CHAPTER NINETEEN
J ason
Scattered sunlight shimmers through the swaying palm trees. Somewhere, a bird sings and another chirps back, a cheerful duet that reminds me this place must be swarming with couples.
I might as well be back in the Blizzards’ locker room, watching Finn and Noah eye each other with the kind of enthusiasm usually coaxed by wedding photographers.
I dump the branches and leaves on the side of the beach, then draw the word help in big letters through the sand with my toes as Cal watches me. “Pass me some sticks.”
Cal does so immediately. I put the sticks over the letters, until the words are dark against the white sand. Cal works from the other side.
“And now the leaves.”
Cal hands me the leaves, and I tuck them under the sticks, so the words will be even more visible from the air.
Finally, I’m finished.
I turn to Cal, and he’s beaming at me, and I pretend warmth doesn’t fill me at his smile.
“Looks good,” Cal says, and I flush and remind myself that Cal is talking about the letters on the beach and not me. My skin is definitely sunburned, and I’m just thankful it hasn’t blistered. It probably will peel.
I give some version of a nod, then retreat to the shady edge of the beach.
“They’ll be able to spot this from a helicopter,” Cal says, joining me.
“That’s the plan.”
We’re quiet for a moment. Probably we’re both thinking that no helicopter has flown looking for us.
Why hasn’t one?
“Your job knows you’re here, right?” I ask.
“Yes. I was speaking with my boss at breakfast.”
“So they should search for us.”
They should have searched for us regardless.
He gives a half-smile. “Yes, he’ll want updates on what happened to you. Since I followed you to Fiji.”
I snort. “I bet he was surprised.”
“It was his idea.”
My blood drops downward, and every organ lurches.
Because Cal hasn’t said that he wants to write a major story on me, but if Sports Sphere is putting up the money to follow me to Fiji, they think the story can be huge.
How many words is Cal going to write about how terrible I am? How long is he going to be on his screen, working to phrase the words with maximum negative impact? So all the country’s sports fans can shudder at how awful I am?
Embarrassment floods my body. My family will read it. My coaches. My teammates. Every person I once got along with. Every person I didn’t get along with, who will now know they were justified in not liking me, in deeming me not good enough for them.
The message boards.
It’s not a good idea to Google yourself. It’s something I don’t want to admit to doing.
But the thing is, sometimes I do have free time in the day. And I remember being curious.
I didn’t expect some web magazine I’d never heard of would have me on a list of Ten Worst Celebrity Lays.
I didn’t expect that some hook up, well, several hook ups, would be talking about how un-amazing I was in bed.
Most of the other guys on that list were in their seventies and shouldn’t be expected to perform like their celebrity reputation might have assumed back in the twentieth century, when there wasn’t even the Internet, and everyone was bored all the time and no wonder they got good at fucking.
I was the youngest person on the list.
Did Cal read that article? Will he?
Someone flings blood around my body, hampering my veins and organs’ normal process.
I don’t want people to know I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t want them to know that I’m always, always pretending. I don’t want them to smirk, their eyebrows to lurch when they think about me.
Cal’s face flushes, like he knows what I’m thinking about. “I’m sorry. It’s my job. I just wanted to do a good job.”
“I should have given you the interview when you showed up at my apartment.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“My father thought I should go on a vacation. Let the team management know I’m not sad.”
“I would have thought mournful and frequent apologies would be viewed more highly.”
“Probably.” I glance at him. “I wanted to be a good hire.”
“I know,” Cal says.
“I wanted to be a good colleague. A good teammate.”
“So what happened?”
I rise and move away. “We should put a sign on the other beach too.”
Cal’s dark eyes follow me, but he’s quiet as we walk to the other beach.
He’s right. How did all my longing to be hired by a good NHL team turn to this? All my joy when the Blizzards picked me?
I never planned to let them down.
“Coach Holberg’s son is gay,” Cal says.
“Yes. We’re probably the most gay-friendly team because of that. Coach has zero tolerance for bullying.” Bile invades my throat.
Because I’m the bully.
I’m the bad guy.
I’m the guy the other teammates whisper about. The one they hope they won’t see when they’re alone. The one they don’t want to try to make conversation with.
But what can I tell Cal? That I was mean, because they seemed too happy? When did I make it my job to shut down people’s happiness? Isn’t that the definition of bad behavior?
I did so time and again.
But when I told Dmitri I didn’t want to see him with all his junk out, it wasn’t because of his newfound identification as bisexual. It was because he had the habit of being naked for too long, and I just... I just didn’t like it.
I didn’t want my eyes to accidentally bounce toward him, to accidentally linger on the more interesting parts of his body, as if I needed to know anything about his body except that he was strong and capable and that I could depend upon him when we shared a line.
I stopped going to Finn’s parties sometime after he married Noah, because their happiness was so palpable it caused an ache in my heart—an ache I couldn’t explain and didn’t know how to remove.
Finn is rich, and not merely from hockey.
His cousin Cameron is a fucking billionaire in Silicon Valley.
Finn probably considers himself modest because he only makes eight figures a year, but if his dad isn’t technically a billionaire, he’s verging close.
In another seven years, his money will double or something.
Of course, Finn can be whatever he wants to be. He could retire tomorrow and spend the rest of his life donating his fortune to others and he wouldn’t get bored.
Because the real answer for why I acted the way I did is because I was jealous.
Because I wanted what they had. Because I’d realized I’d made a sacrifice at some point in my career I hadn’t realized I’d made.
And it’s fine. I like women. I do. It’s not a lie.
But it’s sometimes painful how much I also like men. It’s hard to pretend I don’t. And it’s easier for me to make them hate me. It’s safer. If they scatter when they see me, that’s fine.
Because then I can hate them back, and I don’t have to question whether I’m living the happy life I claim to be. Because if I were living a happy life, wouldn’t I be truer to my desires?
But I can’t explain this to Cal. I can barely explain it to myself.
My whole life has been spent trying to get into the NHL. Since I was a toddler, clutching my tiny mini-sized hockey stick, that’s been my dream.
Whenever anyone asked my class at school what we wanted to be, I always knew the answer. It never wavered.
I always knew no subject at school, no matter how interesting, could ever be as fulfilling or lucrative as hockey. I had an in, because Dad and Gramps could, and would, talk about their careers.
They’d never made it to the NHL, but they’d come close, and they were determined I wouldn’t repeat any bad choices they made. My life was hockey.
And now I’m living the culmination of all my dreams, all my family’s dreams, and I feel like I’m fracturing apart.
What will happen if the Blizzards decide to remove me?
Will some other team take me instead? But the world is filled with younger, hungrier athletes who don’t have a reputation for not being a team player.
Why would someone pick me? I never made it to the first line.
I’m a reliable player, but not great. I’m a right winger, like Finn, but I’m smaller and normally I’m passing the puck to the forwards.
I’ve made a mess of my life. We exit the jungle, and I stare at the beach. It’s as stunning and idyllic as the other beach, and just as devoid of any sign of a boat or ship.
The sky opens and rain slams downward.
Fuck.
By the time we bolt into the jungle and scrunch up by a tree trunk, the rain is pounding down on us, as if trying to rival the Pacific Ocean in wetness and force.
Raindrops stream over Cal’s face, catching on his eyelashes until he closes his eyes.
My chest drums faster than the storm overhead.
My eyes stay locked on his mouth, helpless to look away.
When I finally shut my eyes, it’s not to shield them from the pummeling rain, but to keep myself from leaning in.