Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
JAMIE
The next Sunday, we finally have a day off to go house hunting.
As much as I told Ethan I'm happy at the hotel, I have to admit that it's getting a little old.
He has me meet him at his condo downtown.
The building is glass and metal, with an echoing lobby clad in marble.
As I ride up in the elevator, I wonder at what will await.
Even though I know him better than I did at the beginning of the season, I can't envision what his apartment would look like – what would be most important to him?
As I contemplate the question, I can't help but remember what else I know about him. The look of his thick dick, the shine of his cum as it dries. True to his word, he hasn't made it weird. But I can't help but think of him at the worst of times, of those texts we shared in the hotel.
As he opens the door, I see that my thoughts in the elevator had clearly oversold the experience. My first impression is overwhelmingly...gray. Light gray walls. Darker gray couch. Near-black luxury vinyl floors. This is no inner sanctum. It is sleek, modern, and completely impersonal.
He catches my eye. “Uh, welcome to my place.”
“Thanks. It's very...masculine.”
He raises an eyebrow at me.
“Look...I don't know how to say this, but...this vibe is not really what I'm looking for.”
He rolls his eyes at me, like a fucking teenager.
“Um, yeah, dude. I am fully aware of that. Trust me.”
It feels like he should be more offended at my critique of his home, but instead he seems...resigned? Ethan grabs his keys and coat, and we descend in the elevator to the underground parking.
“This would be nice, though. No shoveling, no finding a spot.”
“Yeah, it's awesome in the winter.”
We find his Range Rover in its designated spot and jump in. As he pulls out, he heads toward Nicollet.
“Honestly, we could walk where we're going, but a couple of NHL guys are gonna draw some attention walking down Grant Street.”
I nod. It's been something I've had to get used to here. In the Twin Cities, hockey matters – and our privacy doesn't. I've gotten recognized all over town already, and it feels like we're hardly ever here.
“So if you're not looking for a place like mine, what are you looking for in a place?”
“A bed. A microwave. A bed that doesn't look directly at the microwave.”
He snorts as he hits Grant and turns.
“Aren't you heading the wrong way?” I ask, noticing he's heading west, away from the arena.
“We're not looking in St. Paul.”
“Okay, so, I know that I said I didn't have a lot of preferences, and I don't, but 'close to the arena' is probably one of them.”
“Where we're going is a straight shot on I-94 to the arena, just twenty minutes away.
It's nice and close without being too close, you know?
When you're a professional athlete in season, it's easy to stick within a five-minute orbit of the arena.
But I think you'll find it's better for you in the long run to get some distance from it.”
“Oh yeah? Is that what you do?”
“I didn't used to. But yeah, I do now. Or at least I try.”
We're still in a built-up area, but the high-rises of downtown have transitioned to low, brick and limestone buildings.
He pulls onto a small side street and almost immediately into a parking garage.
“Not quite as convenient as the one attached to my building, but I checked it out and you can reserve a spot in this garage for a pretty reasonable monthly fee. Plus, I think you'll find this neighborhood has a little more...personality than mine.”
We walk out of the pedestrian exit and almost the first thing I see is a pride flag. Actually, three pride flags.
“Ethan Tremblay, did you bring me to a gayborhood? Does Minneapolis even have a gayborhood?”
The tips of his ears flush red.
“Welcome to Loring Park. Believe it or not, there are more than two of us.”
Maybe I'm the one who needs to be a little more open-minded.
As we walk down the street, I can still see the high-rises of downtown in the distance.
Here, the buildings are shorter, more historic.
The earthy colors of brick and limestone drown out the metal and glass to the East. Most of the homes still look like they must have when they were built over a hundred years ago; a few have some pretty obvious updates.
“One of the nice things about Loring Park is that you've got a lot of choices – new and old, big and small. Lots of rentals, which is good on your rookie contract. But when you're making the real money, there are also some amazing houses to pick from.”
We come up to an intersection and he points to the West. “Just a block or two that way is the park. It's a great place to run, and if you get a dog or whatever you could take him there for walks. Lake of the Isles and Lake Bde Maka Ska aren't far past that.”
Ethan's body is more relaxed than I've ever seen him as he looks off toward the park.
“You seem to know this place well. Did you used to live here?”
His pause seems sad.
“No, I didn't. I guess...”
I wait, trying not to fill his gap with my own words.
“I always thought, maybe when I retire...maybe I could. Sometimes I come here and just...walk. It's close enough to downtown that it isn't likely to cause a breaking headline. And I don't go the bars or whatever, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“But I just...I like knowing that I'm not alone. That one day, when I'm done with hockey, this will be waiting for me.”
“Is that your plan? To come out when you retire?”
He walked over to the window and looked down at the flags on display outside the bar across the street.
“You asked me that once – on the plane? What I planned to do when I retire – coach or whatever? In all honesty, the thought of staying around hockey, of continuing to just...lie about myself all the time? I can't picture it.”
I think about it from his point of view, about the stress of this job and dealing with it while constantly walking that tightrope. “It sounds...exhausting.”
He looks back at me, a sad smile on his face. “I honestly can't say that I've ever planned to come out. You know, with the whole press conference and the ESPN Magazine article and whatever. And when I was your age, I don't think I ever thought to do anything close.”
Again, our differences stand between us – his desire for privacy against my inability to hide. But this time, he doesn't sound judgmental of my choices. He almost sounds...jealous?
“But since I've turned thirty, I've thought that maybe, one day, I could live a quiet life on a farm or something, and no one would care who I lived it with. And I could have a kid or two and maybe a dog and just...be happy.”
This is the most human I've ever seen Ethan, and man is it a compelling sight. I can see his vision of the future – the kid, the dog. A shadowy figure next to him that I don't dare examine too closely. His eyes look wet, and I make sure to give him space with his thoughts.
“And maybe one day, when I die, my Wikipedia article would have a sentence about how I lived the last years of my life with my beloved husband. And that would be it. I'd be out.”
The way he tells it, it almost sounds like he thinks he will have to die to be open, and I can't think of anything sadder in the world.
Living my life in the open has brought me plenty of shit – a new scar through my right eyebrow, for one.
But it's also brought me the knowledge that I can be myself and the world won't end.
I'm realizing now that Ethan doesn't have the same certainty; that to some extent, he still thinks his gayness will be the end of him.
“That sounds nice, Ethan. I hope you get it.”
We grab coffees at a shop across the street, then head to the next block for the first viewing.
“This first one is a loft conversion” Ethan says as we walk into a building with more modern renovations. In addition to the beautiful limestone on the first floor, there are towering glass windows on the second.
As we walk inside, I'm struck by the natural light pouring in those windows. The first floor has an open floor plan, with a kitchen set off to the side by an island with bar seating. A metal staircase goes up to the loft, where there's enough room for a king sized bed.
As I stand in the loft, I look at Ethan.
“I don't know, I think I might be able to see the microwave from here.”
I wink so he knows I'm joking, and I get a nice laugh out of him. Is this the first time I've heard him laugh? Really laugh? I think so.
“Obviously it's a very single-guy place, still – no guest room or whatever, but it seems pretty nice for the price.”
I agree as we head back downstairs, turning West as we head out onto the street. In a block, we turn again, now on a block of older homes.
“Ok, this one is more historic, for sure, but also maybe better for a longer haul? There's actually two guest rooms, so you could even...” his voice trails off, and he seems uncertain if he should continue.
“I could even what?” I'm intrigued.
“If you started seeing someone and it worked out...you could even have a kid here. If that's something you want.”
As we look around, I see that he's right.
Not only does this one have a separate dining room, living room, and kitchen, it has a half bath in the main living area in addition to the full bath upstairs.
The upstairs hallway contains three other doors – two to spacious bedrooms and one to a smaller space.
He's right – it's the perfect nursery.
“It is. I mean, eventually. I'm only twenty-three right now and I haven't dated in fucking forever. But, yeah, I think I'd like to be a dad one day.”
He quirks one side of his lips up.
“I bet you have a fucking fabulous dad. You're all well-adjusted and shit.”
I actually break into laughter at this.
“Oh fuck no. He doesn't get to take credit for this. But my mom and my therapist? They can take their share.”
A wrinkle appears between Ethan's eyes.
“You see a therapist?” He asks, not with judgment so much as curiosity.
“Ethan, I'm the first openly gay man in professional hockey. Of course I see a therapist. Honestly, I think everyone should.”
“Yeah? What do you...what's it like?”
It occurs to me that Ethan may have never had an open conversation with someone who goes to therapy. I'm not sure he's ever had an open conversation, for that matter. I measure my words carefully.
“I don't know about you, but I find that I can really get in my own head sometimes.
You know, tell myself stories about what people are thinking about me, or about how I don't deserve something. Therapy helps me sort out the truth from the fiction. It also gives me tools so that when that happens, in the moment I can take a step back and really...see a situation.”
He looks at me for a long beat, and I worry I've said something wrong.
“I...I didn't know other people did that, too.”
I slap his back in a way that I hope won't make him uncomfortable.
“Don't worry, bro. We're all fucked up.”
As we walk to the final place, Ethan admits he doesn't think I should pick it.
“In fact, I'm pretty sure your financial advisor would kill me if he knew I was showing it to you. It's way too much money and way too much house for a rookie contract. Even with your signing bonus.”
“If it helps, I don't have a financial advisor.”
He literally stops in his tracks at this.
“Dude. Carter. You have to have a financial advisor. The sooner the better – I'll hook you up with my guy. His name is George. He does Alexei's money, too.”
“If you hook me up with your money guy, does that mean I have to hook you up with my therapist?”
“I...maybe. Maybe, Jamie.”
I don't push anymore, knowing that's a big enough step for him.
“So if my newfound financial advisor won't approve of this place, why are we even looking at it?”
He looks a little...ashamed?
“It's just too beautiful not to look at.”
We walk back toward the park and when we're just about a block away, we stop at the stoop of a limestone and brick building. While the other places we've looked at today have been rentals – townhomes or portions of a larger building – this is clearly a single family residence.
He types in a code to the lock and it whirrs open.
“It's for sale, but it's a lot.”
“I bet. How much?”
“Let's just say I'm not sure George would even let me buy it.”
Yikes. That is a lot.
But as we open the door, I can see why immediately. The floors are a honey-brown hardwood – none of the luxury vinyl of Ethan's current place. The place feels airy and light, with light coming through the windows facing the street.
The kitchen here is huge, with a refrigerator so large only a hockey player could hope to fill it.
We walk up the stairs and I run my hand along the beautiful bannister.
On the second story, there are multiple bedrooms, including two connected by a jack-and-jill bathroom.
From the window of one, I can see a direct view of the park.
“The master suite is on the third floor, and the basement has room for gym equipment.
There's even a little garden out back.” Ethan has entered the room behind me, a distant look on his face.
I hear the wistfulness in his voice, and suddenly I know very clearly why we are here.
This is his dream house – the dream Ethan's been denying himself for decades.
And I wonder...who else even knows about this dream? Am I the first person he's shared this with? I walk over to him and put a hand on his shoulder. As I catch his eye, I swear I see unshed tears there.
“It's lovely, Ethan.”