CHAPTER SIX
C al
Jason is broody and revoltingly attractive, with scowling eyes, sharp cheekbones flushed pink from anger, and the type of blond hair found only on certain Swedish supermodels.
My cock, wholly unprepared for such beauty, pulses with blood like it thinks I’ve just put on an X-rated film in a fertility clinic, and I’ve been personally assigned to repopulate the city.
“Root canals,” I blurt.
Jason’s eyes flash. “What?”
Fuck. I said that out loud.
“Just good to think about one,” I say. “In case either of us needs an appointment.”
He pushes a finger at my chest. “Do you need a root canal, Cal?”
“It might be more pleasant,” I mutter.
Jason sneers.
At one time, Jason was my friend. We didn’t live nearby, but I still would have told anyone that I met someone awesome at hockey camp and that his name was Jason. In fact, I did tell my sister Tessa, which was embarrassing after I had to tell her that Jason left camp early after our kiss.
How could I not have noticed how homophobic he was? My chest aches for sixteen-year-old me, who saw Jason as not only everything I wanted in a friend, but everything I wanted in someone more, someone important.
God, I was ridiculous.
Jason’s gaze is fixed on the thick carpeted floor which someone probably vacuums once a day on the off chance a resident drops a crumb. The pattern is elaborate and elegant, like we’re at the Fairmont, and not a place people actually live in.
“You can look at me,” I say.
Jason’s gaze snaps back to me, and his face is pale, as if it physically hurts him to be around me.
Is that what he’s putting his teammates through?
The ones in gay relationships? The ones who decided to come out and proudly declare themselves in love with someone from the same-sex, even though no one on any other NHL team is out?
This article is important. People should know how difficult it is for professional athletes to be out. Most gay and bisexual people around the world are still closeted. In some places, same-sex relationships are still a capital offense.
People pretend they’re not interested in the people they’re interested in. They pretend they don’t love who they love. They deny themselves the full spectrum of the human experience, telling themselves that love is something unimportant.
Because even the ones who sneak around with men, who give in to their desires, who try to repress and repress and repress and fail, can’t be considered to have a real relationship. Anonymous stolen blowjobs and handjobs do not equal a partner at your side.
Has Jason considered any of this? Does he understand the anguish he’s putting others through?
Sports Sphere wants to tackle homophobia in professional sports. This is huge. They’re not dismissing the topic, relegating it to tiny LGBTQ blogs and magazines. They’re saying everyone interested in sports should be interested in this.
For all of Rex Manley’s bluster, he’s doing the right thing.
I need to interview Jason.
My story will be so much richer with his input.
There’s no way I’m going back to the office and say I failed my first assignment. I won’t let my new colleagues smirk as they offer me faux sympathies, certain they would have gotten better results.
I won’t fail Sports Sphere’s audience either.
I won’t give up, no matter how skittish Jason appears.
“I won’t kiss you, you know,” I say.
Jason’s lashes flick up. His blue eyes are wider than they should be, and it’s everything I can do to not roll my own eyes and call him on his homophobia right now.
“I-I wasn’t thinking you would do that.” His voice is a higher pitch than it normally is, and I scrutinize him. His cheeks are pink, and beads of sweat dot his brow.
He’s getting sweaty just at the thought of standing beside me? Fuck. The NHL needs to invest in some workshops.
I square my shoulders. Apologizing sucks. But to be fair to him... maybe in his experience, gay guys do attack him. The thought curdles in my stomach, because in his personal history, I’m that guy.
“I’m really sorry about the kiss.”
His eyes round, and every muscle in his body tenses.
His fingers flutter, and I hate it. I hate that that incident surpassed our entire friendship, that a few seconds.
.. well, longer than a few, could erase a whole friendship and move us from best friends to friends to acquaintances to strangers to actual enemies.
I hate we were so fragile.
I hate I had no idea.
I wasted so much time as a teenager pining for him. He didn’t deserve to be the object of my affections, and I definitely didn’t deserve to waste my time on him either.
His eyes bounce around the corridor, and he eyes the elevator.
“You think someone is on the other side and is overhearing us?”
“N-no,” he stammers, then rakes a trembling hand through his hair. “Just, uh, don’t talk about it.”
“But—”
“It’s fine. I, uh, forgot about it until you reminded me.” He gives a wild, maniacal laugh. “That was crazy. Pranks.”
I blink.
I’m pretty sure there’s no way in hell he forgot about our kiss.
But I won’t call him on it.
I need his help. I decide to try another angle. “Look, this is my first assignment for Sports Sphere. It would mean a lot to me if...”
He straightens, and I’m suddenly aware of my size. It would have been cool if I’d arrived sleek and gym-perfected, like I was doing this journalism thing between runway model bookings. Instead, I’m rounded, like a tall hobbit, like all my relatives.
“We’re not friends, Cal,” Jason says.
“I-I know.”
“Does this look like hockey camp?”
“No. But for old time’s sake...”
He shakes his head. “Maybe you should have considered your actions more.”
Fuck.
I hate him. That’s it. I absolutely hate him.
I can’t believe I ever did anything else but hate him. I can’t believe I was ever that foolish. Ever that naive. Ever that young.
“An interview,” I say. “Fifteen minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
He hesitates, then shoots me a beatific smile that hits me in the solar plexus. “Unfortunately, I can’t.”
“Why not?”
The elevator slides open, and he steps onto its marble floor. The doors swoosh shut in that rich people smoothness, and he winks. “I’m going to... Fiji.”