Chapter 28 Jamie #2
I nod, thinking about my conversation with Pat. He pulled me aside a couple days ago and said he’d put some feelers out in the coaching community. We’re supposed to talk again on Monday, but I still haven’t told Wes about it.
Deciding to test the waters, I grab another cart and say, “Honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about going to Detroit.”
He looks startled. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning…” I take a breath. Screw it. Might as well tell him.
We head for the freezers in the back, and Wes listens with no expression as I pretty much repeat everything I discussed with Holly—how I don’t want to play backup my entire career, my lack of enthusiasm about going to Detroit, the possibility of being sent to the minors and not even playing a pro game.
The only part I leave out is that I’m toying with taking a coaching job.
I’m not ready to talk about that yet, especially when nothing is even official.
Once I’m done, he still doesn’t respond. He chews on his lips, thoughtful. Then he opens the freezer and heaves out a bag of ice. “You’re really considering not playing this season?” he finally says.
“Yeah.” The cold air hits my face as I grab two more bags and load them into my cart. “Do you think I’m fucked in the head for throwing away a chance at the pros?”
“Yes and no.” He drops another bag in his cart. “I think all your concerns are valid.”
The conversation halts when a woman pushing a cart pops around the corner. Her step stutters when she notices Wes’s black eye, and then she continues on with a wary look.
Wes glances at me, chuckling. “She thinks we’re hooligans.”
I roll my eyes. “She thinks you’re a hooligan. As she should. I, on the other hand, am a saint.”
He snorts. “Should I flag her down and tell her how I got the shiner, Saint Jamie?”
I give him the finger, then grab two more bags. We push our carts side by side and wander over to the checkout counter, where we get in line behind an elderly couple with a shopping cart full of cereal boxes. Just cereal boxes and nothing else.
“So my concerns are valid,” I prompt as we wait our turn.
He nods. “Goalies have it tough. I can’t deny that.”
“But?”
“But this is your one chance.” His voice softens. “If you don’t take it, you could regret it for the rest of your life. Look, if I was in your shoes, I might be questioning my decision too, but—”
“No, you wouldn’t. You’d report in a heartbeat, even if it meant spending years waiting for your shot.”
“True dat.” He rests his forearms on the cart. “But that’s because I love the game. Even if I get to play only five minutes in a whole season, it’s worth it to me. Hockey is everything to me.”
But is it everything to me?
I’m even more troubled as I think of all the hard work that goes into a professional hockey career.
The constant training, the rigid diet, the grueling schedule.
I love hockey, I really do, but I’m not sure I love it as much as Wes loves it.
And if I compare the level of satisfaction I get from stopping a goal to the pride I feel teaching someone like Mark Killfeather to become a better goalie, a better man…
I honestly don’t know which one means more to me.
“I just think you need to give it a shot,” Wes says, jolting me from my thoughts. “At least go to training camp, Canning. What if you’re there and suddenly they’re like, ‘We’re giving you the starting job, kid.’”
Right, and then I’ll fly to work on a Pegasus, befriend a genie, and get paid in leprechaun gold.
Wes notices my expression and sighs. “It could happen,” he insists.
“Yeah, maybe,” I say noncommittally.
The old couple pushes their cereal cart away, and Wes and I step forward, charging the ice to Elites’ account. Five minutes later, we’re loading the bags into Wes’s trunk.
I’m no closer to reaching any sort of conclusions about my predicament, and Wes seems to sense that. He nods at the gas station fifty yards from the supermarket. “Let’s grab some slushies,” he suggests.
“The ice’ll melt if we leave it in the trunk for too long,” I point out.
He rolls his eyes. “It’ll take us all of five minutes. Besides, science has proven that slushies are conducive to the making of important life decisions.”
“Dude, you really need to quit quoting ‘science’ all the time.”
Laughing, we lock the car and make the short trek to the gas station, where Wes grabs two empty cups and nudges me toward the slushie station.
He fills his cup with the cherry flavor and then waits.
But I haven’t had a slushie in a long time, and I can’t decide. So I put some of each flavor in my cup.
At the counter, the middle-aged clerk chuckles at the sight of my rainbow concoction. “I did that once,” he remarks. “Felt sick for days afterward. You’ve been warned, son.”
Wes snickers. “My buddy likes a little bit of everything.”
I give him the side-eye for that awful joke. We pay for our drinks and leave the store, but we’ve barely taken two steps when Wes slaps his forehead. “We forgot the straws. Wait here. I’ll grab ’em.”
As he ducks back inside, I linger near the door, admiring the sleek, silver Mercedes S-class that pulls up to one of the pumps. A gray-haired man gets out of the Merc and smooths the front of his silky tie. Shit, the guy’s rocking a suit that probably costs more than my parents make in a year.
His gaze flicks in my direction. “Are you the attendant?” he barks out.
I shake my head. “It’s self-serve,” I call back.
“Of course it is.” His tone is condescending as fuck, and there’s a sneer on his face as he twists off the cap of his gas tank.
Frowning, I turn away from Snobby McSnobbers just as Wes pops out the door. He hands me a straw, his forehead wrinkling when he notices my expression. Clearly he thinks my frown is a result of my Detroit dilemma, because he lets out a quiet sigh.
“You’ll figure it out, babe,” he says softly. “You’ve still got time.”
Then he leans into me, gripping my shoulders with one arm. He brushes a reassuring kiss over my cheek, and my entire body tenses, because Snobby McSnobbers chooses that exact moment to glance our way.
The look on the man’s face cuts through me like a blade.
Disgust.
Pure, malicious disgust.
Jesus. Nobody has ever looked at me that way before. Like I’m a piece of dog shit they’ve just had the misfortune of stepping on. Like they want to wipe my very existence off the face of the earth.
Beside me, Wes stiffens. He’s just realized we’re being watched.
No, that we’re being judged.
“Do you know that guy?” he says warily.
“No.”
“He looks familiar.”
Does he? I’m too stuck on his expression to know.
“Ignore him,” Wes murmurs, taking a step toward the car.
My breathing is shaky as I follow him. Unless we walk all the way around the gas station to get back to our car—which I’m unbelievably tempted to do right now—we have no choice but to pass the Mercedes.
As we near the man in the suit, I find myself bracing myself the way I do on the ice right before a puck flies toward me.
I’m in defense mode, ready to protect myself at all costs, even though I know I’m being ridiculous.
This man isn’t going attack me. He isn’t going to—
“Fucking faggots,” he mutters under his breath as we walk by.
Those two words are like a blow to the gut. From the corner of my eye I see Wes flinch, but he doesn’t say a word. He keeps walking, and I struggle to match his brisk stride.
“I’m sorry,” he says when we reach the car.
“Nothing to be sorry about, man.” But I can’t deny I’m shaken up. That bubble Wes and I have been living in all summer has just burst. If we somehow managed to keep seeing each other after camp, I might encounter this type of shit all the time.
Unbelievable.
“People are assholes.” His tone is gentle as we get into the car. “Not all of them, but some.”
My hand shakes as I place my slushie in the cup holder. “This happens to you a lot?”
“Not often. But it happens.” He reaches for my hand, and I know he feels it trembling as he laces our fingers together. “It sucks, Canning. Not saying it doesn’t. But you can’t let jerks like that get to you. Fuck ’em, right?”
I tighten my grip on his hand. “Fuck ’em,” I agree.
Still, the drive back to the rink is subdued.
We don’t say much as we drop the ice off at the cafeteria.
I really wish I could just brush off that bigoted comment—that look—but it stays with me.
Gnaws at me. Yet at the same time, I feel a burst of pride for Wes.
No, it’s awe, because it takes true strength for him to be so unflinching about his sexuality.
His own parents refuse to accept it, and even that doesn’t keep him down.
“Coach Canning, Coach Wesley!” Davies calls when Wes and I arrive outside the rink. “Come meet my dad.”
The front steps are littered with teenagers and their folks, all of whom are eager to meet the coaches who are grooming their kids into champions.
Shen is in the middle of an animated conversation with his parents, grinning wildly as he talks about his progress.
A few feet away, Killfeather stands alone, his teeth worrying his bottom lip as he looks around.
Wes and I have just reached Davies and his father when a flash of silver catches my peripheral vision.
I shift my head, and my heart drops to the pit of my stomach when the Merc from the gas station suddenly speeds up to the curb. I notice Killfeather take a step forward, looking even more agitated now.
The driver’s door opens.
The bigot gets out of the car and addresses Killfeather in an annoyed voice. “Isn’t there a closer parking lot?”
My goalie visibly gulps. “No. Only the one behind the building.”
“I’ll leave the car here then.”
“It’s a fire lane,” Killfeather protests. “Just park in the lot, Dad. Please.”
Oh shit. Dad?
Dread floods my stomach at the same time Killfeather Senior registers my presence. His head turns sharply, those dark eyes landing on me. Then on Wes.
As his lips curl in an angry sneer, only one thought runs through my head.
Fuck.