Chapter 5 #2
Coach Morris’s voice snapped Tom out of his unfortunate thoughts. This was what happened when he stepped out of his comfort zone and started talking to the rookies and changing the team drills. Nothing fit his routine, and he got lost in his head.
Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he had to stop getting lost in his head. He’d never had a great time there, only made himself miserable.
He squared his shoulders. “Sorry, Coach,” he said and glided out onto the ice.
Though the surface was smooth and clean, Tom couldn’t shake a sense of unease as he cast his gaze around the stands at the Liberty Center.
Some rinks felt wrong. Calgary had shitty ice and worse locker rooms, Toronto claimed the prize for worst media and closest proximity to Tom’s parents, and Philadelphia just made Tom’s skin crawl for no discernible reason.
All the same, practice went well. Despite his size, Luca excelled.
He was fast; he didn’t mind using his stature to slip around and under where no one expected him.
His stickhandling was ridiculous, delicate and skilled in a way Tom rarely saw from defenseman.
More commonly, forwards used finesse to get the right angle at the goal.
Having a D-man with skills in stripping the puck off the opposition and then using it himself was an advantage, no two ways about it.
Tom made sure to tell him as much when they finished practice.
He was unprepared for the full force of Luca’s determined expression when he met Tom’s eyes.
“Thank you,” Luca said in his lyrical voice. “I have been waiting a long time to prove I can be here.”
Tom thought of Jax, who showed his true self so unashamedly, so proudly—who toughed out hateful language from opponents and his own team with a belligerence that showed his desperate desire to prove them wrong.
“You came to the right team,” Tom said firmly. He would make sure they had a place for Luca; he would make sure they had a place for Jax. He would make sure they still had a place for Phil when he was ready to return.
Tom had stepped out of his comfort zone, and he refused to go back.
During the bus ride to the hotel, he held on to the thought.
When they arrived, he followed Jax to his room, intent on discussing Luca and how he would fit, as well as what Tom could do to make him feel welcome on the team. He knew it wasn’t his forte; maybe Jax would have pointers.
But Jax seemed surprised to see him. “Sorry, did we have plans?”
“No,” Tom said. “I wanted to talk about—”
“Can we do this later? I’m meeting the Philly guys for lunch, and I don’t want to be late.”
“Oh.” Tom stepped away. “Of course. I’ll see you later.”
It was good, Tom told himself as he walked back to his room.
If they didn’t talk now, Jax couldn’t say anything to weaken Tom’s newfound confidence.
He ignored the jealousy. Jax could have other friends.
He was social and personable, and the guys in Philly probably didn’t know why he’d been traded. He probably wouldn’t tell them.
The thought of Jax confiding in someone else made Tom’s stomach tighten uncomfortably.
But Jax could do whatever he wanted. Tom could lead without him. He’d been named team captain for a reason, and it was time he started living up to the title.
Unfortunately, the game that night did not herald the triumphant beginning of a new era. It was more like when a washed-up popstar rebranded themselves and announced a new, different, improved sound only to end up performing their album at outlet malls to dwindling sales.
Jax’s passes weren’t connecting, unthinkable for him.
His main skill lay in his strength, in his powerful, heavy thighs and glutes, propelling him into being one of the fastest men on the ice.
His built shoulders helped as well; Tom remembered a particularly vicious check from Jax banging him into the boards last year.
But what elevated Jax beyond any other strong, fast player was his hockey IQ.
He had an innate sense for passing lanes and a sharp eye for positions and chances.
Tonight, the part of his brain in charge of finding the perfect angle had gone offline.
Jax was still fast and forceful, but too often, he ended up in the wrong place on the ice to catch Tom’s passes.
Once, he nearly collided with Vanderbilt.
Midway through the second period, Morris pulled him off the first line and reinstated Abrahamov instead, forcing Tom and Vanderbilt to adapt their whole play midway through the game.
It was no wonder they lost.
In fact, with Dmitriyev taking a maintenance day and their backup in goal, it was a miracle they only lost by two goals. A miracle provided by Breezy’s blocking and Luca’s deft hands, but a miracle all the same.
Back in the hotel after a subdued bus ride with a morose team, the text from Tom’s mom read, What was that? You should be better!
He swallowed down the anger and responded, Thanks, Mom.
Because he enjoyed torturing himself, he looked up the postgame interviews on his phone. Kayleigh from PR had pulled Jax for media, and the interview he gave was a mess. Usually, Jax charmed every camera in a ten-foot radius with his smiles and jokes.
On the video, he had bags under his eyes. He appeared drawn and serious.
“What do you think went wrong tonight?” Olivia Starling asked. As the hockey beat reporter for the San Francisco Herald, Tom imagined she would be his sleep paralysis demon if he had one of those.
“What didn’t go wrong?” Jax asked back. “I didn’t show up for the team, didn’t play a full sixty minutes. There were missed chances, giveaways, and those are on me. Gotta do better.”
Tom couldn’t watch the rest of the interview.
Jax wasn’t meant to look like that. He was supposed to be confident, cocky, even.
Not whatever shadow of himself he appeared as on this video.
Instead, Tom scrolled down his recommendations and found the interview Tyson Fuller, Jax’s previous captain, had given after the game.
With some satisfaction, Tom noted Fuller didn’t hop on camera right after a game runway-ready.
He had what might have been the worst case of helmet hair Tom had ever seen, and he clearly hadn’t been to the showers yet.
He also wore the champion’s belt, having received first star of the game after scoring two goals.
Tom should get one of those for the Sea Lions. They had a funny hat somewhere in one of the storage closets from five or six seasons ago, but most teams had a new novelty item every season to pass around to each winning game’s MVP. Another captain’s duty he’d been shirking.
A reporter asked, “Tyson, how did it feel to beat Jaxon Grant so decisively after he left the team suddenly in September?”
Fuller smirked. “Well, uh, it was good, not gonna lie. It blindsided the team, losing him right at the start of the season, and it’s great to be out there proving it won’t keep us down.”
The interview went on to discuss playoff chances.
The Sea Lions were tied for second place with Seattle in the Pacific division, while Philadelphia floundered in sixth place in the Metropolitan, which meant nothing anyone said in this interview had any weight.
The standings didn’t mean much at this point in the season.
Tom only really started worrying in February.
He closed YouTube and shut off his phone.
Why was Jax friends with Fuller? He seemed like a dick. Had he said something at their lunch to make Jax so off tonight?
Before this season, before Jax, Tom would have kept his head down and gone over his own game, found its flaws and worked to fix them. Now, Tom went over the game and considered, then decided, tonight, it wasn’t his fault.
The anger living under his skin ever since St. Louis bubbled up.
Righteous indignation at other players having the temerity to speak to his teammate in such a way, coupled with his own ever-present self-loathing for not doing something about it, had been his constant companion since the ill-conceived Gordie Howe hat trick.
Now, outrage joined the swell of emotion in his gut that Jax had chosen to throw away the good thing they had going on the first line over Tyson fucking Fuller.
After changing out of his suit, Tom went to Jax’s hotel room and banged on the door.
Maybe ratty sweats and a Sea Lions shirt from eight seasons ago weren’t the most authoritative clothing choices for this intervention.
Back then, their logo had been a cartoon sea lion, not the current more intimidating line drawing with some vague similarities to aquatic mammals.
Tom had also been a clothing size smaller at the time, and the shirt clung to him in a way his clothes normally didn’t.
He didn’t wear authority in his clothing though. It was in his voice and his face, and in the slow-burning anger he finally had the words to convey at least a part of.
Jax opened the door, caught sight of him, and turned away with a groan.
Based on the track of shoeprints across the fluffy carpet, he’d been pacing the floor for a while.
He still wore his suit, a light gray number with slightly darker pinstripes, and a crisp white shirt.
The material strained across his thighs and shoulders.
Whoever did Jax’s tailoring had to be utterly obscene.
“What happened out there?” Tom asked. He was pleased, almost proud at how stern his voice sounded. “You can—”
“I know,” Jax said. “I fucked up, Tom. I fucked up, and I let you down, and I’m so sorry.”
Tom blinked. He expected belligerence or anger, not misery. He tried again, gently this time, banking the flames of his own outrage. Jax didn’t need to be yelled at; he needed a friend. A confidante. Tom could be that for him. “You can do better.”
“I know I can. I…” Abruptly, Jax collapsed at the end of the bed, hunched over, feet dangling off the side. “I met up with them after practice. My old team.”
Carefully, gingerly, Tom sat beside him. “It didn’t go well?”
A snort of derisive laughter emerged from Jax’s throat. “Fuller fucking hates me.”
Tom had no idea how he should respond.
“I don’t care about people hating me,” Jax said, which—well, it simply wasn’t true.
Tom had never met anyone who went out of his way to be liked quite as much as Jax.
Jax had spent days trying to find out why Tom didn’t like him and had done everything he could to fix it, albeit in the most roundabout way possible.
“I know it’s going to happen, I get it, okay?
” Jax continued. “You don’t get to the top with everyone loving you.
But it’s…it’s just not fair.” He pushed one of his big, square-fingered hands through his hair, leaving it disheveled and falling over his eyes.
Tom wanted to push it out of the way for him.
Tom wanted to wrap an arm around him. Tom wanted to hold him.
“What…” Tom started to ask, but Jax beat him to it again.
“He thinks I asked for the trade. He thinks I wanted it. To play for a contender rather than the team that drafted me.”
“Oh.”
Jax got to his feet again, resumed pacing.
“And what do I even say? If I tell him I didn’t want it, he asks me why.
And then I have to tell him I fucked up and some guy threatened to put pictures of my dick on Twitter, and I freaked out and told PR, and it got me fucking traded when I should have waited it out. And then what?”
He glared at Tom, his eyes bright with anger.
“I don’t know, Jax.”
“Then he gets to hate me for something true, and I’d rather he hate me for a lie, so I have to play along and pretend I chose any of this.
But I can’t live this way, Tom! I want to be out, I want not to care about all this shit, but every time I think about actually doing it, I find some reason it’s not the right time or the right way. ”
“Jax.” Tom stood, reached out awkwardly. He put his hand on Jax’s shoulder, and Jax melted under his touch. He swayed forward, leaning into Tom’s space. He smelled of some stupidly expensive brand of aftershave, and Tom wanted—wanted—
He wrenched away, took a step back.
Jax laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. “And the only person who does know is my fucking team captain who claims he’s not a homophobe but can’t stand to touch a queer man.”
Something broke in Tom then. Something he’d hidden under his skin when he was eighteen, pimply, and with the worst haircut anyone had ever had, standing on the draft stage and going first overall to the Sea Lions.
Something he’d kept safe within himself while he shut out more and more of the world around him.
Something that had risen up through his gut, starting the moment he’d leaped in to defend Jax in St. Louis, and grew and grew, taking on the shape of anger to disguise its true form: fear and hurt and shame.
He opened his mouth, and before he could think it through, that broken piece leapt right off his lips.
“I’m not a homophobe, Jax. I’m fucking gay, all right?”