Chapter 20 Andrei
TWENTY
Andrei
The weeks blended together after Chicago. Games were lined up one after another like never before, and the NextPlay Media crew scrambled to get as much content out of the remainder of the semester.
Griffin’s hands rested on the railing along the edge of the walkway, the lake extending behind him into the infinite distance.
He leaned back, his chin lifting high, gaze wandering over the leaden clouds above.
The first snow wasn’t far away in our future.
You could smell it in the air, that cold anticipation.
My camera shutter opened and closed, immortalizing Griffin in all his perfection.
Lately, I took him places more often. I carried my camera to our games, to trips, and even to the library, capturing him like he was running through my fingers and I only had so much of him left.
Nothing had changed. Not one thing. He was the same wonderful guy I had been in love with for years. He was still the finest lover and the greatest friend. And somewhere in that perfect space lay the problem.
I could feel him watching me, watching when he didn’t know I noticed it. I could feel the longing in him, in every heated touch, every urgent kiss, every lingering hug.
Things had remained the same, though months had gone by. December brought constant frost to the glass lawns, the scent of cinnamon to every café and bakery, and the sounds of holiday tunes from every shop.
Part of me knew where we were headed. Where we had always been headed.
In a few short weeks, we would return home, and we would spend the holidays with our families.
Someone would ask the question, and the moment of truth would arrive.
Would we lie? If I lied, even now, about loving him, then I only prolonged the inevitable.
And if I were honest, it would rush us into something neither of us had defined.
I wished I were like other people, that I could just be happy with what I had, be happy that I even had it. But I needed it categorized and labeled and nearly defined. I simply needed to know if I was his boyfriend or his friend.
It hadn’t bothered me, it hardly bothered me still, but I knew that it would. And I should have let it go. I should have been more like Griffin, not worrying about it until the moment arrived. But for some inexplicable reason, I pre-worried about things.
Griffin was beautiful in this pale, washed light.
He looked like he was made of steel. My film was filled with images of us and our friends.
The nights in the basement of our team house lasted long, and guys didn’t mind modeling for my hobby.
Yet Griffin was the subject. The way his pupils dilated when he listened to someone’s story, the way he leaned in, the way his curls bounced when he nodded.
Then, when we were alone, he would take photos of me.
Sometimes, he would do it when I stepped out of the shower with a towel around my waist, the sight of him holding the camera ready making me laugh.
Other times, he would just tell me to stay the way I was, leaning over the notes spread out on my desk, and he would snap a photo or two, saving the film for more.
And when we developed them, most went into the box under my bed, because even a passing glance at them was too revealing, and we kept our unspoken love hidden.
The framing, the composition, the moments felt so intimate that we knew without mentioning it, should anyone see these, our relationship would be out to all.
Some photographs ended up on new lines we stretched above each of our beds, black-and-white ones and color ones, innocent to all who might look at them in passing, yet evocative of all the moments that had come before and after taking them.
Griffin raising his stick high on the ice while I sat in the box with the camera.
Sitting in the locker room with a victorious grin on his face.
Walking away from me in the late November mist along the lakeside path.
So many moments that nobody would suspect were filled with secret kisses, loving glances, and searing touches.
“Can’t wait to see these,” Griffin said, pushing himself away from the railing and stepping toward me. I could see the invisible chains holding him back and the tension with which he stopped himself from sweeping me into his arms.
I said nothing.
He was fading. That was what it felt like. He was slowly fading like an old photograph left in the sun. Slowly and surely, he would disappear, and it would be our fault that we’d let it go so far.
Yet I still said nothing.
What could I do? Ask him to kiss me when people randomly photographed us in the streets all the goddamn time? Ask him to hug me and fuel the speculation?
We had been gifted something special, and the two months that followed had etched themselves into my soul, never to leave, yet we had also been given a worldwide interest in every move we made. And one simply couldn’t make many moves when everyone watched.
Most moments were sweet enough, innocent enough, but they were all reminders that we had never had a chance to grow something normal between us. And the weight of expectations we alone had from it was multiplied by an infinity when we factored in the fans and the casually curious viewers.
We had taken the world by storm, but the world had taken us just as swiftly.
“I like this light,” Griffin said as we slowly walked back to campus.
It was a long walk, but one we both enjoyed.
It gave us a break from the rising tension in the house.
Nobody had thought of it before, but we were just students.
We had our exams, our private lives, our practice, our games, and a show that had reached a larger popularity than anyone had anticipated.
Our games drew larger crowds than ever, fans lining up long before any of us arrived at the rink, waiting in the back to photograph us, to ask us to sign knockoff merch and posters, fan edits, toys, and memorabilia.
No twenty-year-old was ready to cope with that. Not in a healthy way.
Damon had almost let it go into his head, flashing his abs at fans while grinning and messing around.
Luckily, Damon got bored easily, so the novelty wore off, and he returned to his more private shell.
Phoenix bristled at the attention he didn’t think he deserved.
Toby got unwanted hair ruffling from people who felt like they were his siblings, thanks to the clever positioning of his character.
Mason fashioned himself the future of the NHL all over social media, causing more than a few raised eyebrows among the team.
Coach Neilsen saw it, too, growing more agitated with the lack of privacy. Our team meetings were filmed, our post-game celebrations, our locker room moments. The last vestiges of privacy existed in our rooms and in the locker room showers, but that was little space to breathe.
Even now, as Griffin and I strolled down the street, people looked at us from inside cafés and bars, waving, smiling, speaking words of encouragement, or simply asking questions.
At some points, we’d begun ignoring most of the noise. At first, it had felt like a selfish thing to do. Later, it felt like it was the only thing we could do to hold on to our sanity.
Photographers lurked from behind every corner, trying to catch us in the act, to break the story everyone speculated about.
Last week, Griffin and I had considered not seeing each other in public.
Griffin had floated the idea carefully, but something on my face had told him that I couldn’t lose that.
I couldn’t live in our room forever. If I lost that last shred of normal college life and was imprisoned in the four walls of our room, I would break.
We walked shoulder to shoulder, careful so our fingers wouldn’t brush, and we spoke of things that had nothing to do with what we had, what we felt. And that, more than anything, made the image fade faster.
The truth of it was that we acted as though we were ashamed.
The production had collected a lot of material that hadn’t been used.
A lot of it waited for the right moment to be plugged into the story.
They continued to track us everywhere, filming events, organizing things, generating drama with subtle directions, and creating artificial tension both inside our team and between us and other teams. It was a slow, almost imperceptible buildup, but it had to blow up somewhere. Something had to crack.
They cut the edits however they liked, even if things had nothing to do with each other. Sometimes, an episode would have a snarky comment from October picked up on a hot mic, but it would be put over a frowning reaction from last week’s match.
The team had met privately more than a few times to discuss how to handle these moments.
Should we play into the drama that was on TV?
Should we act like our characters acted in YouTube’s best-of compilations?
Or should we ignore it? We had agreed to ignore these things and to be more open than before with the things that bothered us.
So we found ourselves in the basement discussing who said what and who was annoyed by it more than we wanted.
And when the crew got a few of us together for a round of interviews, I found myself sitting next to Griffin, as they always put us together. Phoenix was in the middle, to my left, and Mason and Damon sat on the other side of him.
We had a broad-ranging discussion that covered all imaginable topics until Jen Harding directed her attention to Phoenix.
“Did you feel intimidated by the Steel Saints when they started being considered a more open and inclusive team? They currently have six active players who identify as gay, including the captain. Would you say it affects your place in this team and your vision for what the team should be like?”
Phoenix’s face darkened, while my body tensed.
This was the moment to speak up. This was when Griffin and I could have shattered some of the illusions that were being pushed by the show.
Because, at the end of the day, the appeal of Griffin and me was that we were so close that it would be wonderful if we were gay, but nobody fully believed that we were.
It left Phoenix as the only gay member of the team.
Yet neither of us cowardly bastards uttered a word.
The person who cleared his throat was Damon, leaning in.
“See, that’s a common misconception that we aren’t as inclusive as some other teams. I myself have never been constrained by labels such as straight or gay or bi, Jen.
Maybe the fact that we don’t care either way shows a more refined character than the public displays that feel more like attention stunts. ”
Phoenix looked at me, though I didn’t know why.
Damon had just helped dispel the lone pioneer image he was forced into, and I had failed to help him.
But he still looked at me. And when I realized that his look wasn’t an accusation that I had abandoned him—he couldn’t know either way—but a plea for further help, I nodded.
“Say it,” I whispered, then found strength in my voice. “Tell them what everyone should know.”
Phoenix blinked slowly and nodded. He turned to the camera.
“Four years ago, before I was even considered for this team by Coach Murray, who has since retired, this team was captained and co-captained by a gay couple. After they graduated, a gay man took over, only to fall in love with a teammate and share responsibilities. We’ve had a gay coach for one season and several more teammates who didn’t identify as straight.
To even imagine that I am some lone voice of diversity, to render me as some kind of struggling minority, and to erase the history of this team’s pioneering inclusivity is not only offensive, it’s morally bankrupt and deeply unethical. ”
Jen’s brow crinkled with concern, but I could see the glint of interest in her eyes. Sure, the team she led was called out right before the cameras, ruining much of the discussion of the topic, but this, too, was drama.
I could see her play a part to fuel it when she leaned in with a challenge on her face. To her credit, she was better at this game, and Phoenix walked into the trap, growing more annoyed instead of holding his ground.
“I know the television programs need to be tense to hold attention, but let’s not forget that before the Steel Saints had a few players who were privately out of the closet, this team wore rainbow flags on our shoulders.
This team organized pride events on campus.
This team offered protection to the gay youth centers that collaborated with the university.
So let’s stop wearing out that tired old trope, huh?
Because being gay on this team has never been difficult.
Not for a moment. I’d suggest you go out and buy the rights to a few archive photos for this, but here they are.
Riley, Cameron, Sawyer, Caden, Beckett, Avery, Jordan, Asher, Nate, Carter, Tyler, and Sebastian.
And me. Learn our history. Or I’ll no longer play along. ”
He took off his microphone and stood up, fingers trembling only slightly.
Damon got up, too. “Throw me in with this guy,” he said, taking off the microphone, too.
Nothing could be milked for TV drama as interview walkouts, and I could see that Jen Harding knew as much.
“Oh, captain, my captain,” Mason said, doing the same.
Griffin and I nodded to each other and did the same, though it shamed me that we were the only teammates here who were actually together and hadn’t spoken up. We were the last to walk out, giving Jen golden moments for a future episode, and making something like a stand.
My heart thundered as we stepped out of the team house, following Phoenix to the Thinker as his cheeks burned bright with emotions and his eyes scanned the space for all four of us. “You’re freaking unbelievable, guys,” he said, laughing. “Why the hell was I scared of this?”
I look at Griffin. Why were we scared? But even as I thought of it, I knew I wouldn’t ask that question aloud.