Chapter Five #2
I repeat what Sel told me: Trust your instincts. Trust your team.
We come back with a vengeance in the third, with Makela sneaking in a goal on the first shift to tie it 1–1.
Our hot streak doesn’t last long, though, and late in the third, we’re still deadlocked.
Coach sends me and Sel out for a defensive zone faceoff.
My legs are like lead, but I force myself to focus.
The puck drops, but not in our favor, and before I know it, Miami scores.
Now it’s 2–1.
They have the lead, and unfortunately, they keep it. When the final buzzer sounds, just like that, it’s over.
We lost.
We fucking lost by one goddamn goal.
I skate to the bench, head down, disappointment burning under my skin.
I want to prove I belong here, but all I can think about is the mistakes I made.
Did my fuckups cost us a win? Then I remind myself to check my ego.
This is a team sport and it’s not all down to me.
Like my former coach always said, we win together or not at all.
My disappointment is quickly replaced with anger when we go to shake hands with the opposition.
Normally lineups are saved for the playoffs, but since this is a season opener, I guess we’re doing the formal thing.
Several guys from Miami refuse to shake Sel’s hand and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why.
Sel, of course, is classy and acts like nothing’s wrong, continuing down the line like he wasn’t insulted in front of thousands of fans in attendance, not to mention the media and anyone watching on TV.
Homophobic dickbags.
Since I’m the one behind Sel, I make note of the of the guys in question.
I take their hand but don’t look them in the face and mutter “asshole” under my breath.
Fuck them. I’m pretty sure that Makela, who’s behind me, can hear what I say, but I pray that the officials don’t.
Even if I get caught, I don’t care. I can’t stand that kind of shitty behavior.
Some of these guys are young, and yet their attitude is still old-school and fucking toxic.
Afterward, in the locker room, I sit in silence, peeling off my gear and barely holding onto my frustration. Sel drops onto the bench beside me, nudging my shoulder.
“Hey, cheer up,” he says quietly. “You played great. First games are always rough. And Miami’s a tough team to beat.”
“Thanks. I’m okay about the loss. I mean, I’m not okay, but I’ll deal with it,” I admit. “I’m upset about what those guys did to you afterward. It’s disrespectful and makes me furious.”
“I expected it to happen. It’s not the first time since I came out and it won’t be the last.”
I hate hearing the resignation in his voice, and I hate seeing him upset at all. He’s not the same person I met back at camp.
“You should make a formal complaint.”
He shakes his head.
“I’m better off ignoring it and focusing on my game. That’s the only thing I can control,” he replies. “But thanks for the support, Finn. It means more than you know.”
And just that like, the sting of the loss is already behind me.
Sel
Losing always burns, but this one I feel more than most. I’m self-conscious in a way I’ve never been in my career.
Thank God I had Finn to keep an eye on during the game, or I think I would’ve lost it.
And knowing he had my back in turn is the reassurance I need.
It was enough to get me through the first game and hopefully, through what comes next.
There’s a press conference and I’ve been instructed to be there. With my off-ice armor—a.k.a. my three-piece suit—and my nerves at an all-time high, I head for the media room. Coach Range is already seated, as is Berg and Makela. I take the empty seat at the end and fidget with my jacket.
“Why am I here?” Makela complains.
“Because you scored tonight, and you deserve recognition?” Range replies.
“Always same questions about the goal. I do my job, I score. What’s to talk about?”
Good thing the mics aren’t on yet…
“Relax, Makela, you get the easy part. I’m gonna get the hard questions about why we lost,” Berg adds.
“We fucked up. Many times.”
Makela’s bluntness is amusing. Too bad I’m so nervous that my sense of humor is all but absent. Well, maybe not completely. I can think of one person who’s made me smile recently…
When I look up, I spot Finn at the back of the gallery, in a navy suit that fits him to perfection. Most of the other players are still in the locker room. What’s he doing here?
He offers me a thumbs up and I nod.
“The rookie did good for his first time,” Makela comments. “No puking and no shitting his pants either.”
“Funny.”
“This is no joke. Last year, the rookie actually shit his pants before every game. So disgusting,” Makela states with a dramatic grimace. “Thank fuck he’s playing for Minnesota now.”
Coach rolls his eyes. “On that note—”
Hugo comes up to the table to check the mics, the phone in his hand buzzing like a hive of bees. “You gentlemen ready?”
No, no I’m not.
“We’re here, aren’t we? Let’s get this over with,” Makela huffs with a dramatic wave of his hand.
“So grouchy,” Berg chuckles.
Makela scoffs. “Like you enjoy this any more than I do?”
“Not when I’m in the hot seat, no, but I don’t bitch about it every time either.”
“Is not healthy to suppress my opinions. Finnish people don’t do that. Especially when it comes to dealing with these same questions.”
“Zip it, Makela. Save your complaining for later,” Hugo snaps. “Range, you’re up first.”
Hugo grabs a mic and introduces us to the reporters. Coach Range gives a brief overview of the game highlights, and then it’s over to the journalists for their questions. I expect Range or Berg to get blasted about what went wrong, but nope, they go right to me.
“Sel, how are you liking the move to New York? Are fans here supportive of your coming out? What about your colleagues?”
I take a deep breath and lean forward.
“The move has been positive, and I know I made the right decision.”
I’m so full of shit, but it’s all I’ve got.
“You’ll have to ask the fans and my colleagues what they think,” I add.
“What about the loss tonight? Is all this attention on your sexuality affecting your game? And the team’s?”
Coach Range holds his hand up before I can answer. “Don’t go there. Next question, please.”
“But Coach—” The reporter talks back.
Hugo steps in and gives the reporter a death glare that has him shutting up quick.
“Next question,” Hugo barks.
“Evan, what’s your analysis of tonight’s loss for the Rush? What went wrong?”
Berg steeples his hands, and like the captain he is, he takes his time answering. “Everyone on our team played their heart out. Our defense was solid, and our offense was aggressive. But Miami got the drop on us in the third and we’re going to be reviewing why.”
“You’ve got two new defensive players in your lineup, one who’s under intense media scrutiny and another who’s a rookie. Aren’t you worried about how this will play out for the Rush?”
“No. We’ve all been the rookie, including me, and look how I turned out,” he offers a cocky grin to lighten the tension.
“And media attention is something experienced players know how to deal with. I have every confidence that we’re focused on the game.
And when I say ‘we,’ I mean every player on this team. ”
“Mats, talk us through your goal early in the third.”
“Do I have to?” Makela offers an eye roll and a loud sigh that his mic picks up.
A round of laughter echoes through the media room. Hugo shakes his head, and I know for sure that Makela is number two on the PR shit list.
“I joke,” Makela adds and then does his bit by detailing the play and his goal.
My brain shuts off at that point. Even though all the attention in the room is on Makela, I’m anxiously anticipating more questions. Is this the way it’s going to be from now on? My personal life comes first and hockey second?