CHAPTER FOUR
J ason
I storm into my apartment, drop my gym bag at the entrance like it’s been contaminated with Ebola, and pretend I didn’t notice the disappointed look from my security guard.
The news is officially out.
Buying an apartment in Seaport Luxury Haven seemed like a good idea when Finn first told me he lived here.
He’s a winger like me. Unlike me, he’s on the first line and is pretty much the star of the Blizzards.
Evan is still in more magazines—he’s the captain, after all, but Finn dominates social media.
He has an active health vlog that’s only gone more viral in the last few months.
Finn married a rookie three days after the guy showed up on the team, even though the general consensus was that Noah did the worst performance of any person new to the NHL.
I joined the NHL from Rhode Island too. Got called up from the AHL and never left.
I didn’t mess up. Not like Noah, who turned up hungover and fell in his first ten seconds on the ice.
Noah is an awesome teammate now. But Finn and Noah are poster boys for same-sex romance, and obviously, I couldn’t continue to go to Finn’s parties after that.
People might talk.
And maybe talk is no problem for super social, super confident people like Finn who could retire today and have enough money for the rest of their lives, but it’s different for others.
I scroll my phone and wish I’d gotten that number of that girl from the sports bar the other night. She was into me, I could tell. I should have asked her out. But I was tired, and yeah, didn’t know I would soon be submerged in scandal.
I scroll through Instagram, smiling at the women in their tight tops. My dick twitches, and I grin. My dick wouldn’t have done that if I were gay.
I fire off a series of “Heys.” Someone will be up for a good time.
I’m a player. Hooking up is expected.
It’s not amazing, but after everything that’s happened, I might be up for it.
Maybe.
Hopefully.
I didn’t actually finish the last couple of times, but guys don’t always finish, right? Apparently, a lot of guys climax too quickly. But I’ve never had that problem. That means I’m really good at sex.
As long as I can get her to go on top, it’ll be awesome.
I set my phone on my charger, then go to my kitchen to make a smoothie. I might be on mandatory enforced leave for bad behavior, but I’m not using that as an excuse to let my body go. No way. I’m not giving anyone a reason to put me on the bench permanently.
My phone pings, and I don’t keep the smugness from my smile. It’s good to be correct.
Another ping sounds, and another.
My grin widens.
I grab my phone.
VANESSA: You’re contacting me after ghosting me six months ago? I’ve moved on.
Has it been so long since I hooked up with Vanessa? The last time I saw her was at Isaiah’s wedding. Was I ghosting her?
My phone slips in my suddenly clammy hands.
ME: I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was that long ago.
VANESSA: I’m not sleeping with you again!!! It’s not like it’s ever good.
I blink. That was way harsh.
Then I exhale. Clearly, I hurt her feelings. This is what people call hitting back.
I go to my next message.
KELSEY: Lol. Are you texting me because you’re in a scandal? You know I live in Trenton?
My eyes round.
ME: Come to Boston, baby.
KELSEY: LOL.
I click on the next message.
GENEVIEVE: Homophobia isn’t cool, Jason. Though that’s ironic given your preferences. Most men don’t shove women’s faces at their ass.
ME: I have advanced sex!
GENEVIEVE: ROFL.
Genevieve had rimmed me before. Maybe I did sort of remind her with my hands where I wanted her to focus on, but I thought she enjoyed it.
A story pops up immediately. Genevieve’s tagged me on a screenshot of the text exchange.
Who’s going to read that? My teammates? Other hookups? My family?
I drop the phone. Then set it on my charger and back away.
That night with Genevieve is my favorite jerk-off material. Now even that’s tainted.
Well, I didn’t like those women anyway. In fact, I didn’t like them first.
And Genevieve was focusing on all the wrong things. Teeth on my shaft. I’m a problem solver. That’s a good thing.
I go back to my smoothie maker. I jam the lid on the blender harder than necessary. How can they all be against me?
I thought I would have more contacts there, but I’m all about the hookups. That’s what players do.
I whirr my blender. The sound thunders through the kitchen, but I still hear Coach’s voice roar over the chopping, slicing blades.
If he wants me to stay focused, maybe he shouldn’t have yelled at me so much. I mean, all I said was that there were a lot of gay players on the team suddenly. That’s all. And yeah, maybe I implied Dmitri’s marriage was for a green card, but even the US government agrees with me.
I hate the guilt bubbling through me. I hate how all the hours I’ve put into hockey since I was two years old feel discarded. It’s not like I went to college. It’s not like there’s this great back-up plan.
My phone buzzes. Dad’s image pops up.
I don’t want to talk to him.
The phone continues to ring, and I grab it. I’m Jason Larvik, not some loser who’s afraid of glass and aluminum.
“Hi Dad!”
“Jason,” Dad hesitates, and I brace myself for the diatribe. I brace myself for him explaining what I did wrong, like he does after every game.
Because Dad used to play too. He never made it to the NHL, but he often explains that was because Mom got pregnant and her parents insisted they marry and Dad get a real job.
Plenty of guys in the NHL are married, but I guess they were lucky they weren’t burdened with an eight-pound bundle of screaming havoc and a wife without the imagination to understand that hockey was a great career.
Dad never became a millionaire in the end, but the fact I am one doesn’t seem to make him happy. There’s always more for him to teach me, and as Dad always says, that makes me lucky.
Still, I’m not in the mood to listen to him yell.
“I messed up,” I say.
“What are you talking about?”
Oh, no. I collapse onto the sofa.
I’m going to have to break the news to him.
“I’m benched,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“Fuck.” Trust dad to always be there with an expletive. “Is this about the press conference?”
“Yeah.”
I can hear the swish-swish of windshield wipers and the heavy zoom of an engine. I don’t often miss Minnesota, but now I blink rapidly.
Dad used to drive me to every practice, imparting advice. Thanks to him, I went all the way to the top.
“Maybe I should come home?” I suggest.
“What? No!”
I tense.
“You gotta make them jealous, son. If they’re going to put you on leave, you can’t go back to the Midwest with your tail between your legs like some fucking loser.”
I press my lips together. I want to tell him that’s exactly where I want to be. Mom and Dad are in a nice house now, a six-thousand-square-foot home with a view of Lake Minnetonka.
It’s too bad I didn’t think about heating expenses when I bought the house, and how Dad likes things cozy, and that no one needs fifteen-foot ceilings except bored architects who want to make a name for themselves designing idiotic things only silly city people would actually buy.
But I sort of thought all those bedrooms meant someday I would have a space there. Someday, if I got injured. Or, as fate might have it, got kicked off the team.
Because a two-week suspension doesn’t scream confidence in me.
I’m pretty sure there’s no way I’ll remain a Blizzard much longer.
“Should I apologize?” I ask. “Maybe talk to Finn? We live in the same apartment complex and used to hang out a lot...”
My voice trails off, because that was before Noah. Because once Finn met Noah, it didn’t matter how often Finn and I had partied together in the past. The only thing that mattered was that I didn’t jump from happiness that my former bro was devoted to some loser guy.
Though actually maybe it would be better to speak to Noah.
The guy is sweet and obviously has an in with Finn.
If I were into guys, I could see why Finn is drawn to him.
He’s sort of innocent, even though he has all that non-innocent sex with Finn.
But I’m not into men, so it’s still a mystery why Finn and he are together.
“Don’t you dare apologize!” Dad’s voice barrels through the phone. “They should apologize to you! You scored a goal in the last game, and they’re benching you? Where’s the logic? Nope, what you gotta do is make them jealous.”
“Jealous?”
“Yeah. Show them you’re the boss. Go on vacation somewhere fancy. Fiji, maybe. Show them they can’t hurt you.”
“I don’t think going on vacation is my best strategy,” I say, but the words sound hollow. Because fuck it, a vacation sounds amazing. Even in the summer, I’m always working, always training. Always hoping if I train hard enough, if I focus enough, I can see my goal count in the season go up.
Unfortunately, I’m consistent.
“Jason, they can’t treat you like this,” Dad continues. “You know not a single other NHL team has another out player on it? The Blizzards are in the wrong here. All because Holberg has that gay son. And Volkov was trying to pull one over the government! Do you know how bad that is?”
“Yeah,” I say, but something in my chest hurts. Because there’re some things I’ve never told Dad. Some thoughts I’ve squelched away.
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
I try again. “There’s something wrong with me.”
I sense Dad stiffening on the other side of the line. “What do you mean?”
The air thickens, and I’m suddenly reminded of the time Dad told me the internet wasn’t private, not when you’re in the same household, and that I was looking at disgusting things I shouldn’t have been.
Shame bubbles through me, even though that happened ten years ago.
I told him I was just browsing. Just couldn’t believe guys actually did the things they did with other guys.
At the end he was cool and told me he blamed the media for making people curious and warned me to never look at those things again.
I don’t want to admit to him I’ve started watching those videos again.
“I keep on messing everything up,” I say instead.
“You don’t mess anything up,” Dad says sternly.
The women I hooked up with would disagree.
But maybe that’s what it means to be a real man. Maybe you’re supposed to squash any rogue emotions that come up that aren’t directly leading to your perfect life.
The ache in my chest that’s accompanied me ever since Vinnie and Evan first announced their couple status to the team is stronger now.
“I have to go,” I tell Dad.
“Okay.”
I end the call before Dad starts expounding on vacation places or something similarly ridiculous and I slide my phone into my pocket.
I allow myself to imagine soft white sand and gentle warm waves and palm trees.
Is any place in the world warm now? It’s fucking freezing in Boston.
Early March is gray and grim with its crunchy, smog-topped snow, smeared with the exhaust of thousands of cars.
I can’t go on vacation though.
No way.
What would journalists say if I did that?
But journalists make me think of Cal, something else I try not to think about. At least I won’t have to see him in these next two weeks.
The doorbell rings, and I open the door.
It’s him.
The person I least want to see. The person who even invades my dreams at night because he’s that fucking irritating.
Cal Prescott.