Chapter 11
ELEVEN
JAMIE
When Friday comes, Wes leaves for a game in New York, and, frankly, I’m relieved again. I hate myself for feeling this way, but I’ve had a bitch of a time pasting on a happy face this week. I’m not having success with that now either, because my team’s scrimmage today is a total disaster.
While Wes’s team had won both of their home games this week, mine is on a four-game losing streak since our tourney in Montreal. Morale is low. The boys are angry and frustrated, and it’s showing in their game play.
I blow the whistle for the third time in ten minutes, skating toward the two red-faced teenagers who are exchanging not-so-pleasant words in the faceoff. “Cool it,” I snap when one of them hurls a rather nasty insult about his teammate’s mother.
Barrie doesn’t even look repentant. “He started it.”
Taylor protests. “Bullshit!”
They break out in another round of heated bickering, and it takes a few seconds for me to figure out what they’re bitching about.
Apparently Barrie had accused Taylor of being the reason we lost our last game, since Taylor is the one who drew a completely unnecessary penalty that resulted in the other team scoring on the power play.
Taylor refused to accept the blame (and why should he?
It takes a lot more than one player’s error to lose a game) and started chirping that Barrie’s single mom is a cougar.
It’s obvious my players are not handling our recent losses very well.
“Enough!” I slice my hand through the air, silencing the two teens. I glare at Barrie. “Throwing blame around is not going to un-lose us those games.” I glare at Taylor. “And talking trash about someone’s mother is not going to make you any friends.”
The boys’ expressions darken sullenly.
I blow my whistle again, making them both jump. “One-minute penalties for unsportsmanlike behavior. Sin bin—both of you.”
As they skate off toward their respective penalty boxes, I notice the unhappy expressions of their teammates.
I get it. I hate losing, too. But I’m a twenty-three-year-old ex-college hockey player with plenty of losses under his belt and a thick skin that formed as a result.
These are sixteen-year-olds who have always excelled in the sport, always been the best players on whatever middle school or junior high teams they were recruited from.
Now they’re in the major juniors competing with guys who are as good if not better than they are, and they’re not used to no longer being the best.
“Je-sus fuckin’ Christ,” Danton mutters to me an hour later, as we trudge into the coaches’ locker room. “These little faggots are spoiled rotten—”
“Don’t use slurs,” I interject. But it’s like yelling into the wind. His rant doesn’t break stride.
“—that’s why they keep losing,” he goes on. “They have no discipline, no work ethic. They think the wins are just gonna be handed to them on a silver platter.”
Frowning, I sink onto the bench and unlace my skates. “That’s not true. They’ve worked their asses off for years to reach this point. Most of these kids learned to skate before they learned to walk.”
He makes a derisive sound. “Exactly. They were hockey wonder kids, showered with praise by their parents, teachers, coaches. They think they’re the best because everyone tells them they’re the best.”
They are the best, I want to argue. These kids have more talent in their pinkie fingers than most players only dream of having, including ones currently playing in the NHL. They just need to hone that talent, build on the skills that already come naturally to them and learn how to get even better.
But there’s no point in arguing with Danton.
The man is a decent player, but I’m starting to think that his ignorance is a disease without a cure.
Frazier told me the other night that Danton grew up in a “hick town up north” (Frazier’s words, not mine), where prejudice and ignorance are pretty much passed down from generation to generation. I wasn’t surprised to hear it.
I hurriedly shove my skates in my locker and slip into my boots and winter coat. The less time I spend with Danton, the better. Though it bums me out that I can’t bring myself to like the man, seeing as how he’s the one I work most closely with.
When I step out of the arena five minutes later, I’m disheartened to find that it’s still snowing.
I woke up this morning to a blizzard raging outside my window.
As a result, practice was postponed three hours until the city’s snowplows could take care of the mountains of snow that had dumped onto the streets overnight.
I ended up driving Wes’s Honda Pilot to work because I didn’t want to deal with the long walk to and from the subway in such shitty conditions.
I trudge through the snowy parking lot and slide into the big black SUV, instantly switching on the butt warmers and blasting the heat.
White flakes fall steadily beyond the windshield, and I wonder if the weather is this bad in New York.
Wes texted earlier to say they’d landed safely, but with the snow falling harder than it had this morning, I’m suddenly worried he might not make it back tonight.
Or maybe I’m just relieved again. If Wes is snowed in, that means another night of not having to pretend things haven’t gone to the shitter between us.
I swallow a groan and pull out of the parking lot, but I’m only five minutes into the slow drive home when my phone rings.
Since my Bluetooth is paired with the SUV, I can see on the car’s dash screen that my sister is calling.
All I have to do is click a button to answer, leaving my hands free to steer the car through the foot of snow on the road.
“Hey,” I greet Jess. “What’s up?”
Instead of hello, she says, “Mom’s worried about you. She thinks aliens descended on Toronto and turned you into a pod person.”
“Gleep glorp,” I say monotonously.
My sister’s laughter echoes in the car. “I said aliens, not robots. I’m pretty sure extraterrestrials have a more advanced language than gleep glorp.” She pauses. “Seriously, though. Are you okay over there in Siberia, Jamester?”
“I’m fine. I have no idea why Mom’s worried—I spoke to her on the phone last night.”
“That’s why she’s worried. She said you didn’t sound like your usual self.”
Not for the first time, I curse my mother for knowing me so damn well. She’d called while Wes and I were watching Banshee—on opposite ends of the couch. It had been another tension-filled night for us, but I thought I’d sounded pretty chipper on the phone.
“Tell her there’s no reason to worry. Everything is okay here. I promise.”
Unfortunately, Jess knows me as well as Mom does. Of all my siblings, she’s the one who’s closest in age to me, and the two of us have always been close.
“You’re lying.” Suspicion sharpens her voice. “What aren’t you telling me?” There’s a sudden gasp. “Oh no. Please don’t tell me you and Wes broke up.”
Pain shoots through my heart. Just the thought fills me with panic. “No,” I say quickly. “Of course not.”
She sounds relieved. “Okay. Thank God. You had me worried now.”
“Wes and I are fine,” I assure her.
Another pause, then, “You’re lying again.” She curses softly. “Are you guys having problems?”
Frustration has my fingers tightening over the steering wheel. “We’re fine,” I repeat, grinding out each word.
“James.” Her tone is firm.
“Jessica.” My tone is firmer.
“I swear to God, if you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’m siccing Mom on you. And Dad. Actually, no—I’m calling Tammy.”
“Aw shit, don’t do that.” The threat is enough to loosen my lips, because as much as I love our older sister, Tammy is even worse than Mom when it comes to me.
When I was born, twelve-year-old Tammy had informed everyone in the family that I was her baby.
She would carry me around like I was her doll and fuss over me like a mother hen.
As I got older, she eased up a bit, but she’s still ridiculously overprotective of me, and the first person to come to my rescue whenever I’m in trouble. Or when she thinks I’m in trouble.
“I’m waiting…”
Jess’s stern voice brings another silent groan. I take a breath, then offer the fewest amount of details possible. “Wes and I are in a weird place right now.”
“Cryptic, much? I mean, define weird. And by place, are we talking literal place? Are you at an S&M club right now? Did you join the circus?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Jessica, we joined the circus. Wes trains seals and I ride the bears. We bunk with the bearded lady and the guy who swallows swords.”
“Is that a gay euphemism? Swallowing swords?” She laughs at her own stupid joke before going serious again. “Are you guys fighting?”
“Not really.”
I reach an intersection and slowly pump the brakes until the SUV skids to a stop.
Up ahead, I notice an ominous line of cars and a whole lot of red taillights.
Shit, is there an accident up there? I’ve been driving for ten minutes and I’m barely half a mile away from the arena. At this rate, I’ll never get home.
“Damn it, Jamie. Will you please stop with this vague bullshit and talk to me like an adult?”
I press my lips together, but it doesn’t stop the confession from flying out. “It’s fucking hard, okay? He’s not fucking home half the time, and when he is home, all we do is hide. We hide in our condo, we hide from the press, we just fucking hide. And I’m sick of it, all right?”
Her breath hitches. “Oh. Okay, wow. Those were a lot of F-bombs. Um.” Jess softens her tone. “How long have you been unhappy?”
The question catches me off guard. “I’m...not unhappy.” No, that’s not true. I am unhappy. I…I just miss my boyfriend, damn it. “I’m frustrated.”
“But you knew going into this that you were going to keep the relationship on the DL,” Jess points out. “You and Wes agreed you weren’t coming out until the season ends.”