Six
OREN
Another one of those confusing signals I get from my father is moments like this. He pays for five season pass tickets to the Anaheim Bobcats. Me included. I’m not allowed to sit out because he calls it family time, a bonding experience.
Yet I sit here, completely ignored unless it’s a jab at me shivering or to declare that I’m not dressed appropriately. Men don’t get cold attending a hockey game, Oren!
Once I tried to bring a blanket and was mocked relentlessly by Dane and Frankie for the entire three hours we were there.
I’ve since learned how to dress in layers without it being a big thing.
Three pairs of socks in my thickest sneakers.
A tee and then a long sleeve shirt under my Bobcats hoodie with my Minden jersey overtop.
And a burnt orange Bobcat beanie. My hands are currently clenched into fists, tucked inside my sleeves because gloves or mittens are also considered weak or some shit.
Honestly, it’s easier on me mentally not to give them ammunition. So I suffer, trying not to shiver ‘like a girl.’
Haze is on my right. He’s barely paying attention to the game as he focuses on his phone.
A glance says he’s chatting with someone, though I don’t look too closely.
He used to be more animated and into hockey as a kid.
Somewhere around when he started high school, he seemed to lose interest in it.
Like me, he’s also stuck here for ‘family time.’
On my other side is Dane, then Frankie, and then my father at the end. Tonight we’re behind the players’ bench in seats that aren’t normally ours. My father has connections through the prison and sometimes comes home with better seats, though our normal ones aren’t bad, in my opinion.
I press my back into the chair and try to sit still to keep in my body heat. Maybe I should invest in hand warmers. Feet warmers. They can be hidden. No one would know.
Anaheim had consistently been a really good team until last season. Listening to my brothers and father, their opinion is that there was too much change in the roster and the players weren’t gelling. I thought they were just having an off year.
This season is different. You don’t need to know much about hockey to understand that four injuries in a single season can be a very defeating blow, both mentally and to the team dynamics.
As someone who understands the game—as one would after eighteen years of forced hockey family time—but has never gotten into the nuances, even I can see the hesitation in the way their players move on the ice.
As if they’re waiting to be struck by Zeus’ lightning bolt and go down with an injury.
I glance down at my jersey. Number eighty-one, Colby Minden.
He was injured a couple weeks ago, the latest in their streak of bad luck.
If I were a superstitious man as I know some hockey players are—Frankie was for sure—I’d say that maybe they accidentally broke a routine.
Or maybe it’s time to change a routine that’s no longer serving them.
But I’m not superstitious. I think it’s just a coincidence.
However, this is the first game that I’ve actually seen a serious injury happen in person. The two players slamming into each other isn’t anything new. It doesn’t even seem significant. I’ve seen the boards shake at times, but this hit is almost light. Regardless, the Florida player goes down.
At first, no one seems to notice until the whistle blows and suddenly, everyone is leaning forward as if those extra few inches would make them see what’s happening. We can’t actually see the player because of where he’s laying on the ice against the boards on this side of the rink.
As is his way, Frankie starts yelling that he needs to just get up and shake it off. He’s had worse hits than that. Blah. Blah. Blah. It’s difficult to tune him out because he’s loud. So loud. And his voice is just one of those that makes you want to scowl.
He’s eventually taken out on a stretcher and Frankie is still throwing shade as if he were making up an injury. Why would someone do that?
The game gets back on course and Florida immediately scores. It’s almost as if Anaheim suffered another injury and became sluggish. Instead, Florida comes back with purpose.
Sighing, I sit back in the seat as the puck drops.
A penalty is called shortly after, though I miss what it is.
According to Frankie, it’s a shit call. He has all sorts of opinions.
Just ask him and he’ll gladly tell you how you’re living your life all wrong.
Never mind that he flunked out of college and lives in an apartment above his father’s garage, jobless with no prospects and no effort put into life.
He’s living off his father at twenty-six with no intention of changing anything.
But that’s okay because he’s still a son to be proud of, apparently.
I watch the referees absently. The two assistant captains are nearby as the refs converse. It’s not like I can hear what they’re saying, but I watch anyway. Like everyone else, I end up leaning forward to get a better look. Or pretend I can hear them. I don’t know.
Once they’ve made a decision, I look down at the players’ bench.
Next door to Nutter Bean where I ‘work’ is a small, family-owned bookstore. They have an extensive magazine selection, which always astounds me because physical magazines are kind of a thing of the past, but there you have it.
Right in the window, three years ago, was the latest issue of SCORE, the hockey magazine nationwide. And on the front was the new coach in nothing but his underwear, leaning against a car with some photoshopped background.
I stared. For a very long time. Honestly, I couldn’t help myself. Had I not known I was gay before, seeing this man told me all I needed to know.
Still, when I look down at the bench to see how the coaching team decides to handle the call—again, as if I could actually hear their conversation—I can still see the magazine cover in my head.
A dusting of dark hair on his chest and below his navel.
Well groomed two or three days of beard growth.
Dark hair, short and neatly styled. He had gorgeous abs, perfect pecs, sexy arms. And the most soulful brown eyes I’ve ever seen.
Then he turns and our eyes lock. Seriously, he looks right at me! My eyes widen in surprise as my heart begins to race wildly. I’m not sure how long we stare at each other until he turns away and I can suddenly breathe again.
I’m barely watching the game after that. I can’t help myself; all I can do is stare at Adak Nemaczekk. I’m no longer seeing the magazine, though. I just see him as he is right now. In his dark blue suit with a burnt orange tie.
He glances back at me several times. If anyone else notices, they don’t say anything.
The game ends and both teams, retreat to the chutes.
Adak turns again and looks at me. My heart jumps when he turns his assistant coach toward the stands.
I can see Adak’s mouth moving and then Traer Williams’ eyes are on me too.
He gives Adak a perplexed look, but nods.
And then Adak moves to follow the team, though he keeps looking at me as he leaves until he can no longer see me.
I don’t move. I don’t think I can. Which makes the fact that my family is never in a huge hurry to leave a relief. They tend to let the crowds go first, so we don’t even get out of our seats for at least ten minutes.
I’m busy remembering Adak’s eyes on me when Dane’s excitement makes me look up. Following the direction he’s looking, my breath catches again. Traer is heading for us. There’s no doubt. And he’s watching me!
He stops in the row in front of ours that’s already been vacated and offers me a smile, then his hand. “Hi. I’m Traer Williams.”
Swallowing, I reach forward and shake his hand. “Oren Prosser,” I say, feeling the way all of my three brothers and our father are staring. Silent.
“I’d like to invite you out back if you’re available,” Traer says.
Holy hell, I’m going to be sick.
“Uh… yeah. Okay. Thank you,” I say, trying to keep my voice from squeaking.
“Why are you inviting my son back?” Dad asks.
A cold bath of water runs down my back. He’s going to take this moment from me! It takes a lot to keep my expression as neutral as possible.
Traer looks at my father. “Sometimes we invite fans in the back to meet the coach and team,” he says without missing a beat.
Dad grips Frankie’s shoulder. “Frankie is a huge fan. He played hockey in school. He’d be honored to have this privilege.” Frankie is grinning proudly, ear to ear, practically bouncing in his seat.
A sick pit forms in my stomach as I watch Traer.
He doesn’t hesitate when answering and does so with a smile. “It’s always great to meet fans,” Traer says, giving Frankie a charming smile. “But we’d really like Oren to join us.”
And now I can feel Frankie’s hostility directed at me as he stares lasers into the side of my head. Dane, Haze, and my father’s attention are on me too.
I wait a beat. Wait to see if my father will refuse. When he doesn’t say anything, I slowly get up. Haze does as well, letting his seat fold in as he makes room for me to walk by him.
“How long will you have Oren?” my dad asks.
Traer looks at me as I continue to move to the end of the row, keeping parallel to him. “We’ll make sure he gets home safely. No need to wait on him.” He flashes my father a smile.
When we meet in the aisle, Traer leans in. “You’re over eighteen, aren’t you?”
I snort. “I’m twenty-four.”
He nods, his shoulders relaxing. I follow him to the chute and we head down the hall. I’ve never been in the bowels of an arena before. When I’m sure we’re far enough away from my family, I ask, “Why was I chosen to come down here?”
Traer looks at me, amused. “I don’t know. Coach Adak asked me to grab you before you could leave. Are you friends?”
I shake my head. “We’ve never met.”
His amused look changes. “Ah.” I flush and turn away so he can’t see it. He opens a door and flips a light on. I’m in what is unmistakably an office. “Adak will be in shortly, if you don’t mind waiting.”
I shake my head again. “I don’t mind.” Honestly, even if he’s asking me back here to tell me I’ve offended him in some way, it’s better than going home right now.
Traer nods. He gestures to a chair and then backs out the door, leaving it slightly ajar.
From down the hall, I can hear voices in the distance and wonder how close I am to the locker rooms. I may not be a die-hard fan, but it’s still super cool to be back here.
I’m this close to professional hockey players!
I’m trying really hard not to shake with nerves. When the door opens again, I nearly jump out of my skin.
It’s him. Adak Nemaczekk walks in and good fucking lord, the magazine is nothing compared to the real man. He’s even more stunning in person. My tongue is far too big suddenly to speak or even swallow.
He stares at me, and our eyes lock again, just like when they first met in the crowd. A minute passes and I swear something is happening. Something big. Something out of my control.
Then he becomes animated again and shuts the door, his hand still on the knob. “Hi,” he says and his voice! Oh hell, I swoon!
“Hello,” I whisper. That’s as loud as I can manage.
“I’m Adak,” he says, taking a step closer and offering me his hand.
My god, I get to touch him! Trying to keep my shaking contained, I give him my hand. He doesn’t shake it. Just holds it. My heart tries to pound its way out of my chest. “Oren,” I manage to say, probably all squeaky or croaky.
“Oren,” he repeats, a smile touching his lips. I’m pretty sure he sighs. His lips part as if he’s going to say something else, but there’s a knock on the door.
“Coach?”
Adak glances at the door with a frown. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
Footsteps move away, and Adak turns to me. “Are you free tonight? Can I take you to dinner?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Are you able to wait a bit? Or I can pick you up?”
“I’ll wait,” I insist. There’s no way to explain why the Anaheim Bobcats coach is picking me up at ten to make it believable.
His hand grips mine a little tighter before he lets it go. “It’ll probably be half an hour or so. Is that okay?”
“Yes,” I say, nodding.
His smile does things to me. My chest tightens and my stomach flutters. “I’ll be right back. Make yourself comfortable.”
“Okay,” I say and watch as he leaves. He doesn’t shut the door completely. It’s left open more than Traer left it, so I can see people walk by as I stare into the hall.
God, this isn’t really happening, is it? Have I dreamed far too many fantasies and now I’m imagining them around me?
I pull out my phone and contemplate texting Huntley just so he can talk me down. But my hand grips my phone tightly. Just as I decide to stuff it back in my pocket, I receive a text from my brother.
Frankie
Your such a shit. Wut have u evr done 2 deserve 2 meet the team!!!
If I had the guts to do so, I’d tell him at least I have a job, even if it’s not the one they believe I have.
But I don’t respond. I never respond. Swiping it off the screen, I push the phone into my pocket.
His text does the trick, though. My nerves are no longer like live wires shooting through my limbs.
I’m not shaking. Frankie’s text reminds me that whatever this is, it’s likely just a misunderstanding.
Then Adak comes back and the way he looks at me does a very dangerous thing. It makes me hope for something better than what I’ve ever had.