Chapter One
SELWIN
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
I stare at my agent, Miki Sunhill, and offer him my middle finger. It’s not professional, but after hearing the same question a hundred times over the span of two hours, I’m fed up.
“Swear to God, Mik, if you ask that one more fucking time—”
Miki holds his hands up.
“I’d be a shit agent if I didn’t prepare you. Once this is out, it’s out. You can’t take it back. Your life is going to change. Permanently.”
“I know that, but I said I’m ready. I’ve been thinking about this for years and now it’s time.”
Miki runs an agitated hand through his salt and pepper hair and sighs. The guy’s only thirty-five, but I think he’s grown a few more grays today. Managing athletes is stressful as fuck and I have no clue how he does it—without the aid of booze, that is.
“There’s no telling what the team or the league’s reaction is going to be,” he insists.
“I’m sure they’ll be fine. And I can handle whatever happens. ”
I’m cocky that way, always so sure of myself.
And playing for one of the league’s top ranked teams means I can’t avoid the spotlight.
Miki’s right, once I come out, I’m out. But I need to do it.
I’m tired of the evasions and I’m done hiding.
I have no freaking clue how my teammates are gonna react, but I have faith in them.
This is Chicago after all, a city that’s progressive.
I’ve played with the Bandits since I was drafted; if anyone will have my back, it’s these guys.
Miki nods.
“As long as you’re ready.”
The next day
The team owner, management, and players are informed first thing, but I don’t have time to gauge their reaction since I’m whisked off to make a formal statement at a press conference. Between being bombarded with question after question, and all the camera flashes, I’m in shock that it’s done.
I’m also eating my words. Me, confident?
Not quite.
My socials blow up and not in a good way.
According to a lot of fans, I should’ve kept my mouth shut about my sexuality and stuck to hockey.
I lose a shit ton of followers and block a bunch of hateful trolls.
The disturbing comments rebound in my head and stay there.
At least I get supportive calls and texts from my mom and my younger brothers, Karson and Atticus, but they already know I’m bi.
Then I worry that I’ve put unnecessary pressure on my brothers, because they play professional hockey too.
Karson’s a forward for the Toronto Sentinels and Atticus is a defenseman playing for the HLS, a European league based in Sweden.
Sel: Maybe I should’ve waited.
Karson: Until when? You’re forty? Come on, you did what you felt was right. You’ve been wanting to come out for ages. We got your back, bro.
Atticus: What Kar said. You know I don’t give a fuck what other people think.
I’m not shocked by their response; I cling to it like a goddamn lifeline.
What does surprise me are my teammates’ reactions. Not one of them calls after my announcement. In fact, no one calls, no one texts, no one stops by my place to see me. I’m not liking those odds.
When training starts, I step into the locker room acting more assured than I feel, but it’s not long before my mood takes a serious nosedive.
The atmosphere’s icier than the rink, and there’s none of the usual banter and teasing.
Instead, everyone stares at me like I’ve suddenly grown two heads.
Normally, I’m the first one to make a quip, but my mouth is frozen.
I thought for sure my teammates would tell me, “It’s all good, nothing’s changed,” and “Let’s get on with playing.”
That’s not what happens at all.
I get messages from guys I know on other teams, but unfortunately, not my own. It hurts, no lie. Given my long history with the Bandits, it’s more than hurt—I’m devastated. I thought this was the place I’d spend the rest of my professional hockey career.
This is my home.
Or it was.
A week in and it’s more like hell.
My teammates continue to give me the silent treatment, and a select few make underhanded comments anytime I’m near. Things like, “Some people should have their own fucking locker room,” and “I hope queer isn’t catching.” These guys are a tight-knit group, and they’ve closed ranks on me.
When we’re done on the ice and we head back to the locker room, the weird tension grows.
I start to undress like everyone else and a sudden hush falls in the room.
I pause while I still have most of my gear on, grab my headphones, and sit my ass on the bench with my head down.
With trembling hands, it takes me more than ten minutes to undo my skates.
My stomach clenches so hard I swear I’m gonna puke all over the floor.
I wait, keeping my head down, and my eyes too, until every player heads out and the only sound in the room is the rapid beat of my pulse.
When I’m all alone, I stand up on shaky legs and finally finish undressing.
I take the fastest shower in history, worried that one of the guys might come back—more like terrified about what they might say, or worse, do.
Fuck, I’m concerned that someone might try to physically attack me, and I can’t even believe thoughts like that are running through my mind.
This scenario goes on for two weeks and every day is worse than the previous. I’m so on edge that I’m throwing up before I leave the house. Every fucking day…
On the ice, things appear almost normal, even though on the bench only a handful of guys talk to me, and then only about the game.
Off the ice, I’m ignored by everyone, except for the trainer and the coaching staff.
It’s such a switch compared to how things were last season that I’m walking around like a zombie—scared, angry, and hurt—and all I want is to crawl back home and stay there until I wake up from this nightmare.
My playing suffers too. I make mistake after mistake and Coach offers me a warning.
Several. At this rate, I’m going to get benched before the official season kicks off.
I tell myself to give it more time.
Be patient. Things will work out.
On the last day of the second week, I arrive ahead of everyone else and go to grab a clean jersey from my stall.
Only, it doesn’t look right. When I pull the jersey out, there are splatters of what appears to be red paint covering the black and green material.
My name and number are crossed out. Then I notice what’s written on the front—queers don’t EVER belong here—and an image that brings the point home in a violent and disgusting way.
I swallow down bitter bile as I throw the jersey in my bag and reach for another.
It’s not just my hands shaking, it’s my entire body.
My mind’s reeling, and a wave of panic unlike anything I’ve ever felt threatens to consume me.
I’m gonna pass out.
I can’t do this. I can’t do it.
Grabbing my phone, I make a beeline for the bathroom and call my agent.
“I want out of Chicago, Mik. Now.”
“What? Why? I thought things had quieted down.”
“Yeah, so quiet that no one wants to treat me like I’m a goddamn human being,” I hiss.
“Sorry to snap, but what the hell? These guys were my friends and now they’re all refusing to talk to me.
If they do, it’s only for show in front of the coaching staff.
Other than that, the only communication going on is when they say homophobic shit as I walk by. What the fuck’s happening?”
“I’m sorry, Sel. I really am.”
“I need out. It’s making me physically sick every time I get ready to head to the rink. The guys who’ve hung out at my home, and me at theirs… I thought of them as family. Now they hate me. Do you know how that feels? Like I’m invisible. Like I’m nothing.”
Where I’ll end up, I have no idea. And I still have a ton of questions. Are things going to be the same on another team? Or worse? What do I do if no one wants to hire me? Last season, I was riding so high, and now… now I don’t know anything. Except that my gut tells me to go, so my mind’s made up.
“I didn’t realize things were that bad,” Miki sighs.
“I kept thinking it was the shock of the news, and they’d get over it. But I was wrong,” I snap. “I’m being iced out. They’re all acting like I’m a stranger or worse.”
“Your situation sucks, but the timing’s in your favor. I have a suggestion,” Mik starts.
“Anything.”
“New York’s desperate for defensemen. Hudor’s had to leave due to family stuff and he’s moved back to Norway.”
“For good?”
“Yep. And Jadisky busted his knee in August, turns out, he’ll be gone for at least a year.”
New York. It can’t be any worse than here, can it?
“Alright, let’s do it.”
“Sel, this might take time. I don’t know if they’ll even make you an offer. If they’re smart they will, but there’s no guarantee.”
“Do what you do best, Mik. Make it happen. I have faith in you,” I sigh. “And if I haven’t said it already, thank you. You’ve had my back in all this.”
“Always. But I’ll ask again, are you sure you want to do this?”
It’s the same question he asked me last month.
I knew coming out wouldn’t be easy, but I didn’t think it would be this hard either.
I’ve been so fucking na?ve, and while I’m devastated by my team’s response—and the public’s— maybe I should just stick it out.
Who’s to say it’ll be any better elsewhere?
Only, a new city means I won’t know anyone, and the rejection won’t hurt as bad as it does now. Nothing could be worse than it is now.
Then I remember my jersey.
That’s a threat, and maybe the beginning of something much worse. Something more than disgusted looks, whispered insults, and shunned silence…
“I’m sure. It’s the reason I called you.
Someone on the team left me a warning. They wrote ‘queers don’t ever belong here’ on one of my jerseys, and they added a graphic image of what they meant.
It’s also covered in red paint spatters that look like blood.
I’m sending you pictures now. Ignoring me is one thing, but this?
This is a step too far.” I pause, my voice cracking. “Mik, I don’t feel safe.”
So much for being courageous.
“Fucking assholes!” Mik shouts. “That’s it, I’m calling team management.”
“Fine. Do it.”
“We need an investigation and—”
“No, not that, please. I can’t deal with it. I’m already at a breaking point. Just get me out.”
Three days later, Mik’s gone and done it, and with the paperwork in order, I sign a new contract.
Big Apple, here I come.