CHAPTER THREE
C al
Rex Manley’s face is flushed red as he paces the glass conference room. I lean forward as he clicks on his PowerPoint.
My article appears on the screen:
“Professional Sports’ Most Homophobic Player? Meet Jason Larvik.”
God, this is cool. I grew up watching Rex play, and now he’s the premier sports journalist in the country.
There’s no one I can learn more from.
Boston’s skyline shines on the other side of the floor-to-ceiling windows, past the sleek desks and matching gleaming floors. Expensive screens glow with fast-moving athletes in every sport imaginable.
Sports Sphere is the top sports news channel in the country. It’s on every television, in every lobby and lounge.
Sports is bigger than ever, and I’m part of it.
I’m not in Tennessee anymore.
Eight pairs of eyes follow Rex as he moves about the conference room.
I’ve seen my new colleagues on TV and read their columns.
Most of them are former athletes, and they move with the ease of self-made multimillionaires with extraordinary physical abilities.
Even the interns look like they’re going to be swooped up by scouts and enthrall the world.
I’m the tenth person in the room.
The newbie.
The non-athlete, because high school doesn’t count. I had to quit hockey junior year when my parents divorced, but that was my fault for not choosing a cheaper sport.
A few of my new colleagues eye me suspiciously. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m gay or it’s because of the way I swell in the expensive leather ergonomic chair.
They think I don’t belong. They’re right.
Audiences get a kick when the commentators are people they used to watch, and they can remember when they didn’t have salt-and-pepper hair. Jackson Fields even got a gold medal in swimming in the Olympics two decades ago, and every major magazine has done a spread of his abs.
At least I come with five years of experience from the Sports Sphere Southeastern Office in Nashville. No one knows sports facts better than me.
“Welcome to your first staff meeting, Callum,” Rex says. “You’re settling in with Jeremy?”
“Yes. Thank you for suggesting I room with him.”
Rex gives a perfunctory nod. He turns to the others, and his baritone voice goes deep, like he’s on television announcing breaking sports news. “We need a story on Jason Larvik.”
Something dries in my throat.
Right. The one person I sort of know in Boston.
Not that we’re friends now. I don’t even have his phone number.
But we went to hockey camp together.
And we also...
Well, it’s better not to think about hockey camp.
Because thoughts of hockey camp inevitably lead to thoughts of the people at hockey camp.
And those thoughts always lead straight back to Jason.
I take a sip of coffee. A plate of cookies is on the table. No one has taken one yet, but I stretch out my hand and take one.
White chocolate macadamia. I bite into it and suppress a moan at the taste.
A woman with thick red glasses smiles happily. I point at the cookie, then nod my head at her in a questioning manner.
She beams, and I give her a thumbs-up.
Technically, I probably should focus completely on my boss.
But listening to any talk about Jason Larvik makes my nerves skitter.
Rex continues to speak about Jason. Jason’s disgust when referring to the multiple men in same-sex relationships was palpable at the last press conference.
Valerie uncovered that he’s made those same teammates uncomfortable.
I worked on the story with her, though mostly I added details about his career from the AHL in Providence before he was called up to the Blizzards four years ago.
Jason is a reliable player, but not a star.
Most Blizzards fans don’t know his name.
Every time someone says Jason’s name, my chest tightens. I reach for another cookie, as if sugar and flour and white chocolate can erase from my mind that he was the first guy I ever kissed.
Since he’s now known as the most homophobic professional athlete in the country, the kiss was a spectacular failure. I shouldn’t have spent any time pining for him. I hope I’m not the reason for his subsequent bad behavior, though he could have said no.
“Cal, you’re doing the Larvik story.”
“Me?” I flick my gaze toward Valerie.
We worked on that article together, but Valerie took the lead. It was her idea. It should be her story.
Rex frowns. “Yes. You.” He sighs. “Because you bring a relevant perspective. One the rest of us don’t have.” He waves a hand, and I do my best to not react, even as snickers sound from around the table.
He means to say that I’m gay, but apparently that’s not something that can be said in the polite conversation that is the Sports Sphere newsroom. I glance at the reporters sitting around the table, finally putting their English and communication degrees to use after their athletic careers.
I reach for another cookie. The sugary scent wafts around my nostrils, briefly calming me.
My sun-kissed colleagues, their golden-hued skin no doubt maintained from regular trips to five-star resorts in the Caribbean instead of hasty spray tans in sad-looking mini-malls, smirk.
“Are we sure it’s appropriate to put Jason on this article?” Valerie asks. “I wouldn’t want him to be in an un-safe environment.”
The words are technically kind? I don’t know her well enough.
I stiffen anyway, but not because I’m afraid of Jason or anything.
Maybe that’s also a problem. If I’d been afraid of him, maybe I wouldn’t have kissed him, and all of this awkwardness between us would never have happened.
Maybe I’d still have my great new friend from hockey camp.
Maybe he wouldn’t have gone on the homophobic spiral he went on.
I take another sip of coffee. The bitter liquid does nothing to distract me from my thoughts.
When I looked Jason in the eyes and said, “can I?”, did he really know what I wanted to do? Was he thinking kiss? When he kissed me back, was it instinct, rather than desire?
Obviously, that’s what it was.
It’s clear he hated it.
How could something that felt so good to me have felt so terrible to him?
I was in the press room when Jason vented about the abundance of teammates in same-sex relationships and his open doubt that Dmitri Volkov and Oskar Holberg, the coach’s son, were in a legitimate romantic relationship.
“I can handle Larvik fine,” I tell Valerie, even though my mind is flicking through every memory of Jason. He used to listen to me ramble about stats and laugh whenever I made a terrible joke.
I was so stupid to fall for him.
And yet... how could I not?
Valerie gives a sympathetic smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and that reminds me she might have been more concerned with covering this story than concerned for my supposed well-being.
I’ve only been here a week, and I don’t want to give my new boss the impression my colleagues need to cover for me.
“The Blizzards benched Larvik after his comments on Volkov,” Rex says.
I stiffen.
Did our article do that? Neither of us wrote the headline. Another team does that, one that specializes in drama.
“I suggest you interview him and find out his thoughts,” Rex continues.”
Jackson sneers. “Bet Larvik has some interesting thoughts.”
“Probably wishing Holberg’s not coaching the Blizzards,” another reporter says.
My colleagues chuckle.
This would be so much easier if I hadn’t spent my teenage years lying in bed thinking about him, wondering if I was that way, and then deciding that yes, I definitely, definitely was.
God, I never should have kissed him then.
Why didn’t it occur to me that one day he might be in the NHL, and I’d be the reporter writing about him?
But I can’t tell anyone the reason why I’m reluctant to take the story.
I’m sure they would want to add that salacious detail, and besides the fact I’m sure Jason would hate the story to break, and it would be super uncool of me to share it, I’m also not eager to be known as the guy who kissed Jason and turned him vehemently against the concept of same-sex relations.
“I’ll get the story,” I promise.
“Good. I expect a feature,” Rex says. “Homophobia in hockey. Multiple players in the Blizzards are in relationships with men. Some with each other.” He shakes his head in wonder. “But no other player in any other NHL team is out. No other AHL player is out.”
I nod. “On it.”
Rex assigns more tasks to my new colleagues. This will be awkward, but fine. Maybe Jason doesn’t even remember I kissed him. Maybe he wants to complain about the Blizzards, and if so, I’ll be there to record each homophobic word so the public can know exactly who he is.
When I got into reporting, I thought I would be talking about plays on television. This isn’t about the game or strategy though.
I return to my desk and find Jason’s address. Apparently, he just bought an apartment in Seaport, the shiny, swanky side of Boston. I stand up and head for his apartment.
I grab my coat and accessories and hurry from the sleek modern Sports Sphere headquarters. Keyboards click, voices rumble on phones, and sports highlights play constantly on the large screens helpfully dotted around the office floor.
Boston’s chilly air soon assaults me, and I check to make sure my scarf is wrapped as tightly as possible.
God, I’m going to talk to Jason again.
Will he remember me?
Finally, Seaport Luxury Haven looms before me: elegant, imposing, and designed to make people like me feel small. The wind is stronger here, gusts tumbling from the Atlantic.
My apartment building doesn’t compare. It has no lobby, no amenities.
Just faded painted wooden floors and the kind of third-floor walk-up that creaks in protest with every step.
There’s no elevator, no glint of marble and brass.
It’s all chipped paint and drafty windows.
I love it anyway. It’s in the North End, and the brick walls inside make me smile every time I see them.
I share the apartment with Jeremy, another reporter clawing his way up.
As I wait, I try to avoid the curious glances of well-dressed Bostonians flaunting designer bags and even more expensive designer dogs that look like they’ve just pranced from the Best in Show circuit.
I wonder if Jason slept with any of his female neighbors.
They move confidently, with rich women confidence, maneuvering the slush and icy surface in their heeled boots with ballerina grace.
I don’t belong here. I should never have allowed myself to crush on Jason. My sixteen-year-old self was ridiculously romantic and outrageously optimistic—and stupid enough to act on my feelings.
But I’m not sixteen anymore.
When the sliding doors open, and a businessman marches out, I don’t hesitate.
I enter the building.