Eleven
ADAK
I’m not sure when the first time the niggling feeling inside me started. The moment when I caught the first glimpse that Oren’s home life might not be as simple as he tries to make it sound. As the days pass and we spend more time together, I’ve taken note of a couple things:
One, he only refers to his family in general terms. I have three brothers. My father is a corrections officer at Ironside State Prison. I live at home.
His comments and references to his family are few and far between. He never voluntarily talks about them or brings them up. When they do come up in discussion, his answers are quick, basic, almost practiced, and he moves on as quickly as possible.
And two, when it’s time to bring him home in the evenings, he’s quiet. Subdued. The closer we get to his house, the more tense he becomes. Even his breathing changes.
But it wasn’t until I saw someone else in his seat yesterday that I had an inkling it was something that I needed to truly be concerned about. On the one hand, Oren is an adult. Mid-twenties. Could he really be in a situation that he hasn’t chosen?
When we were together after the game last night, I—as subtly as possible—examined every inch of exposed skin for any signs of abuse.
We went out with some of the team to celebrate their win.
Because the weather is exponentially warmer in Anaheim than it is in the rink, Oren lost his layers and ended up in a tee. Exposing his arms.
There wasn’t so much as a bruise or scratch, which reassured me a little.
But I paid special attention to his behavior when I brought him home last night too.
It was exactly how it has been every other time only…
more. His hands were fidgety in his lap.
He kept his attention straight ahead as his shoulders rose with every mile we got close.
When I asked him if he was all right, he smiled tightly and said yes.
I didn’t believe him.
But I’m not sure what to do unless I know that something’s wrong. The fact of the matter is, he’s twenty-four. An adult. He hasn’t asked for help. And besides my suspicions and observations, I don’t know for certain that I’m not just… exaggerating what I see.
As I get ready for today’s game, I’m very distracted as I think about Oren. He’s always very chatty via text—unless he’s home. Then I rarely hear from him at all. While I feel like this is just further evidence to support the fact that something’s wrong, it’s driving me crazy that I don’t know.
One thing I’m counting on, though, is that he’ll be at the game tonight. He said that as far as he knew, they were going. I told him that even if his family didn’t come, I’d still like to see him. I’d leave a ticket at the door for him, just in case.
He smiled and, at the time, I thought that was an agreement. But now I’m not so sure.
Either way, as soon as I get to the arena, I track down Larry and ask him to bring Oren to the team booth, where some of the WAGs and executive visitors watch the game. He agrees readily, and I head down to my office while I wait to see if he’ll be here tonight.
I need him to be. This is our last home game until the twenty-third, and it’ll be the first time I’m away since we started seeing each other two weeks ago.
I need to know that he’ll be okay while I’m gone.
The suspicion that he’s not is going to dramatically impact my ability to concentrate on our games where my focus needs to be.
The minutes tick by as I sit in my office and try not to stare at my phone, waiting for Oren to tell me he’s here.
The game has a three o’clock start today.
While I don’t hate the evening games, I really love that we have two early games in a row before we head for two away games.
It means that the team has time to relax.
I have time to spend with Oren.
Minutes tick by. The time when ticket holders begin to arrive has come and gone. Oren says they always get there an hour or more early. It’s now fifty minutes to game. I should be with my team, making sure they’re getting ready.
Forty-eight minutes to game.
Forty-three minutes.
My phone buzzing has me nearly jumping and I sigh in relief when I see it’s Oren.
Oren
You didn’t have to do this.
He sends me a picture of his view from the booth along with the text.
Me
You get there all right?
Oren
I did. Larry is so nice.
I smile. He is. He’s a good man.
Me
I’ll meet you after the game.
Now that I know Oren is safe, warm, and has plenty of food to last him through the game, I can focus my attention where it needs to be.
The game is a good one. We lose, but I see more energy and enjoyment in my players than I have during the last few losses. They’re feeling good.
Larry has Oren waiting at my office door as the team piles through the chute. My grin can’t get much bigger as I watch my players say hi to him. Slap his hand on the way by. Jostle him playfully. And the way Oren’s smiling at them just warms my heart.
When his eyes meet mine, it’s as if it were the first time again. For just a moment, the world around us fades entirely and it’s just the two of us. He’s all I see. The only voice I hear when he shyly says, “Hi.”
I’ve never hidden my sexuality—neither the fact that I’m a gay man or asexual.
I also don’t advertise it, so I’m not sure it’s a well-known fact, either.
However, after the first time I brought Oren to practice, I have let it be visually obvious that we’re together, even though I haven’t said the words out loud.
I’m fortunate to have the team that I do.
There isn’t a single player who has shown anything but joy and support for my happiness.
Not with their words, because they wouldn’t bring up my personal life unless I did first. But it’s clear in their smiles and the way they look at me, both knowingly and happily.
So when I get close to Oren, I pull him into my chest and just… hug him. Feel him against me. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him I was worried about him last night and all morning, but I don’t. Even if he’s ready to tell me about his family, here and now isn’t the time.
But I’m really hoping we can talk about it once we leave. Otherwise, I’m going to have a twisted gut the entire time I’m away and worry even more about his extended silences when he’s at home.
I’ve rationalized a lot. It’s not such a bad thing for homes to be largely technology free. That could be the case. Maybe it’s a space where they encourage… conversation? Creative or physical activities instead of losing yourself in your phone for hours at a time.
That’s a thing. Right?
“Missed you,” I say instead of the words I want to say.
I feel his smile and hear it in his voice. “Hi, I missed you too.” I love how shy he is when he tells me. It’s just so… heartwarming.
“You okay?” I ask before I can keep the words in.
Oren nods, his arms tightening around me. Does his heartbeat pick up? Just a little? Has his breathing changed? “Yep,” he answers, and I can’t tell if I’m inflecting a tone in his voice that isn’t there or not.
Okay, we’ll have to pick this up later; I’m still on the clock. Reluctantly, I push him away a bit. “I have to finish up. Want to wait in my office? Or hang out with the team? It’s probably sweaty in there, fair warning.”
His eyes are wide. “Is that okay? They won’t mind?”
“I doubt they’ll mind. Want to see?”
He bites his lips before nodding. With his hand securely in mine, I lead him further down the hall to where the guys are being noisy as they decompress, shower, and change.
“Oren!” Lamar says with a wide smile. His voice calls everyone’s attention to Oren, and he shrinks a little, his cheeks flushing.
“Hi,” he says, waving.
Damn, he’s adorable. “You guys mind some company? Oren saw the game from the booth tonight, so he had an entirely different perspective.”
“You probably met my mom,” Lamar says.
Oren grins. “She’s really proud of you,” he says.
Lamar sighs dramatically. “Yes. She will let everyone know that too.”
“Have a seat, Oren,” Hollinger says, swatting the bench with his towel as he heads to the showers. “We’ll keep you entertained until Coach is ready to leave.”
Oren gives me a big smile and sits. He’s immediately brought into conversation by Renny about one of the calls and what Oren saw on the recorded replays. I’m impressed with his understanding and comprehension of the game as he talks.
While I’d love to stay there and just admire him, I turn for my office to close out for the day. Crowley has already pulled who he wanted for the press interviews and Traer finishes the supervision of equipment, leaving me the freedom to speak to whoever I need.
Usually there’s someone I want to have a conversation with about something I’ve thought of during the game.
But right now, the only hockey related thoughts I have are concerning keeping up my team’s morale, working on how best to fit in the players we’re hoping to see on our roster next year, and still toying with the idea of whether I’d even consider another job offer.
My aftergame routine is typically longer than today, but since I’m in a hurry to get out of here, I shut down my office and lock the door behind me after ten minutes of staring at things I could be doing.
Oren is here and safe and happy. That should leave me free to do what I need to do. But instead, I want to get in as much time with him as possible before we’re away for a couple games.
When I return, Oren is right where I left him with his head back, laughing. I lean against the doorframe to watch him. He looks more relaxed here than he does in most places. It’s difficult not to read too much into that.
“Coach, you and Oren coming with us to Settlers?” Hollinger asks.
Oren looks at me and his smile, though just as big, is one that I’ve only seen directed at me.
“You want to go?” I ask.
Oren nods. “Unless you made other plans?”
I shake my head. “Nope. I’m happy to spend time with the team.”
“Awesome!” Lamar says as he gets to his feet, once more dressed in a suit that’s probably a size too small.
With plans determined, we join Renny, Axtell, Lamar, and Hollinger down the hall and to the exit. Oren is still laughing as Lamar picks up his story concerning how his mother basically wrote his name in flowers at their church because she wanted everyone to know his greatness.
I smile because I love Oren’s laughter. How relaxed he is. He leans into where my hand is on his lower back, his pretty eyes meeting mine for a minute. There’s a smile there. One just for me.
We aren’t more than a dozen feet from the exit, walking to the employee parking lot, when I’m suddenly wrenched away from the group.
“Get your hands off my son,” a man nearly shouts. His voice is deep and growly. He’s tall and rough looking, with a wide frame.
For a minute, silence falls around the parking lot. This man, who I can only imagine is Oren’s father, though there aren’t many similarities between them, stares at me with open aggression. His chest is all puffed out, like he’s trying to make himself bigger than he is.
He’s used to being intimidating. It’s unfortunate for him that I’ve been surrounded by big hockey players most of my life and his size is lost on me.
“Let’s go, Oren,” he says.
I feel Oren shrink. There’s a pause before he steps away from me and toward his dad. It’s only as he does that I see the men behind Mr. Prosser. I recognize the one who took Oren’s seat yesterday.
“Oren,” I say as the four players we’d been walking with close in behind me. As if our two groups are facing off.
Oren turns, and I can see the pleading look in his eyes. “It’s okay, Coach. I’ll see you next game.”
“Like hell you will,” Mr. Prosser says.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
“Oren is an adult,” Hollinger says. “You don’t get to control his decisions. He doesn’t have to go with you if he chooses not to.”
Oren’s pleading look turns a little wild as his eyes swing around to my team. “It’s okay. I’m tired anyway.”
My hackles rise as his father places a possessive hand on the back of his neck.
Oren’s shoulders tense and I see something rather impressive.
The desperate, almost pleading look in his eyes vanishes.
His entire expression smooths out and he gives us a would-be believable smile. “I’m going home. It’s okay.”
He’s steered away and while I can see the tension in every step he takes, I can see the stiffness in his shoulders and how his hands are balled into fists in his pockets, he doesn’t turn back. He doesn’t look at us again.
“He’s not okay,” Lamar says.
“He’s not,” I agree. But I don’t know what to do.