15. Dover
Before Levi had left, I had deliberately chosen not to mention that the team would be having a light skate this afternoon.
I knew that if he found out, he would likely become even more overbearing than usual.
That was the last thing I needed right now.
Even though the earlier incident with the car had rattled me quite a bit, leaving me feeling unsettled and anxious, I was determined not to let fear dictate my actions or drive me away from the team.
I have poured years of hard work, dedication, and sacrifice into being who I am, and I refuse to let anyone intimidate me.
It hasn’t been an easy journey—there have been countless obstacles and setbacks along the way—but despite everything, I have managed to make it this far, and I am proud of that.
At least there is some comfort in knowing that my sister is all the way across the country.
Because of the distance, she is not easily accessible and therefore less likely to become a target for whoever is behind these threats.
The whole situation feels absurd when I really stop to think about it.
I haven’t done anything to harm anyone, and yet I find myself being singled out and harassed simply because I am gay.
That is the reason the person has given, at least. The more I reflect on it, the more senseless and flimsy that justification seems. After all, my sexuality has absolutely no impact on anyone else’s life.
It doesn’t change who they are, what they do, or how they live.
It’s hard to believe someone would go through all this trouble to make me feel unsafe over something so personal and that has nothing to do with them.
I tug my practice jersey over my head, the familiar fabric settling against me, and make a conscious effort to shove all my worries and distractions to the farthest corners of my mind.
The locker room is filled with the usual pre-practice noise, but suddenly, Nash bursts through the door in a whirlwind of energy—he’s late, which is completely out of character for him.
He barrels in as if he’s being chased, or as if his pants are literally on fire.
Without missing a beat, he tosses his bag onto the bench and, in one fluid motion, starts stripping off his street clothes and pulling on his athletic gear at an impressive speed, clearly trying to make up for lost time.
Watching him, I can’t help but comment, “You’re never late.” My voice carries a note of surprise, because Nash is usually the most punctual person on the team, always arriving early and ready to go.
He shoots me a frustrated look as he fumbles with his jersey. “I’ve never had an unremovable bodyguard either,” he mutters under his breath, clearly annoyed.
Curiosity piqued, I turn to face him fully, raising an eyebrow in silent question.
Sighing, Nash elaborates, “Dodge got worried because I was hanging out with you earlier, so he decided to take extra precautions. He called in one of his colleagues to shadow me, and the guy took his job way too seriously. He practically glued himself to me and refused to let me leave the apartment, no matter what I said. I actually had to threaten to call the cops before he finally backed off and let me out. The whole thing is ridiculous. I mean, you’re the one who’s supposed to be the target, and yet you’re here, free as can be.
Meanwhile, I’m being treated like some kind of hostage. That guy is a total dick.”
I fall silent for a moment, letting the weight of everything that just happened settle between us. After a few seconds, I finally find my voice and say quietly, “I’m really sorry about all this. I didn’t mean for things to get so out of hand.”
Nash immediately shakes his head, dismissing my apology with a wave of his hand.
“No need to apologize. Seriously, I don’t blame you at all.
It’s all good, really,” he insists, his tone reassuring.
To lighten the mood, he gives me a friendly punch on the shoulder, apparently forgetting that I’m wearing my practice pads.
He winces and shakes out his hand, laughing at his own oversight.
“Ouch. I always forget those things are basically armor,” he jokes, grinning at me.
Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he adds, “Maybe after practice we can just make a run for it and climb out the window. What do you think?”
I can’t help but respond with dry humor, remembering the last time we tried something like that. “Oh, sure,” I reply, my tone sarcastic. “Because the last time we attempted to ditch the guard, we almost got flattened by a car at Boston Harbor. I’m not eager for a repeat performance.”
Nash winces, his expression tightening with discomfort, and reluctantly follows me out of the locker room, our skates echoing on the tiled floor before we step onto the cold, gleaming expanse of the ice rink.
The chill in the air is immediate, biting at my skin as we move forward.
Scanning the rink, I easily spot Weston—his stature and confident posture make him stand out from the fans who are here to watch practice.
As we approach, I notice Nash flash a cheeky, almost mischievous wave to a guy stationed on the opposite side of the rink.
I can only assume that this is the guy Nash referred to.
The truth is, I genuinely don’t mind having Weston looking out for me, even if his presence can sometimes feel a bit overbearing.
Knowing he’s there, vigilant and ready to step in if anything goes wrong, gives me a sense of security that I can’t easily dismiss.
With Weston watching my back, I’m free to focus all my energy and attention on my training, pushing myself to improve without constantly glancing over my shoulder or worrying about unexpected trouble.
But games are different. The mood changes completely because the uncertainty goes up during a game. I don’t know whether the danger is coming from an opposing player, from someone in the crowd or from somewhere completely different. The uncertainty of the game makes me feel so much more tense.
As I gain control of the puck, Dario quickly slides over in my direction, ready to challenge me.
I take the opportunity to show off a bit, skillfully maneuvering the puck back and forth with some fancy stick handling, weaving it around my stick and shifting my weight from side to side.
My movements are quick and precise, and I sense Dario watching closely, trying to anticipate my next move.
After a few impressive dekes and feints, I spot an opening and take my shot, sending the puck sailing smoothly into the empty goal.
This little display is just a warm-up, a way to get my hands and feet moving before the real practice session begins.
It helps me loosen up, get into the right mindset, and prepare for the more intense drills and scrimmages that are about to start.
It’s the same warm-up routine I have on the ice before a game too. It makes me feel in control.
Once we return to Levi’s apartment, Weston immediately takes it upon himself to thoroughly inspect every corner of the place, ensuring that everything is in order before he finally settles down in the kitchen.
He seems to be making himself comfortable.
Meanwhile, I make my way straight to the bedroom, feeling the urgent need for a hot shower after being caught in the downpour outside.
The rain was invigorating in its own way, leaving me feeling refreshed, but it had come down with such intensity that I was completely drenched by the time we made it inside.
Weston had worn a raincoat and said he was fine.
Glancing out the window, I can see that the sky is still heavy and dark, promising that there is much more rain to come before the storm lets up.
As I begin to gather my things for the shower, my phone suddenly rings, displaying Levi’s name on the screen.
For a moment, I hesitate, tempted to ignore the call.
My thoughts are swirling, unsettled by everything that happened between us earlier, and I’m not entirely sure where we stand now.
The uncertainty makes me anxious, and I consider letting the call go to voicemail, just for a little while, until I can collect myself.
Despite my hesitation, I find my hand reaching for the phone almost automatically, and before I can second-guess myself, I answer the call.
“I’m about to shower. What’s up?” I ask, attempting to sound casual, as if I’m not waiting for something more from this conversation. I keep my tone light, hoping he doesn’t pick up on the anticipation I feel.
“Back at my place then, huh?” he replies, his voice carrying a hint of teasing familiarity. There’s a brief pause, a moment of silence that stretches just long enough to make me wonder what he’s thinking. “How was practice?” he finally asks, his words lingering in the air.
I realize instantly that Weston must have filled him in on my whereabouts.
Of course, Weston would tell him—I should have expected it.
“It was good,” I respond, keeping my answer simple but honest. “When are you coming back?” I add, my curiosity slipping through despite my efforts to remain composed.
He hesitates before answering, and I catch a faint catch in his voice, a subtle sign that he’s holding something back or feeling uncertain. “There’s nothing else Rosie and I can do until morning,” he says, his tone softer now. “So I’ll be back within the hour.”
“Um, okay,” I reply, not quite sure what else to say. The conversation feels suspended, as if we’re both waiting for the other to say something more.
He mutters a curse under his breath, the word sharp and heated, betraying a frustration or longing he’s trying to hide.
“I wanted to hear your voice,” he admits quietly, the vulnerability in his words catching me off guard.
Before I can respond, he hangs up, leaving me holding the phone, my lips twisting into a smile despite myself.