Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
Gavin
I keep his fingers laced in mine as I drive him to the airport.
It’s early. Too early. The sun hasn’t even fully risen yet, and we didn’t have nearly enough time together.
Especially if all of this ends up backfiring on us.
Twenty-four hours of reunited bliss will never make up for a stolen lifetime of possibility.
“Your car’s nice,” Connor says.
“Don’t lie. It’s just a Jeep. You probably drive a fancy BMW or something.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t drive anything.”
“What?” I ask him at the same time my dad in the backseat asks, “How?”
Connor turns in his seat to be able to flip his gaze between the two of us. He’s laughing.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“You two,” he says, trying to catch his breath. He flips his free hand back and forth between us. “The matching outrage on both your faces and your tones right now. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you two were clones.”
I catch eyes with my dad through the rearview mirror. We both shrug, which causes Connor to laugh even harder.
“Stop deflecting,” my dad says. “How do you not drive a car?”
“I’ve never needed to,” Connor says as he twists back around in his seat to face the front.
“But you know how to drive, right?” I ask.
I see him shrink a bit out of the corner of my eye in the seat beside me.
“How?” I ask at the same time my dad says, “What?”
Connor starts laughing again and lets go of my hand to rub his face. I can’t figure out if he does it to wipe tears of laughter from his eyes or hide from our questioning. Maybe both.
I reach across the car and run my fingers through his hair, then let my hand land on the base of his neck. I give him a few gentle squeezes and he sighs.
To my dad, he asks, “Has he always been this tactile?”
“Yes,” my dad says; his tone has turned heavy, and I know what he’s thinking. After what happened with my mother, he’d be woken up constantly by my little hands on his cheeks, making sure he was still warm.
Feeling exposed, I slide my hand away and place it back down onto the lid of my coffee sitting in the cup holder between our seats.
It doesn’t stay there long. Connor picks it up and threads our fingers. “Believe me,” he says. “I’m not complaining.”
As he says it, I understand something. This entire conversation is connected.
Connor doesn’t know how to drive because Connor driving was never important to his father.
Just like showing Connor any affection has never been important to him, either.
We may have been broke, but affection between me and my dad has never been in short supply.
Even looking back to when my mom was alive, my dad was always the more affectionate parent.
At the time, I was too young to understand why, but I always preferred him over my mother anyway.
He taught me not just how to be a man, but how to be a good man.
How to get up and push through no matter how hard things would get.
How to express love in both quiet and loud ways.
Being taught how to drive was one of many simple ways my dad supported me where money didn’t matter.
My dad must pick up on it, too, because he says, “So your father never taught you how to drive.”
“Nope.” Connor shakes his head. “Honestly, he doesn’t really drive much himself unless he’s taking one of his sports cars out for a joyride. And, of course, I could never touch those.”
“What about your mom?”
Connor looks over his shoulder at me. “Would you trust her behind the wheel?”
“Fair point,” I say with a nod of my head. “But how do you get around? Run errands and stuff?”
“Drivers mostly. That’s how I grew up, and I don’t really run a lot of errands. It’s kind of hard to go grocery shopping when everyone knows who you are.” He looks at me. “But you know how that is.”
“Sort of,” I say. “Our fan base isn’t the type to hound us if they see us out. We might get asked to sign an autograph here or there, but they mostly let us go about our days.”
“That sounds nice,” Connor says. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the fans. I wouldn’t have a career without them, but still…”
His voice trails off, so I squeeze his hand and finish for him. “Some privacy would be nice.”
He nods his head.
“Yeah,” my dad says. “I don’t think you two will be getting much of that anytime soon.”
“No.” I laugh as we pull up to the airport. I put my car in park but let the engine idle. “Probably not.”
Connor takes a deep breath. He lets go of my hand and rubs his palms on his pants.
“You ready?” I ask.
He nods yes. “I am.”
All three of us step out of the car together and I walk around the back of the car to grab his bag for him from the hatch, then help him sling it across his shoulders.
Despite what I just said in the car, we have already attracted some attention, but true to Buffalo Blizzards fans, none of them are rushing in to bother us directly.
A few, however, have their phones pointed at us.
Which is good. Part of our plan counts on us being recognized at the airport.
My dad shakes Connor’s hand, then wraps him in a bear hug, patting him on the back. “Come up to Alaska this summer and I’ll teach you how to drive a car.”
“I’d like that.” Connor’s cheeks flush pink.
My dad lets him go and climbs into the front seat of my Jeep. I’ll have to bring him back here tomorrow to catch his flight back to Alaska.
Connor steps into my arms and I hold him tight. “I’ll pick you up here in a couple of days.”
“If we can pull this off,” he says, squeezing me back.
“We will,” I tell him, bringing one hand to cup his face and run my thumb over his pink cheek. “But if we don’t, I can wait until this summer. I love you.”
“I love you too,” he says, and now it’s my turn to kiss him in front of everyone right here on this dirty airport curb.
Connor
By the time my plane lands in Chicago two hours later, the sports world is buzzing with speculation about me and Gavin.
The burner phone I grabbed at the airport has six missed texts from him all bearing links of proof.
The first is to a list of coaches and general managers who have signed on to back the so-called Marshal Rule.
More than half the teams in the league are voicing their support.
No doubt because they’re tired of losing to Buffalo.
One notable team missing from the list, though, is St Louis.
Which does give me some hope we might be able to pull this whole thing off.
The next link is to the story my father wants the world to believe.
That what they saw was nothing more than two athletes getting caught up in the moment and excitement of winning Olympic gold.
He’s maintaining they’re the ones turning it into something else merely because Gavin is gay.
That it’s all a big misunderstanding. That the Marshal Rule has nothing to do with me.
And that I, most importantly, am one hundred percent straight.
Which is bullshit. I’m one hundred percent gay.
Strictly dickly for as long as I’ve been interested in sex.
But I know exactly what he’s doing. He’s planting the seed in everyone’s head so he can orchestrate that fake “image-preserving romance” with a woman he threatened me with.
His effort to effectively make this “gay mishap” of mine disappear.
Little does he know that Gavin and I are way ahead of him in curating my new image.
The third is to another social media video post. This one is going viral, and it’s of Gavin kissing me goodbye outside the airport terminal.
It shows him caressing my face; it shows us whispering; it shows him kissing me with intensity, like he’d rather do anything other than put me on a plane sending me away from him and back to my father.
I do the smart thing and ignore the comment section as I’m sure it’s an absolute shitshow.
The fourth link he sent is to a social media thread where a sports journalist broke the news that there’s a rumor I demanded a trade out of Chicago.
The fifth link is to a clip of my father saying there is no truth to the rumor I demanded a trade.
I can see the anger on his face while he states I’m a Broad Wing and will forever remain a Broad Wing.
Despite his world unraveling around him, he says that last part directly into the camera as if he’s trying to remind me of my place.
The sixth link he sent—and this one is my favorite—is of Bouchard.
He’s in his home, speaking to a sports reporter via Zoom from his laptop.
Displayed over one shoulder is his Olympic gold medal, and the other is his framed Team USA Olympic jersey.
He must have been working on cleaning and pressing that thing perfectly all night so he could have it displayed behind him for an occasion just like this.
“Does it look like Gavin and Connor aren’t in love in that video?” Bouchard asks.
“Videos can be deceiving,” the reporter says.
“Not like that.” Bouchard laughs, then adds, “Look, I’ve been playing with these two for close to a month. The team spent every day together. There isn’t a single one of us who can’t vouch for what these two have as being genuine.”
“So the team knew they were together?”
“Are together,” Bouchard corrects. “And of course we knew. You can’t hide what they have.”
“If you all knew, why didn’t anyone come forward? Especially after Gavin was outed.”
“We didn’t come forward because we all agreed it wasn’t anyone’s business. No one has ever cared who I’m dating. Why do we care so much about these two?”
“Was it a team member who outed Gavin? Maybe someone who wanted him gone and wanted to take his place as alternate captain.”
Bouchard’s grin on the screen is wicked, ready to go in for the kill. “Someone wanted him off the team, alright. But it wasn’t a player. At least not a current player.”
“It sounds like you’re implying Connor Kennedy Sr is the one who outed Gavin.”
Bouchard looks directly into the camera. “I’m not implying it. I’m directly stating it. You can quote me. Connor Kennedy Sr not only outed Gavin, but he’s making up this ridiculous denial about their relationship.”
“You said they were in love. I find that hard to believe. Especially from Gavin Marshal. He isn’t exactly what anyone would call the lovey-dovey type.”
“Who are you to judge how Gavin shows his affections?” Bouchard challenges.
“Well, considering what we see from him is mostly violence…” the reporter counters, letting her statement dangle.
Bouchard doesn’t let her get away with it. He laughs, then says, “It’s hockey! This is a contact sport. We all have a history of violence out there. Except for goalies.” He winks. “We’re angels.”
That’s where the clip ends. I debate starting it from the beginning again.
I’ve already watched it four times. Like I said, it’s my favorite.
But the driver of the black SUV I’m riding in is making a turn into the Broad Wings stadium parking lot.
Coach Chris and his wife are waiting for me at the players’ entrance.
Gavin
So far this day may be going according to plan, but it’s still a nightmare. I am a ball of stress, hiding in the Blizzards empty practice rink as I watch all of this go down. Coach Matthews was nice enough to let us in, even though as a suspended player, I’m technically not supposed to be here.
I needed this, though. If I can’t be with Connor while he navigates this next stage with his father, then I need to do something to keep me from jumping out of my skin.
Skating, despite my reputation for being a bruiser on the ice, keeps me calm.
This hour-long stick-and-puck session I’m having with my dad is the only thing keeping my head clear.
After confronting the press, my dad and I could both use letting off some steam in the form of slap-shotting pucks.
Plus, Coach Matthews is here working on the trade deal with our general manager and waiting for it to be completed.
Every once in a while he pops his head out of his office to give me updates.
Apparently, the St Louis Mules, who are completely tanking this season, are willing to take on the excess of Connor’s contract if Coach Chris agrees to tell Chicago to fuck off and come coach for them.
But who knows if that’s going to work. That’s a risky play for them to be making.
I skate to the boards where my dad is wiping his forehead with a towel.
He shakes his head at me. “I don’t know how you do this all day. My legs are killing me.”
“I wonder the same about you on that boat,” I say back to him, handing him my water bottle.
He takes a sip. “I might not have a boat to go back to by the time I get home.”
“Fuck,” I say, remembering what day it is, even though I’m relieved he’s not heading back out on one of those death traps.
“Your boat was going back out to sea today, wasn’t it?
” Had none of this happened, and he’d been able to head back to Alaska from Milan as planned, he would have made it back on time.
He shrugs. “It’s alright. They have to come back to port eventually. Or I can always grab a spot on another one if I need to.”
“Or you could take me up on my offer and you get your own boat going where you can stay on shore to run the business and send other people out to sea.”
“You know I’m no good at the office stuff.”
“Then we’ll hire someone who is who can help you.” I turn myself to place one hand on the boards and look at him. “Say you’ll think about it.”
He nods his head at me, but I worry it’s a lost cause.
Those first few years after my mother’s death, when it was only the two of us, he tried to find work off the boats.
He did alright, but the pay was much lower, and he found that technology had moved right past him.
Computers are always evolving, but the sea stays the same.
“Marshal!” Coach Matthews yells out from his office. Was that a good yell or a bad yell?
I skate over to him, my heart in my mouth.
“Good news. You’re no longer suspended.”
“Thank Christ,” I say and let out a sigh of relief.
“And I expect you both on the ice tomorrow morning for practice.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, then almost fall over with how quickly my head spins to stare directly at him. “Both?”
“Yeah.” He smiles at me. “Your boy’s a Blizzard now. You can pick him up at the airport tonight at ten o’clock.”