Chapter Twenty-Four
SELWIN
NY RUSH VS. CHICAGO BANDITS
I got decent sleep last night, but only because Finn and I talked for almost an hour, and I finally felt myself settle down. How is it that this man excites me, makes me laugh, and gives me a feeling of safety like no one else? Is this what Damien feels like when he’s with his husband?
Don’t reference the “H” word.
I’m anything but calm this morning, but the reason why surprises me.
It’s taken you this long to figure out your feelings for Finn?
You’re falling in love with him! What else do you think is going on here?
Oh shit, oh fuck, I’m falling…
Nope, already there.
My adrenaline spikes and I jump out of bed, pacing the room. Jesus, today is not the time for this bombshell to hit me. I need to lock those feelings down tight and look at them later.
Much later.
Despite my overwhelming nerves, I do my job and get prepped for game day.
I drink two lattes, eat a massive pile of eggs, avocado, and toast, then pop a couple of ready-made protein shakes in my bag for later.
I rewatch clips, and after that, I try to meditate.
Again. When that doesn’t work, I take a nap on my couch and wake up two hours later feeling rested.
The puck drops in three hours.
I reheat a frozen meal of grilled chicken and pasta—two of them—and eat at the kitchen island while avoiding my phone. I don’t want to look at socials or texts. Finn and I agreed to go no contact today, except when we get to the rink. We both need to stay in our routine, our professional zone.
Hard to do when you’ve just realized you’re in love with him.
No shit.
After I clean up, I search for my favorite suit, the one that makes me feel the most confident.
After slipping on a crisp white shirt, I step into my navy and gray checked pants, vest, and jacket.
No tie today, because I’m having a hard enough time breathing as it is.
Last minute, I throw on sunglasses too. I don’t want anyone, press or otherwise, to see my eyes and notice how nervous I am.
When I arrive at the arena, the place is crawling with press.
I spot Ranken and Berg walking ahead of me, their faces stoic as photo flashes go off.
I’m halfway to my destination, ignoring the shouts from reporters, when someone taps my shoulder from behind.
I turn around and even with my sunglasses on, my eyes hurt.
It’s Makela and he’s decked out in a blinding neon-green suit, cuffs rolled up, and purple biker boots.
“Hey buddy.” Makela taps my arm. “You revved up?”
“Yeah, now that I’ve seen that outfit,” I quip. “I don’t even need an energy drink.”
He rolls his eyes.
“It’s European, Sel. Edgy, unique. You need style advice, you come to me.”
“I think I’m okay as is. I don’t want to give anyone a migraine.”
“You make jokes, finally!”
I crack a small smile. I admit, even with his ego, Makela’s growing on me. We walk and talk on our way to the locker room, and my nerves ratchet up another notch.
As I step inside, my eyes scan for Finn. He’s already geared up, and I quickly look away, no eye contact until we hit the ice. Some guys have the usual banter going on, but the overall mood is charged with tension.
Once we’re suited up and lined up, Range and Laflore appear.
“We know this game’s going to be rough,” Range starts.
“Kirkland’s playing against his old team for the first time and that’s always tense, but in this case, magnify that by a thousand.
Some of you have already assumed why, and Kirkland’s given me permission to confirm; his former teammates did not react kindly to his coming out.
The total opposite. That being the case, I want you all to be on guard.
You wear the Rush uniform and that means you have each other’s backs.
I expect you to protect Sel and each other. ”
There’s a stillness amongst my teammates in response to Range’s pre-game talk.
“And kick the Bandits’ ass so bad they’ll be afraid to come back,” Laflore adds to lighten the mood.
One by one, the guys reach out and pat my helmet, and I nod in appreciation of their support.
“Okay, are we ready?” Range asks.
There are murmurs of “Yes, Coach.”
“What the fuck was that?” Range shouts and holds up his hands. “I said, are you ready!?”
“Yes, Coach!” We shout together.
Berg and Makela tap my shoulder, and I try to settle, but it’s no use.
As we head down the chute and onto the ice, the Rush’s fans are roaring so loud that the sound vibrates through my bones.
This game is going to be a battle, no question.
Every time I glance across the ice, I catch familiar faces—guys I used to call teammates, friends.
Most of them still don’t meet my eyes. The ones who do look like they want to eviscerate me.
My stomach twists painfully and I break out in a cold sweat.
Fuck them. I’m scared but more than determined to do this.
The first period starts, oddly enough, without incident. And without either side scoring.
The puck moves fast, the hits are clean, and for a while it feels like maybe the bad blood between us will stay buried under the ice.
But Chicago falters near the end of the period, and Berg breaks our stalemate.
He finds the back of the net twice in five minutes, and the New York crowd goes nuts.
Our bench surges with energy, sticks banging against the boards.
When the period ends, I feel like so far, so good. We’re ahead, and we’re pumped.
In the second period, however, a weird unease tightens my gut.
We’ve got two goals on Chicago and no surprise, they’re frustrated. The Bandits hit back harder, their chirps louder, their play as aggressive as it can get. I don’t like it, and I can sense it coming before it happens. The turnaround in their focus.
When a shift change is called, Finn and I are back in it.
I play the most intense hockey of my life, determined to prove to these guys that they lost out.
I notice the Bandits’ most aggressive enforcer, my former “friend” Eric Donaldson, stops chasing the puck and starts chasing players.
His first aim is Makela, but our forward’s too fast and dekes around him.
What the fuck? Why Makela?
I’m the one they hate.
Donaldson and his teammates don’t let up, barreling down the ice like their asses are on fire.
And there, in the middle of a rush, it happens.
Even though Finn doesn’t have the puck, Donaldson’s gunning for him and everyone’s attention is elsewhere. I take off, but it happens so fast, and I’m too late. I can’t protect my partner.
Without pause, Donaldson rams Finn, driving him sideways into the boards.
Finn!
The horrible crack of contact echoes in my ears, and I watch in horror as Finn crumples to the ice. The ref blows a whistle to stop the play.
“Jesus Christ.”
It’s all I can say because I feel like I’m choking.
I race over to Finn, but there are already trainers and medics rushing out to help, checking him over.
Finn replies to their questions—he’s talking, thank fuck—but I can’t hear a word.
All I see his beautiful face etched in pain, his right hand clutching his left arm.
I don’t get a chance to say anything before they help Finn up and off the ice.
He’s gone.
Fear turns to absolute fury. It burns through every nerve in my body as I rush toward Donaldson. Goddamn motherfucker’s grinning, he’s proud of himself. I shove him, hard as I can, and he snatches my jersey.
“You fucking prick, that was illegal!” I scream.
He shakes his head.
“Your d-man bromance is done, Kirkland! Bet the rookie will be pissed, because this is all your fault. Everyone on the Rush will turn on you,” he hisses, his voice dripping with venom.
Then he shoves me back. “Didn’t you get the message the first time, you fucking queer?
You shouldn’t be on the ice with us. I didn’t mean Chicago; I meant the league. ”
The angry words slice through the white noise as more guys crowd around us.
“Homophobic piece of shit,” I snarl.
I don’t care who hears me. Maybe they all should. The players, the refs, the fans.
Donaldson sneers. “Shut up, bitch.”
“You can do better than that!” I roar, my voice cracking with rage. “Come on, you stupid fucker!”
Sticks are thrown aside, gloves and helmets too.
I’m more than ready to take on Donaldson.
The line between Finn as my defensive partner and my personal one shatters.
It’s Finn, and he’s mine and he’s hurt. Hurt because of me.
The anger and betrayal I’ve felt since September—feelings I’ve tried to bottle up tight— ignite like a flash fire.
Range is yelling, but I can’t make out the words over the shouting from the fans and the white-hot rage that slices through me.
I get in the first punch, and I don’t miss my target; it’s damn satisfying to hear Donaldson’s pain, to witness the gush of blood streaming from his nose.
A split second later, he hits back, striking my jaw, but I’m too pumped to feel anything.
Then we’re pummeling each other and I’m gaining the upper hand.
Both teams rush in, which leads to more chaos.
The refs try to wedge themselves between us, whistles blaring.
I’m gearing up for another punch when one of the refs grabs hold of my arm and pushes Donaldson away.
Donaldson backs off and uses his jersey to wipe his nose.
The blood on his uniform is poetic justice.
I can taste copper in my mouth and feel warm blood dripping down my chin, but I don’t care.
It’s so worth it. The refs manage to calm everyone else down and I watch as the Chicago Bandits skate away, pretending they didn’t hear a thing Donaldson said to me. Fucking cowards.
“Fuck all of you!” I scream at them, my chest heaving.
I have no regrets about going after Donaldson, but my adrenaline’s crashing, and I’m about to hyperventilate from anxiety over Finn.
Makela skates up to me, along with Berg.
“Sel—”