Chapter 39
Jacks
Iwalked into Barbacks at two-thirty, three hours before my shift started, because sitting alone in my apartment waiting for tonight’s press conference felt like a form of torture I wasn’t equipped to handle.
The afternoon crowd was thin—a few regulars nursing beers and watching SportsCenter, while Mark did inventory behind the bar and Benji reorganized bottles with manic energy that suggested he was as wound up about tonight as I was.
“How did it go?” Finn asked the moment I walked through the door. He was supposed to be off today, but apparently he’d decided that moral support was more important than his scheduled day off.
“Better than we could have hoped,” I said, dropping onto a stool and accepting the beer Mark slid across the bar without being asked.
“Out with it. We need details,” Benji demanded, abandoning his bottle organization. “If you don’t start spilling right this instant, I’m going to vibrate out of my own skin.”
I took a long pull of beer, trying to organize the story Skyler had told me when he’d called on his way home from practice. His voice had been shaky with both relief and disbelief.
“Sky got to the rink early and asked Coach if he could have a team meeting before practice,” I started. “That wasn’t unusual until Sky asked for the full team, including the coaching staff, equipment guys, press team, and any front office personnel who could spare the time.”
“Oh, shit,” Benji muttered, his elbows planting onto the bar as his chin fell into cradling palms.
“And he just . . . told them. He said he was in a relationship with someone who made him happy, that it was serious, and that person happened to be a man. He said he was going public after their game and wanted the team family to hear it from him first.”
“How did they react?” Mark asked, with crossed arms and brow furrowed.
“Well,” I said, grinning at the memory of Skyler’s breathless retelling.
“Before Sky could finish, Erik and Tyler jumped up and announced that anyone who had a problem with it could discuss their concerns with them personally. Erik’s exact words were, ‘We’ll shove you down the nearest toilet and yank you through the whole Tampa sewer system. ’”
“That’s . . . graphic,” Finn observed.
“That’s Erik,” I said, chuckling at the mental image of the massive Viking fulfilling his promise.
“But it gets better. Coach stepped forward and couldn’t figure out what to say, so he goes, ‘Damn straight . . . I mean . . . shit . . . damn right, not straight. I mean straight is fine if you’re .
. . fuck. You know what I mean,’ which shattered the tension and sent everyone into hysterics. ”
“Oh, my God. Poor Coach,” Benji said, covering his mouth. “Please tell me someone filmed this.”
“No, Benj. Just no.” I shook my head. “Sky said Coach’s fumbling was perfect, that it took all the seriousness out of the moment and turned it into guys being guys.
By the time practice started, half the team was chirping him about admitting he had terrible taste in clothing despite his ‘gay heritage.’”
“Gay heritage?” Mark asked, sounding surprised.
“Apparently that’s hockey for ‘we love and support you,’” I said.
“Sky said it felt normal, as though nothing had changed, except now they got to make fun of him for being whipped instead of suspecting it. He said they didn’t seem to care who was doing the whipping, so long as they could give him shit for it. ”
“So that’s miracle number one,” Finn said.
“Miracle number one,” I confirmed with a crisp nod. “Now we need miracle number two.”
The afternoon crowd gave way to the pre-game dinner rush, then to the full game-night chaos. By seven o’clock, Barbacks was packed—standing room only, with every TV tuned to the Lightning game and the volume cranked high enough that conversation required shouting.
I was pulling beers and washing glasses as fast as I could when I caught a fragment of conversation from a group of guys at a high-top near the bar.
“—heard there’s going to be some kind of announcement after the game—”
“—big reveal or something—”
“—definitely staying for the press conference—”
“Hey,” I called over to Benji during a brief lull. “Why is everyone talking about staying for the post-game stuff? Did someone leak something?”
Benji’s face went bright red. “Define ‘someone.’”
“Benji?” A warning growl entered my voice.
“Okay, fine. So maybe I posted a little something on Instagram suggesting people should stick around for the press conference because it was going to be ‘epic’ and ‘history-making.’”
“You what?”
“I was excited, and I wanted people to watch! This is a big, big deal, Jacks . . . and not just for you and Skyler. This can help people, guys who doubt or question or are afraid. You guys are going to be such an inspiration.” Benji was vibrating with nervous energy.
“Besides, it’s going to be amazing for my follows and views.
Your love will make me a star! I mean, more than I already am, obvi. ”
“Obvi,” I drawled.
“I may have also used the hashtags #LightningNews and #StayTuned.”
“Oh my God,” I said, pulling another beer and trying not to panic. “How many people follow you?”
“Only a few thousand? Maybe? Okay, twenty thousand, give or take a hundred or two thousand.”
“A few hundred thousand people think something big is happening tonight because of your Instagram post?”
“When you put it like that, it sounds bad.”
“It is bad! What if—”
“Jacks,” Mark interrupted, sliding a fresh case of beer across the bar. “Breathe. It’s good that people are watching. It’ll be easier to control the narrative from the start.”
“But what if they figure it out? What if someone puts two and two together before—”
“They will figure it out, idiot. You and Sky don’t exactly hide, and you’re doing this so you never have to hide at all,” Finn said, appearing beside me with a tray of empties. “Sky’s ready for this. You’re ready for this. Stop borrowing trouble.”
“I think that’s Irish for ‘Stop being a little bioch,’” Benji added as I stepped away with an armful of dirty glasses.
The game was intense.
The Lightning were down by one going into the third period. The crowd was getting loud and agitated.
I caught glimpses of Skyler on the ice between drink orders. He looked calm and focused despite what had to be an immense amount of pressure.
Every time his name was mentioned by the announcers, a little cheer went up from our crowd. Every time the camera caught him on the bench, I held my breath, wondering if tonight would be the last time he could be a hockey player without other labels attached.
“He looks good,” a woman at the bar said during a commercial break, nodding toward the TV where they were showing highlights from the first period. “Shaw’s focused.”
“Always does,” her companion replied. “Guy’s been playing out of his mind this season. Whatever’s got him motivated, I hope it keeps up.”
If only they knew, I thought, pulling another round of beers.
The Lightning tied it up with four minutes left in the third.
Skyler got an assist on the goal, and Barbacks erupted like we’d just won the final Stanley Cup ever to be played.
I found myself grinning despite my nerves.
This was his element, his world, and watching him excel at it while knowing what was coming next was simultaneously terrifying and moving.
“Overtime!” Benji shrieked from somewhere behind the bar. “This is perfect! More time for people to show up for the press conference!”
A roar of assent rose from the crowd, and murmurs of “What’s this big announcement?” made their way through the throng.
“That’s not how any of this works,” I called back, but I was smiling.
Overtime was five minutes of pure chaos.
The crowd in the arena—and in Barbacks—was on their feet, screaming at every near-miss and celebrating every save like it was game seven. When the Lightning scored with thirty-seven seconds left, the entire bar exploded in noise that made my eardrums ache.
“Let’s go, Bolts! You go, boy!” someone shouted from the back of the room, and for a wild moment I thought they meant Skyler specifically before realizing they were celebrating the team in general.
Our boy, I thought.
If only they knew how true those words were about to become.
The post-game wrap-up felt like it lasted forever—highlights, interviews with other players, and a routine analysis of the overtime winner.
The crowd was still buzzing with post-victory energy, but I could feel a different sort of anticipation building as more and more people seemed to realize Skyler’s press conference was about to start.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said, “we’re now going live to Captain Skyler Shaw’s post-game press briefing.”
The noise in Barbacks dropped to almost nothing.
Every eye in the place turned to the TVs.
And suddenly, there he was, sitting at the media room podium in his suit and tie, his hair wet and slicked back, looking calm and professional and terrified all at once.
“Here we go,” Finn said quietly from beside me.
I reached under the bar and gripped the edge of the counter hard enough to leave fingerprints in the wood. Finn’s hand covered mine, and I don’t think I’d ever been so grateful for the touch of another man who wasn’t named Skyler.
Miracle number two was about to begin.