.
The morning talk show host had perfect teeth and the kind of enthusiasm that felt weaponized at seven in the morning.
I sat across from her in a chair that was too low and definitely designed to make guests feel slightly off-balance, and tried to look like a professional athlete instead of a man who'd been up half the night rehearsing what he was about to say.
“So, Captain Kincaid,” she said, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. “The Wolves are heading into the conference finals. How are you feeling about your chances?”
Hockey questions first. Safe territory. I could do this part in my sleep.
“Feeling good,” I said. “The team's playing well, our goaltending has been solid, and we've got momentum. It's going to be a tough series, but we like our odds.”
We went back and forth about the playoffs for a few minutes — my hat trick in Game Two, the defensive adjustments we'd made against the Raiders. The conversation flowed easily, and I started to relax into the chair despite its psychological warfare design.
Then she shifted gears.
“You've been getting a lot of attention lately, both for your play and for your personal life,” she said, and I felt my pulse kick up. “There's been speculation in the media about your relationship status. Do you want to address that?”
This was it. The door I'd known was coming, the question I'd agreed to answer when my publicist had set up this interview.
“Yeah,” I said. “I'm bisexual. And I'm in a relationship with Soren Vale.”
The words came out simpler than I'd rehearsed them, and the second they were in the air I felt a thing in my chest loosen. Not all the tension. But enough that I could finally breathe without feeling like I was constantly bracing for impact.
The host's eyebrows went up slightly, but her smile stayed professional. “That's wonderful. Thank you for sharing that. How has the team responded?”
“The team's been great. Supportive. They've known for a while now, and it hasn't changed anything that matters.” I leaned back in the chair and let myself sound certain. “I'm the same captain I was before anyone knew. Same player. Same person. The only difference is I'm not hiding anymore.”
“And Soren — he was the emergency player activation in Game Two, correct? That must have been quite a moment for both of you.”
“It was.” I couldn't help but smile at the memory. “He hadn't played competitive hockey in over a decade, but he stepped up when we needed him and scored the game-winner. It was one of the best moments of my career.”
We talked for a few more minutes about visibility in sports, about the importance of living honestly, about how the league had responded.
I kept my answers straightforward and refused to make it bigger than it needed to be.
I was bisexual. I had a boyfriend. That was the truth, and people could do with it what they wanted.
When the interview wrapped and I stepped out of the studio into the cool morning air, my phone was already buzzing with notifications.
Texts from teammates, messages from my publicist, social media mentions climbing into the thousands.
I scrolled through enough to see that the response was mixed — plenty of support, plenty of hate, and a whole lot of people who had opinions about my personal life that they felt entitled to share.
I turned off my phone and got in the car where Soren was waiting.
“How'd it go?” he asked.
“It's done. I said it. The internet is currently losing its collective mind.” I leaned over and kissed him, slow and thorough, not giving a single fuck about the paparazzi who'd probably already spotted us. “And I feel lighter than I have in years.”
“Good.” He grinned at me. “Ready to go watch an eight-year-old destroy a talent show?”
“Absolutely.”
Jamie's school talent show was being held in the auditorium, and by the time we arrived the parking lot was already packed with minivans and parents who looked varying degrees of exhausted. We found Finn near the entrance, bouncing on his toes with nervous energy.