CHAPTER TWO
J ason
Three days earlier
The second I enter the locker room, I know everything I feared since I saw the news on X has come true.
Some of my teammates glower. Others avoid my gaze.
No one smiles.
“You fucked up.” Axel leans against his locker, his dark hair not yet curling from sweat, his arms crossed as if to resist the impulse to strangle me.
His pale-blue eyes are as cutting as his jaw line and excessively high cheekbones.
I look away, like I always do when my teammates strut half-naked, but this time, it’s not from discomfort.
The boa constrictor wrapped around my chest ever since I read that Dmitri Volkov, my linemate and all-around top teammate of the month, every month, was deported, tightens its grip.
Would he have been deported if I hadn’t told the media that his relationship with Oskar Holberg, the Coach’s son, was fake?
Guilt gurgles in my gut.
Jesus, if only I hadn’t scored a goal that night. If only I hadn’t been in the pressroom. If only I hadn’t seen fucking Cal Prescott for the first time in a decade and felt like my world was careening off-kilter.
I rarely score goals.
I’m the guy in the background, the guy to pass a puck to when you’re surrounded by players from the opposing team. I show up, do the job, skate hard. I’m there when the first-line players need a break, and when I’m on the ice, the cameras are normally panning to them.
I never rock the boat.
But now I’ve set fire to its hull.
When Dmitri tried to shift the conversation from himself and his marriage to Oskar to me and my unusual goal, I bristled. Cal didn’t need to hear that my playing is somewhere short of mediocre, that my dreams remain far above me.
My gaze slides to Dmitri’s locker. His things are still there. He was hoping for a last-minute reprieve. It never came. Immigration rejected his request to stay in the US.
“He’ll be back,” I say weakly.
Axel and Noah and Finn snap their gazes to me.
“You’ll see. He’ll be back in time for Christmas. Probably bringing some ridiculous dessert.”
Noah frowns. “I mean, I hope so. I really do. No one loves the US more than he does. But immigration...” He shakes his head. “He was deported because the US didn’t believe his marriage with Oskar was true.”
Axel’s eyes glare. “And you helped them believe that.”
“But it was fake.”
Dmitri is straight. He was my partner in crime at many sports bars. I’ve seen him flirt with puck bunnies and used to wait outside our shared room while he banged women.
There’s no way he was married to Oskar for anything other than a green card and to cheat the system.
The guy was desperate. I understand. But facts are facts.
“Oskar left the country with Dmitri,” Axel says.
I blink. “Really?”
“Really,” Troy says, sliding on his goalie mask.
I stare at him. “I-I knew Oskar liked him.”
It’s an understatement. Oskar had a super huge crush on him. The man had stars shooting out of his eyes whenever Dmitri was in his presence.
“Dmitri always had a soft spot for him,” Axel says. “He fell for him.”
“Not so fake, huh?” Finn is too nice to sneer, but his comment lands like a punch anyway.
Evan and Vinnie enter the locker room, and the other guys straighten. Evan is the captain, and Vinnie is his super scary boyfriend.
They flash me disgruntled looks too.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t think.”
The others turn away.
It’s fine.
I’ve never been the most social guy. When I party with my teammates, it’s usually at a sports bar, usually with alcohol.
So it definitely doesn’t matter if none of them act like bosom buddies.
We don’t have that kind of relationship.
They have those relationships with one another, but not with me, and it’s fine.
Because I don’t care. I care about hockey.
This is a job. I’m sure some people say you’re not supposed to mix work with friendships anyway.
So, you could say I’m ultra professional.
I quickly dress because locker rooms aren’t my favorite places.
It’s weird a team with so much money can’t afford, well, actual walls.
I throw in my AirPods, because maybe focusing on music will keep my eyes from wandering where they shouldn’t.
I wouldn’t want to give people the wrong impression about me.
I’m the first person on the ice.
Unfortunately, that also means I’m the first person to see Coach Holberg, our stoic, stern and Swedish head coach whose son Oskar’s life got upended because of me.
Coach’s thin lips are already in a straight line when he sees me, and his eyes go vaguely shark-like even though he’s chatting with Daniela, the publicity manager who normally doesn’t attend practice.
Her crisp crimson skirt suit looks out of place in the arena, as are her shiny heels.
A few guys send her appreciative glances, but the only sensation I feel is the clench in my gut.
When all the guys arrive from the tunnel, and the sound of skates shuffling and squeaking no longer fill the arena, Daniela clears her throat. “Some of you may already know that Dmitri Volkov and Oskar Holberg are no longer with us.”
A few people bow their heads.
They’re not fucking dead.
But I can’t imagine being forced to leave this team. I can’t imagine what Dmitri is going through. He loved the US. He loved us.
“I am going to find someone to replace Dmitri,” Coach says. “I received an interesting call this morning. I hope to secure an excellent replacement.”
We all nod awkwardly. Nobody wanted Dmitri to leave, but nobody wants him to be replaced by a player who sucks either.
“Oskar is accompanying his husband to Turkey while they wait for a visa from Sweden. I’m going to be handling room arrangements and bookings until we can rehire for his position.” Daniela gives a brisk nod, then marches from the arena.
Coach Holberg claps his hands. “Everyone, line up for stick practice. Larvik, we need to have a major discussion.”
I skate toward him, conscious of the heavy gazes of twenty-other players.
“Did you not see the e-mail I sent you to see me in my office before practice?” Coach asks.
Something cold rushes through me, as if I’ve been knocked onto the frozen slab below my feet.
“I turned off my phone,” I say. “There were alerts...”
“I am certain there were.” Coach smiles, but his face is tight, and his lips look like they’ve been painted onto a ceremonial mask before the tribe goes off into battle. “You should have received calls from your agent too.”
I glance at the ice as if it might crack beneath me, thrust me into an icy river, and hold me down should I attempt to save myself, but there are just painted boards below.
He shrugs. “I didn’t give him much notice.”
The cold feeling is stronger now.
“You’re off the team, Larvik.”
My mouth drops, and my body is set on fire. Hell is right here.
My legs wobble again, and I sturdy my stance and glower as if I knew the words were coming.
As if I intended this all to happen.
As if I didn’t just get destroyed.
I slide my gaze toward the others. Evan is staring at me. A few others shoot curious looks in my direction. The looks lengthen. Their lips move, and even though they keep their voices low, I know they’re discussing me.
“Oh.” My heartbeat quickens, as if my heart is trying to scrape its way out of my ribs, out of my skin, out of this fucking arena.
I slide, then force myself upright. Damn these skates.
“Not forever,” Coach continues, and I swing my gaze at him.
“Did you think it was forever?” Coach smiles again, but there’s something in his tone I don’t like.
But then I can’t blame him.
My actions got one of his best players removed from the country, and now his son is somewhere on the other side of the world because of it. I can see I’m not on his favorite player list.
“You have a two-week suspension for poor behavior,” Coach continues. “You are not fired.”
If the trading deadline hadn’t passed, I would probably be on a one-way flight to the Yukon, eating poutine out of a vending machine, playing on a team where the single ticket seller also drives the Zamboni.
“Please use the time to think about your actions,” Coach continues. “I do not tolerate bad behavior in my locker rooms.”
“I don’t behave badly!”
“Players have called you homophobic, Larvik. You do not mingle with queer players, and you act like they disgust you. You are a bad teammate.”
“That’s not true!”
“You said there were lots of gay people on the team. Do not lie.”
“There are! One LGBTQ magazine started sending someone semi-permanently to cover our hockey games! That’s a fact.”
“The way you conveyed your bewilderment was inappropriate.”
My veins skitter, blood rushing and halting, like I’m two years old and I’m making my way over the ice for the first time all over again.
I eye Coach. Will he waver?
Please. Please. Please.
My mind shouts, but I don’t look contrite. I don’t beg. I can’t have him know he’s trampled on my soul. I can’t be benched. I can’t have the whole skating world know how useless I am. I can’t have my teammates look at me with more hatred and disgust than they already do.
When his gaze remains sour, I’m glad I didn’t debase myself.
“You told Volkov you did not want to see his naked body in the locker room.”
“He reported it?”
“No,” Coach concedes. “He did not. But you cannot act like the people who do not share your sexual preferences are less than you. I have zero tolerance for homophobia from my players.”
I close my eyes.
This is ridiculous.
But if I tell Coach that, he’ll be even angrier at me.
“I understand,” I say instead.
Disappointment flickers over Coach’s face. He probably wanted me to lose my temper.
And I am angry.
I want to tell him.
But my job is more precarious than I thought it would be. My identity as an NHL player on a top team might not be accurate for long.
Fuck.
I just bought an apartment in Seaport. Not the cheap part of town. I’ll lose money if I sell.
Is this all going to be over? Did I blow it?
Am I going to be searching for jobs to coach school children?
Tension shoots through me. But who would hire a person who was thrown out for not working well with others?
Will some rough and tumble team outside the NHL take me on?
Where the injuries are as bad, the hours as cruel, but I’ll have none of my current glory?
Will the players be as rough as I pretend to be?
As nasty and terrible as I’m accused of being? As nasty and terrible as perhaps I am?
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.
Coach Holberg sighs and taps something into his phone. My skates are too tight around my ankles, keeping me from running away.
“I do not want this to be associated with my team.” Then he turns the screen toward me, and a news article in the familiar bright colors of the Sports Sphere website flashes before me. I freeze at the byline—Valerie Davis and Callum Prescott.
I knew Cal was a journalist. I saw him in the press room at that terrible press briefing, and I’d read a few of his articles when I was bored and googled him. He used to work for Sports Sphere’s Southeast division.
Then my gaze falls to the article title: “Professional Sports Most Homophobic Player? Meet Jason Larvik.”
The blood drains from my face.