by Eden Finley
29
Foster
“This is not going to be a repeat of last time!” Coach yells as we suit up for the game.
Pointed looks are thrown in my direction.
“Not going to be a repeat,” I dutifully say.
As pathetic as Morris is for going after Zach for rejecting him, I’m not going to retaliate. Uh, again.
I took my shot at him. I don’t need another one.
I want another one, but not at the expense of hockey or Zach. I promised Zach I wouldn’t.
“We play smart. We play hard. And we walk away with the win,” Coach says.
We get fired up, and I get my head in the game.
We’ve only lost one game this season—not including the last UVM mess. If we keep going the way we are, the CU curse will be our bitch. Now that’s a legacy I’d love to leave behind.
Coach leaves us to go out into the box, and as soon as he’s gone, Jacobs throws his glove at me.
“Are you sure you’ve got your head in the right place?”
“Yup.” I throw his glove back at him.
He catches it easily. “Hmm, did you and Zach break up?”
“Nope.”
“But you’re not going after Morris …”
“If anything, he’ll be coming after me. If he can catch me.”
“He’ll be out for blood.”
“He can try all he likes. We’ll be focused on the points.”
Jacobs nods. “That’s the way it should be.”
“Sure thing, Topher.”
He glares at me. “No. That’s not becoming a thing.”
“Mmhmm.”
“Your boyfriend is annoying.”
“But he’s cute, right?”
He slaps my shoulder. “If you’re into that sort of thing.”
Damn right I am.
I address the room. “Let’s get out there and show everyone the curse is not real.”
The yelling and excitement before a game never fails to put us in the right headspace.
Adrenaline fills my veins as we walk down the chute toward the ice.
We move as a team. We’re in sync.
And that lasts right up until the puck drops.
It’s not only Morris out for blood. It’s the whole fucking team. With me as their main target.
I take more hits than if I were in a boxing ring.
The coaches call for a line change, pulling me off the ice.
“Payback’s a bitch, ain’t it?” Jacobs asks.
“Beck!” Coach yells. “Protect Grant’s ass out there. They’re gunning for him, and he’s the highest scorer on this damn team.”
“Yes, Coach,” Beck says.
Coach slaps my back. “Keep your head.”
I down some water.
Keep my head. Keep my head. Keep my head.
Hockey players can have the most natural talent in the world, but if they let things get in their heads, they’re as useful as a first-time skater who’s been drinking.
I can’t let Morris get to me.
But I need to find a way to get to him.
I turn to Jacobs. “When we get back out there, put one in the net.”
He rolls his eyes. “Gee, why didn’t I think of that?”
“No, I’m serious. They’re too focused on me. Use the weakness, slip by them, and put it in the fucking goal. I need a face-off with Morris.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“He’s trying to get in my head. I’m gonna give it right back to him.”
He holds out his glove for me to fist-bump, and a few minutes later, our chance happens. As soon as I hit the ice, Vermont’s defense comes for me.
I trust my teammates to seal the deal, and with me leading UVM on a wild goose chase around the rink, it happens faster than anticipated.
Then I’m there, face-to-face with Morris. He scowls but all I do is smile.
“I’m sorry your mother didn’t cuddle you enough as a child. No need to send your goons after me.”
His scowl doesn’t let up. “Isn’t that what Zach did? Yeah, I know you’re his best friend’s brother. That’s what the last game was about, right?”
The ref tells us to get in position. I wait for him to put his stick down first and then take my spot.
“I’m Zach’s boyfriend, dickhead. That’s what the last game was about.”
“Oh.” Surprise flashes in his eyes behind his visor. He knows I know what he did to Zach. The whole story. He’s momentarily distracted which gives me my chance.
It’s all about the mind games, and I just threw Morris off. Unfortunately, his goons are still after me.
All it does is make me skate faster and shoot harder.
I play some of the best hockey of my life, and after scoring a hat trick, the other team realizes they should be focused on trying to get on the board.
They push back and manage to get two goals past us.
By the third period, I’m more tired than I’ve ever been during a game. I’m flagging, the adrenaline is dying, and I think it’s a team-wide state.
There are games where it’s so easy it feels like I’m not even breaking a sweat, but when the game is as important and hard fought as this one, it wears us down.
We’re two ahead, but this is still anyone’s win to take.
All we have to do is hold on in this last period, but as we hit the locker room for intermission, it’s obvious we’re all flailing.
After some water and pep talks half of us don’t listen to, the coach pulls me up as the others head down the chute.
“I didn’t want to tell you because I thought it might affect your game.”
“Tell me what?”
“Just trust me when I say to keep stoking the flame inside you. You’re playing the best game of your entire college career, and this is your moment.”
I want to argue I’ve scored more goals in one game before, but he must sense that tickling the back of my brain.
“You’re not only scoring; you’re showing great defensive skills. You’re basically an agent’s wet dream right now. Don’t fuck it up in the third.”
“Agent …”
Coach holds up his hands. “I didn’t say anything. And I’m definitely not telling you I think you and … the agent who is not out there would be a great fit. Don’t let the exhaustion tear you down now.”
There’s an agent in the crowd? It’s not the first time I’ve been approached, and I try not to think about which firm the agent might represent. I’m not trying to be selfish when I say I want a big name, someone known in the industry. Someone with direct connections to the NHL who could sell me as the next big star.
The ones in the past have promised the AHL, and hey, if that’s all I can get for now, I’ll take it. But I want someone who believes in my talent and will fight to get me on an NHL team next year.
The pressure of doing well does its job in giving me a second wind, but Vermont comes out refreshed as fucking daisies.
What’s in their Gatorade?
I try to block everything out and do what I do best.
There’s no Morris.
No Zach.
No agent.
It’s me, my skates, the smell of the ice and sweaty hockey pads, my stick, and a puck.
That’s it.
Vermont scores.
Motherfucker.
We can’t let them tie up the game.
This is what athletes thrive on. The thrill of the chase. The taste of the win.
Vermont gets desperate and sloppy. One of their defensemen checks me after I’ve passed the puck, giving us a power play.
Two-minute penalty.
Now’s my chance.
I use every second to my advantage, scoring another goal and setting up a perfect play for Jacobs to send the puck sailing past the goalie for the second time in one hundred twenty seconds.
The easy thing to do now would be to run down the clock, but as much as I try to block ou
t an agent being in the crowd, I can’t do it.
So I don’t get complacent. I continue to fight.
And while I don’t score again before the clock winds down, I feel accomplished and proud of my game. And the win.
“Fuck the curse!” Jacobs yells as we enter the locker room victorious, making us all laugh.
“There is no curse,” I say.
Coach claps his hands, getting everyone’s attention. “That’s how the first game against them should’ve gone. We’re proud of you boys. Now go shower, and Grant? Come see me in my office when you’re done.”
A few confused glances are thrown my way because after that game, I can’t be in trouble.
But like every other hockey player in this room, I’m superstitious as fuck, and I’m not going to jinx myself by mentioning the agent.
It takes a million years to shower and change. My fingers tremble as I fasten my belt and button up my shirt.
“Coming to McIntyre’s?” Jacobs asks beside me.
“Honestly? I half feel like I’m dying right now.” My muscles always have that achy feeling after a game or practice, but tonight they’re struggling for oxygen and just want to sleep. “But maybe Zach and I will come for a drink.”
“Good luck in there.” He nods toward Coach’s office.
“Thanks, man.”
I’m almost the last one to leave the locker room because my potential future is behind Coach’s door.
With a deep breath, I knock and let myself in.
I’m met by a grinning coach and a guy in his thirties who stands as soon as I enter.
Dark hair, bright eyes, an athletic physique.
He sends me a warm smile and holds out his hand. “Damon King.”
My hand stalls in his. “D-Damon King?” I squeak. Shit, I sound like Zach.
He chuckles. “Great game tonight.”
“T-thank you.”
This guy is not only with a big firm with lots of connections, he represents queer athletes. Big names. NHL, NFL, MLB … And he’s interested in … me?
“I’m not going to drag this out. I want to sign you.”
“Yes,” I blurt.
He laughs. “Well, that was easy.”
“You’re not the first agent to approach me, but on my wish list of potential agents, you were at the top. Because you’re you. And you represent LGBTQ players. I just didn’t think … like, I’m out, but I’m not exactly out, out, you know? I didn’t think you’d even know about me.”
His smile widens. “Interesting. Honestly, I had no idea you were queer. I’m here because of your skills, but rest assured I have extensive experience with out and proud players.”
“I know. And … umm … this is kinda surreal. Holy shit.”
Coach frowns. “Grant.”
“Sorry.”
Damon King waves me off. “I’ve heard worse.” He pulls out his card. “I want to set up a proper meeting. We’ll fly you out to New York over Christmas break and get some things signed away.”
I’m stunned.
He leaves the room, and I stare at my coach.
“You deserve this, Grant. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” My eyes are still wide. I can’t move.
“Go celebrate.”
Right. Make feet go now.
When I make it out into the hall, Zach, Seth, and my parents are standing there.
“Who was that guy?” Seth asks, watching Damon King’s retreating back.
Zach steps forward. “Are you okay? You look … not like you.”
“That was an agent.” I shake my head. “No, not just any agent. That’s my dream agent. He wants to sign me.”
Everyone’s faces light up, and I’m hugged from all directions.
Except by my boyfriend who stands off to the side.
“Baby?”
He forces a smile. “I’m so happy for you.”
His hug is soft, but something feels … not right.
I pull back. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. At all. It’s amazing. It’s really happening for you.”
“Yeah.”
All my dreams are coming true, but I can already feel Zach pulling away.
30
Zach
“Have some more potatoes, sweetie,” Mom says, pointing to the bowl in front of me.
I’m not sure why she’s suggesting I take more when I haven’t finished the ones on my plate, but I don’t argue. “Thanks, Mom.”
Even though I don’t see it, I know she and Dad will be sharing a look. I pick at the corned beef on my plate and wait for them to get on with whatever interrogation they have planned this time.
Usually, their silent discussions about their odd son annoy me. Yet this time, I’m remarkably unmoved. The relief I feel at being at home and finally able to shut down my emotions overrides the rest.
“So …” Dad’s using his probing tone. He scoops more peas onto his plate, and I wonder if that was rehearsed too. “You mentioned inviting a boyfriend a few weeks back. Did he decide not to come?”
Ah, of course. Me and my incredibly large mouth. For the past two weeks I’ve been going back and forth on where I’m at with Foster. Around him, I’m happy, everything’s perfect, and I’m proud—so proud—of him for signing with an agent. It’s what prompted me to ask my parents if I could invite him here for Christmas this year.
But when he’s not around … I try to remember what it was like before him. To prepare myself for what I’m going to go back to, and to convince myself that I’ll be okay with that.
It won’t be all stolen kisses between classes and quick breakfasts before a busy day. I won’t have the nights to fall asleep beside him.
And that’s okay.
“I didn’t ask him, actually.”
There’s another weighted silence, then Mom melts. “Sweetheart, did you break up? I’m so sorry!”
I shake my head. “No. He had to go to New York, and I had to come here.”
Technically, he’d asked me to go to New York with him, but his first meeting with his agent isn’t a memory I want to be a part of. We haven’t really talked about what happens next, but I know if he does get signed with an NHL team, he’s going to be even busier than this year. If he becomes a big name, like I’m sure he will, his life is going to look dramatically different.
I can’t picture fitting into that world.
And while Foster sees my oddness as adorable now, he needs someone at his side who will help him thrive.
“What’s he in New York for?” Dad asks, trying for casual.
“A hockey thing.”
“Hockey?” Dad repeats.
I cringe at the excitement that hits his tone, remembering hockey is one of the few sports Dad actually follows. “Ah, yeah. Foster has a meeting with a sports agent. It’s a pretty big deal for him.”
“A sports agent? He must be good.”
That familiar pride comes back, filling me with a burst of warmth. “H-he’s the best. I have no idea about hockey, but whenever he plays, I-I can’t take my eyes off him. I know he’s headed for the NHL because besides all his skill, there’s something about him that draws people in.”
There’s silence again. This is why I don’t bother speaking much when I’m home. Mom and Dad show support through their presence and small gestures, and while my mom can be overbearing with her worry, we’re not the type of family who gets into long conversations about our thoughts and feelings. We’re not the Grants.
Usually, I love that, but it’s occurring to me I don’t have many people to talk to about Foster, not even Seth or Ray. Seth’s his brother and Ray knew him first. It makes trying to vocalize things awkward.
“I don’t know where that leaves me,” I force out.
“Zach …”
“I should finish up my master’s early—probably by the end of next year—but that’s still a whole year apart, and I don’t know where I’ll end up after. I want to get my doctorate, and Professor La
wrence has already said he’d be happy to keep me on and continue advising me—”
“Well, that’s amazing, Zach—”
“It is, but I didn’t doubt I’d have that offer. When it comes to the things I control, I’m relatively confident. But in a relationship, where there are two people with opposing goals involved, I-I’m not sure what to do. He knows how happy I am for him, and I wouldn’t ask for anything else. But I don’t fit into that picture, and I don’t know if he’s even thought that far ahead yet. Am I thinking too far into the future? Should I even bring it up yet, and if I do, how do I tell him I’m … scared we only have six months left and that’s it, without it sounding like I want him to give it all up?”
And thanks to that word vomit, I’ve effectively stunned my parents into even more silence.
“Do you want it to be over?” Dad finally asks.
“Of course not.” I refuse to say the L word, but I’ve been close to slipping a few times lately. “I remind myself this has been a good experience—”
“I know what will help,” Mom says. “You can come and see my psychic with me. I’ll send her a text. I’m sure she’ll fit you in this w—”
“No psychics.”
“You need inner peace, sweetie. How will you achieve that if you don’t know—”
“Valerie.” Dad shakes his head and turns back to me. “What makes you think you won’t work in this imaginary world you keep talking about?”
“Have you met me?” I ask dryly.
“I damn well raised you, boy. And I like the person you’ve become, but you’ve gotta stop overthinking.”
My lips twitch. That’s as close to an I love you as I’d ever get from him. “Overthinking is my MO.”
“I dunno if it’s the same for you gays, but for your mom and me, we talk. If she’s fluttering about too much, I tell her. If I leave my dirty boots around the house, she never lets me hear the end of it. If there’s something worrying you, you have to speak up. Maybe it ends now. Maybe it ends when you think it’s gonna. Or maybe it doesn’t end at all.”
I like the third option. But I keep that to myself.
I know they’re right, but the last thing I want is to tell Foster my worries and have him think that means I want him to give up hockey. This isn’t some idiotic hobby. He’s been working toward the NHL his whole life, and a couple of months with me won’t derail the path he’s meant to take.
