Chapter 31
Milo
It’s been a few months since we’ve come out to the team, and everyone really seems to have gotten on board. At the very least, they’re not giving us uncomfortable side-eyes anymore. Paxton must have talked to them at some point. I so appreciate that man and his awesome captaining skills.
Home life has been incredible. Beau has been trying—like, genuinely trying—with his sobriety.
Neither of us subscribes to the twelve-step program, and the research we’ve done together talks about sobriety not being a linear journey.
We’ve looked into support groups, but for now, I’m just supporting him as best I can.
We still haven’t actually labeled what we are, which I find incredibly frustrating, but I’m too embarrassed to ask him. Are we boyfriends? Partners? Lovers?
Ew. That sounds so gross.
In all honesty, though, I don’t need a label, as long as I have Beau.
Though, one would be nice.
My face breaks out into the dopiest smile thinking about my man. Thinking about his dark eyes and wild curls. The man in question is curled up next to me on the couch, his head on my lap, my fingers running through said curls.
His body is tense, and I know he’s thinking about the game tomorrow.
We’re flying out tonight to play in Dallas. It’s his first game back. It’s also the first playoff game that Minnesota has been a part of in years. I can tell he’s feeling so much pressure about everything.
“I really want a drink,” he mutters. I start petting his head because I know he loves it, but also because I don’t really have anything to say to that. The first few times I responded with something, Beau told me that my words came off as judgmental. That’s the last thing I want.
I really want to be there for him in every way possible. It’s just hard when he’s also on this difficult journey. A journey that I’ve never experienced myself and that I’ve already come off as judgmental about. How can I be supportive if I don’t know what to say?
So I’ve decided I’m going to start seeing someone. A therapist. Not all the time, just enough so I know how to respond in moments like right now. So I know how to support him without sounding like I’m judging him.
Because, in all honesty, I’m so proud of him, of everything he’s done so far this year. How far he’s come just since being injured. How far he’s come with his sobriety. I’m so, so proud of him.
But in moments like this, quiet moments where he’s scared and unsure of himself, when he wants to fall back into old patterns, I’m just not sure how I can best support him. I want to be the best boyfriend, partner, lover, whatever he could ever ask for. I want to be the best person for him.
I wonder sometimes if maybe my parents did something of a number on me.
Part of me doesn’t trust that any of this is really real.
That I have a man who loves me. I’ve spent nights so convinced that I’m going to wake up and none of it will have been real, or that the love we’ve professed to each other will be treated like nothing more than a passing fancy.
But maybe that’s because for years I’ve been told by my parents that what I believe is a lie.
But I’m starting to see now.
They are the liars.
They said that if I came out, my career would be over. That my life would be over. They told me to hide that part of myself and never let it out, because if anyone ever saw that side of me, they would be disgusted with me.
They were wrong.
Looking back, it was blatant homophobia disguised as parental concern.
That seems so much more obvious now. Like I should have been able to see it if I didn’t have the blinders of my own fear on.
It’s hard not to immediately blame myself for trusting them all those years, as if they weren’t the only source of truth I knew growing up.
But Beau has helped me navigate that in his own weird way. It feels like for every instance they told me I would be nothing, he’s made me feel like I am everything.
But that’s a lot of weight to put on one person, especially someone who’s going through their own mental health issues. So, yeah. Therapist.
I think I’m going to give it a go and see if I can encourage Beau to go, for his sobriety and just all the bullshit with his parents. I bet he would. I don’t feel nervous telling him I’m going myself, but the thought of suggesting he go… Sometimes people can be sensitive about their mental health.
I’m not going to be a dick about it or anything. I just think it may help. I’m not going to be one of those assholes who gives him an ultimatum. I’m going to support him, whatever he chooses.
He pushes himself to sit up and looks at me, really looks at me, like he’s trying to see my soul through my eyes. I wonder exactly what it is he’s looking for.
He must find it, because he sidles up next to me, rubbing his shoulder against mine and starting his suggestive little dance. One thing I will never complain about is Beau’s chosen method of distraction from needing a drink: sex.
I stand, laughing, and pull him to his feet. When he’s standing, he decides to show off a little by pulling me into his arms and sweeping my legs up around his waist. I’m still laughing as he carries us into the kitchen and has his way with me.
I hate the atmosphere in other teams’ arenas. I hate the boos and the jeers. I hate the animosity stifling the air. But I absolutely love knowing the Zambonis are going to be cleaning their blood off the ice later.
Oh fuck.
That was kind of intense.
I shake the ugliness from my head and focus on the warmups, my teammates smashing puck after puck in my direction. I feel like I’m going to be on fire tonight.
Another puck thuds against my heavy padding when I notice Dallas’s side looking over at us. It may just be my ego, but it feels like they’re looking at me. They better not try the same shit, not when Beau is still healing. Not when he shouldn’t be getting into any kind of fights.
Speaking of, he skates over to me, grabbing my water bottle from on top of the pipes.
“Does something seem kind of off tonight?” he asks as he aims and squirts water past my mask and into my mouth. The move feels kind of slutty, and I will my cock to calm down. I nod, eyeing the ice to make sure no one is going to blast either of us with a lightning-fast puck.
He’s looking toward the other end of the rink, and I follow his gaze. Erickson, the player who crowded the crease that one game, is glaring our way. Beau, the antagonistic little shit that he is, blows him a kiss. I’m sure if he wasn’t wearing giant gloves, he’d be flipping us off.
I smack Beau’s shoulder, the better of the two, and he laughs. His smile is wide and his eyes crinkle a little at the sides. I love when he laughs, when it’s a real, full, genuine laugh like this.
“I love you,” I say earnestly, albeit quietly. And I do. And I have to say it right now, because the smile on his face could destroy me, and I simply have to let him know.
His smile becomes a small, secret thing, just between us, and I match it.
“I love you too. Now, let’s kick some ass.”
The game gets underway, and there’s no time for settling in.
Dallas puts me right to work with a dump-and-chase, obviously trying to unsettle me.
Their defense crashes the crease early. It’s as if they’re trying to make the crease entirely unlivable.
There are several warning whistles but no penalties as my stick gets kicked, my pads get hacked, and I’m snowed on.
It’s an all-out war against me. They’re not trying to simply beat me. They want me to flinch.
Rebound after rebound is shoved back toward me. Kirill and Oskar are scrambling. It feels like the ice is absolute chaos.
Suddenly, Dallas—Erickson specifically—bowls into me. No call, no whistle, nothing. I push him off me as I force myself to stand. Beau is flying toward us.
“Here comes your boyfriend, you fag.” He spits at my skates. “Can’t wait to get him ejected from the game again.”
But the body that slams into Erickson isn’t my Beau. I see the number thirty-two. It’s Oskar, who’s thrown his gloves and is smashing his fist into Erickson’s face.
Beau slides to a stop next to me, checking me over before looking down at the heap of punches and flailing skates on the ice.
When the refs finally break it up, it’s not just Oskar who gets a penalty. He skates past us and smiles.
“Nobody goes after my goalie,” he says with a jaunty wink. “We’ve got your back.” And off he skates to the sin bin.
Beau and I look at each other. Maybe we’re not so alone.