Chapter 13
Quentin
For three weeks, Quentin didn’t hear anything from Joel.
During the first few days of silence, he texted Joel daily.
He asked if Joel was okay and asked him what was wrong.
He apologized, though he wasn’t sure how he’d messed up.
Joel had kissed him first, not the other way around.
He didn’t know what he had done, and he was sorry.
He had come to appreciate his friendship with Joel, and with some distance, he realized that it was obvious he felt more for Joel than just friendship.
During those three weeks of silence, he threw himself into hockey.
They had a busy schedule, so it wasn’t hard to use the game to distract himself.
He played every game like he had something to prove.
He was vicious on the ice, unstoppable, and sometimes a little brutal.
He tolerated nothing less than perfection from his teammates and from himself.
When they lost games, he was angry, more at himself than at his teammates.
He tried not to take his anger out on his team, but more than once, he let his anger get the best of him.
He got in multiple fights on the ice and spent more time in the penalty box in those two weeks than he had in his entire career beforehand.
His coach, Bogdanovic, asked if he was okay.
It was obvious that something was wrong.
Quentin blew him off, said that there wasn’t any problem, and Bogdanovic said that Quentin had better figure out what was wrong or he’d be benched for a bit.
The behavior he was exhibiting wasn’t appropriate for a captain.
Quentin knew it, and he felt like he was letting his team down.
There was no one he could talk to so that he could process his emotions. He was hurt, that was the root of the problem, hurt that Joel just left. He was confused, and he was afraid. He didn’t know how to work through all of the emotions on his own, and it scared him.
Two weeks after the game against Tampa Bay, the Minutemen faced off against Ottawa, back in Boston.
Quentin wasn’t in a good headspace for that game.
He was sloppy on the ice and missed multiple shots.
He felt like he was letting his team down.
He couldn’t concentrate, and when they lost the game 1-0, he personally felt like he had let his team down.
He threw his helmet when he was back in the locker room after the game. Henri caught it in midair, tossed it back to Quentin, and glared at him.
“Something crawled up your ass and died,” Henri said, “and it’s stinking up the entire arena.
You’re coming over for a late dinner tonight, and we’re going to talk, okay?
” He spoke with a low voice, so that no one else in the locker room could hear them, but the steel in his gaze left no room for questions.
Quentin knew that Henri was right. Quentin had acted unacceptably, as a player and as a captain, and probably as a friend.
Henri had called him out on it, and though it made Quentin angrier in the moment, he knew it was the move of a good friend.
“Okay,” he said, and sighed. “I’m sorry.”
Henri just shook his head and went to the showers. Quentin avoided the gazes of his teammates, feeling lousy about his bad behavior.
He sat on the bench by his changing stall and rubbed his forehead.
His thoughts felt stormy and impossible to control.
He could normally clear his head well before games, but he hadn’t been able to recently.
Whenever he closed his eyes, he was back in the humid alley in Tampa, kissing Joel and wanting to do more than just kiss.
How had he missed it this entire time? How had he not seen what he wanted?
He wanted Joel. He needed Joel. Everything that had irritated him about Joel had been things that attracted him to the pop singer.
Joel was beautiful, talented, smart, funny, and sexy.
Quentin wanted him and needed him the way he wanted and needed hockey. Joel felt vital. And Joel had run away.
His thoughts spun. Joel had kissed him first. Surely, Joel wanted Quentin, too. Did that mean Joel was gay? Joel Beckett, the world-famous pop star. Did it mean that he liked Quentin, too? That he desired Quentin the way Quentin desired him?
The thoughts hurt, spinning around his mind, taking up all the space, pushing out anything else.
He groaned in frustration, stripped off his gear, and stalked to the shower, where he hoped the hot water would wash away some of his confusion.
He stood under the hot spray until his skin was flushed and tender, and then dried himself off, dressed, and went to his car.
He waved off his teammates who were trying to cheer him up.
Maybe it was rude, but he needed space. They could tell something was wrong, but they didn’t know what, and he didn’t feel like he could tell them.
They didn’t know the truth, they didn’t really know him, and he didn’t know what he’d even say.
He didn’t know what he’d say to Henri, either.
Henri was his best friend and the most logical person for him to come out to, but he was afraid of it.
He knew Henri would receive it well and that he could trust Henri, but he’d kept the secret of his sexuality for so long that it felt like a betrayal of trust. He regretted not trusting Henri sooner.
When he arrived at Henri and Cort’s apartment building, he sat in his car for ten minutes, staring at his steering wheel and barely blinking.
He felt like shit. He wanted to know what Joel was doing, but after the first three days of Joel not responding to his messages, he had tried to go cold turkey.
He hadn’t texted Joel, hadn’t looked him up online or on social media, hadn’t checked the news.
He didn’t even know what city Joel was in right now for his tour.
It hurt too much to look. He didn’t want to know if Joel was out there thinking about him, too, or if Joel had already forgotten him and moved on with his life.
He didn’t know which idea would hurt worse.
Quentin couldn’t imagine that Joel could so easily forget him.
Finally, he mustered up the courage to go up to Henri and Cort’s building.
He rang the buzzer for their apartment. Henri let him up and then opened the door.
His hair was still damp from his shower at the arena, and he wore a gray Crownbridge University sweatshirt and ripped jeans. His face was neutral.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” Quentin said.
“Come on in.”
The apartment smelled like Indian food.
“Cort ordered dinner. Hope you’re hungry.”
It was late, but Quentin could always eat. “Starving.”
“Good. Sit on the couch, I’ll get you some food, and then we can talk.”
Henri was younger than Quentin, but right now Quentin felt like the younger and more inexperienced friend. Henri had always had an air of maturity to him, and Quentin felt it now.
He sat on Henri and Cort’s comfortable couch and stared at the TV, which was playing a replay of an old hockey game with the sound off.
“Cort’s in bed,” Henri said. “I wasn’t sure you’d want him here for this conversation.” He came into the living room with two plates of food and two cans of beer.
“What conversation?” Quentin asked, taking his food and his beer, and hoping he could pretend to be naive for a bit longer.
Henri sat cross-legged in a chair facing him. “The conversation we’re about to have. About why you’ve had a bad attitude for the past three weeks, and have seemed like you’ve been on the brink of crying ever since Tampa Bay.”
Quentin swallowed. His appetite was suddenly in jeopardy.
“Right,” he murmured.
“Something seems like it’s wrong,” Henri said, a little less bluntly, “and I’m worried about you.
I’m not going to force you to talk about anything, because that doesn’t feel kind, but I want you to know that I’m here for you if you need to talk about anything.
Otherwise, we can sit here in silence and eat our food, or talk about things that are more comfortable, like hockey.
Isn’t that what straight men do? Bottle up their feelings and talk about sports? ”
Quentin rolled his eyes. “I think that’s offensive to straight men.” His nervous system was in full prehistoric mode, like he was facing down a predator. Neurons fired off DANGER DANGER DANGER. He tried to ignore it. “And I don’t think that would work, anyway, because I’m not straight.”
Henri took a bite of his curry, chewed, and swallowed.
Quentin raised his eyebrows. “No reaction?”
Henri put down his spoon. “Sorry.” His face had a bemused expression. “Oh, wow!” he said, his voice practically dripping with sarcasm. “You’re not straight. My god, dear me, I’m shocked. Someone get me a fainting couch and fetch the smelling salts. I am in danger of passing out.”
Quentin glared at him.
“How long have you known?” he asked his best friend.