Chapter 21
SEBASTIAN
When I was three blocks from the arena, I texted Taylor to let him know I was almost there. I didn’t expect him to respond, but he immediately sent back a thumbs-up emoji, followed by a heart.
I pocketed my phone and joined the scattered throngs of people in Marauders gear heading toward the building. Preseason games for a franchise still finding its footing didn’t exactly pack the house.
At will-call, I showed my ID to the guy behind the window and accepted the ticket he passed my way.
Inside, the arena smelled of cold, recycled air and concession stand food. The concourses were still relatively quiet, a few loud voices echoing off the high ceilings.
Eventually, I found my section and started down the stairs, scanning the numbers. When I reached my row, I stopped short. Ethan Harrison was sitting there, his head bent over his phone.
He glanced up as I approached, his expression going from neutral to surprised to welcoming in the span of about two seconds.
“Sebastian, hey,” he greeted, extending his hand as I took my seat next to him. “Didn’t know you were coming.”
I shook his hand and glanced around, noting the seats around us were still mostly empty. “Taylor invited me. He’s being paired up with a new guy tonight to see if they click.”
Down on the ice, both teams had made their way onto the ice for warm-ups. I found Taylor immediately in his dark teal Marauders jersey, his movements efficient and controlled as he skated backward, pivoted, and then accelerated forward.
Ethan followed my gaze. “Bell says he’s like a different player this season.
“Oh yeah?”
“More focused. Faster. Said he’s playing like he gives a damn again. Whatever put that fire back in him, it’s working.”
I felt an absurd swell of pride, as if I could take any credit for Taylor’s improvement. But maybe I could, in some small way. Maybe being happy—being loved—had given him something to work toward instead of just going through the motions.
I cleared my throat and looked away. “I haven’t watched much hockey since college,” I said, changing the subject before I revealed just how emotional I could get when it came to that man.
“I used to go to all of Taylor’s games back then.
Before … well, before we lost touch. You might have to talk me through some of the plays. ”
“Is it strange, being back in the stands cheering him on?” Ethan asked, his tone curious.
It wasn't strange so much as sentimental. Almost like looking at an old home movie of the person I used to be and feeling deja vu. That guy used to sit in the stands bundled in layers, screaming himself hoarse every time Taylor touched the puck. That guy tried desperately to learn the rules just so I could understand what was happening. That guy had memorized Taylor’s schedule so thoroughly that he knew exactly when he’d be done with practice, when he’d be at the gym, when he’d be free.
When he could be mine.
“It’s good. Makes me feel a bit nostalgic,” I said. “What about you? Do you miss being out there?”
Ethan’s eyes moved to the ice where Bell was down on all fours doing some complicated stretch that frankly looked pornographic.
He was quiet for a good ten seconds before he shook his head.
“Nah. I liked playing, but I didn’t love it.
Not the way Bell does, anyway.” Reluctantly, he pulled his attention away from his husband, a sad-looking smile playing at his lips.
“I had a complicated relationship with hockey. Or rather, being gay and wanting to play hockey.”
I cleared my throat, my fingers absently scratching at the stubble growing along my jawline. I hadn’t shaved in over a week. “That interview you did after you came out,” I said, meeting Ethan’s eyes. “Did that change things for you? With hockey, I mean?”
He lifted a plastic cup of beer to his lips, his shoulders hunching slightly inward. Then he glanced down at Bell again, who was laughing with another player, his head thrown back.
“Honestly? I don’t think I could have kept playing and been out.
I’m not … I don’t have his confidence. Some of the shit that gets said in the dressing room and on the ice …
” He shook his head. “I got into it once with one of our teammates back in Austin. I was two seconds away from slamming him into a stall when Bell pulled me back from the brink. Everyone in the organization knew what he’d said, too, but nothing ever changed.
Mentally, I didn’t have it in me to deal with that shit. Not the way he does.”
“Is that … should I be worried about Taylor? Here, with the Marauders, I mean?”
Ethan shook his head. “No. The owner has a trans daughter. If he gets even a whiff of that bullshit from anyone in the organization, they’re out the door.”
I let out the breath I’d been holding and stared down at my hands. “That’s good.”
While I didn’t know much about hockey, I wasn’t ignorant of the homophobia that was prevalent in professional sports.
From everything I’d read, hockey had an especially bad reputation, despite events like Pride Night and campaigns centered on inclusivity.
I’d been quietly worried that Taylor would face backlash within the organization if they knew about him.
He wasn’t Stryker Bell, a guy you tried to build a franchise around, so I’d been concerned he’d have less protection. Face more open hostility.
“Taylor was thinking about coming out before … well, before,” I explained to Ethan.
The “me” part of that statement was implied.
“Ah,” he hummed.
“Yeah.”
Ethan leaned closer, speaking under his breath. “Look, I get why you feel like you can’t come out, so I’m not going to try and sit here and lecture you about how it’s so much better on the other side. Though it is better.”
I shifted to face him more fully, giving him my full attention, and bracing myself for whatever point he was about to make.
“And obviously,” he continued, “Bell and my situation is completely different from your guys’, but I will say I had to learn the hard way that asking the man you love to deny there’s anything between you is a surefire way to blow things up.”
“I know,” I acknowledged, slumping down in my seat.
We fell quiet as a few more fans trickled into our section and found their seats.
Then the puck dropped, and there was no more time for deep, philosophical discussions.
Not that I was complaining.
I’d forgotten how fast hockey was. How violent. The crack of bodies hitting boards, sticks clashing, skates cutting hard stops that sent ice shavings flying through the air.
Watching Taylor throw his weight into checking a Cleveland forward into the glass made my heart lodge in my throat.
“Holy shit.”
“Nice one,” Ethan said appreciatively. “Really don’t miss that.”
I watched as Taylor and his new defensive partner, Monroe, skated back to the bench.
“Do you think it’s going well?”
“Early days, but yeah.” Ethan pointed at different areas on the ice as he continued speaking. “Monroe likes to jump into the play, take chances. Taylor’s more defensive-minded. Could be a good balance if they figure out how to trust each other.”
The first period was scoreless but intense.
Taylor was only on the ice for a few minutes at a time, but Ethan explained it was a good shift.
I found myself tensing every time he was out there, watching for any signs that he was struggling, all of our previous conversations about his concern about being good enough at the forefront of my mind.
Admittedly, I didn’t know a ton about hockey, but he appeared solid. And he was certainly winning his battles along the board. Twice, Ethan pointed out Taylor breaking up something he called "odd-man rushes with well-timed poke checks."
During the first intermission, Ethan asked if I wanted anything from the concession stand. I declined, too wired to eat. When he came back with a beer and a pretzel, he offered me half. I took it just to have something to do with my hands.
“How’s the campaign going?” he asked.
“Brutal but good. Kendra’s smart and principled.” I tore off a piece of the pretzel. “Her opponent’s a piece of work, though.”
“Sounds like most politicians,” he observed with a grunt.
“Yeah. Fair point.”
We fell into easy conversation—local politics, Ethan’s coaching job at Thackeray College, the Marauders’ opening road trip.
Ethan had a dry sense of humor that emerged gradually, his gruff exterior softening the longer we spoke.
It wasn’t hard to see why Bell had been attracted to him despite their ten-year age difference.
There was something deeply steady about Ethan, like he’d weathered enough storms that nothing much rattled him anymore.
The second period started with Cleveland scoring forty-three seconds in. A defensive breakdown—not Taylor’s fault, Ethan explained, but he still looked furious with himself.
The Marauders pushed back, pressing hard in the offensive zone. Monroe jumped into the rush and took a shot that rebounded off the goalie’s pads. Taylor was there, perfectly positioned, and tapped it in.
The horn blared, and the crowd—small as it was—erupted.
I was on my feet before I even realized it, screaming my head off.
On the ice, Taylor’s teammates mobbed him. When he skated back to the bench, his eyes scanned the crowd—looking for me, I realized. Our eyes met for just a fraction of a second, and my heart beat wildly in my chest.
Ethan glanced at me, then back at the ice, his expression carefully neutral.
The rest of the second period was a grinding, defensive battle. Both teams seemed to be playing cautiously. When the buzzer sounded for the second intermission, I finally let myself breathe.
“You holding up okay?” Ethan chuckled.
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
He snorted and gave me a look that suggested he saw right through me.
The third period was agony. Every shift Taylor was on the ice felt like it lasted five minutes instead of forty-five seconds. Cleveland pressed hard, but the Marauders’ defense held. Taylor was everywhere, blocking shots, breaking up passes, and clearing the puck.
With four minutes left, a man Ethan called “Bonesy,” but whose jersey had the name Bonnelli on its back, fired a shot that the Cleveland goalie kicked out. The rebound bounced to Bell, who snatched it and fired it into the net before the goalie could recover.
I was on my feet again, my voice joining the roar of the crowd.
When the final buzzer sounded, I sagged back into my seat, physically and emotionally wrung out.
“Hell of a game,” Ethan said, stretching his arms over his head.
“And it’s only preseason,” I observed with a huff of disbelief. If things were this intense now, I couldn't imagine what it would be like if the Marauders ever made it to the playoffs.
“Lots of guys trying to prove their mettle,” he said.
Ethan turned to me. “You sticking around?”
“Yeah. I’m supposed to meet Taylor in a bit.”
He nodded and pushed to his feet. “Okay, well. Have a good night. I’m gonna head out.”
“Thanks for the company,” I said. “And the hockey lessons.”
“Anytime.” He clapped me on the shoulder, then headed toward the exits.
I stayed in my seat, watching the ice crew repair the surface until the arena was mostly empty.
Then I made my way down to the main concourse and asked for directions to the friends-and-family entrance.
Several people filtered past while I stood off to the side, hands in my pockets, trying to look like I belonged here.
Players started emerging twenty minutes later, Taylor among the first wave.
He was in a charcoal suit sans tie, carrying a leather duffel bag. His eyes found me immediately across the space. For a moment, we just stared at each other, then he crossed the concourse toward me, his stride casual, unhurried. To anyone watching, we were just two friends meeting up after a game.
“Hey,” he said, stopping a careful three feet away.
“Hey.” I wanted to close that distance, to pull him into my arms, to kiss him the way he deserved after playing like that. The way his teammates were being kissed.
Instead, I said, “You played really well.”
His mouth curved into a small, pleased smile. “Thanks. Did you find your seat okay?”
“Yeah. I sat next to Ethan, so I got to know him a bit better.”
“Oh shit, really? I didn’t know he was coming.”
“He said it was a last-minute thing, but he was good company. Was super patient explaining things when I got lost, which, I'm sad to say, was often."
He chuckled, and we fell into an awkward silence, surrounded by families reuniting, teammates laughing, and kids getting autographs. Everyone else got to celebrate openly. Everyone else got to touch the people they loved.
And here Taylor and I were, maintaining our careful three feet of distance like a chasm we didn’t dare cross.
My phone buzzed in my pocket—probably Michael or David with some crisis that needed immediate attention. There was always something. Always another fire to put out, another strategy to refine, another eighteen-hour day waiting for me to get back to.
“I should probably get going,” I said, even though it was the last thing I wanted to do.
Taylor took a step closer and dropped his voice. “Do you have to?”
I studied the way he was holding himself, as if he were bracing for rejection, and felt my resolve begin to crumble. There’d forever be more work to do. What was one night off if it made this man happy?
He glanced around again. “Come home with me, Seb,” he whispered, brushing his knuckles against mine. The touch was so brief that if anyone had been watching, they’d dismiss it as accidental, if they even noticed at all.
My fingers twitched, wanting to reach for him. I curled them into my palm instead.
I had three position documents to review. A press strategy to refine, since Kendra was still fighting us on calling out Merrick’s bullshit.
I needed to go back to the office, pour another coffee, and work until the words blurred together so badly that I had no choice but to call it a night.
That’s what I would have done before.
But before had been empty. Years spent telling myself the work was enough, never really stopping to think about what I wanted.
What I needed.
And that was what sealed it for me.
Because I needed Taylor.
“Yes,” I said.
It came out so easily. No deliberation. Just … yes.
Like the choice was simple.
Like I was someone for whom it could be.