Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Remy
The bravado I was able to fake on Grayson’s behalf leaves me as soon as I step into the administrative section of the arena. My hands ache, and there is a long scratch on my neck from Petterson. Approaching the office, I knock my fist on the door, pushing it open slightly where it wasn’t latched.
“Come in,” Ryan Todrick calls. Setting my shoulders and taking a deep breath, I push the door open and step into the office.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” I keep my voice carefully pleasant, acting like my innocent ass has no idea why I might be called into my boss’ office.
“Take a seat, Mr. Stone. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
He steeples his fingers in front of him, leaning his elbows on the desk. I recline back in my chair, arms draped casually on the rests. He’s waiting for me to break the silence, but I have no interest in making this easier for anyone. This is the club who supported Grayson right up until the moment he told them he was gay, before making his life as miserable as they could get away with. As far as I’m concerned, the problem starts from above. The problem starts with this smug bastard, sitting in his office, in his fancy suit, and letting his team rot from within.
“Well, Mr. Stone, I think you know why you’re here.” He flips open a leather folder and peers down at what I recognize is my contract. Shuffling through, he settles on the page he’s looking for and looks up at me with a mock concerned expression on his face. “You attacked a teammate during practice yesterday, which is a direct breach of the contract you signed.”
“Yes, sir.” No point denying it. Not with a room full of witnesses. Todrick looks surprised. Perhaps he’d expected me to act contrite, or even deny what happened. He sits back in his chair, eyeing me thoughtfully.
“I see you and Grayson Brody formed a close relationship. He was a great asset to our organization—we were sad to see him go.”
Ah, changing tactics, I see. “Were you, though? Seems like you guys signed off on the trade pretty quickly.”
“Is that what this is about? You feel that he was stilted in the trade deal and are taking it out on your teammates?” He sighs, shaking his head and giving me the most condescending look he can manage. “Relationships between teammates are fraught with issues. Had you come to management and disclosed the nature of?—”
“Have a lot of experience with relationships between teammates , do you?” I interrupt. “Grayson got the better of you with that trade deal, and you know it. And what happened at practice has nothing to do with that, sir . You know what else was in that contract I signed?” I aim a pointed glance at the file still sitting open in front of him. “A safe and nondiscriminatory working environment.”
“And had you felt discriminated against, you would have spoken to HR,” he responds smoothly.
“Mr. Todrick, I get what you’re saying, but when someone calls me a faggot and then talks shit about someone I love, I’m not about to fill out a form that will get processed and ignored. I’m going to teach that person a lesson.”
“Unfortunate as it is, slurs are part of the game. You can’t tell me this is the first time you’ve heard that word, Mr. Stone. Boys will be boys, particularly when tensions are high. Hockey is a volatile sport.”
My hands curl into fists around my knees and I have to fight to unclench my jaw. This self-righteous, arrogant motherfucker.
“I would think having Grayson—an openly gay player—on your team would have made you more concerned about slurs being used on your ice,” I manage to loosen my jaw enough to say.
“We cannot police your mouths, as well you know. We can, however, police how you react . Fighting during practice is assaulting a teammate.”
“Boys will be boys,” I reply silkily, shrugging nonchalantly. He narrows his eyes at me, unhappy with having his words thrown back into his face.
“What would you have me do?” he asks, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I have grounds to terminate your contract. Or”—he pauses, letting me sit in suspense while he smiles at me benignly—“you and Leon Petterson could shake hands and get over this like men. You can sign a statement vowing that it won’t happen again, and we will wash our hands of this.”
“No.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I said no,” I repeat in a clear, ringing voice. “I’m not shaking his hand and pretending he’s not a bigoted asshole. He could apologize to me, though. And Grayson,” I add belatedly.
“Mr. Stone,” Todrick says, and his voice isn’t quite as smooth as before. The strain is peeking through the cracks of his perfect facade—I’m starting to piss him off. “Do you not understand the situation you are in? The outcome of this meeting will determine whether you have a job tomorrow. I would expect a little more repentance and a lot less attitude.”
“And I expect to be able to come to work and not deal with character assassinations based on my sexuality.”
He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. I bite back my smile, but just barely. I feel a little like a lawyer in a procedural drama, having a verbal sparring match—Alex would be so proud.
“Tell me something, sir.” I wait until Todrick looks up at me. “If someone was talking trash about your wife straight to your face, would you let that stand?”
He sighs again, and I half expect him to give me a bullshit answer.
“No, I suppose not,” he replies after a few moments. I spread my hands as though to say you see what I mean? He stares at me, tapping a finger on top of my contract. “Contact your agent, Mr. Stone. I’ll be drawing up your termination tonight.”
“Fine,” I bite out, standing up and wiping my sweaty palms on my thighs. There was more I wanted to say, but just now I can’t think of it. All I want is to go home to my lifeless, sterile apartment and call Grayson. I want to put on his clothes and hopefully catch a whiff of him; dream of summer and the future.
When I leave the office, I almost run into Zolkov, leaning casually against the wall. He grins when he sees me.
“Come to watch my walk of shame?” I ask, and his smile widens, looking distinctly wolfish.
“Who is ashamed?” he replies.
It startles a laugh from me. “Not me. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be down in the locker room?”
I pull my phone out of my pocket, unsure of what time it actually is. I’m surprised to see it’s still early afternoon; the meeting felt much longer than it ended up being. It’s also way too early for Zolkov to be here.
“Not yet,” he replies, falling into step beside me as we walk down the hall. “I thought perhaps you need a friend to speak for you.”
“You going to be my character witness?” I nudge him, grinning. “If I were going to fight them on terminating my contract, I suppose you could help, but I’m not. I’ll get picked up by another team and hopefully it won’t be a team of dirtbags this time. Present company excluded, of course.”
“If I did not need this to have my Visa, I would have helped you. I do not like them here.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, feeling rotten that first Grayson and now I am leaving.
“Is fine.” He waves a hand. “There are many beautiful women here, to make me feel better.”
“Oh my god.” I snort. We step outside and I immediately try to burrow further into my coat. Beside me, Zolkov looks amused. I hold up a hand before he can say anything. “It’s cold , Z. I’m not used to it, yet.”
“And now you will not have to be, yes?”
I raise my eyebrows, forgetting even the cold for a second. Holy shit, he’s right—I can leave.
“Holy shit, you’re right,” I say out loud. “I could go back to California. Or to Colorado!”
“Or, perhaps you will be signed tomorrow to Philly,” Zolkov says, laughing when I glare at him. “Do you need ride home? We should go before frostbite sets in.”
“No, dickhead, I don’t need a ride. I’ll walk. I need to think about what I’m going to tell Gray and my agent. I have a feeling neither one is going to be happy.”
The truth is, I could hear the strain in Grayson’s voice when we’d talked earlier—the tension thrumming through every word as he carefully tried to modulate his tone. I know him well enough to know that he feels responsible, and that anything I say to the contrary probably won’t change that. I could see it on his face—watching as I posted pictures I’d taken of us in California—the hesitation and apprehension. But I’d posted them anyway, because it felt like a concrete way to prove to him that I was serious about our relationship. What better way to do that than come out to 161K followers?
Before I can even get through my front door, my phone is ringing. Ah, so looks like my agent read my email about the meeting this morning. Kicking off my shoes and tossing my winter coat in the direction of the hall closet, I flop down onto the couch and hook my knees over the armrest. I’ve barely hit the answer button when the lecture starts.
It takes forty-five minutes for him to finish with me, and although I’m exhausted, I feel pretty good about the possibility of finding a new team quickly. In the wise words of my agent: “You might be a fucking idiot, but you play good hockey. Someone will take you.” One conversation down, one to go.
“How did it go?” Grayson asks immediately upon answering. He sounds anxious, like he spent the last couple hours pacing his apartment.
“Fine.”
He blows out a hard breath. “Thank god.”
“I got fired.”
“Remy!”
“Listen to me for a second, just listen. Technically, I did break my contract agreement. And while I know that if any other player got into a fight at practice, they’d get a slap on the wrist and be sent on their way. I know why they’d already decided to get rid of me and?—”
“Yeah, because of me, ” he says hotly.
“No, Gray. Because they’re narrow-minded asshats and they’d rather cut ties than deal with the media storm and whatever else involved with another queer hockey player. It’s on them , not you, and not me. Them. Do you understand?”
“I understand that, sure, but it doesn’t change the fact that if I’d only?—”
“If you’d what? Kept hiding who you were? You and I would never have gotten together if you were still in the closet when I signed. The only reason you were on that dating app is because you were out.”
“True,” he admits. I jump back in before he can come up with an argument.
“I don’t like it here, Gray. I didn’t like it from day one. You were the only thing that was enjoyable here. Does it suck that I’m the one being forced to leave when Petterson will still have a job tomorrow? Yes. But I’ll get signed by another team.”
“Sure, but any contract they offer will probably be shit. They’ll be able to negotiate you down because of how your last one ended.”
“Well, you can be my sugar daddy,” I respond cheekily. Grayson laughs, but it still sounds like a pale comparison to the real thing.
“I feel shitty about this,” he says. I want to hug him so fucking badly. I want to bury my face in his wide chest and squeeze all the tension out of him.
“I miss you,” I reply, when what I meant to say was something consoling. He chuckles, which is a happy accident, but I’ll take it.
“I miss you, too. Think you can swing a contract with Vegas or Utah? Something close to Colorado?”
“Listen, babe, I’ll play for free if it means playing for a team close to Colorado.”
“Yeah, no, don’t sign that contract,” he chuckles. “You’re sure you’re okay? You’re not regretting…anything?”
Guilt does its best to cut off my air. I’ve been freaking out these past couple of months, trying to figure out who I am and what label I can apply; trying to decide which identity is me and what that means for the future. Of course Grayson would wonder if this mess is causing me to question whether the correct label is straight , if only because it’s the easiest.
“I do not regret you, Gray. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.”