by RJ Scott
“Hey,” he interrupted my musing and startled me so much that I went on the defensive to cover my woolgathering.
“What did you tell Shaun?”
“Hmm, well, let’s just say there is now no journalist getting your story, and you’ve just lost half a million in publicity, his assessment not mine. I suggested that he back off.”
“Suggested?”
“Encouraged,” he added. “Also the picture from the Jumbotron has gone viral.”
“Fuck. And?”
“My team is dealing with it.”
“Dealing with it how?”
“Nothing I know how to do, but let’s say there is a lot of positive press out there for you right now, along with advocate groups who are all over this.”
“I should post… something.”
He placed a bag of pasta on the counter. “Photograph that.”
“Huh?”
“Hashtag dinner, hashtag life is great, and it’s a done deal.”
“You don’t understand my followers, they want—”
“No posting,” he said, and he was firm.
It occurred to me that my initial thought when I’d seen him standing at the stove had been pushed aside at the far from perfect news that the message about me paying men for sex had gone viral. “What are you doing in my kitchen?”
“Cooking. It’s all I could find.” Jason wiped his hands on the dishcloth and tucked it back into his pants. He’d taken off the jacket, but I couldn’t see it anywhere, and I bet he was the kind of man who hung things up instead of throwing them over the nearest chair. His shirt was ice-white, and he’d loosened his tie and the top buttons. He wasn’t wearing the holster, and I couldn’t see a weapon anywhere, so I assumed that was wherever he’d put his jacket. But, unarmed, how would he deal with random attacks on my life? What if there was someone outside the door right now with a broadsword, just waiting to hack me to pieces.
“I hope to hell my stalker doesn’t dive through the door waving a broadsword.”
“Huh?” He was confused and I realized with a start that I’d just said that out loud.
“Ignore me.” Of course, he did no such thing.
“You can trust that I have taken adequate precautions against any and all stalkers wielding broadswords.”
I ignored him and his attempt at humor, because heaven forbid I should find him amusing, and he knew it. Changing the subject seemed like a good thing and I peered into the first saucepan, found pasta in boiling water, and in the other, some kind of tomato concoction. “What is it?”
“Well, this is pasta,” he deadpanned.
“Whatever.”
“You have a cupboard with pasta, and noodles, canned tomatoes some with herbs already in it, along with twelve varieties of soup. There’s nothing fresh in this place, no garlic, onions, or oregano, so it’s the best I can do, but I’ve eaten worse.”
“You don’t have to cook,” I protested, although my belly disagreed and let out a growl. “We could have gone out.”
He side-eyed me and I knew immediately he thought I’d suggested something horrifically unsafe.
“It’s best we stay here tonight until my team gets a proper handle on everything.”
I pulled two beers out of the refrigerator and handed him one, but he waved it away. “Thanks, but I don’t drink when I’m on the clock.”
I shrugged and put his back, levering the cap of my own, and savoring the first taste of ice-cold beer. I hadn’t drunk since my birthday, which was a month back, but the beer tonight was all about taking the edge off the stress. And since when was I the stressed one? That wasn’t my persona, that wasn’t me.
“Tell me more about this auction?” Jason asked, as he spooned sauce over pasta and pushed a bowl and silverware toward me on the breakfast bar. I sat on the nearest stool, wondering if I was actually hungry at all and whether or not I could be bothered to eat the fragrant meal. How he’d managed to pull together pasta with a sauce that smelled of basil, I didn’t know. But the auction was my focus and I was pleased to talk about it.
“Where do you want me to start?”
“At the beginning would be good.”
“It was just a few of us to start, chatting in our super-secret gay hockey player WhatsApp, and this is what we came up with.”
“You have a super-secret gay hockey WhatsApp?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” He shook his head. “Your loss. It’s just a few of us; me, and a couple of other guys including Kyle.”
“I should really look at this group and get a feel for who is in there.”
“Sorry, only gay hockey players need apply,” I said, and ate my first mouthful of pasta which, to give Jason his due, was pretty freaking awesome. He regarded me carefully, so much so I put down my fork. “What?”
“I need access to all social media accounts to ascertain levels of regular social contact.”
I blinked at him. “Huh?”
“Standard procedure is to categorize all threats.”
“My friends aren’t threats, Jesus, is nothing sacred?”
“Stalkers can be friends.”
“Not my friends.” I was being stubborn, but I knew the guys around me, and they were good people. “Anyway, why are you asking? Are you telling me you haven’t hacked my accounts yet?”
“No, we haven’t, and talking of this, your Instagram is a concern. You have over half a million followers on there, and you need to stop geotagging your posts, keep them anonymous, no backdrops with addresses, or recognizable places. Also, no videos. And no posts at parties, or premiers, or other high profile social events.”
“I don’t have any of those planned in the next two days,” I deadpanned, and he immediately frowned at me.
“I’m being serious, Garrett. Why is it you refuse to be sober and thoughtful about this situation?”
“It helps me to think that I’m going to be okay.”
“Well, you won’t be okay if you get shot in the head on my watch. You’ll be dead.”
What the fuck? “Thanks for that—”
“Stop!” He pushed aside the last of his pasta in an angry, jerking motion, and I waited because I needed to understand that sudden snap of hostility, and also to make it clear that Instagram was a tool that I used to support the team, and my charity work.
“You need to realize that a person could look at your charmed life, and buy into it to the point of obsession. You post regular photos of your local bakery, with the name of the place visible, time-stamped, you really think that people aren’t out there building a picture of your life? One that they could be envious about what you so easily have with your good looks, personality, and your lucrative career?”
That was the second time he’d called my life charmed in some way, but he didn’t know about my life, and if he said it a third time I might have to punch him.
“Okay, no more geotagging, in pictures or text, I get that,” I said, and pulled out my phone. “How do I stay anonymous on my own Insta account? Do you even understand how Instagram works?”
I could be patient with him, after all he was a good five years older than me, and maybe he wasn’t one of the Insta generation? I’d come late to it anyway. The same day I’d signed my Bauer deal I’d had to agree to Instagram so I could endorse their products. I hadn’t looked back, my stories were funny and on point. I was perfectly woke about all current issues. I re-blogged content that was relevant to hockey and LGBT causes. What could possibly be on there that would cause someone to stalk me?
He picked up my phone, entering the same code as earlier and frowning when he couldn’t get in.
Ha! I’d changed the code to something different, but my mouth fell open when he typed in a second set of numbers and the phone opened. “Your birthdate, in reverse,” he murmured, and then swiped to my Insta.
I was still openmouthed. “How in God’s name did you guess that?”
“Most people use a wedding anniversary, or if without a spouse, a mem
orable birthday of parents or siblings, or their own birthdate. I figured that you would think I’d try typing your birthday in first, so to catch me out you reversed the date.”
He looked right at me, and I genuinely had no comeback on that particular magic he’d done. “Well, fuck.” I mean what were the odds of him knowing that? It had to be a guess.
“Also, I was standing behind you when you typed in the new code.”
“The hell?”
He wriggled the fingers of his free hand. “Ninja. So, you’re not on Twitter, or Facebook.”
“No. Just WhatsApp to chat, and Insta for the promo stuff.”
“And your super…”
“Secret gay hockey group.”
“That. You have friends in there that I need to be concerned about?”
I thought about the people in the group, my closest friends, the guys I cared about, the ones who had my back if I needed them. “No.”
“Nevertheless I’ll run background checks on the names in here.”
“Yeah, I can totally see hockey players from thousands of miles away sending me a dead bird, flowers, and then deliberately flying all the way up to Vermont to scratch words into my car before heading back to their teams and hoping no one notices they weren’t at home playing hockey where they were supposed to be.”
“I’ve seen it happen before.”
“Hockey players, dead birds, and car vandalism?”
He raised his eyebrow at me, and I had to hold in my snort of laughter. For all his intensity, he had this way about him that made me think under his armor he might be a funny guy. “One of my recent Canadian clients had a stalker in the UK, who flew out especially to harass her.”
Oh. That was not a funny story. “Shit. Did you get him?”
“It was actually a her. It was cousin a few times removed who did one of those online DNA tests and discovered she was related to our client. She decided that given the client was rich, then she deserved a payout. It got ugly, but in this day and age, with the Internet and international travel, stalking and harassment isn’t just done by the guy around the corner.”
“So wait, you’re saying I could have a sexy British stalker?”
“That is what you’re taking from my cautionary tale?”
“I was joking, but more importantly you’re suggesting that I could have someone doing this to me who isn’t even on mainland USA?”
He regarded me thoughtfully as if he was considering what to tell me. “Our first instinct is always to look closer to home, and when you’re a celebrity in the spotlight, then it’s with a frustrated fan, or an ex that we start with first. Anyway, we changed the subject somewhere along the line, so tell me more about the auction and the charity.”
Had I changed the subject? He still had my phone and I held out my hand for it, only happy when it was back in my pocket. Then I thought about how important Hockey Allies was and I slipped into my comfortable place talking about what I hoped to achieve from taking part.
“Do you play sports?”
“College baseball, Calgary, just one year though before I joined the military.”
I filed that information away in the mental dossier I was building on Jason, imagining him in those baseball pants, all skin tight and… stop it. I pulled myself back to the important things in my real life.
“Then you know that sport has the power of bringing people together. I bet it didn’t matter if your college team won or lost, because dedicated fans were behind the team. Am I right?”
“Yeah, they were.”
“There have been a ton of studies that show following a team, any team, and taking part in peripheral events can give people a sense of community. It can energize each person and give them a sense of belonging. That’s the overarching explanation of why sport is important.”
“And that’s why you back this Hockey Allies charity?”
“Not just that, it’s way more specific for me. Hockey is hyper-masculine and there’s this ethos that you have to be a straight man to play.” I air quoted those last few words. “If someone is questioning, or owns their truth anywhere on the spectrum, it’s implied in general that this person is not capable of playing hockey. That’s wrong.” I pushed my empty bowl to one side, so I could use my hands to shape out my words and exaggerate them. I was an expressive person, and it had driven my last date crazy.
Not that there was anything about me that the guy he liked. After all, he’d admitted he was only meeting me for the money and insta-fame. I hadn’t had a proper date in years.
Boo hoo, poor rich Garrett with the golden career.
“Was it hard for you to come out?” he asked so carefully, and I knew what he was expecting, some story of a kid who was never accepted. But I’d been lucky so far, skilled enough for coaches to overlook anything that didn’t fit their player ideal.
“Some. Not much. I knew I was gay from when I was, maybe thirteen? I was already in Juniors, and everyone told me I would make it one day, despite all of my issues and lack of family backing me up, I could one day go the whole way in the NHL and that I would have a future. For a kid in foster care, the promise of a bright future and maybe a new family, that’s huge. To a kid who plays hockey, being told they could go all the way? That is everything.”
There was a softness in his eyes, and I imagined it was pity for the whole foster care thing, but all of my issues with the time before Mamma P, Kyle, and Bobby, were out there for anyone to read about after I’d written a heartfelt post for an online hockey magazine. I didn’t need the pity or compassion building in Jason’s expression.
I placed one hand flat on the counter and lifted the other above my head. “The journey to get from here to there, it takes years, practice every day, working so hard that you barely think of anything but hockey, and it doesn’t help when you’re wrestling with your own identity.” I dropped my hand to the counter, and continued to talk as I took the bowls, rinsed them and put them into my expensive dishwasher that I don’t think I’ve ever used. I took them out again and placed them in the sink, opening random cupboards on the hunt for dish soap. Jason was there, bending down reaching into the back of the cupboard under the sink, pulling out the bottle, and then he leaned against the counter and waited for me to continue.
After squirting too much dish soap and ending up with a mountain of bubbles, I washed the bowls slowly, enjoying the heat of the water, thinking about what to say next.
“I told my coach I was gay when I’d just turned fourteen. I wanted to be honest, but at that age no one really understands the way the world works, and I regretted blurting it out to him in his office when he went white.”
“He didn’t take it well?”
“Coach Morton explained in no uncertain terms that I couldn’t tell anyone else, that I had the potential to be the next big thing in hockey, and that I wouldn’t have a career if I showed weakness.”
“He equated gay with weak?”
“Of course. So many people do. I mean, you go to any Dragons game and there’s casual homophobia in every section. If I score a goal then I’m a hero who doesn’t play like I’m gay. Then, if I make a shitty turnover, it’s all what do you expect from someone like him. That’s why this charity is important, and not just to raise money, but to raise the profile of access for GLBTQ kids who want to play.”
“I understand.”
“You know, it’s not just the fans? I had the same shit thrown at me from Shaun.”
“The agent.”
“Yeah. He knew I was gay when he took me on, and that wasn’t an issue, and hell, I was eighteen and he worked with people to get me noticed, and he was cool with me being gay, only he said I should exploit it.”
“How did he want you to do that?”
“Gay talk shows. Gay You Tube. Gay this. Gay that. But my sexuality isn’t the only thing that defines me and I shouldn’t be looked at as different. Does that make sense?” Abruptly it was vital that he understood where I was coming from.
/> “It does.”
“The auction is important,” I reiterated. “All of the guys taking part will show that hockey is a game everyone can access irrespective of race, gender, age, or any other defining factor. It’s everyone’s game, and for me to go up there on the stage, visible to the cameras, not ashamed of who I am, with the companies who endorse me supporting that, then it means that I’m stepping up and playing my part, and I hope that others will follow. Anyway, coffee?”
He nodded.
I fixed the dials on the machine and set the beans to grind. He wiped splashes of tomato from the countertop, and then coffee in hand, we went into the large sitting area with the views. It was dark, and I pulled the blinds, although I tilted them at an angle so we could see out before I curled up in the corner of the large sectional. We sat in silence for a while, and then he cleared his throat.
“We really need to talk the logistics of the charity event, it’s only three weeks away, and there’s an outside possibility that you will still need me then.”
“You said I’d only have you for a few days.”
“Ideally, yes. We have a team on the investigation side, and we’re taking this very seriously, but we have to plan for all eventualities.”
The walls closed in on me, and it wasn’t a good feeling. How could I have this sexy but bossy, man in my life for any more than a few days? A week would be stretching it, three weeks and into the All-Star weekend and bachelor auction and I was going to go fucking crazy. I glanced over at him and he was looking at me steadily. Just the thought of him watching me as I had all these negative feelings made me ashamed of myself.
He settled deeper into his part of the sofa, his large solid frame a bookend to the throw cushions at his side.
“So what about you?” I asked.
“What about me?”
“You work for Deamax, that much I get, you’re a bodyguard, protector, you can hack software, you have a gun, you said you were military. What else? How long have you been a bodyguard? How old are you? Where do you call home?”
