CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
J ason
I float into the Blizzards Arena. I played last night. I played well. And Cal and I are together.
“Jason Larvik.” A Japanese accented voice booms behind me, and I turn.
I wasn’t sure Mr. Tanaka knew my name, since owning a hockey team is one of many, many things he does.
“Hi,” I say, and cringe because it’s pretty lame.
“Glad you’re back, Larvik,” Tanaka says. “I read about it in the paper. Sounded like quite an ordeal.”
“I don’t recommend it.”
“And you were stuck with that new sports reporter.” Tanaka shakes his head sympathetically, which is weird, because I would never consider him sympathetic.
“It wasn’t terrible. Prescott was actually great.”
Tanaka stiffens, then a smile that verges on a sneer spreads over his face. “You are being overly nice.”
“Well.”
“Americans are nice.” Tanaka nods multiple times. “It’s a great part of your culture.”
“I guess.”
“And you’re from Minnesota,” he continues. “Midwesterners are happy people.”
Tanaka sounds like he’s been reading a guide on American culture. Which honestly, maybe he did.
I don’t tell him that Dad and Gramps might know how to flash big smiles but that I probably wouldn’t call them happy. Neither is Mom. Not really. I thought the house would make them be happier than they are, but the purchase didn’t work, just like most things in my life.
I miscalculated.
Dad appointed himself boss of Mom a long time ago, an expert in cooking and cleaning techniques, even though I’ve offered to pay for that too, even though, to be honest, Dad could pay for that himself if he wanted a professional to do it.
He enjoys telling Mom what to do, like he enjoys telling me what to do.
“Come to dinner,” Tanaka says. “At my house. I want my wife and son to meet you. It will be great.”
Is he trying to convince me to join him for dinner?
Tanaka has been with the team for a while. He built the Boston Blizzards arena, the flashiest, most luxurious arena in the country. But I’m pretty sure he’s never invited any player to dinner. He’s a billionaire, and his purchase of the Boston Blizzards is normally something he complains about.
I can’t believe he wants to have dinner with me.
Not Evan McAllister, team captain.
Not even wealthy, fan favorite Finn Carrington.
But me.
One thing is certain: I absolutely can’t say no to the hockey team owner. If he wants me to dine lavishly with him, I will.
“That sounds wonderful, Mr. Tanaka. I would be honored to join you.”
Tanaka’s face glows. “Excellent! Come over tonight. I have a place in Marblehead. I’ll give you the address.”
And that’s how I find myself a few hours later at Mr. Tanaka’s house an hour north of Boston.
His place manages to be more magnificent than my expectations.
His house sits on a large private lot and faces the ocean.
It’s wilder and less constrained than my view of the Boston harbor from my apartment, and I shiver.
All my memories from the Pacific rush back, but the turquoise waves have been replaced by a murky gray green.
It’s beautiful, no surprise there, but it takes me a moment to gather my bearings and make my way up to the massive Victorian house. Snow piles around the neatly shoveled path. Snowflakes fall onto my hair and clothes, until finally I’m at the door, looking speckled.
I am not in Fiji anymore.
I inhale and reach for the doorbell. I still can’t believe I’m here.
In the next moment, the door opens, and I brace myself for Tanaka or his wife. Instead, a man wearing a black suit opens the door and ushers me inside.
“Mr. Larvik,” he says in a brisk, British-accented voice. “Let me help you with your things.”
In the next moment, he’s removing my scarf and hat, followed by my coat. I stand awkwardly, conscious of the snow drifting from my body onto the fancy hardwood floor.
“Please follow me. The family is waiting for you in the drawing room.”
“Cool.” I try to sound enthusiastic, though my heart has lodged up to my throat.
The place is every bit as immaculate as the exterior. Gold-framed paintings glitter around the room like heirlooms, even though they’re new to Massachusetts and to the US. This probably isn’t even their main house.
Every square inch of the place has been thought about.
This is nothing like my modern apartment, and certainly nothing like the 1200-square foot house from the 1950s I was raised in.
I walk gingerly, in case I bump into a priceless vase or something.
The floorboards creak, as if to brag how old they are, or just to signal that someone is here who isn’t supposed to be.
That’s me.
Finally, the butler opens the door to a large room with sofas that evidently the Tanakas have decided to call the drawing room.
“Jason Larvik,” the butler announces in a booming, British voice.
I give an awkward wave and wonder if I was supposed to bow or something.
I wait for coldness to reach Tanaka’s eyes and for him to sneer. After all, he’s always sneering on the news.
Instead, he jumps up with a happy smile. “Jason!”
“Hello, sir.”
He waves his hand away. “Nonsense. No formality necessary amongst friends. Let me introduce you to my wife and son Haruki.”
He gestures to an expensively maintained woman and a guy in his early twenties. They’re both Japanese-looking and regard me with suspicion.
Right. I would probably be suspicious of whatever is causing their normally somber family member to practically jump up with uncharacteristic glee.
Mrs. Tanaka extends a regal hand to me. She has that perfect soft skin that comes from an abundance of Botox and lasers and skin regimes, and is wearing a matching pastel sweater and skirt.
“I heard about the jet ski incident,” Mrs. Tanaka says. “I’m so sorry.”
“Just happy to have survived.”
Tanaka slaps me on the back. “That’s the spirit.”
I give an awkward smile.
Haruki is busy giving me his father’s dismissive sneer.
He probably can tell I’m not a fellow billionaire or something.
Perhaps his nostrils are flaring because he can smell the former-lower-middle-class-ness on me.
My Seaport apartment is nothing compared to Tanaka’s wealth, and I’m suddenly reminded that I don’t have decades of years ahead of me.
One decade if I’m super lucky, but most likely less than that.
At least Tanaka seems taken with me, even though I didn’t realize he had a good side to be taken in by. Everyone had resolved themselves to being perpetually despised by him for our entire time on the Blizzards.
“Haruki has taken many skating lessons,” Tanaka says.
“Ah. That’s great.”
“Figure skating,” Haruki says. “Real skating.”
I try to nod knowledgeably. “We’ve had some figure skaters teach us lessons before.”
Tanaka cringes. “Coach Holberg. He is difficult to put up with. I would never have hired him.”
My breath halts.
I wasn’t particularly fond of Coach Holberg last week, but I don’t want to complain about him. Because honestly, Coach Holberg had legitimate concerns about me. Besides, figure skating was useful.
“I liked the lessons,” I say. “They were interesting.”
Tanaka is silent, then he smiles. “But you are adventurous. You went to Fiji. You are real man. Of course, you would like new activities.”
Haruki rolls his eyes and turns away. I have the impression he doesn’t like me.
Tanaka takes control of the conversation and soon launches a lengthy discussion of the differences between Japan and the US. There are clearly many. He continues to talk about it with enthusiasm, even when we’re ushered to a long dining table by another British-accented servant.
“We’re having American food,” Tanaka says. “No chop sticks!”
“That’s thoughtful.”
Tanaka beams rapidly, then leans closer to me. “You can teach my son things.”
“I don’t know much about figure skating, sir.”
Tanaka tosses his hand. “No, no. Not about that. He needs exposure to real men.” Tanaka sighs. “Naturally, I am a real man. But I work all the time. I haven’t been with him, and he needed a lot of attention.”
I shift my gaze toward Haruki and immediately regret it. Haruki’s cheeks are red. I doubt this is the first time Tanaka has disparaged his son in public.
Tanaka jerks his thumb toward me. “The Boston Blizzards is inclusive.” He manages to make the word sound like a slur. “But this man was brave and said the truth. There are way too many gay players on the team. It’s unnatural. It’s embarrassing.”
I stiffen.
This is why Tanaka invited me. Maybe I was always going to be okay, because Tanaka was protecting me.
Maybe that’s why Coach Holberg let me come back early and why my teammates have remained distant apart from telling me they’re glad I wasn’t eaten by a shark or something.
And face it, most people don’t want people they don’t like to be eaten by sharks.
I don’t want to be that hockey player anymore, but the words stick in my throat.
Tanaka continues enthusiastically. “You see how it is. All these players suddenly deciding they like men. It’s embarrassing for the team. Bad for the Blizzards’ image.”
My stomach churns. I glance at Haruki, whose knuckles are white as he grips his napkin.
“I...” I start, then stop. What can I say? If I defend my teammates, Tanaka will know something’s changed. If I agree with him, I’m throwing Evan and Vinnie and Finn and Noah under the bus. And looking at Haruki’s pale face, I’m throwing him under the bus too.
“It’s complicated,” I say weakly.
“Not complicated at all!” Tanaka waves his hand dismissively. “Hockey should be about hockey. Not about... other things. You understand this. You’re a real player.”
Haruki’s chair scrapes back suddenly. “May I be excused?”
“We haven’t finished dinner,” Mrs. Tanaka says.
“I’m not feeling well.” Haruki’s voice is tight.
Tanaka sighs heavily. “Always dramatic. Yes, yes, go. You can learn something from Mr. Larvik’s example later.”
Haruki bolts from the dining room.
An uncomfortable silence settles over the table. Mrs. Tanaka picks at her food while Tanaka seems oblivious to the tension.
“He’s a sensitive boy,” Tanaka explains to me. “Too much time with his mother. This is why I need influences like you around. Strong, masculine role models.”
I nod numbly, hating myself.
When I finally escape to my car, I sit in the driveway for a minute, gripping the steering wheel.
I consider Haruki’s stricken face. I think about my teammates who’ve found the courage to be themselves. Because of their jobs, their love life becomes scrutinized. And mine will be too, if I ever...
I square my shoulders.
I don’t want to hide. I don’t want another dinner like tonight.