Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
JAMIE
Is it too early to ask for a trade?
I’m exactly twelve hours into my time with the Minnesota Huskies organization and not eager to play even a single game with this team.
Dave's suggestion – that the team thought I was good enough to “overlook” the gay – seems to have been fully borne out. Shit. I wonder if Toronto still has any interest? I turn to my stall, determined to finish with the decorations I didn’t have time for this morning.
First, I put up a picture of my mom. Then, I look at the rainbow flag.
It was important to me to bring this with me, a sign of my unwillingness to compromise in the face of NHL culture.
But now, looking back at the day I just had, I wonder if it's too much.
In some ways, Tremblay is right. I'd love to focus on hockey and winning, without having to give sound bites every 30 seconds about whether my gayness got in the way of a block or goal.
But until that happens – until I can just be a hockey player who happens to be gay – well, I need to be a Gay Hockey Player. And that means putting up this flag.
With my flag hanging in the stall, I change into my street clothes, ready to go back to the hotel where the team is putting me up, for now.
I pick up Chinese food on the way from a place nearby with decent Yelp reviews.
After spreading it on the small table in the corner of the room, I pull out my phone and call my mom.
“Baby! How was practice?” She answers before the phone can even complete one ring. Her warm voice washes over me and I feel my muscles begin to loosen.
“It was...it was hard, Mom.” I don't know what more to say. It was hard – not the skating, not the drills, but the unending feeling of being separate. Is that how it will always be?
“Are they assholes? Do we need to call a lawyer?”
I take a breath before answering. Yeah, I can pretty safely say that Tremblay falls under the description of asshole. But I know my mom well enough to know that she'll go full scorched-Earth if she thinks I'm being mistreated in any way.
“No, not really. They’re…fine. The press, though? They’re still assholes.” This, at least, is true.
She hums at this, having been right alongside me through the interviews and press conferences of the past six months. Hell, the past four years.
“You know, Jamie...you don't have to do this.”
I hold my breath, unsure what she's trying to say.
“It's okay if you just want to be some twenty-something guy in Southern California. It really is. You have a degree, and you'll always have a place here with me.”
This is exactly why I didn't tell her the truth about today. One hint of my unhappiness, and she's ready to move me back into my childhood bedroom while I fill out grad school applications.
“Mom, I'm fine. I just need to work on my conditioning, get ready to play in the big league.”
Again, her response is skeptical.
“If you say so, Jamie. But make sure you're taking care of yourself – and schedule an appointment with Jeff; you know he can help, too.”
She’s right. In the midst of the draft and moving, I’d let my therapy appointments lapse. It was time to pick them back up.
“I will, Mom. I promise.”
For a moment, the urge to tell her everything is almost unbearable. I take a deep breath and squeeze my lips together, desperate to keep the words inside.
“Don't be a stranger – I want to know you're ok, Jamie.”
I try to laugh at this, but it comes out a little wet-sounding.
“Of course, Mom. I love you.”
“Love you too, sweetheart.”
I jump in the shower, desperate to wash this day off my skin. As I look at the empty hotel room, I realize it isn't even ten o'clock yet – only eight on the West Coast. I pick up my phone and try to FaceTime Avery. He too answers right away.
“So, how bad was it?”
I let out a breath and flop back on the bed, relieved that he already knows shit must have gone down if I'm calling.
“Define bad.”
He grimaces. “Well, that doesn't sound great. Walk me through the day.”
I sigh. “The hockey was good. No, the hockey was great. My conditioning is good, my skating's good. I'm ready for this.”
“So what's the problem?”
“Tremblay hates me.”
“He's known you for, what, eight hours? How can he hate you? He never had to live with your dirty dishes.”
I roll my eyes.
“Pretty sure me being gay is enough reason for him. He's already told me to ‘tone it down’ and ‘focus on hockey’.”
Avery rolls his eyes.
“Damn. And I always thought he was hot, in an old kind of way.”
“I mean...you're not wrong. And he's not old.”
He snorts at this.
“Fucking shame he's a homophobe.”
“Tell me about it. How was your day?”
Even though Avery and I started at UCLA at the same time, he blew out his knee in the first game of our senior year. So while I went through the draft, he returned to school on a medical redshirt, hopeful for another shot at his senior season.
“Well, the latest imaging is 'inconclusive', which apparently means they don't fucking know anything. Will I play this year? Maybe. Will I still be in pain in a decade? Maybe. Who the fuck knows at this point?”
This is the other reason I called Avery – for the reminder of how fucking lucky I am to be in this tiny hotel room in this godforsaken city playing for this losing team.
“That blows, man. You keeping up on your rehab?”
“Like clockwork. They're gonna look again in a couple weeks. So what are you gonna do about Tremblay?”
Clearly we're back to my problems now.
“What can I do? Get him to reconsider his entire stance on homosexuality in the next nine days?”
“Is it just him? Or do the rest of them suck, too?”
“Who fucking knows? The goalie's chill. The rest of them seem...distant, I guess?”
“Well, then the answer is simple. You're just going to have to be better than all of them – good enough that even Tremblay sees that the team needs you.”
“Simple, huh?” Just be the very best, that's all.
“For you, Jamie? Yeah. I think it's that simple.” A shadow crosses his face as he looks down, and I remember that for him, just working harder isn't going to give him the answers he needs, either.
“Sounds like a plan, I guess.”
There is a quiet rumble of conversation in the locker room – mostly veterans talking about their summers.
It sounds like Gagnon, one of the returning centers, went to Cozumel while Johnny Mackenzie – Tremblay’s defensive partner – took his girlfriend to the Bahamas.
They're comparing and contrasting the beaches of each.
Still, as the words float around the locker room, I see eyes floating toward me.
This isn't my first fucking day on Earth, so I keep my head down and face into my stall. The last thing I need is for someone to think I looked at them the wrong way in this locker room.
I'm not the only rookie in the room. There are the others taken in the draft, including a kid called Finn who turned nineteen on September 12 – I remember because it’s so close to my own birthday.
He looks about twelve, all eager big eyes.
There are also some guys here who spent last year with the Des Moines team.
They'll be the bigger competition, putting their everything into making the big league. Evan Matthews in particular has been centering the first line for the AHL team; most analysts seem to think they’ll find a spot for him in Minneapolis this year.
Even coming in as the first round pick, I know there is no guarantee I get to stay here.
I've got to put my all into these days. As I pull my sweater over my head, I see Anders Lindholm approaching me hesitantly. When he’s healthy, he plays left wing on the first line – and ideally, the right wing will belong to me.
“Welcome to Minneapolis.” He says, shaking my hand.
“Thanks, man. Excited to be here.” Or at least I've decided to pretend to be.
“I saw you in the Frozen Four last year. Fucking unreal goal in the last game.”
Ok, this is a good sign. And I can talk about hockey all day.
“Aw, thanks man. Could never have managed it without the awesome blocking from my defense.”
“Well, you'll have plenty of that here. Great defense. Great goalie.”
I notice he leaves out the offense.
It's not that the offense isn't good. They've got some strong pieces, including Lindholm.
But over the past five years, they've struggled to keep enough of them healthy for long enough to put together a rhythm.
I know that's one reason I was drafted – so that I could be the missing piece, the thing that brings back the great days of Minneapolis hockey.
No pressure.
But I also know there's no way of doing that if the captain isn't willing to make eye contact with me. Tremblay is also staring into his stall, taping a stick before he heads out onto the ice. Lindholm follows my eyes.
“Hey, uh, Cap sometimes takes some time to warm up to people. But I'm sure once he gets to know you, he’ll start to…thaw out.”
Somehow I doubt that.
“Anyway, excited to see you on the ice. Maybe you can make a sweet goal happen for us.”
“I'll certainly try.”
On the ice, things are chilly. Literally and metaphorically.
We start again with skating drills, which I breeze through.
Over the past four years, I've known I'd have to be the best – the very best – to even have a chance at the NHL.
And so for four years, I've drilled morning and night, sharpening my footwork and honing my endurance so that I am not just fast, I am precise.
On the other side of the ice, Tremblay is making conversation with Murphy.
He’s the youngest here by a mile, and the look on his face says he can’t believe the team captain is speaking to him.
Tremblay seems to notice something on one of his turns – something about his knee, I think – and makes a comment to him.
They pause for a moment, Tremblay demonstrating something, and then start again.
If I’m not mistaken, Murphy’s turns are a little cleaner.
When we get our first water break, I realize I have no idea what to do.
As the guys form groups of two and three to chat, I stand off to the side.
Nate Sutter, Tremblay’s assistant captain, is standing with the rookies and AHL players.
I consider going over to introduce myself, but sometimes it’s better to just suspect you’re not wanted without going ahead and confirming it.
The cluster of players close to my age on the active roster - a defenseman named Koski and the backup goalie among them - have their backs turned to me, removing any question of being welcomed there.
Lindholm pats my back at least, commenting on my execution.
He seems to be the only one who understands the vested interest the team has in making this – making me – work out.
Meanwhile, Zach Price, one of the veteran wingers, keeps side-eyeing me.
He hasn’t said anything to me yet, and he doesn’t seem to want to.
Still, his eyes follow me, as though he’s worried I’ll attack at any moment.
After the quick break, we start to run through some more forward-specific work. Coach has us cycling through all sorts of different lines, trying to see where the chemistry may click — or not.
When it’s just the offense, the drills seem to go fairly smoothly; Lindholm and I set up a couple of good plays, although we’re still missing the center to anchor the line.
But once we start to add in the defense, the wheels fall off.
We try a simple play; Mac starts with the puck behind our goal, passing it to Tremblay who’s supposed to get it to one of the forwards — Lindholm, Gagnon, or me.
Several rookie defensemen are supposed to block the play, giving them a chance to show off their skills.
The first few runthroughs are okay, if a bit rusty. Tremblay clearly prefers Lindholm, but Gagnon gets a couple of passes, too. They each score once.
I get no passes. Eventually, the d-pair we’re up against seem to see exactly what I’m seeing and stick to Lindholm and Gagnon like glue. At that point, it all falls apart, Tremblay still trying to pass to them instead of me, even though I could easily one-touch it into the goal.
An uncomfortable tension can be felt around me, eyes meeting one another meaningfully. I feel about three inches tall, the gay kid nobody wants to pass to.
A sharp whistle blows, and Ramsey yells louder than I’ve heard him yet.
“That is certainly enough of that. Get to the showers, crew. We’ll pick up here tomorrow.”
We head to the locker room, shoulders hunched and eyes to the ground. Tremblay changes quickly and grabs his bag, heading for the exit. Next to me, I hear Kovalenko swear under his breath.
“Jamie, have a good night. I am very happy to have you on team; shutouts are more useful when we actually score goals.” With that, he walks out of the locker room, still in his practice gear.
The rest of the group starts to break off into the same groups I’d seen all day — and once again, I’m in none of them.
The other rookies seem to discuss a place to grab dinner.
I notice Finn looking over at me, and he smiles softly at me.
I’m torn — I could probably walk over and invite myself to join, and I don’t think they’d say no.
But I also think it would damn me to another couple of hours of awkwardness.
As nice as it would be to have someone to eat dinner with tonight, I don't want to make the kid's life any harder.
If I'm going down – and after that practice, it seems like I am – I don’t want to drag him with me.