Chapter 9 #2
My father, and therefore by association, the Broad Wings, have been focusing too much attention on me as the golden boy leading this team to the cup.
Analytics only looks at numbers. They don’t have the ability to detect resentment built up within the ranks because the team’s first line center has been made the league’s poster child of hockey perfection.
Case in point, the Blizzards, who won the cup last year.
They were ranked eighth in their conference and blew into the playoffs, demolishing every other team.
For weeks I couldn’t figure out how they did it, but now I have an idea.
It’s obvious from working with Gavin and Bouchard that their team genuinely like each other.
“This is news to me,” my father says and turns his tablet back on. He opens up the team’s internal app. “Do I need to arrange a trade?”
“No!” Unless it’s me, I wish I could say. I ball my hands into fists, then release them.
My father, undeterred by my exclamation, keeps scrolling through the roster. “We have time. The trade deadline is still three weeks away.”
I place my hand on the tablet, lowering it from his view. “Can we please forget I said anything? It’s not a big deal.” I don’t want to be responsible for someone’s life being uprooted out of nowhere because I panicked and blurted out truths I shouldn’t have at a breakfast with my father.
He looks at me, his nostrils flaring with his annoyance. “What is your problem? If there’s an issue on the team, I’m going to fix it.”
“There isn’t an issue.”
“You just said we can’t win the cup. I’d say that’s a huge issue.” He picks the tablet up again. “Is it Lars? I bet I could get a good trade off him. We don’t need him. He does the same thing you do, but not nearly as well.”
“It’s not Lars!” I yell. “Can we please drop this?”
“Jesus, Connor.” He shakes his head at me. “You’re acting as if I’m going to trade you.”
I wish he would. The words are right on the tip of my tongue. I wish I could say them. I wish I could tell him the truth. That I can’t live like this with him any longer.
He punches me in the arm, harder than what would be considered playful in a locker room. “You need to toughen up. I didn’t raise you to be this weak.”
Gavin
After my workout, I wander around the hotel’s amenities to avoid going back to our room.
I need more time to clear my head. I can usually accomplish that in the weight room, but even squatting a new personal best, motivated by my frustration, wasn’t enough to settle the barrage of thoughts demanding I revisit my decision about Connor.
This would be so much easier if he could be a one-and-done situation for me.
If I could hit it and quit and get him out of my system.
But I know that’s not the case. He checks too many boxes on my list of needs in a partner.
He’s well built, lean and muscular with an ass I’d like to take a bite out of like an apple.
He’s hardworking and dedicated, goal-oriented and unafraid of a challenge.
He’s kind, ridiculously so, and quietly patient.
He understands hockey. Not only the sport, but the demands it places on life and any potential partners.
The practices, the road trips, the long hours, the stench of the gear.
In our room, he’s calm, settled, and has no issue obeying a curfew.
Which leads me to believe he’s probably a lot like me during the season.
Content to follow a routine. His calmness through all the chaos has me craving something new.
A quiet place to return to with him away from it all.
Which ultimately is my ideal situation. I don’t want to be alone forever.
I want someone I can trust will be there when I wake up.
Someone who won’t run away from me if I’m gone for long stretches during the season.
Someone I can depend on to build something with me when things are good and bad.
When it’s hockey season and when it’s not.
But that’s the issue. When the Olympics are over, we will never be able to have that together.
We’ll return to our cities and settle back into our established routines without each other.
I know he understands all of this because he lives all of this.
Same as I do. And that’s what would keep us from working in the long term.
We live in two separate cities, playing for two different teams. We won’t be able to just go home after practice and relax with each other like we are doing now.
We won’t be able to sit side by side and break down the highs and lows of the game we just played.
What I’m really doing—and I’m not sure if he gets it—is saving us the trouble of making our return to regular life away from the Olympics shrouded in the inevitable heartbreak of losing a partner on and off the ice who understands it all.
Because if we cross the line I’ve laid, heartbreak is the only way this ends. And that’s best-case scenario.
Worst case is we’re found out. He’ll get to keep his career, but I won’t.
He has more protecting him than I do. Sure, I don’t trust any locker room he’s in to be particularly friendly towards him and the fans will eat him alive, but the league has invested millions in him.
No matter what, they’ll want a return on their investment.
Whereas for me, the higher ups like Kennedy Sr will finally get what they’ve always wanted.
A reason to extract me from their precious league.
I’m a nuisance even with them under the impression that I’m straight.
I don’t have a safety net. I don’t have anywhere else to go.
All I have is hockey. Without it, I’m nothing but the Alaskan trash they all say I am.
All the security I’ve built for not just me but my dad as well, will be gone.
“Yo! Marshal!” Bouchard’s voice calls from behind me. “Wait up!”
I stop and turn to face him. He’s running towards me, slowly, like someone who was out drinking all night. “Struggling today?”
He stops when he gets to me and places a hand on my shoulder to brace himself while he leans forward to catch his breath. “You have no idea,” he says. “I fell asleep on a deck chair by the pool last night.”
“Jesus.” I laugh. “I guess I should have made sure you made it to your room last night.”
“Unnecessary,” he says, standing up straight. “There’s more important people on the team for you to babysit.”
“Oh no. Who fucked up last night?”
“No one.” He shakes his head, then raises an eyebrow at me. He sucks in a breath like he’s about to say something, then his face twists up like he’s processing a thought. “You want to get breakfast?”
Actually. Yes. I do want to get breakfast. That will easily buy me at least another hour before I have no choice but to head back to my room and face Connor with his pleading eyes, asking me to give in.
“Sure,” I say. “I could eat.”
“Good. And you’re paying because I can’t find my wallet.”
“Seriously, dude.” I laugh. “You’re not exactly convincing me you don’t need a babysitter.”
He hits me with his elbow as we start walking towards the restaurant. “I got it under control. I already canceled the cards. Now my passport, however.”
“Dude. What the fuck?” I say, completely exasperated by him.
He grins at me. “I’m kidding. That stays in my luggage.”
At the restaurant, he pulls the entrance door open for me and we head inside. The host grabs two menus and thankfully leads us to a table in the back. Once seated and after we’ve both ordered coffee, he goes back to grinning at me like the Cheshire cat.
“Stop that. You’re fucking creeping me out.”
“Did you fuck him yet?”
Shocked, my skin goes cold. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Dude, it’s cool if you did. I don’t care.”
As refreshing as that revelation is, I still laugh uncomfortably through my dry throat and pull at the collar of my USA Olympic team sweatshirt. It suddenly feels way too tight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Like hell you don’t.” He laughs as our server drops off our coffee.
I take advantage of the situation and ask our server some questions about the menu before I place an order for a BLT with a side of crispy hash browns.
When she leaves, Bouchard takes a loud sip of his coffee and eyes me over the brim of the mug. “You don’t need to lie to me.”
“How can I lie to you when I don’t even know what you’re talking about?”
“Marshal, I’m a goalie, not a ref; the last thing I am is blind.” He pauses and points at me with emphasis. “And you’ve been eye fucking Connor Kennedy for a week now. Just do it already.”
“I have not,” I hiss at him and lean forward, bringing us closer together so hopefully anyone listening in at a nearby table doesn’t hear this conversation I do not want to be having. The last thing Connor or I need is to have our secrets blown up because Bouchard can’t use his indoor voice.
Bouchard points at me again, but at least seems to get my drift about the volume. “You have too,” he says, much quieter than before. He smiles and shakes his head. “I don’t know how I missed this about you.”
Knowing I’ve lost, I stop denying it. “Well, it’s not like I advertise it.”
With a half shrug, he says, “Neither does my brother, but that doesn’t make him any less gay.”
“I didn’t know your brother was gay.”
“Nobody does. That’s exactly my point.”
“How come he hasn’t come out?”
“For the same reason you haven’t, dumbass.” He reaches across the table and cuffs the back of my head.
I flip him off. “Yeah, but he’s not in the league.”
“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to be. I mean, fuck, he’s committed to St Louis. He’s just waiting to be called up from his college team.”
“Will he be?”
“Probably. The kid’s got silky mitts.”
“What’s he gonna do?”
“I don’t know. Be a miserable prick like you are, would be my guess.”
I stare at him. “I’m not miserable.”
“Yeah, you are. Happy people don’t end up with the title of king of penalty minutes.”