Epilogue
MADARS
One hockey season later
“Shoot! Shoot!” the crowd bellowed all around me. On the ice before us, Edmonton had a power play, and they were cycling the puck to wear down New York’s penalty kill. Everyone was on the edge of their seats, myself included, shouting at the players to shoot, shoot, shoot the fucking puck already.
A New York player lunged, trying to block a pass, in the same moment an Edmonton player reached for the puck. The Edmonton player’s stick tangled in the other guy’s skate, and the New York player went down.
Before he even hit the ice, a whistle blew. The shouts to “shoot!” turned into deafening booing.
Unbothered, Connor leaned down and made a gesture across his own shin—tripping.
A moment later, with the culprit in the box, Connor turned on his headset so the whole arena could hear his voice.
“Edmonton, number thirty-six. Two-minute minor for tripping.” He repeated the across-the-shin gesture.
The New York fans in the crowd roared their approval while the Edmonton fans—the majority here tonight—booed even louder.
I wasn’t particularly invested in either team, but I was hoping Edmonton pulled it off.
Why? Because tonight was game six of the Cup finals.
Edmonton had a chance to win it tonight.
New York had a chance to force a game seven.
The sooner this goddamned series ended, the sooner Connor and I could be together without interruption.
Though I was still disappointed that I wasn’t playing in the finals myself, I was here, loving the energy of the game and letting that motivate me to win next season.
So, I was cheering for Edmonton tonight.
It didn’t hurt that I hated New York (fucking dirty players and dickhead coaches), and Edmonton was on the verge of completing one hell of a comeback season.
They’d lost a goalie to a career-ending injury two weeks into the season.
Three of their top six forwards were injured before the playoffs.
Both of their top defensemen were here but pushing through injuries that would probably take the entire off season to rehab.
The team had started the season as a toilet bowl team, losing their first eight games in a row.
At Thanksgiving, they were seventh out of eight in the division, with most analysts saying they didn’t have a prayer of so much as a wild card spot.
Three fired coaches, four major trades, and one massive push later, they’d finished second in the division, mowed over every team they went up against in the conference, and wound up here.
If they won tonight, it was all over, and their story would become legendary.
If not… Well, then there’d be one more game.
For Edmonton, for New York… and for the on-ice officials.
Including Connor.
I wanted our off season to start, and I wanted it to start tonight. I needed my man. I needed the summer we’d planned—a couple of months in Spain, followed by a couple of weeks with each of our families in Canada. I needed all that to start now, damn it.
The long-distance thing was hard, but it was easier when we were on the same continent.
Though it took some work, we managed to see each other between games.
Like a few months ago when he was officiating a game on Long Island the night before I played in New York.
As soon his game was over, we’d met up in his hotel.
There hadn’t been anything physical—he was exhausted and I’d been banged up from a game two nights earlier—but we got to spend time together.
Later, when he was officiating in Pittsburgh two nights after I played there, he flew in early, and I got permission to fly back to Vancouver on my own instead of with my team.
No, it wasn’t easy, and no, it wasn’t nearly enough time. And yes, there were moments when the separation got to me or when I was afraid he’d say enough was enough.
But then we’d be together again, and it was all a hundred percent worth it.
“It’s going to be a few very long weeks,” he’d told me before the playoffs had started, “but once they’re over, we have the entire summer together.”
I’d held on to that. It had been a salve after a heartbreaking, season-ending loss, and it had me restless with excitement in my seat tonight.
Come on, Edmonton. Beat New York so I can have my boyfriend back tonight!
Maybe they would, maybe they wouldn’t—they were currently down 2-1 in the second period, after all—but at least I got to watch Connor in his element. That was never, ever going to get old.
The League had been watching both of us closely all season long. The scrutiny had been unnerving but expected, and I was glad we were near the end of it now.
The press—especially the sensationalist clickbait sites—had been even worse.
More than once this season, they’d tried to conjure up controversy about our relationship, and at least two of them had tried to segue from that into why queer men shouldn’t be in the League at all.
A small but vocal faction of fans had eagerly gotten onboard with that.
Fortunately, it had all turned out to be noise.
One of them tried to insist that Connor had thrown a critical game between Ottawa and Los Angeles, denying L.A.
two points that would have had them on Vancouver’s heels in the standings.
The powers that be had reviewed every second of that game.
Every whistle Connor had blown (or not blown).
Every call he’d made (or not made). The whole damn League had seemed to be on the edge of their seats, waiting for the verdict that the cleanest ref in the NAL was actually manipulating the standings for his boyfriend.
In the end, the League had concluded that bad officiating had in fact cost L.A.
that game, but none of the calls had come from Connor.
In one instance, an L.A. player had gone to the box for roughing after he’d shoved an Ottawa skater…
seconds after that skater had brazenly high-sticked him in the face in what should’ve been a double minor.
Connor had been in no position to see what happened, never mind call a penalty, but the whole thing had gone down right in front of the other ref.
Now that ref was the one under investigation because of his suspiciously lopsided calls.
In another instance, a reporter accused Connor of sabotaging the four-game series between Seattle and Calgary. According to that reporter, Connor made sure Seattle swept Calgary by keeping a revolving door on Calgary’s penalty box while Seattle got away with everything.
Once again, it was reviewed by the League, because God forbid they just ignore the obvious noise. And once again, Connor was completely exonerated.
“There was no evidence of biased officiating,” a League representative had told a packed press conference. “Our experts concluded that the reason for the excessive number of penalties called against Calgary was Calgary committing an excessive number of penalties. This matter is now closed.”
So here was Connor, officiating the playoffs without issue, and he’d been doing a damn good job of it. In fact, he was the only official this postseason who hadn’t been shown to be making biased or piss-poor calls.
I was happy to see him out there shining, still wearing black and white after we’d put both of our careers on the line a year ago.
It had paid off. He was still here. I was still signed.
My professional tryout with Vancouver had turned into a two-year contract.
I’d put up twenty-three goals and fifty-seven points, and the club was already making noise about extending me.
Maybe this off season, maybe after I went into free agency next year, but they’d made it very clear they were interested in keeping me in a Vancouver sweater.
I was in heaven.
Vancouver had come close to the playoffs—closer than this club had been in the last several years.
It had come down to two games—our final regular season game, and Houston’s.
We were playing a division rival who was near the bottom of the conference, while Houston was up against Edmonton, who was favored to win the conference, if not the Cup.
If we won and Houston lost in regulation, we’d snatch the second wild card spot out of their hands.
After a grind of a game, we’d won and earned those two precious points. For a few shining moments, that second wild card spot was ours.
Then Houston tied up their game with a highlight reel buzzer beater through a dense screen beneath our goalie’s pad.
, and our hopes had been dashed. The instant regulation ended, so did our season, because whether Houston won or lost (they ultimately lost), they only needed a single point to squeeze us out of the spot.
It was heartbreaking, but we’d made it that far. Next season, we were ready to fight our way back to that level and win this time.
With me out of the postseason, Connor had been kept active as an official for the playoffs. That was a consolation prize for me; I’d hated the idea of his season being cut short, and anyway, it meant I could watch him in his element.
A whistle blew, jolting me back into the present.
One of New York’s players started screaming at Connor and flailing his arms. Johnson—he was bigger than Connor and known to scrap with just about anyone, but Connor glared right at him and gestured toward the box.
The idiot kept right on yapping even as one of his alternate captains took his arm and pulled him across the ice.
For the second time this period, Connor skated up to the red line and clicked on his microphone. “New York, seventy-two. Two-minute minor for slashing. Two-minute minor for unsportsmanlike conduct.”
Just like earlier, I barely heard the last part over the crowd, with the New York fans booing and Edmonton cheering this time.