Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Gavin
Coach clears everyone but the team out of the locker room, including Connor’s father, who looks at me like he thinks he’s won something.
I don’t know. Maybe he did. He’s at the very least painted me into a corner.
I’m not going to out his son to take some of the heat off of me.
Even if Connor decides to step forward on his own—which, looking at him and seeing the way he’s biting his lip as he looks at me across the locker room, I can tell he’s debating if it’s something he should do—I’ll advise him against it.
This thing between us, no matter how wonderful it is, has an expiration date on it.
There’s no way this can carry on once we return home. Not publicly. How would that even work? Two rival players playing against each other. No one is going to accept that. Especially not Connor’s father.
“Listen up, everyone.” Coach steps to the middle of the room, but all eyes are on me. “I think this goes without saying that this changes nothing for us as a team. Ignore the press in regard to this. If any of you ends up on ESPN saying something stupid, you’re benched. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Coach!” everyone but me and Connor yells out.
“Good. Now finish hitting the showers. Bus leaves in thirty minutes. And I’m canceling tomorrow’s practice.
I think we’ve earned a morning to ourselves.
” He walks back into his office and slams the door shut.
I can only imagine the size of the drink he’s pouring for himself right now. If I drank, I’d join him.
I look at Connor. He’s still biting his lip.
I can see the war of his thoughts happening behind his eyes.
His brow is furrowed, creating a deep worry line through the center.
I want to smooth it away with my finger, then kiss it away with my lips.
But now is not the time for me to do that.
Not while everyone is here to witness it.
“Have you checked your phone yet?” Bouchard says, sliding down the bench to sit beside me.
“No. Should I?” It hadn’t even occurred to me to do that.
He shrugs and does a poor job of containing a smile. “You should probably ignore social media for a while,” he says. “And the sports blogs. And YouTube. And ESPN.”
“So in other words, don’t check my phone.”
He shrugs again, and that smile is still there. “At least check your text messages.”
Warily, I reach and grab my cell phone off the top shelf of my stall. It is loaded with notifications. But the most important ones I see are these two.
Alexander Tavish: Fuck whoever sold you out, but you better not use it as an excuse to skip town. I want to face you in the finals even though I expect this to make you twice as angry as you already are when we get there. RIP every team you meet from here on out.
Coach Matthews: You’re playing some amazing hockey over there. Don’t let this distract you. And don’t worry, you’ll always have a spot on the roster here in Buffalo. We’re rooting for you.
Seeing messages from the both of them fuels my resolve. This thing that Connor Sr did means nothing, to me at least. But I don’t think he did this to hurt me necessarily. This was about controlling Connor. Fucking up my private and elusive existence was just a bonus.
Connor
I’ve been dying to get Gavin alone in our room for hours now.
But, of course, the press is still waiting for us outside the locker room, making it impossible to get to the bus efficiently.
As a team, with Gavin leading the way, we push through them with our heads raised high, avoiding eye contact with all of them.
Once on the bus, we all let out a collective sigh of relief.
But it’s still tense, and everyone remains quiet as the bus pulls away from the arena.
This entire team has been blindsided. Obviously not to the extent Gavin was, but everyone is feeling the effects of being caught up in an unnecessary scandal.
We’re athletes. We came here to play hockey and win gold medals.
Navigating the outing of a gay teammate isn’t something any of us have trained for.
Gavin is sitting beside me with his eyes unfocused as he stares out the window.
I can see his reflection in the glass. He looks like he’s seeing nothing but the blur of the city streets as we roll through the village to get back to our dorms. Those dark eyes of his have gone heavy and tired.
Once again, I see traces of the sixteen-year-old Gavin I met years ago in the lonely eyes of the man beside me.
I slide my hand across our seats and find his which is resting on his thigh.
I lace my pinky over his, hooking us together.
He gives my finger a little tug, then repositions our hands so he can place his on top of mine, giving it a squeeze.
I squeeze back, trying to remind him he’s not alone in this.
I’ll face whatever’s coming with him as quietly or as loudly as he wants.
As the bus pulls up to our building, Gavin gives my hand one last squeeze before he lets it go.
“Fuck,” he mutters, still looking out the window. More press and hundreds of fans are waiting outside trying to get a glimpse of him.
Fans might not be the best word. Sure, there are some who are cheering him on that we can hear through the glass, but within that sea of cheers, there’s an undercurrent of boos that roll steadily underneath them.
Bradley Warren turns around in the seat in front of us and looks right at Gavin. “Ignore them,” he says, then holds his fist out for Gavin to bump.
Gavin does, then rises from his seat, rolls his neck, and sets his shoulders back.
I step out of his way so he can lead the way for all of us once again.
He’s made it very clear he has no intention of cowering in the middle or the back of the line.
He will be front and center, but he won’t give anyone what they want, which is a rise out of him.
Standing tall and proud, he walks off the bus, pushes a line directly through the crowd and straight into the building with his head held high, his eyes unseeing.
It’s not until we get into the elevator that everything about him relaxes. His shoulders soften, and his back is no longer rigid.
Bouchard comes over, steps in front of him, and bonks his head against Gavin’s.
As a hockey player, I’m used to seeing this display of affection, but it’s usually done when everyone’s helmets are on.
It’s far more intimate without them. Holding steady, their eyes locked, I hear Bouchard ask, “You good?”
Gavin nods his head. “I’m good.”
Bouchard thumps him twice on the chest with his fist, then turns away when the elevator door opens on the eighth floor. We all get out and let the elevator go back down to collect the rest of our team, who were silently kind enough to let Gavin take the first lift up while they stood guard.
The walk down the hall feels like it takes an eternity.
My heart is beating in my throat. I can hear it in my ears.
The only thing that will make it stop is to get Gavin alone and do the one thing I’ve wanted to do since this total nightmare started.
Kiss him and tell him he’s worth it to me as well.
“Are you hungry?” he asks me, already searching through his phone, when the door closes.
I startle. It’s the last thing I expected him to say. “Not really,” I say. “But that could just be because my stomach is still on the locker room floor where I left it an hour ago.”
“More for me, then,” he says and laughs, pressing some buttons on his phone before he brings it to his ear. “I’m going to order us a pizza. You good with that?”
“I guess so.” I throw up my hands, then stare at him while he waits for someone to answer on the other end of the line. I’m practically burning a hole in his perfect, handsome face. How is he so calm right now? Why isn’t he raging? Why isn’t he screaming? It’s what I’d be doing.
Finished with placing the order, he tosses his phone onto the bed and looks at me. “What?”
“Are we not going to talk about what just happened?!” I yell in my exasperation, not at him, but at the world. At my father.
“Come here,” he says, stepping towards me and wrapping me in his arms. He takes a deep inhale of my hair.
“This isn’t talking,” I mumble into his neck.
“I know. It’s committing you to memory.”
Panic rips through me. “Memory? Why memory?”
He holds me tighter and inhales again. “We knew when this started it couldn’t go on after the Olympics.”
“No, we didn’t,” I choke out.
Update! My missing stomach has been found, and it’s lodged itself in my throat.
“Yes, we did.” He pulls slightly away from me, but only far enough that he can remove one hand from behind my back and slide it across and around my shoulder, then bring it to my face.
He holds me steady to look directly at him.
His brown eyes are back to being sad, lonely, and most of all hurt.
They hide nothing. “We have ten more days like this,” he says and brushes my lip with his thumb.
“I intend to make the most of them. I hope you do too.”
I pull away from him. “But you said I was worth losing your career over.”
“You are,” he says and catches my arm, tugging me towards him again. “But I’m not.”
I crumple to the floor beside our makeshift bed.
He sinks down with me and slings an arm over my shoulder, pulling me into his side. We rest our backs against the shitty wooden bedframe.
“That’s not true,” I say to him.
“It is true, Connor. You have a lot more to lose than I do.”
“But I can’t lose you.” I’m suddenly glad we’re no longer looking at each other as my eyes are beginning to burn. I shut them tight, trying to keep my tears at bay.
“Babe,” he laughs with more affection than I can handle in his voice right now. “We’re going to lose each other anyway.”
“We don’t have to,” I argue. Because we don’t. “We can make it work. We can do long distance, then spend the summer together.”