Chapter 3 #2
Oh. Of course. I should have known. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
Instead, I down what’s left of my water in one gulp.
This settles my nerves some, but not all the way.
But then again, I doubt I’ll ever not be nervous around my father.
He’s never been someone I can let my guard down around, no matter the circumstance.
“Here. Have some wine,” my mother says and passes me a glass she’s just poured from the bottle on the table.
My dad pulls it away before I get a chance to take a sip. “He’s working,” he snarls.
“Oh, please,” my mother says. “When you were working, you used to drink like a fish. Let the boy have a glass of wine if you’re going to treat him to the hockey-dad version of the Spanish Inquisition.”
Suddenly, I’m happy for my mother’s presence and I smile at her gratefully. Even though I know deep down inside her comment to my father has less to do with sticking up for me and more to do with sticking it to him, it still makes me happy. They’ve been like this for years.
“Fine.” My father passes me back the glass. “He can have one glass.”
Two, I think but don’t say, as I’m absolutely cracking open the mini bar in our room when I return from this dinner to calm my nerves.
“Now, back to Gavin Marshal,” my father says. “They never should have let him on the team.”
“He was chosen, same as I was,” I say, which earns me an angry look that causes me to begin rambling again. “And he’s a good playmaker. Best in the league, to be honest. You should have seen him on the ice today. He outskated everyone. He’s going to be a great asset at the games.”
“Asset.” My father scoffs. “The Olympics are about sending the pride of your country to represent your nation, not its goons. And certainly not its trash.”
My lips pull tight, and my blood begins to simmer. “He’s not trash, Dad. He’s a millionaire like the rest of us.”
“Hardly,” he says as he flags our server down. He holds up his menu and points as he orders. “The petite filet for my wife, and my son and I will each have a New York strip.”
I gape at him. I didn’t even get a chance to look at the menu.
I don’t even think I want steak tonight.
I’d prefer a nice plate of fish. Probably the salmon, but my father has already sent our server away.
Typical Connor Sr. The minute he feels anything move out of his control he has to put his vice grips around whatever he can still touch and manipulate. Me. Always me.
“I’ll talk to Coach Chris,” he says. “I can get him to assign you a new roommate.”
“I don’t want a new roommate!” I say, my voice rising, making me sound like a petulant child. Or, I can tell by the look on my father’s face, a homosexual. Which in his mind is worse. My vocal inflection has gone too gay for his liking in this crowded room.
My father reaches and grabs my wrist across the table, yanking it hard. “Quit arguing with me. I’m doing what’s best for you.”
“No, you’re not,” I say through clenched teeth, bringing my voice down. “You’re doing what’s best for you and your image.”
“He’s got you there,” my mom says around a sip of wine. After she swallows, she holds her glass up to me.
I don’t know what I was thinking. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s only going to make him angrier, and therefore more controlling.
My father turns his gaze onto her, but she doesn’t care. She pours herself more wine from the bottle, emptying it into her glass. She then signals our server to bring us another bottle.
“Please, Dad, let it go,” I say, yanking my hand out of his grip.
I rub my now irritated wrist with my other hand to soothe its ache.
“Don’t get involved. I’m fine rooming with Gavin.
It’s for the best, anyway. Me getting special treatment because of you isn’t going to be what’s best for the team. Just stay out of it.”
“Fine,” he says. His jaw is tense and his glare towards me is hard. “But if he tries any of his shit, I won’t hesitate to get him kicked off the team.”
Gavin
Of course, Bouchard has chosen the hotel’s steakhouse for where he wants to have dinner. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. The food’s cooked to perfection and I definitely need the protein after today’s practice.
The issue I have is that, from where Bouchard and I sit at the bar, I can see Connor across the restaurant having what is obviously a tense dinner with his parents.
He looks uncomfortable, constantly fidgeting with his watch and hardly touching the food on his plate.
It’s interesting to see someone who’s such a presence on the ice be reduced to looking like a child in the company of his namesake.
The scene I’m seeing play out has my throat tight with a growl I’m trying to keep from letting out.
I don’t care how new it is. That’s my teammate.
Someone I’ve been tasked with protecting even if it’s only for the next three weeks.
If we weren’t in this crowded restaurant, I’d march over there and crush the elder Kennedy on general principle.
It would feel great. It’s no secret that I’ve never liked Connor Sr. To be fair, by all accounts I’ve never liked Connor Jr either, but pretty much all of that dislike is because of his father.
He’s the one who’s always been an asshole.
He’s the one who’s been pitting us against each other since juniors, leading all the way up until draft day and continuing into the present.
What a disappointment he turned out to be.
To think my dad used to bring me to our local tavern back in Alaska to watch his games that we couldn’t get on our crappy TV antenna.
It was a huge deal for us when we were able to finally splurge and pay for cable television to watch more games.
But even after that, Connor Kennedy Sr and the Chicago Broad Wings were still our favorite team to cheer for.
But it’s true what they say. Never meet your heroes.
Bouchard snaps his fingers in front of my eyes. “Yo, Earth to Marshal. Did you get your bell rung today or something?”
I shake my head and turn my attention to him. “Huh?”
“You spaced on me, man.” He takes a sip of his beer, then points at me with the mouth of the bottle as he swallows. “You’ve got that thousand-yard stare of yours going on.”
I rub my eyes with the back of my hand, then grab my root beer to take a sip. “Just tired, I guess,” I say before I go back to eating my meal: a delicious plate of Alaskan-caught salmon.
“So I take it that means you won’t be joining me at the titty bar tonight.”
“No.” I laugh, for reasons he’s completely unaware of. “Definitely not. But by all means, go have some fun.”
He shrugs. “It’s not that fun to go solo.”
This is something I’ll never understand about straight men.
For a subset of dudes who will get uncomfortable at the idea of two men kissing, they all seem to love going to a strip club in groups and jostling each other’s shoulders while they all have boners.
There’s something very homoerotic about the entire display and I’m not in the mood for it tonight.
“I’m sure there’s someone else on the team who is game to go with you,” I say and cut another piece off my salmon.
“Maybe,” Bouchard says around a mouthful of food. He washes it down with a sip of his beer. “But most of these guys are married. Did you notice that?”
“Are they?” I guess I hadn’t noticed. But to be honest, I really only care about the goings-on of my own teammates on the Blizzards.
And well, yeah, a lot of them are married, but that never seemed strange.
Hockey players tend to marry their college or even high school sweethearts.
Most of them have kids before they turn twenty-five and are thrilled about it.
I’ve always been too worried about them wondering why I’m not on that path.
And more importantly, why I’m never cycling through an endless stream of puck bunnies like our few remaining unattached teammates.
“Yeah,” Bouchard says. “There’s a bunch of family men on this team. You should have seen Olsen back in our room FaceTiming with his wife and two-year-old. Fucking weird watching him be all gooey with the baby talk.”
I smirk at him. “To his wife or his kid?”
Bouchard barks out a laugh. “Both.” He chugs what’s left of his beer, then gestures to the bartender for another one. The bartender looks at me to see if I need a refill as well and I shake my head.
“To be honest, though,” Bouchard continues, “he does seem happy.”
“Aww. Is that jealousy I hear in your voice?”
“Fuck off.” He laughs. “But seriously. Maybe it is time for me to find someone to settle down with.”
“Yeah.” I nod my chin towards him. “After all the shots to the dome you’ve taken, you’re going to need someone to take care of you when you’re older.”
“Do you tell that to everyone you knock out?”
“Hey, I’ve never knocked you out!”
“No.” He laughs again and takes a sip out of his new beer that the bartender just dropped off. “And thank God for that. I’ve seen the way you level players. I’d rather take multiple ninety-mile-per-hour clappers to the head than one hip check from you, you brute.”
I wave him off. “With all those pads you wear, you wouldn’t even feel it.”
“Probably not,” he says and goes back to eating.
I take this opportunity to chance another glance at Connor. He looks like he wants to crawl out of his skin as he pushes his food around his plate. I frown.
“What’s that face about?” Bouchard asks me.
Fuck. He caught me again. I nod my chin in the direction of Connor’s table.
Bouchard looks. “What about him?”
“He looks miserable.”
“Lord knows why. Spoiled prick has nothing to be miserable about.”
My mouth has gone dry, and I suddenly wish I’d had the bartender bring me another root beer. “His dad’s the prick.”
“So it’s learned behavior then.”
“Maybe.” I shrug. But I don’t think that’s the case. “You ever wonder if being a hockey dad might not be the best choice?”
“Are you kidding me?” Bouchard sits a little taller and beams. “I think the only reason I’ve even considered finding a wife is so I can have a miniature me to skate around with. A kid decked out in goalie gear, fumbling around on family night.”
“Don’t tell your future wife that.” I laugh.
“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it? I’m sure there’s plenty of women out there who would jump at the chance to marry and raise a team of hockey players slash lumberjacks with you.”
I stare at him like he’s an idiot. “Nobody wants that. Not even me.” And that’s the truth.
Kids are not in the cards for me for plenty of reasons.
Least of which being that I’m gay and will never father a child naturally, and most of which, this world doesn’t need another me.
It barely tolerates the one it already has.
“Heads up,” Bouchard says. “Your roommate’s on the move.” He gives me a mischievous smile. “Should we invite him and his old man for a drink?”
I practically choke and I’m about to say that’s a terrible idea as Bouchard calls out and waves them over.
Connor Sr looks like smoke is going to shoot out of his nostrils as he turns to look at us.
Connor Jr looks like he wants to be anywhere but here.
But he’s the one who relents first and walks over.
That nice guy side of him winning the war in his brain between being rude or being polite to his teammates.
“Connor,” Connor Sr says, placing a hand on his shoulder when he gets near us. “We don’t have time for this.”
Bouchard bursts out laughing and flips them the finger, but I don’t have it in me to join in. If we were on the ice, sure. I’d engage in the smack talk and attempt to get under Connor’s skin if our teams were playing against each other. But not here. Not now. This isn’t the time or the place.
“Leave them alone,” I say to Bouchard as I knock his hand down with my own. “Save it for the ice.”