Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
Connor
Gavin’s father, Garrett, is so similar to Gavin.
I immediately like him. They’re the same height, the same build, they have the same deep brown eyes, and longish thick dark hair.
They could be twins, except for the fact it’s obvious they were born decades apart.
Garrett Marshal’s face bears more deep wrinkles.
His beard, which is fuller, longer, and less maintained than Gavin’s, is peppered with gray.
Most striking is while he is the same size as Gavin, he’s built like a dad and not like an athlete like his son.
He’s also gruffer than Gavin. Which I didn’t think could be possible, but it’s easy to see that despite that gruffness he has extreme affection for his son.
He keeps patting Gavin on the chest whenever anyone compliments Gavin on his game play or asks Garrett if his son has always been a bruiser.
But when reporters descend into the locker room, it becomes very clear where they are most alike.
Garrett Marshal is having none of it with their questions.
He stands behind Gavin with his arms crossed over his chest, covering the top part of the Team USA logo of the official team jersey he’s wearing that has Gavin’s name and number emblazoned across the back of it.
“Do you think your reputation as a goon is good for young gay kids to see?” one of the reporters asks.
“That’s interesting,” Gavin says, his expression blank.
“You were all asking that same question when I was picked for this team back in January, except it was all kids, not just gay kids you were concerned I was influencing. My answer is still no. The enforcer is an important role to fill on every team. It doesn’t matter the sexuality of who plays it. ”
“What about the coaches across the league who’d rather do away with enforcers like you?” a different reporter asks. “Are you afraid of them using your sexuality as a wedge to have you removed from the league?”
Gavin’s eyes narrow. “I dare them to find the page in the rule book that says fucking men means I can’t play hockey.”
The grin Garrett Marshal breaks out in behind Gavin is menacing. I’ve seen that look before. Many times from his son sitting in the penalty box, waiting to be let out to take care of unfinished business on the ice. It does its job. The reporters all take a step back.
It doesn’t stop their questions, though.
Instead, they focus on the rest of us. Across the locker room, I see Bouchard boisterously answering questions about his shutout.
He’s naturally gregarious, but this is extra, even for him.
He’s doing his best to be a distraction from the Gavin show. I give him a nod.
Suddenly, there’s a camera in my face and a reporter holding up a microphone. “You could have scored that last goal, giving yourself a hat trick, but passed the puck to Gavin Marshal instead. Any reason why?”
I run a hand through my hair and give the reporter my best smile. “There’s no selfish play going on out there for us. He was there, and he had a better, clearer shot on goal. It’s as simple as that.”
“Gavin Marshal isn’t known as a scorer. Was it worth the risk?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Who is this reporter?
A friend of my father’s? But instead of taking the bait and getting angry, I laugh lightly and run my hand through my hair again before saying, “We were up by six goals, and even if we weren’t, I’d still have passed it to him. He had the better shot.”
The reporter accepts my answer but doesn’t leave. “With four games left, do you think you can keep this momentum to win gold?”
“I do,” I say confidently. “This is an elite group of guys. We’re all playing our hearts out out there.”
“The revelations about Gavin Marshal haven’t become a distraction?”
Now I’m definitely angry. I can feel my nostrils flaring, but I quickly relax them as I hate whenever I do anything similar to what my father would.
Unlike Gavin, who has obviously been influenced by his dad in the best ways, I deny any opportunity for my father’s way of being to take hold within me.
I take a breath and focus my thoughts on Gavin instead, then answer the reporter’s question as if I’m speaking to my father through the camera.
He’s probably in his box seats shaking hands with hockey legends and world dignitaries while watching this right now.
“The revelations about Gavin have made us a stronger team. There isn’t a man on the ice wearing a United States team jersey right now who won’t take a hit for him.
Whoever did this messed with the wrong team. ”
I catch Gavin’s gaze after I say this. He smiles, and nods his head at me, then bends forward to finish unlacing his skates.
Gavin
“I like you,” my dad says, throwing his arm around Connor’s shoulders.
Connor’s smile is both shy and bright, like he’s pleased with having made a good impression, but humble enough not to get too cocky.
Of course, I haven’t had a chance to tell my dad who Connor is to me yet, but it does make me happy they’re getting along.
Actually, my dad is getting along with everyone. And now that we’re all cleaned up and have moved the entire team up to a private skybox for the Canada vs Germany game scheduled after us, we can all properly celebrate.
I grab two bottles of root beer and a regular beer from the bartender, then walk over to Connor and my dad. I hold them out and they take them.
My dad unhooks his arm from Connor’s shoulders and takes a swig of his root beer. “I can’t believe this is that prick Kennedy’s son.”
Connor and I both laugh.
“No offense,” my dad says and clinks Connor’s drink with his own.
“None taken.” Connor waves him off before he takes a sip of his beer. “No one is more aware of what a prick he can be than I am.”
“Seriously, Connor,” Bouchard says, coming to join us. “How do you play for that man?”
Connor shrugs. “It’s not like I’ve ever had much of a choice.”
“When’s your contract up?” Bouchard asks.
“Never.” Connor huffs out a laugh. “But technically at the end of next season. But I know my father will be pushing me to sign an extension this summer to lock my contract down early.”
I look at him, studying his face. He’s still smiling but some of the life has left his eyes. I can see him fretting behind them like he’s watching his entire life play out in front of him and he doesn’t like what he sees.
“Do you want to stay in Chicago?” I ask.
My heart rate kicks up as I wait for his answer. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. My contract is up at the end of next season as well. Maybe we can find a way to play for the same team. Maybe I could convince him to come play for the Blizzards.
“Ideally, no,” Connor says, “but I don’t know if that’s possible.”
“You should come play with us,” Bouchard says, then punches me in the arm. “I know Gavin here would love that.”
My dad flashes me a curious look before he glances at Connor, whose cheeks flame bright red. Connor looks down and away from both of us. Smiling, my dad takes his gaze back to me. He shakes his head and starts laughing.
“Shit,” Bouchard says. “Did I just out you two to your dad?”
“It’s not like they’re doing a good job hiding it!” Max Franklin adds from a few feet away.
“Or that we didn’t all hear Kennedy Sr lose his shit over it the other day,” Bradley Warren says.
“Great, so everyone knows,” I say, and look at Connor.
His eyebrows have lifted in worry and he’s chewing on his lip.
I beckon him to me and wrap my arm around his shoulders.
His posture softens in my hold, and I’m reminded of how new this is for him.
Not just people knowing he’s gay, but more importantly, the people around him being chill about it.
“Dude,” Bouchard says. “You’ve had a hard-on since day one and it points directly at Connor.”
“Fuck off.” I flip him the finger with my hand that’s resting on Connor’s shoulder. He laughs back at me.
“It’s true,” Nichols says and clinks my root beer bottle with his beer.
“And none of us give a shit,” Calhoun shouts from across the room where he’s watching the game through the box’s windows.
“Thank Christ,” I say, and give Connor a squeeze.
I wish he’d say something, but I understand if he wants me to continue doing the talking.
As long as he knows I have his back, that’s really all that’s important.
“Because I really wasn’t looking forward to beating the shit out of all of you if you had something to say about us. ”
“Yeah,” Bradley says. “None of us are that stupid.”
Connor
Well, I guess the cat’s officially out of the bag, but no one seems to care. Or, like Bradley said, none of them are stupid enough to voice a negative opinion about us out loud.
It’s strange, knowing that everyone here knows, and they’re choosing to not care or say a word.
I’m a bit shell-shocked, if I’m being honest. It’s so foreign to me, after years of my father treating my being gay like it was a blemish on him.
But seeing our teammates like this, it gives me hope that Gavin and I can find a way to be together in the long term and have it not be a big deal.
Granted, this is just the team’s reaction.
The greater sports world, as I’ve seen from what’s happened to Gavin, won’t be anywhere near as nonchalant.
If my father has it his way, he’ll use this to chase Gavin out of the league, then do everything else in his power to force me back into the closet.
I’m only barely out of it. No one outside of this room knows, but my father will make sure this side of me never sees the light of day as long as I’m still playing hockey.
Knowing our relationship, he’ll likely make it impossible for me to be out after retirement, too. He can’t have his gay son tarnish his reputation merely by existing.