Chapter 29 #2
Derek wiped his hands on a towel. "You expecting anyone?"
"No."
He went to the door. I heard it open, heard Derek's confused "Can I help you?" and then a voice that made Joel go completely still beside the stove.
"I'm looking for my son."
I knew that voice. I'd heard it in interviews, in documentaries. Sean Coffey, the man who'd built a world champion out of a child and never let anyone forget it.
Joel's face went blank, not angry or scared, just empty.
Sarah was already moving, gathering the kids with the quiet efficiency of a mother who sensed trouble. "Come on, let's go finish this in your room."
"But Mom—" Owen started.
"Now, please."
She ushered them down the hall.
"Joel," I said quietly. "You don't have to—"
He was already moving. He walked past me toward the front door, his shoulders set in a line I'd never seen before. I followed because I didn't know what else to do.
Sean Coffey stood in Derek's doorway like he owned it. He was shorter than I expected, maybe five foot ten, with silver hair and the kind of tan that came from money. His eyes found Joel immediately, assessing him the way a coach sized up an athlete before a competition.
"There you are," Sean said. "I've been calling."
Sean's gaze slid past Joel and landed on me. I watched him take in the scene: his son standing too close to another man, in a stranger's house, in the middle of nowhere New Mexico. I watched him do the math.
"Who's this?" he asked, though something in his voice said he already knew.
"This is Robert Piper," Joel said. "This is his brother's house."
"Piper." Sean said it like he was tasting something unpleasant. "The hockey player."
"Yeah."
Derek was still standing by the door, looking between us like he was trying to figure out whether he needed to intervene.
"We need to talk," Sean said to Joel. "Privately."
"Whatever you have to say, you can say here."
"Joel." Sean's voice was patient in a way that set my teeth on edge. "I flew here from Los Angeles. The least you can do is give me five minutes."
Joel didn't move. His jaw was working, the tendons in his neck standing out like cables.
"Five minutes," Joel said finally. "Outside."
They walked out into the front yard. Derek closed the door behind them, but the windows were thin. I could hear the low murmur of voices, though not the words.
"That's his dad?" Derek asked.
"Yeah."
"He seems like a dick."
"Yeah." I stayed by the window. I couldn't see Joel's face from this angle, just his back, his shoulders, the rigid line of his spine. Sean was doing most of the talking.
Then Joel turned. For just a second, through the window, his eyes met mine.
The look on his face made my stomach drop.
The door opened. Joel walked back in alone, and something was wrong.
His face had that competition look, the one he wore when he was about to skate a program he'd done a thousand times, perfectly composed and completely empty.
"Joel," I said. "What did he—"
"We need to talk."
Behind me, Derek set down a pan too hard on the stove.
"Okay," I said. "Let's talk."
"Not here."
He walked toward the back of the house, toward the guest room. I followed him, and the hallway seemed to stretch longer than it should have.
He closed the door behind us. The room was small, just a bed and a dresser and a window that looked out on the backyard, where the kids' swing set stood motionless in the fading light.
"Joel," I said. "Whatever he said to you—"
"He's right."
That stopped me cold. "What?"
"My father. He's right." Joel still wasn't looking at me. He was looking at the window, at the swing set, at anything else. "He didn't even have to try to find out about us. He just paid attention. If he can figure it out, anyone can."
"Joel—"
"Your teammate just lost his sponsor." His voice was flat. "His boyfriend lost his job. That was two hours ago. And you sat on that couch and shook because you knew it could be you."
I couldn't deny it.
"This is over." His voice didn't waver. "Us. This. It's done. You should go back to Vegas. Focus on the playoffs. Forget this happened."
"Joel, you can't just—"
"I can." He picked up his bag. "My father's driving me to the airport. I have training to get back to."
"No." I grabbed his arm. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to drive all night to be here and then just leave because your father told you to."
"Let go of me."
"Talk to me.”
"It doesn't matter what he said." He pulled his arm free. "What matters is I'm leaving, and you're going to go back to your life and stop risking everything for someone who isn't worth it."
"That's bullshit."
"Is it?" He turned on me, and there was something ugly in his face now.
"You're not ready to come out. You said so yourself.
I'm the reason you might have to. I'm the risk.
" He gestured toward the living room. "You want that to be you?
You want to sit at a press conference and watch your sponsors drop you in real time? "
"I want you."
"You can't have both." His voice cracked, just barely, before he locked it down again. "And you shouldn't have to choose. So I'm choosing for you."
"That's not fair."
"No. It's not." He walked past me toward the door.
"Joel." My voice came out wrong. "Please."
He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. For a second, I thought he might turn around.
"Goodbye, Red."
He opened the door and walked down the hallway. I heard him say something quietly to Derek by the front door. The door opened and closed.
Through the window, Joel got into Sean's rental car. He didn't look back.
The taillights disappeared down the street, and I stood in the guest room that still smelled like his shampoo, holding nothing.
I don't know how long I stayed there. Long enough for the light to change, for the room to go gray and then dark.
Derek found me like that. He didn't knock, just opened the door and stood in the frame, backlit by the hallway.
"Red."
I couldn't look at him.
"Red, come on. You're standing in the dark." He crossed the room and turned on the lamp. "Sarah saved you a plate. You should eat something."
"I'm not hungry."
"Didn't ask if you were hungry." He put a hand on my shoulder. "Come on."
I let him steer me out of the room, down the hall, into the kitchen. The house was quiet. The kids must have been in bed already. I'd lost hours somewhere.
The plate was on the counter, covered in foil. Derek removed the foil and put it in the microwave without asking.
"You want to talk about it?" he asked.
"No."
"Okay." He leaned against the counter and waited.
The microwave beeped. Derek put the plate in front of me with a fork. Some kind of pasta. I picked up the fork because it was easier than arguing.
We sat there in the kitchen, not talking. The refrigerator hummed. Somewhere down the hall, one of the kids coughed in their sleep.
"I have to go see Dad tomorrow," I said.
"Yeah."
"And then I have to go back to Vegas." I looked at my hand, still bandaged. "Rehab starts next week."
Derek reached across the table and squeezed my arm. "You did everything right, Red. You came out to me. You let him in. You tried. That's all you can do."
It wasn't enough. But Derek was right about one thing. Tomorrow would come whether I was ready for it or not. Dad would be waiting. Rehab would be waiting. Three months of empty time stretched out ahead of me.
Joel would be gone, and I'd have to figure out how to keep going anyway.
I picked up the fork and ate.