Chapter Twenty-One Jamie #3
It’s fine because we’ve known for almost six months that a headline about us would only require one person whispering into the ear of one person who cares.
Ultimately, we don’t keep it anywhere near that simple, outing ourselves at the arena where my jersey number hangs from the rafters.
It’s the first time we’ve been here together since Harper’s senior year.
We hold hands on the walk from the parking lot without thinking twice, nobody paying much attention outside.
The concession line should make us more cautious, but we stand too close to each other, our fingers resting low on each other’s backs.
While watching the game, we do little to draw attention, except for the times we lean in to talk to each other.
Then we end up with hands on each other’s thighs, thumbs brushing across denim pulled tight.
At some point—I still don’t remember when—I have something to tell Mateo.
I don’t pull away without kissing the gray in his stubble first.
It’s soft and sweet, and pretty damn sexy. I know that because I’ve been able to see it from several slightly different angles, social media humming before more official gossip sites throw together a few sentences about it.
I hadn’t been sure how loudly anyone would react.
All logic and emotion collided when I could hear decades of slurs amid the absence of cheers.
Jameson Sinclair comes out as bisexual? Huge news if I were still splashed across billboards to sell jockstraps and vodka.
Far less interesting if I’ve finally become the thing I tried to use as a mantra once.
Nobody.
But then the calls, emails, texts, and DMs come in.
I’m not proud of myself for considering, even for a moment, how I might be able to lie my way out of this, or at least run to that flirty blonde for help.
A deep breath steadies me before I respond the first time.
Every official request for information is met with the same simple statement.
His name is Mateo, he’s the love of my life, and we appreciate everyone’s respect for our relationship. We have no further comment at this time.
After a conversation with Mateo that I could’ve had back in August, I decide there are two important exceptions to make.
When I hear from one of the longtime broadcasters for L.A.
—a guy I sat next to for most of my guest commentator gigs—I meet his immediate support with the agreement to sit down for an on-air interview during the intermission of an upcoming home game.
I only ask that he be honest with me in advance if he hears any rumblings from other members of the broadcast team who have a problem with it.
Then I reach out to a favorite sports journalist, already confident that he’ll have my back.
I offer him a lengthier exclusive with both Mateo and me.
In turn, he mentions the name of a photographer I’ve adored for years, and tells me they’ll work together on this.
It’ll almost certainly be the cover story of a magazine.
My face is likely to be on display in countless supermarket checkout lines among tabloids with their candids and alleged insider information.
It’s nice to bring balance to the moments of this that will hurt.
Speaking of hurt, Mateo, Harper, Simon, Kai, Sophie, Crissy, and Isa make me swear I won’t read the comments left by internet trolls.
Taylor calls me just long enough to say, “Fuck ‘em,” and then he’s gone again.
In interviews, he replies with a more professional, “I will not talk about what I know, nor how long I’ve known it.
I will say that Jameson Sinclair has been in my life for almost 30 years, first as a foe, then as a friend.
If anyone had to break my single-season records, I’m glad it was him.
For what it’s worth, I’m also glad the career records are still mine.
I’ve had the pleasure of welcoming Mateo into my home, and I’ve enjoyed his company very much.
You all know I’m not in the habit of being anything less than blunt with you, much like Sinclair himself, so believe me when I tell you I’m happy for them both. ”
“He really said all that,” I murmur, my mouth against Mateo’s. “About both of us.”
“He really did. But you can’t be that surprised. Not after the last few years.”
“No, but I think I’m still surprised by some others, both good and bad.”
There are plenty of people from my past who have stayed silent, of course.
I’ve tried not to wonder why they aren’t reaching out because it’s easy to assume the worst. Among people who have been in contact, I’ve been hurt by the few who felt it was necessary to express disappointment or disgust, especially a teammate I’d considered a friend back then.
The parents of one player pulled him from our juniors program, and I apologized to everyone else.
A couple of former New Jersey players have made biting comments to the press, but I shrug those off okay.
I know there are fans who have thrown my jerseys in the trash, if they’re not burning them outright, but maybe having the cheers fade around me prepared me well.
Or maybe I’ve been so grateful for all the brand new applause, no matter how quiet some of it has been.
There are teammates and rivals who’ve reached out to support me.
Some have had personal stories I wouldn’t dare share with anyone but Mateo.
So many fans have started wearing my jersey again, after having kept it in the back of their closets for years.
And more parents have thanked me for the effect my honesty could have on their kids’ future, and maybe that’s what gets to me most of all.
Coming out like I have won't change hockey culture overnight. I’m not sure it’ll change anything—notably, at least—in one year or five years or ten. But I’ve taken a step, and that step leads somewhere.
The league hasn’t released a statement, but that doesn’t mean they don’t know it, too.
My thoughts fade when Mateo kisses me deeply and grabs my wrist, moving me until I can touch his dick beneath our duvet and over his boxer briefs.
We’ve been in bed for a while, talking drowsily, mostly about things we’ve discussed before.
I don’t think we’d had any plans to fuck about it.
Maybe we still won’t. Both of us are soft, and the kiss isn’t hurried.
But then his tongue slows, and he moans when I stroke the fabric pulled tight over him.
“Do you really want to keep this conversation going?” he asks. “Or can we move to something far more incoherent instead?”
His hand is cupping me now, and I’ve never been less than pliant in his grip. “Incoherent is good.”
We stop talking and go back to the kissing that could keep me almost as satisfied as anything else he has in mind.
We’re older and more tired, and we can have each other any night we want.
There are no demands being made by either of us now, but our bodies respond to this familiar want.
Even with both of our hands between us, we arch into the contact, seeking more pressure.
It’s so simple, rubbing each other’s cocks while pushing up against the back of our own hands.
Still, something about it feels at least as filthy as anything else we’ve done.
It’s probably because Mateo doesn’t want to get closer to naked first.
The next few minutes are clumsy and desperate.
I kick at the duvet because it’s too warm.
We’re panting into each other’s mouths as much as we’re kissing now, but it gives us the space to say a dozen vulgar things.
By the time we come, our briefs are more of a mess than our hands, and we find ourselves in a fit of laughter that lasts a while.
When that dies down, and we’re still breathing the same air, Mateo surprises me more than anyone has in the days since our arena video went viral.
“Should we get married?”
My eyes go wide and my jaw drops. I think I giggle like I’m eight years old. “Should I consider this an actual proposal when our hands are still sticky and you’re asking like that?”
“I—I’m not sure whether I meant for it to be a proposal or just a—we’ve never really talked about it,” he says, his sleepy smile enough to make me say yes to anything. “Everything we’ve said has been about forever, but I don’t know what forever means.”
“And you taught my daughter’s English class? Twice?”
Mateo’s tongue in my mouth means I have to shut up. Just as abruptly, he pulls away and rolls out of bed to toss his boxer briefs in the hamper and wash his hands. I follow, do the same, and grab clean clothes for both of us. Then I drag him back to bed—to sleep this time.
He tugs the duvet over us, and I press my back to his chest so he can speak into my ear. “We don’t need to figure it out now. I know I get forever with you either way, but maybe we can talk about it sometime soon. Maybe we can—”
“Yes,” I say, clearing my throat when it’s not clear enough. “Yes, we should get married.”
It happens in our backyard on a warm August evening, ten years after I brought Mateo home without him knowing.
Only about 20 guests are in attendance, more than half of them family.
All of them are overcome by laughter and happy tears.
We’d invited my parents, but they’d declined to celebrate with us.
They sent a card, fancy Hallmark script wishing us the best.
Our honeymoon is full of hammocks and Mai Tais and loud and slow.
Six months later, we take advantage of Taylor’s gift to us and spend a week on a frozen lake.
In between Mateo’s non-proposal and the wedding and more wishes come true, I get formally interviewed during a game.
Mateo and I pose for pictures and tell our story.
Public reaction remains mixed, but it feels more positive than not, and I couldn’t imagine still waiting for the rest of my life to start.
Hockey loved me for as long as it could.
I don’t think it’ll ever fully let go, but I had to let something else in.
I had to remember who else I am.
“Hey, Jamie,” Mateo calls out. “There’s someone here to see you.”
I turn to look at him and push my sunglasses to the top of my head.
Another school year has just come to an end, even more of his graying hair well-earned.
We’re enjoying the summer morning by the pool, the ocean out of sight from where I lie on a lounge chair.
He’d only left to get us something to eat and drink, so I’m surprised that we’re no longer alone.
For a moment, I study him where he stands calmly at the patio door.
A soft smile is on his face, and damp swim trunks cling to his muscular thighs.
I assume Harper must’ve driven down, since she’s on her summer break, too.
Or maybe Kai, if he’s got someone else opening the bar today.
It’s neither of them.
When Mateo takes a step to the side, I almost can’t believe I’d missed the sheer bulk behind him.
It’s Sami Eriksson, one of the young guys I’d coached in New Jersey during his first two years in the league.
For a strange second, I wonder if he’s here to brag about their Cup win a couple of weeks ago.
The thought doesn’t last because I’m entirely happy for them, and he looks as nervous as he did the first time he walked into my office.
“Hey, Eriksson,” I say, sitting up and swinging my legs until my feet are flat on the warm concrete. “This is a surprise.”
“Yes. It’s a surprise. I’m sorry, but McKeon gave me your home address so we could speak privately. It’s very beautiful here.”
I appreciate the quick answer to a question I hadn’t asked yet, and the compliment to go with it.
Then I motion for him to sit on the lounge chair I’m facing.
Mateo returns with chips and dip and two open bottles of beer, but he leaves them for us and nods toward the house before slipping away again.
I meet Sami’s blue eyes with mine when neither of us reaches for the food, his hands in anxious fists against his knees. “Take a deep breath, kid. I’m right here. I don’t have anywhere else to be.”
“But you were swimming,” he says. “With your husband.”
“I was,” I concede, something about his tone helping me understand Mateo’s soft smile from before.
“That’s good. It’s what I would like to talk about. I would like to know more about how to be so brave. You helped me when you were my coach, and I would like your help again.”
My next inhale catches on something I’d once thought was cowardice, and I swallow hard. But that’s not what he needs from me. I reach for his fists and gently uncurl his fingers until his hands rest flat in his lap.
“Of course, Sami. I’ll help however I can.”