Rafe
Chapter three
Morning skate ran hard for a Wednesday. Coach Markel had us working the new entry until the bump-back stopped being a decision and started being a reflex. On my fourth rush I hit the line, felt Rook step up, and slid it back to Heath without looking. We came in three across.
“Better,” Coach Markel said.
Trier appeared beside me while I was catching my breath at the boards. “Walked past your stall on the way in this morning.”
“Okay.”
“It’s a show home, Mikkelsen. Tape in rows. Gloves squared up to the shelf like they’re for sale.” He took a long drink. “I’ve played this game for fourteen years. I have never once seen a rookie’s stall that didn’t look like a raccoon situation.”
“I like knowing where my stuff is.”
“Everyone likes knowing where their stuff is. That’s not what this is.” He capped his bottle. “The haircut was a symptom. I see that now. I was treating the symptom.”
He skated off before I could ask what he thought the disease was.
Varga found me during stretching, dropping onto the mat beside me and folding himself over one leg with a groan.
“Did you find out what the suit wanted?” he asked. “Yesterday. Mark.”
“Meeting’s at ten thirty. I don’t know yet.”
“Sponsor thing,” Varga said with total confidence.
“One day after you come out, warm coverage, everybody crying online. Some brand wants your face.” He switched legs.
“Here’s the whole science of it. Say yes to the money.
Say no to anything where you have to hold a product and smile.
If you hold the product and smile once, it’s attached to you forever. Ask Rook about the yogurt.”
“What happened with the yogurt?”
“Ask Rook about it,” Varga said. He pushed himself up and offered me a hand. “You want company? I can come sit in the meeting and be a problem.”
“I think I’m okay.”
“Obviously, you’re okay. That wasn’t my question.” He hauled me to my feet and held on one beat longer than the pull required, looking at me. “Ten thirty. Go be famous.”
The main PR offices were at the arena. They also had a small room on the second floor of the practice facility. I’d been there twice to sign things. The hallway still had framed photos of guys the team had traded.
The door was open. I heard Mark on the phone inside, wrapping up.
I checked my phone. 10:26.
Mark appeared in the doorway, reaching out for a shake.
“Rafe. Right on time. Come on in. Can I get you a coffee?”
The office had a couch and two chairs arranged around a low table. The coffee intended for me was already there, sitting on an Ironhawks coaster.
“Sit, sit.” He took the chair opposite me. He buttoned his jacket, and then unbuttoned it again, seeming more nervous than I’d ever seen him.
“So, first, how are you? Any weirdness about coming out? Anything land wrong online that we should know about?”
“No. It’s been good. My mom’s getting more attention than I am. The Saskatoon paper called.”
“They would.” He smiled. “Okay. So.” He put his hands flat on his knees. “I want to run something by you, and I want to say upfront: this is a request, not a demand. You can say no to this, and if you say no, we never speak of it again and nothing changes for you. Understood?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Our sponsors are excited about you after the first half of the season. Yesterday made them even more excited. The warmth you project is unusual, Rafe. People don’t just respect what you did; they like you, and in this business, that’s gold.
” He leaned forward. “Here’s the idea. There’s a man named Max Gregory.
He’s a creator, home and design, renovations.
He has a big audience, bigger than some of our broadcast numbers, honestly, and he’s funny, professional, gay, and out, possibly the most media-fluent human being in this city. ”
He paused. I understood he was checking whether I was ahead of him. I wasn’t. I was listening.
“The plan is to have the two of you seen together. You would have a few dinners in public and maybe a charitable appearance or two. Nothing scripted. You would just be yourself, and there would be photos of you and a great guy having a great time.”
I nodded.
He spread his hands. “And I want to be straight with you about why. Right now, every reporter in this league wants to know who the newly out rookie is dating. That question is going to follow you into every scrum until it gets an answer. This is the answer. It takes the entire subject off your plate so you can focus on hockey. You’d be publicly dating somebody with none of the responsibilities of real dating. ”
“Everyone would know?” I asked. “Him, the team—“
“Everybody involved is in on it. Max, most of all. His people are excited, too. Nobody’s being fooled who matters, and the fans who want to believe it get a story that makes them happy.
If anybody would get hurt in this, we wouldn’t do it.
” He picked up his phone, thumbed to something, and turned it around. “That’s him.”
The photo was of a young man, laughing at something out of frame with sawdust hanging in the light behind him.
He had dark hair pushed back off his forehead, dark eyes, and a couple of days of beard growth trimmed neatly.
I kept looking at his forearms. He’d rolled his sleeves up past his elbows, and when he braced one hand on the sawhorse, the muscle stood up along his forearm, and a vein ran over the top of it. He was handsome.
“He seems—“ I looked for the word. “Professional.”
“He’s a pro’s pro. You’ll like him. Everyone likes him.” Mark took the phone back. “Now, here’s what I want you to do. Take the time you need. Talk to Hal. Sleep on it if necessary. There’s no—“
“I’ll do it,” I said.
Mark stopped with his mouth still slightly open.
“Yeah?”
“Sure. It makes sense. It helps the team, and it helps him.” I shrugged. “It’s just dinners. I like good food.”
Mark tapped his fingers on the table. “Any plans for dinner tonight?”
I grinned. “Sounds like I have them now.”
Mark laughed. “Okay. Well. I budgeted forty minutes for this and a follow-up call, so you’ve given me my morning back.” He was scrolling on his phone already. “You’ll still talk to Hal. I insist on that. I want him to read everything before you sign anything.”
“Sure.”
“So, Max’s people suggested a place in the West Loop tonight if it worked for you. It will be mellow with one photographer outside when you leave. All you need to do is dinner and a one-block walk. Is it too fast?”
“Tonight’s fine. We don’t fly out until Friday.”
Mark smiled and shook his head. “You know what most guys are like when I bring them anything? Anything at all? Wait, and I’ll tell you next week. I once watched a nine-year veteran take three weeks to approve a birthday tweet.”
He stood, and I stood. He put a hand on my shoulder as he walked me to the door. “You’re making my year, you know that? Between you and me, I needed it.”
“Happy to help,” I said. Making things easy for people by being good at something made me feel useful.
Hal would have questions. He always did. That’s what I paid him to do. I knew what my answers would be.
I was easy to work with. You could ask anyone.
***
The players’ garage was empty. The rest of the team was already gone. My truck sat where it always sat, the third spot from the pillar. I got in my truck, started the engine for the heat, and called Hal.
He picked up on the second ring.
“There he is. National news.”
“That was yesterday. I’m old news now.”
“You’re going to have to walk me through the neighbor haircut sometime; I’m seeing questions.” Papers shuffled on his end. “So. The team called me about a thing, and I told them I hadn’t talked to you yet, so talk to me.”
I laid it all out for him. He listened. He’d listened like that since I was sixteen, when he drove four hours to sit in our kitchen while my dad asked him the same question five ways.
“Okay,” he said when I finished. “First, the mechanics of this are fine. This kind of thing is more common than people think. The paper’s clean, and the walk-away clause means what it says. If it ever stops working, you text me one word, and it’s over by lunch. That’s the easy part.”
“And the hard part?”
A drawer closed. “Here’s the part I care about. Do you want to do this?”
“It makes sense for everybody—“
“That’s not what I asked. I know it makes sense. I’d say no if it didn’t. I’m asking if you want to do it.”
The heater fan hummed. A door clicked somewhere across the garage.
“Honestly? I think it’ll be fun,” I said.
“I’ve never gotten to just—go out, you know?
In juniors I couldn’t, and this fall I’ve been keeping my head down.
This way I get dinners with a guy Mark says is great, the team stops worrying about my quiet phone, and nobody’s waiting on me to have a personal life. It kind of fixes everything.”
There was a brief silence on Hal’s end.
“Well,” he said. “That’s a better answer than I usually get. I’ll pass your number to Max’s people. Expect chaos. I’ve heard he texts like a man being billed for silent hours.”
I laughed.
“All right. I’ll mark up the paper today. A few things that we insist don’t change: nothing exclusive about appearances, nothing that touches hockey scheduling, and if that photographer’s ever anywhere near your building instead of a restaurant, it’s over.”
“Deal.”
“Proud of you, Rafe. Yesterday, I mean. The rest of it, too, but yesterday.” He hung up before I could say anything else.
Before I could put the truck in drive, my phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: this is Max. I’ve been told you’re a real person and not a PR rendering
Hal had apparently sent my cell number while we were still talking. I typed a response.
Max: dinner tonight. I have QUESTIONS about Saskatchewan. multiple. numbered
I laughed out loud.
I saved the contact and texted back:
Rafe: what’s question one
Max: how many cows. be exact
***
I took my usual afternoon nap. When I woke up, I read the team chat.
Trier had posted a photo of a parking ticket.
Trier: $75. My own arena.