Chapter 24 #2
“I wondered if you spoke Russian at home.”
“I do, just not great. Something that irks my mother greatly. I’ve lost some of the muscle memory being away at school, but there’s plenty of Russians in the league, so if I get drafted it will come in handy, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure it will. And you shouldn’t need to translate for me. I was the unit’s Russian expert. It’s been a while, but I should be okay.”
“You’re just full of surprises,” I said before grabbing his luggage and motioning toward the back stairs that lead up to my room from the open family living space and kitchen. “We’re this way.”
He followed me up the stairs the same way he had into the house, a hand on my lower back, not pushing or guiding, just a steady weight letting me know he was here, as if saying, ‘I’m here. I have your back.’ Who knew something so small could be so comforting and reassuring.
Mama walked along the gallery landing away from us toward her bedroom, a hand trailing gracefully on the banister. At her door, she paused, looking back at us with a soft smile before disappearing into her room.
The moment her door latch clicked, I opened the double doors into my suite of rooms, dropping Slone’s bags and pulling him to me as soon as the door closed behind us. “I’m so, so, so happy you’re here.”
“Me too, baby boy,” he said, knocking our foreheads together.
Close to an hour later, we lay naked in the middle of my king-sized bed with only the sheet draped over us. Me sprawled across his chest, his fingers toying with my hair as I played with the smattering of chest hair under my cheek, our bellies and libidos well sated, at least for the time being.
“Please tell me what happened. I’ve been so worried since you called, but I didn’t want to push for more until I was here with you.”
“I don’t know that I can talk about it. Not yet.”
He sighed. “Okay. But you’re certain you’re okay? That fucking bruise looks bad. You’re lucky it didn’t fracture your cheekbone.”
My body stiffened, only relaxing when he pressed a kiss to the top of my head and wrapped both arms around me, squeezing me to him. “The doctor said I was fine. I’m sure he would’ve mentioned it if something were wrong, considering he works for the Wardens.”
“Okay,” he murmured, kissing my forehead as he tilted my face up to his, “I won’t mention it again, but if it gets worse, I’m taking you to an independent doctor. I spent too long in the Marines to trust institutionalized care with someone being fit for duty.”
I smiled, laying my head back on his chest. I should be enjoying the feel of his body under mine, supporting me.
I should be losing myself in the way his heart beat beneath my ear or the way the weight of his arms felt around me.
Instead, now that he brought it up, all I could think about, all I could see, was what happened this morning.
It played like a reel in my head that looped and repeated.
Again and again and again and again. Over and over with no way to stop it.
I needed it to stop. It had to. Otherwise, I would fall apart in his arms, covering us both in tears and snot, and not the way I usually did—the way I enjoyed.
Closing my eyes, my father’s voice rang through my psyche as real as if he were standing in the room with us.
“A fucking embarrassment. You were the number one draft pick. And you’re riding the fucking bench.”
Everyone thought being a hockey player was fun.
That being a legacy made getting to The Show easy.
Everyone was fucking wrong.
Delusional came to mind.
Yes, I had the best coaches and mentors from the start, but it didn’t make being their son and grandson easy.
It left no room for me to be, well, me. I had all the support I wanted, more than I wanted, really, but that was it. My life, my entire existence, revolved around hockey. Nothing else mattered.
“And I’m not exactly riding the bench. I played twenty-two minutes of our last game.
I average twenty-one a game, and I am at the top of the leaderboards in shots on goal, goals, points, and assists.
You name it. This is not about how good a player I am.
This is about the Wardens being a bunch of fucking homophobic pricks. ”
“Being the best is about making sacrifices, you ungrateful little bastard. Being at the top isn’t the fucking same as being on top. And it still doesn’t change a fucking thing. You are a disgrace.”
“I’m not a fucking disgrace. I’m a fucking Olympic gold medalist!”
“Yeah, so are a lot of people. I have two of my own. If anyone got pulled from The U’s roster this year, it should’ve been you, but no. You had to go and fuck it up by fighting and bullying and being an idiot, leading the league in penalty minutes.”
“The NCAA doesn’t track individual penalty minutes,” I said.
He scoffed, smacking another puck at the goal, the lights and horns sounding as it hit the back of the net. “They may not, but the Wardens do on every player they draft. Any team worth its salt keeps stats on its drafted unsigned players. How many penalty minutes does that Mercer kid have?”
“I don’t know. What I do know is that Aiden Mercer’s an amazing player. One of the best. He has more raw natural talent than any player I’ve played with or against. He deserved to be signed,” I said.
“He’s fucking queer,” my dad sneered, hatred turning the features we shared ugly as the words he screamed echoed through the rink.
I’d had it. My filter had reached maximum overload. “So am I!” I screamed back at him, unable to hold my tongue. The words clawed their way up out of my soul.
He knew my preferences. Everyone knew my sexuality.
I’d been photographed with men and women, and enby, cis, and trans.
Attraction and who I fucked had little to do with labels and nothing to do with gender.
The vibe a person gave off drew me in. Some of the most gorgeous people in the world had hit on me, but if their…
spirit…didn’t call to me, then I wasn’t interested.
He thought calling me names would make me hide.
“This is why I came out in the first place before I ever entered the draft. I refuse to live as anything other than my authentic self. I don’t give a fuck if people know who I like to fuck or who I am attracted to.
I am not fucking ashamed to be queer. I’ve never been ashamed.
I am out and proud, and I’ll fuck and love whomever I please.
You and the Wardens and the whole fucking league can fuck off or get the fuck over yourselves. I don’t give a damn anymore.”
He barreled toward me, blades cutting deep grooves in the ice.
His fist twisted in my practice jersey as he pulled me to him, nose-to-nose, spittle peppering my face as he said, “Then maybe you should consider turning cocksucker for your coach like that fucking faggot reject. It worked for that eyeliner-wearing faggot you let yourself be pictured with while wearing his damn jersey. Sucking cock got him a contract. Maybe it’ll get you one, too. ”
And there it was, the man I called father showing his true colors.
Dad and his cronies had spouted slurs like that, and worse, as far back as I could remember.
I’d heard them all. But they weren’t something I put up with outside this fucking cesspool.
I hadn’t allowed that shit on any team I captained since the first time the A got stitched onto my jersey. And I was over allowing it now.
My hands came up, ramming into his shoulders and shoving him away. “You’re the disgrace, motherfucker. You’re the prick who’s trying to relive his glory days through me. Go fuck yourself. I’m over it.”
I skated toward the net, picking up my stick and gloves where I’d dropped them the moment he started in on me.
“Trey!”
I turned toward my mother’s voice coming from the partition between her rink and ours, and everything went black.