Chapter 10
TEN
JAMIE
The next morning passes in a slow grind of tension and frustration.
Wes and I are not doing so great. He knows I’m upset over what happened last night. Running into him at that pub, having to pretend we’re old acquaintances instead of lovers. No, partners.
To make matters worse, Wes’s dad calls the afternoon after our debacle. Since Mr. Wesley never bothers to call, I get tense the moment I hear Wes say, “Hi, Dad. What do you need?”
The man never calls unless he needs something.
“Uh-huh,” is all Wes says after listening for a moment. “I suppose it’s possible.”
This tells me nothing. I scrub down our kitchen sink as if I’m angry at it, wondering when he’ll get off the phone and tell me what’s up.
And when he doesn’t do that immediately, I find myself blasting the water in the sink.
Then I whistle to myself. I’m making these noises because Roger Wesley doesn’t like it that his son lives with a man.
I don’t exist to that asshole, so it’s fun to remind him that I do.
Fun, if pathetic.
But Wes only moves out of range, carrying his phone into our bedroom where he can hear better.
So my childish quest to be acknowledged ends without satisfaction. But hey, I have a very clean sink.
When Wes finally reappears, I’m so cranky that I don’t even ask what the old man wanted, because I’m not sure I can speak calmly.
He sits down at the bar and watches me until I finally give up the charade and throw down the sponge. “What?”
A beat passes before he speaks. I have never felt as raw as I feel right now. I’ve just discovered that falling in love has a dark side. When you’re mad at the love of your life, it’s impossible to feel joy.
“My dad called,” he says finally.
“I got that,” I say, but my tone is kinder than the words.
He nods. “Remember his buddy at Sports Illustrated?”
“Sure. The guy wanted to do an all-access kind of series about your rookie season.”
Wes nods. “Well, now that my rookie season looks fruitful, he’s pretty bummed that I said no. So he’s pressuring dad to pry an exclusive interview out of me.”
“Can’t you just say no?” He had before.
My boyfriend stares at his hands. “This time he’s working both ends of it. He’s leaning on Frank to get him the story.”
Ah. Frank is the PR guy, and Wes never says no to him, because he thinks the whole coming-out thing will go easier if Frank’s on his side. “So...how about this—tell the guy that if he waits until June, you’ll give him a story worth waiting for.”
Wes looks up at me quickly. “I can’t do that. It would be like dangling a mouse in front of a python and asking him not to strike. He’ll just start digging. With that kind of hint, how hard would it be for him to find what he wants, then just break the story without my help?”
Shit. “Okay. That won’t work.”
“You think?” His voice cracks. “Babe, this is all I think about. I’ve been through every possible scenario. It’s not for lack of trying, all right?”
I know he feels cornered. I get it. The problem is that I don’t see why that will just go away come June. I’m worried that he won’t go through with it. That the idea of a media circus will be so abhorrent to him that he won’t be able to bring himself to pull the trigger.
What the hell will I do then? If Wes decides he needs another year of professional hockey under his belt before he comes out, I don’t think I’ll be able to suck it up.
Suddenly our apartment is just too small. “Going for a run,” I announce.
“Right now?” he asks. Usually we spend his pre-game hours together unless I’m away at a game or practice.
“Just for a little while,” I mutter, not looking him in the eye.
After a quick change, I stick earbuds in and leave the apartment. There are treadmills in the “health center” on the roof of our building. I set a machine to a blisteringly fast pace and pound my frustrations into the rubber conveyor belt.
I know you’re supposed to talk this shit out. The problem with that idea is that I know just what Wes will say. He’ll promise me that in June the secrets are over. But now that date seems so arbitrary to me. Why not May? Why not July?
Why ever?
Even though I know Wes is a man of his word, I can’t help but worry. It’s a hard thing I’m asking him to do. I hate being the one who makes him do it, too. If it goes poorly, he might actually resent me.
I will fucking hate that.
A half hour later I’m sweaty but no less miserable. As I head back down to our apartment, I wonder what I’ll say if Wes wants to talk about it.
As it turns out, we don’t talk about it.
Getting off the elevator on our floor, I hear pounding. “Wesley! You crazy beast! Open up!”
Blake Riley is standing in front of our door.
“Hey,” I say, because I’m not smart enough to retreat to the gym for another mile or two until he gives up.
“J-Bomb!” Blake’s expression lights up when he sees me. “I have the most vicious hangover. It’s like a sheep with fangs, gnawing on my head!”
“A...sheep?” What? I nudge him out of the way and open the door to our apartment.
“Dude, you need a shower,” Blake motor-mouths as he follows me inside, heading for the kitchen. “I need two pizzas and a quart of coffee. How’s your team doing, man? What do you like on your pizza?”
“Um…” I don’t know which question to answer first.
“Sausage or mushrooms?”
At least that’s a multiple choice question. “Both?”
“I knew I liked you. Go shower. I’ll make coffee,” the guy says from the center of my own kitchen.
A bathroom door opens from deep inside our apartment. “Babe?” Wes calls.
Fuck! “What do you need, Ryan? And Blake wants to know what you like on pizza!”
Blake looks up from his phone. “Your nickname is Babe? Like that pig in the movie?” He snorts.
“No, moron,” Wes says as he rounds the corner. “Like Babe Ruth.”
“You grumpy, Wesley? Hungover, too? I’m ordering pizza.” He puts the phone to his ear. “Sure I’ll hold. But please hurry, we’re desperate.”
I leave them without another word and take my shower in our en suite bathroom.
Blake is too busy talking his ass off to notice.
When I come back ten minutes later, he hasn’t moved from the kitchen.
Now he’s holding a cup of coffee in one of the mugs my mom made, and it makes me feel stabby to choose one with the Toronto team’s insignia on it instead.
Given the mood I’m in, coffee is probably a poor idea. But I pour it anyway.
It’s no comfort to me that Wes looks at least as miserable as I do.
The pizzas arrive during a Blake Riley monologue about the movie Babe and the model he hooked up with last night and something about sheep being scary.
I’m not listening too carefully. While Blake steps into the hallway to pay, Wes reaches across the counter and puts a hand on mine. “How was your run?”
“Okay.” I’m not sure I could spill all the fears in my heart even if Blake wasn’t here. But his presence sure doesn’t help.
Wes sighs, and then Blake is back, and we eat pizza and watch a daytime talk show that only Blake seems interested in.
I make sure to give the death chair a glare as Blake carries his plate over to our coffee table.
Wes is not a stupid man. He takes the death chair, dropping onto the ugly upholstery like a man resigned.
Then I feel like an ass because he has to play the Oilers in a few short hours, and I hope his whole lower back doesn’t seize up from sitting there.
If they lose tonight, I’m going to feel even guiltier than I already do. Yay.
“You ever come to our games, J-bomb?” Blake asks as I finish off the last of my pizza.
“Sometimes,” I say with my mouth full. “I have to coach a late practice tonight, though.”
“Sweet,” he says, taking my plate from my hands. I do appreciate his clean-up skills, though I’m not sure they entirely make up for his barging in unannounced.
As Blake lumbers off to the kitchen, my phone beeps.
I lean forward and see the Facebook notification icon.
Normally I wouldn’t care enough to click on it, not unless it’s from someone in my family, but Wes is sulking hard in his chair and I’m sulking hard inside, and I desperately need a distraction before I pick a lover’s quarrel right in front of Blake.
I open the app and find a status update from my college friend Holly. It says she’s in a relationship now, and there are two photos—pixie-sized Holly on the left and a huge mountain of a man on the right. They make such an unlikely couple—physically, anyway—that I can’t fight a snort.
Which of course captures Blake’s attention. He’s finished cleaning up, and now he’s leaning over the back of the couch, peeking at my phone.
“Ooooh,” he says in approval, tapping one blunt fingertip on Holly’s picture to enlarge it. “And who is this sexy little elf creature?”
“Ah, just a friend from college,” I answer. For some absolutely stupid reason, I’m compelled to add, “An ex, I guess.”
Blake’s gaze shoots toward me in surprise. Or rather, confusion. I can’t make heads or tails of his expression. Nor do I miss the tensing of Wes’s broad shoulders in my peripheral vision.
“Holly’s messaging?” Wes sounds nonchalant. I know better.
“Naah,” I say without looking at him. “Status update on Facebook popped up. I guess she has a new boyfriend.”
“Good for her.” Again, the edge in his tone is only noticeable if you know him as well as I do.
One of Wes’s biggest fears when we first got together was that my attraction to women would come between us.
I’ve assured him over and over again that he’s the only one I want, but sometimes I wonder if he’ll ever believe me.
The thing about Wes, he’s used to disappointment.
Hell, I think disappointment isn’t something he fears, but expects—like he’s forever living in a state of when-will-the-other-shoe-drop.
When will my parents officially disown me, when will the world find out I’m gay, when will the team drop me, when will Jamie leave me.