Chapter 25 Truth #2
“This is for making poor life choices!” Finn threw two at once.
“This is for eye-fucking him during drills!” Callahan added.
I caught one and fired it at Rook. “You're supposed to be on my side, Cap!”
He threw one back, completely deadpan. “I'm on the side of good taste. Which you clearly don't have.”
“Oh fuck you!” I threw another at him, laughing so hard my ribs hurt.
Sato winced when one hit me directly in the face. “Guys, that's—”
But then even he was laughing, throwing his own jockstrap into the mix.
“What's wrong with Coach anyway?” I yelled over the chaos. “He's built! He's smart! He's—”
“A dinosaur!” Finn shouted back.
“He yells at us!” Mercer added.
“His resting face looks like he wants to murder someone!” Tate was bent over laughing.
“That's just his face!” I protested.
“Exactly!” Mace threw another one. “Terrible face! You could do better!”
“I'm not going to do better!”
“Why not?” Benny asked, grinning. “You scared of the dating pool?”
“No! Because I like him!” I grabbed three jockstraps and started throwing them rapid-fire. “I like his stupid face and his stupid hair and his stupid—”
“Wait, wait,” Finn held up a hand, still laughing. “Did you just call his hair stupid?”
I realized what I'd said. “I meant—”
“Hart thinks Coach's hair is stupid!” Callahan was crying now. “Oh my god!”
“This keeps getting better!” Tate was pounding the bench.
“I didn't mean stupid! I meant—it's nice! It's good hair!” I was floundering now.
Rook was shaking his head, smirking. “You're making it worse, Hart.”
“His hair is fine! Better than fine!” I looked around desperately. “Will you all shut up?”
“Never!” Finn threw another jockstrap. “This is too good!”
Volkov picked one up slowly, deliberately. “For the record, I think Coach has very respectable hair.” Then he threw it anyway.
The assault continued for another minute—jockstraps flying, everyone laughing so hard some guys could barely breathe. When it finally died down, I was sitting in a pile of them, face red from laughing, ribs aching.
“Okay, okay,” Mace wiped his eyes. “In all seriousness though. Coach is at least a seven point five.”
“Thank you!” I said.
“But only because of the shoulders,” he continued. “The personality brings him down to a six.”
“Personality doesn't count in hotness rankings!” Finn argued. “That's a separate category!”
“Who made you the authority on hotness rankings?” Benny asked.
“I'm the guy who won fifty bucks betting on Hart's sex life. I'm clearly an expert on reading people.”
“You got lucky,” Mercer said.
“Skill, not luck.” Finn counted his money again. “Pure skill.”
Rook cleared his throat, fighting a smile. “Are we done ranking Coach's attractiveness now?”
“I'd give him an eight,” Volkov said seriously.
“Eight's generous,” Tate countered.
“He has good bone structure,” Volkov argued. “And the grey is distinguished.”
“The grey makes him look old,” Callahan said.
“You're all wrong.” I grabbed a jockstrap from the pile around me. “He's a nine. Easy.”
Complete silence.
Then Finn lost it. “A nine! He said a nine!”
“Hart's in love!” Tate was wheezing.
“So fucking in love!” Mercer added.
I threw the jockstrap at all of them. “I hate every single one of you.”
“No you don't,” Mace said, grinning. “You love us.”
“Debatable,” I muttered.
Rook was still smirking. “For the record, I agree with Hart. Coach is at least an eight. The arms alone—”
“Rook!” Half the team yelled.
“What? I have eyes. The man's built.” He shrugged. “Hart has good taste. Questionable judgment timing-wise, but good taste.”
I buried my face in my hands. “Can we please stop talking about my boyfriend's hotness?”
“Boyfriend!” Finn crowed. “He said boyfriend!”
“Kill me now,” I groaned.
“Too late.” Benny was grinning. “You're stuck with us. And we're never letting this go.”
“Ever,” Tate agreed.
“Not even when we're old,” Callahan added.
“I'll be telling my grandkids about this,” Mercer said. “The time Hart admitted Coach Sutherland was a nine.”
Sato was shaking his head, smiling. “You brought this on yourself, you know.”
“I know.” I looked around at all of them—still grinning, still giving me shit, still here. “But you guys are okay with it? Really?”
The joking stopped. The room got quieter.
“Yeah, Hart,” Rook said. “We're really okay with it.”
“We don't care that you're gay,” Benny added. “We don't care that you're with Coach.”
“We care that you're happy,” Mace said. “Even if you have questionable taste in men.”
“He's a nine!” I protested weakly.
“Sure he is, buddy.” Finn patted my shoulder. “Sure he is.”
But he was smiling. They all were.
And I realized this was it. This was the team reaction I'd been terrified of for years. Not rejection. Not disgust. Not the end of my career.
Just my teammates being assholes in the most supportive way possible.
“Okay, okay,” Rook finally called order. “Everyone shut up. We actually need to talk about the serious stuff now.”
The laughter died down. Guys settled back onto benches, still grinning but listening.
“Seriously though, Hart,” Benny said. “We don't care who you're sleeping with. What we care about is that you're our teammate and this situation is complicated as hell.”
I nodded, throat suddenly tight. “I know.”
“So you've actually been together for a while?” Volkov asked. “This wasn't just a cabin thing?”
“A while,” I admitted. “Since before the injury. We tried to keep it professional. Tried to keep distance. It just...” I trailed off.
“It just happened,” Rook finished. “Yeah. We figured.”
Mace cleared his throat. “Look, we don't give a shit who you're sleeping with. But we do give a shit about optics. And right now, the optics are a fucking nightmare.”
“I know.”
“Media's saying you got special treatment,” Mercer said. “That Coach benched you because you two are involved. That the whole injury thing was a cover story.”
“That's bullshit,” I said immediately. “He benched me because I was actually hurt. Because I hid injuries and played through shit I shouldn't have. It had nothing to do with our relationship.”
“We know that,” Tate said. “We were there. We saw you limping. Saw you compensating. But the media doesn't know that.”
“June's working on damage control,” I said weakly.
“That's different than telling the truth,” Rook said.
I looked at him. “What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to be honest with yourself about what this costs.” His voice was gentle but firm. “This isn't just about you and Coach anymore. This affects the whole team. The organization. Every time someone writes an article questioning whether you earned your spot, they're questioning all of us.”
Guilt twisted in my gut. “I'm sorry.”
“Don't apologize,” Volkov rumbled. “Rook is just saying what needs to be said. This is complicated. But we deal with complicated.”
“Yeah, but how?” I looked around the room. “How do we deal with this?”
“Did you earn your ice time?” Tate asked bluntly. “Or did you sleep your way to the first line?”
“Fuck no.” Heat flared in my chest. “I earned every second. Grant's harder on me than anyone else. He benched me when I needed to be benched. He's never once given me special treatment on the ice.”
“Then that's what we say,” Rook said. “When media asks—and they will—we tell them the truth. That Coach runs a fair system. That you're one of the hardest working players on this team.”
“You'd do that?” My voice cracked. “You'd defend us?”
“You're our teammate,” Mace said. “Of course we would.”
“Even when it's complicated?” I asked.
“Especially when it's complicated,” Volkov said.
Sato spoke quietly. “Everyone deserves to be happy. Even hockey players. Even if they have terrible taste and think their boyfriend is a nine when he's clearly a seven point five.”
I laughed despite the tears starting in my eyes. “He's a nine.”
“Sure, buddy.” Finn grinned. “Whatever you say.”
That broke something in me. I felt the tears come and couldn't stop them. Just sat there surrounded by jockstraps, shoulder aching, leg throbbing, and let myself cry in front of my teammates for the first time in my career.
Rook moved to sit beside me, hand on my good shoulder. Solid. Grounding.
“It's okay,” he said quietly. “We've got you.”
And somehow, that made it worse and better at the same time.