Nineteen
ADAK
Lamar Gibbon
What’re you wearing today?
Oh damn. Sorry. I just reread that. I didn’t mean it like that, Coach. I swear. I just meant what COLOR are you wearing? I’m sorry. Please don’t fire me.
I shake my head, chuckling. I’ve said it all my hockey life… goalies are a breed of their own.
Glancing in my closet, I let my eyes roam over my collection of suits.
Most of them are pretty generic—grays, dark blues, black.
I have the occasional splash of color. A burnt orange suit I bought when I joined Anaheim that I rarely wear, but the color is perfectly suited for our team colors.
There’s also a deep purple one that I love, but I feel like maybe it’s a little too… royal for everyday wear.
My shirts are within the same color palettes too. It’s the ties that vary widely. I’m not much for design—there aren’t any margarita glasses or paw prints on my ties. But there are stripes, paisley prints, and such.
Me
Why do you ask?
Lamar Gibbon
Please, please just tell me!
I pull a suit at random and hang it on the hook for me to steam. I pull a shirt and hook the hanger on the suit’s hanger. Then drape a tie over it. I send a picture to Lamar.
Me
We best not be twinning today, Gibbs.
Lamar Gibbon
Ohhhh! I didn’t even think of that!
Great. Now we will be wearing the same suit.
I chuckle and tend to my suit, putting the pants on a separate hanger, and then I load all four pieces into the steaming machine that’s in the corner of my closet.
I’m not sure if it actually cleans like a dry cleaner, but it comes out smelling fresh, so I feel better about it.
I find Oren on the couch when I come downstairs. He’s sitting in the corner, taking up as little real estate as possible. One leg is folded under him, with the other bent at the knee. He’s staring into his phone with his bottom lip between his teeth.
I almost don’t ask. I’m not sure I want to know.
“What did you find?”
His eyes flicker up to mine and he smiles. It’s small and light. There’s a crease in his forehead again that’s been there since I came home yesterday. Worry. Upset. Oren shakes his head.
“Nothing,” he says, quietly. “The post is still there, though. I really wish someone would take it down.”
“We live in a country that likes to cry freedom of speech when it’s convenient. I’m sure this is one of those times,” I say when I stop beside the couch.
Oren sighs, dropping his gaze back to the phone. There’s an absurd amount of shares, reactions, and comments on this post. He’s right. I really wish it would go away.
I know the accusations aren’t true. Oren knows that. My team and the league know that. Though I haven’t looked at it since Crowley showed me yesterday, the vast majority of the comments support the fact that it’s not true.
But my gut twists that these words are even in the universe. It’s upsetting.
Crowley called first thing this morning to tell me what the plan is and the actions that the franchise and league are taking against this statement. Already they’ve issued statements and official posts speaking against it and the man who posted it.
He also told me that more and more videos and posts like the girl he showed me yesterday are popping up.
He says they’re coming in droves. “Even better, there’s now a movement against Prosser, posting evidence of what he’s done to his son.
There are pictures and testimonials. If anything, I think this is going to overwhelmingly persecute Jessup Prosser while touching you very little. ”
“Are we going to have a problem at the game tonight?” I ask.
“No. But I suggest convincing Oren to stay home. I have a feeling he won’t want the attention he’s likely going to get,” Crowley says.
He’s absolutely right. Oren readily agreed to stay home, and he’d have the game playing on the television. I know this is the safest and most mentally healthy place for him, so I shouldn’t worry about him being home.
But I know that I won’t stop worrying. His father is out there. Just because I don’t think he knows where I live doesn’t mean he hasn’t figured it out and is biding his time. I don’t want to see Oren under that kind of stress.
He has Jack’s number. One of the calls I put in on my way home yesterday was to my home security company explaining the situation and asking them to put my home on high alert.
Maybe I should suggest he invite his friends over.
“I’m sorry this is happening,” Oren says quietly.
I crouch in front of him and take his hand.
His blue eyes meet mine. “You’re safe, Oren.
That’s what matters to me. People can spread their lies all they want.
The world has already figured out that your father is a liar, especially since this post directly followed a statement from the EEPD that the missing person report was issued with false information and that the circumstances are being investigated internally.
Everyone sees it for what it is: a sick man not getting what he wants, so he’s trying a new tactic. ”
“You know what’s funny?” Oren asks. I shake my head. “Not even the anti-LGBTQIA+ organizations or religious zealots are piping up to support him much. Maybe even they see what a mess he’s caused himself.”
I cup the side of his face. “Exactly. I’m not worried, Oren. Please don’t worry about it either.”
Oren nods and turns his screen off. “When do you have to go?”
“Not for a while.” I pause to study his face. “Want to invite your friends over tonight? I know they’ve been worried about you.”
He gives me a grin that says he knows exactly why I’m suggesting it. “I’ll be fine. He doesn’t know where you live.”
I’m less convinced of that, though. There are still dirty cops at EEPD. No suspensions or probations have happened yet. It’s too soon for that. Which means there are ways that Jessup can find my address. Even without the cops, I know there are ways.
“Oren, is there any reason to be concerned about a more violent attack?”
His eyebrows knit together, and he immediately begins to shake his head, but stops abruptly.
“I-I’m not sure. While I want to say no, I don’t know if that’s reflex or instinct or…
something else. I didn’t think he’d actually touch me, either.
I’d have told you no if you’d asked if I thought he’d do that. ”
My guess would be he didn’t think his father would put bars over his window or deadbolt his door from the outside, either. I can’t imagine the fear that lives inside him at the prospect that his father will succeed in forcing him into that prison.
But there’s one thing that I’m sure offers him comfort.
In the chance that his father succeeds, people know the truth now.
I know. The police know. There’s no fucking way I’ll let Jessup take Oren.
Not even for myself, but Oren will never end up in that kind of situation again. He’s lived through enough.
“I don’t know,” Oren says after another minute has passed. “Maybe I should be concerned. Maybe we should be concerned. He’s attacking you now too.”
The thing is, Oren’s right. Is it wise of me to think that this man won’t resort to physical violence? Is he mentally unwell or is this all calculated? Does he have a gun? He’s worked in a prison for thirty years—has he made criminal connections?
Suddenly, I have a whole new set of concerns to consider.
Leaning forward, I rest my forehead against Oren’s. “We’ll figure this out.”
He nods.
I press my lips to his forehead and let his warmth seep into me. “I’m going to get lunch ready.” Oren nods again. “Think about having your friends over, okay?”
His smile is amused, but he nods.
One of the best things about my house is the open plan. I can see Oren from most places on the main floor. In times like this, I appreciate the fact that I can see if he becomes upset or anxious.
As soon as I pull food from the freezer, my phone rings. Pulling it out, I’m surprised to find Egon’s name. Fearing my nephew might be hurt, I answer.
“Hey, Coach,” Egon says. His tone makes me relax. I have a feeling if Rake was in any way hurt, Egon would sound a lot more stressed. He almost sounds… cheery.
“Hey, Egon. Everything okay?”
As I ask, I realize how many times a day we ask this question.
It’s compulsion. Expectation. As is the answer we anticipate receiving.
Anything other than ‘I’m fine’ or some variation brings the interaction to a complete halt as our minds try to process how we’re supposed to proceed in this disrupted script.
“Yep. So, listen. My friend on the team, Noah? Do you know him?”
“I know of him, yes. I’m not sure we’ve ever spoken. Why?”
“So…” He hesitates before continuing. “Okay, so I was kind of ranting yesterday to the other PT here, Sam, about that asshole posting things. I wasn’t being particularly quiet about it, but we were in the PT office, so I didn’t think to be concerned.
Besides, I know my team was just as disgusted as the rest of the world.
Mind you, this was yesterday before we came over. ”
I forget how this man tells stories. Despite the topic, I smile and squish the phone between my ear and shoulder so I can continue preparing lunch.
“So this morning, Noah comes in early. I’m always here when Rake’s working.
Yeah, and he comes in and asks if we can speak privately.
Sam wasn’t in yet, so we were already alone.
He tells me he has this friend and when Noah called last night to tell him the situation, his friend says that he’ll work on silencing this Jessup Prosser.
I kind of laughed, but… Noah was completely serious.
He used the word ‘silenced’ like it was an action. Like in movies.”
My hands have stilled at this point, not sure at all how to process this. “What are you saying?” I ask carefully.