Chapter Four #2
Finally, after waiting ages for the elevator, we ride up and step out on the tenth floor. I’ve got a west facing corner unit, and Finn’s momentarily speechless when he steps inside.
“Whoa, this is way, way nicer than mine. It’s decorated and everything.”
“I hired someone,” I explain. “I wanted it to feel cozy right away.”
No surprise there. I’ve been hiding out and licking my wounds since Chicago.
I settled on a three-thousand-square-foot unit, with two bedrooms, two baths, and a view of Central Park that captures all the attention.
At night, the city lights up in a glittering display that’s almost too bright to be real.
It still feels like I’m living in a hotel, but I guess that’s normal.
The bones of this place are good: twelve-foot ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a huge kitchen island.
I picked a massive modular couch that seats twelve people—or six hockey players—and I had the designer split it into two units that sit across from each other.
Add in some leather armchairs and a sleek dining table that can accommodate up to sixteen.
Back before my life imploded, I’d host regular dinners for teammates and friends.
Now I’m thinking most of this furniture will collect dust.
“What do you feel like eating?” I ask Finn, pulling out my phone.
“It’s cheat night, so something greasy. Burgers and fries?”
“Two? Three?”
“Three please, well done.”
I tap on the delivery app, and when I find what I’m looking for, I place our order.
“How about a drink while we’re waiting for the food?”
“Ice water’s fine, thanks.”
Stepping into the kitchen, I grab two glasses, fill them with ice, lemon wedges, and filtered water. When I return to the living room, Finn’s settled into one of the sofas with his bag by his feet and a tablet in his hands.
“Coach talked a lot about box out and pinching, and I wanted to get your thoughts on how you see me play these defensive strategies. I feel like box is my strength, but I could do better at pinching. I’m just not sure how.”
I offer Finn a glass and take the seat beside him.
“Let’s start with box out. To be blunt, if you weren’t great at it already, you wouldn’t play at this level.
Your ability to be that barrier, to prevent the opposition from getting shots, tips, and rebounds near the net is what makes a huge difference.
But I notice that you’re more consistent at boxing out in front of the net versus on the boards. ”
“Really?”
“It’s just my opinion. Study Kuznetsov and you’ll see what I mean.” I pause and motion for his tablet. “Or I can show you. Pass it over.”
Finn offers the tablet, and I start searching vids from New York’s last season. When I find one that fits the topic, I tap on it, and we watch it together.
“See how he’s pinning the puck against the boards and using his body to prevent the opponent from gaining control?”
Finn leans in, his face close to mine. He smells like the spicy bodywash the team supplies in the shower room, and I don’t even know why I notice.
“Oh yeah,” he murmurs. “Hold on, I wanna take screenshots.”
I quickly pass the tablet back and shift away from him.
“There are plenty of videos you can watch. Study them, and if you have more questions, we can review it.”
“I also have recordings of some of my Sutton games. They might be useful too.”
I reach for my glass and take a long, slow sip.
“Show me.”
Finn pulls them up and we spend the next half hour reviewing the vids in detail, the conversation never waning.
“You were right,” he finally comments. “I definitely need to get better on the boards.”
Suddenly, my phone pings. It takes me a second to remember why.
“That’s our dinner.”
I hop up off the coach and head for the door to grab our takeout. The bag is hefty, and my mouth waters when I’m hit with the smell of smashed burgers, grilled onions, and greasy fries.
By the time I walk back to the kitchen, Finn’s grabbing plates from the cupboard and setting them on the island.
I concede that it’s nice to have company.
The past month has been the loneliest I’ve ever felt since leaving home for college.
What’s odd is that I’ve received messages from friends like Damien that I’ve neglected to respond to.
Every time I go to reply, I can’t do it.
I’ve isolated myself from everyone except my family because I’m still not sure that I’ve got a handle on my new life.
I used to be self-assured, cocky, and convinced I could handle anything, do anything, including opening up about my sexuality.
But I’m not feeling feisty anymore. And I’ve been na?ve to think that leaving Chicago meant everything would be fine.
In fact, I still feel shame that I left.
Maybe I gave up too soon. Or, thinking about what was written on my old jersey and the fact that none of the guys there have reached out to me, maybe I got out of a situation that would only have gotten worse.
Back and forth, round and round. I don’t fucking know the answers and I hate it.
In any case, the friends who do reach out haven’t pushed when I don’t respond. My brothers, on the other hand, don’t let me get away with anything. If I don’t reply, they call me nonstop until I answer. Our group chat is the only thing keeping me sane at this moment.
That, and the man standing in my home.
“I was admiring your collection of photographs in the living room,” Finn comments. “The ones with your brothers, Karson and Atticus. You’re the oldest, right?”
I nod and set down the bag.