by Eden Finley
OLLIE
When Ava gets off the phone, she tells us the press is already arriving at the arena in Newark, so we don’t have much time to get there. The New Jersey management team is gonna stall for us as much as they can, because they agree this will be better for the league if we do this together.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Ava asks one last time.
I really do.
At the same time, I really don’t.
I’m not ready, but I know if I don’t do this now, I probably never will. I’ll hide behind hockey forever until I can retire, and that’s no way to live. Not when I’ve found someone who takes me out of the game long enough to realize there’s a whole other world out there that doesn’t involve my skates and hockey stick.
“I need to do this.”
They’re the magic words to get everyone moving. Ava and Coach go ahead of us while the GM heads up to his office, prepared for incoming calls.
There isn’t enough time in the organization of it all to freak out until we start heading down the cold corridor again on the way out.
“Come with me to the press conference?” I whisper to Lennon.
“Where else would I be going?”
“I dunno. You’ve been weird all day and keep trying to run away from me, telling me to take the out, so yeah, I wanted to double-check.”
Lennon stops before we reach the exit to the stadium. “I haven’t been trying to run away …”
“Maybe not fast,” I mumble.
He smiles. “I’m proud of you, and if you need to do this, then, of course, I’m going to support you, but my position hasn’t changed. You can’t come out for me or for a possibility of us, because if you do, there won’t be an us in the long run. Coming out to support a fellow athlete is a completely different thing, and I admire you for showing solidarity to someone you don’t even know all that well.”
“I know him. I know him better than I know anyone else, because he’s me.”
Lennon steps forward and presses against me, his arms wrapping around my back. “It’s going to be okay. I promise. Let’s deal with today, and then we can see where we’re at tomorrow.”
I kiss the top of his head. “Tomorrow.”
Somehow, somewhere along the line, I’ve started falling for Lennon. Hard. The thought of him walking away from me to save my career makes me want to say “fuck hockey.” I realize that’s all Ash ever wanted from me, but I couldn’t bring myself to give it to him. Here I am offering it to Lennon on a silver platter, and he’s telling me not to.
And I think that’s the reason I want to do it. Because he’s right. I need to do this for my own reasons.
I want a chance at everything with Lennon even though it still feels out of reach.
At least this next step will bring us that tiny bit closer.
With a small, chaste kiss from him and a loud complaint from me about it being too short, we head to the car, and I try to put Lennon and me at the back of my mind and focus.
Easier said than done. My thoughts drift to what I have to do, what Soren’s going through, and I speculate what Kip Healy did to warrant getting punched. I begin to worry about the fallout from all this. Not just from the press but teammates, fans, ticket holders, and everyone else and their dog.
It’s been a constant fear for years, and now I’m going to face it head-on. That’s what you’re supposed to do with your fears, right? I don’t know why. If someone is deathly afraid of the zombie apocalypse, I’m not gonna dress up in bloody makeup and try to scare the shit out of them to prove a point. That’s a good way to get stabbed in the fucking head.
Are you really comparing coming out of the closet to being stabbed in the head?
I tell my conscience to fuck off even if it has a point. If I make this a dramatic thing, the rest of the world will too. This isn’t a big deal, and when everyone can accept that, then it takes away the fear.
“Do you know what you want to say on camera?” Damon asks. “I’ve been making notes in my phone all day if you want me to draft a proper speech or something, but it’s up to you. As long as you don’t say anything stupid.”
“No pressure.”
Someone’s waiting for us outside the staff entrance when we pull up to the rink. We’re ushered inside quickly to try to avoid being seen by any possible lurkers from the media.
The press conference has already started when we sneak in the back way. Only a few reporters turn our way, and as soon as they see me, they furiously start typing on their phones, tablets, or laptops, and some are even old school with notepads and pens. Lennon gasps when he spots one of the reporters.
“Who’s that?” I whisper.
“Kevin. I guess my editor sent him when I refused to dig any deeper into the story.”
Kevin turns back to the front when the GM of the New Jersey Bobcats starts talking. That’s when I follow his gaze and see that Soren looks like he’s about to shit a brick.
“As of this moment, Kip Healy is on suspension for the rest of the season, and his contract is pending against a behavioral review. One thing this league takes pride in is our You Can Play motto. All players should be able to go out on that ice with trust in their teammates. That trust is broken when certain players believe they have a right to discriminate against others.”
Their coach goes on to drone about inclusivity, and I’m sure their words reflect whatever Ava and the Dragons’ management team scrounged together for almost the exact same press conference they were planning.
The more they talk, the more Soren pales and looks visibly ill. They’re kinda dragging it out, but maybe that’s the point. By the time it’s Soren’s time to talk, the press won’t be shocked at what’s coming. In fact, I’d be surprised if it wasn’t already all over Twitter even though nothing’s been confirmed yet.
I find myself staring at Soren objectively. His honey-colored eyes shine, only emphasized by his scruff on his cheeks and dark hair. He’s a veteran player—only has a few years left in his career, max. It makes me wonder why or how this thirty-ish-year-old decided to come out. Or maybe it was an accident like how Tommy found out about me, only Kip Healy didn’t react as well as Tommy did.
His eyes catch mine, and confusion crosses his face before he breaks his gaze.
When it’s his turn to talk, he opens his mouth, but only a rasp comes out. He clears his throat and tries again.
“There’s one thing I’ve been terrified of my entire life, and it’s not sitting up here and telling the world I’m gay. My greatest fear is having a life full of regrets. This industry isn’t easy for someone who identifies as anything other than straight. The reason I’ve kept quiet about my orientation for so long is not because I haven’t been ready but because I’ve feared the sport wasn’t ready. But I owe it to myself and anyone else out there struggling with their identity to be honest.”
A lump forms in my throat, because it seems like such a waste. I’ve been playing for the NHL for over three years, Soren’s been here for ten, but neither of us had anyone … Well, that’s not true, I had Tommy, but it’s not the same thing.
Maybe Ma was right all along, and this is what the league needs for people to start coming forward. Solidarity. Kinship.
Questions are thrown at Soren, each one more invasive than the next and without time in between for him to actually answer.
“How long have you known you were gay?”
“When was your last relationship?”
“Why did you wait so long to come out?”
His GM answers. “Caleb won’t be answering any more questions.”
My brain and feet decide it’s a perfect time for me to make my move toward the long table of microphones.
As soon as Soren’s coach sees me approaching, he moves, vacating his seat next to Soren for me. I guess he was given a heads-up about my arrival. Soren still looks confused as to why I’m here.
“I might be able to help with the answers to those questions.” I tu
rn to Soren. “At least, for me.”
His eyes widen, and I reach over to squeeze his shoulder briefly before facing the media, where cameras are going off in our faces. Ten bucks says the front page of the sporting section tomorrow will be that photo. Me reassuring Soren for a total of three point two seconds. No doubt the article will speculate when we’ll get married.
“Sorry to gatecrash the press conference,” I start, “but I couldn’t sit by and watch this happen while living the exact same story as Soren. I’ve known I was gay since I was fifteen years old. My last relationship was with my childhood sweetheart, but it ended because I never had it in me to take this step. That’s not his fault, and I do regret the way things ended. But the reasons I waited so long to come out pretty much reflect the same reasons Soren had. In a lot of ways, the NHL appears ready for this, but in a lot of other ways, it doesn’t. My biggest fear was coming out and having no support and feeling alone in all this. When I found out what Soren was doing here today, I didn’t want to let him experience my fear.”
“So, did you know about each other before today?” someone asks.
“No. Honestly, when I heard an NHL player was about to come out, my first thought was someone found out about me and was going to run my story. I don’t care how the rest of the world sees it, but we’re entitled to come out how and when we want. No one should take that from another person.”
I feel Soren staring at me.
“You don’t think the public has a right to know?” another reporter asks, but I don’t see where the question comes from.
My heart kicks up a notch, and anger tries to take hold. What the fuck kind of question is that? No! No one has a right to know what I do in my bedroom. I go to open my mouth to say that, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Damon shaking his head and mouthing no, no, no, no, no.
Before I say something I really want to but shouldn’t, Soren’s GM beats me to it.
“What happens in any player’s private life is just that—private. If it doesn’t affect their game, it’s no one’s business but their own. Just because they’re public figures, that doesn’t mean anyone has a right to pry into their lives off the ice.”
“They signed on for that life, though,” the same reporters says. I see him this time and realize it’s the fucker Lennon works with.
“Actually, I signed on to play hockey,” Soren says. “And if you ask every single player on all thirty-one teams, I guarantee not one signed on saying ‘I can’t wait until my privacy is compromised.’ We’re all here for the love of the same sport.”
“It’s the same as celebrities,” Kevin says. “It’s a known condition of fame. Fans want to know everything.”
The PR rep for New Jersey steps in. “If no one else has any relevant questions, we’ll gladly call this press conference to a close. Thank you all for your time.”
Soren and I are quickly ushered away and led into the back corridors of the New Jersey arena. The GM and coach each give us pats on the back and tell us they’re going to go field phone calls. When they leave, I’m left alone with Soren. I go to ask him if we could bring my people back here as well, but he beats me to speaking.
“You’re an idiot.” There’s no real malice behind his words, only pure defeat.
“Uh, why?” I ask.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know, but if it were the other way around, I wouldn’t have called you an idiot for it.”
He sighs. “You’re not an idiot, but I hope your team accepts it better than mine have.”
I cock my head. “Your GM and coach seem to be handling it well.”
“Healy,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Oh.”
“I feel like the idiot. I heard this song—one stupid fucking song at some stupid charity benefit my sister made me be her date to—and it made me think I could have everything. I realized I don’t want to retire in a few years without having played as myself. A Stanley Cup win doesn’t count unless you win it as yourself, right? It’s not the same.”
“I’ve never thought about it like that. I’ve always hoped that coming out after I win one would prove I really belong here.”
Soren scrubs a hand over his tired face. “Yeah, that was another theory I was hiding behind too. Anyway, I came out to the team first, and most of the guys were great about it—or at least quiet. I don’t know what Healy’s problem is other than he’s a twatwaffle.”
“What did he say to make you snap?”
“The usual. But he’d been doing it all fucking night even before we hit the ice. All under his breath, of course. Even when we got reamed by coach about the fight, he tried to deny it. Said I was looking for attention after my announcement.”
“Ugh. What a dick.”
“At least he won’t be a problem next year.”
“How so?”
“He hasn’t been suspended like they said; he’s been released from his contract. He still gets all his money he doesn’t deserve, but he’s no longer gonna be playing. At least, not for us.”
It’s too early to determine how the fallout of all this will go, but the league taking appropriate steps with the Healy situation might mean it won’t be as bad as when Matt came out in the NFL.
“That’s promising at least,” I say.
“Yeah, it’s a start. We’ll see how the rest of the league handles it.”
“My coach said they’ve been waiting for this to happen, so maybe the transition will be smooth.”
The awkward silence that follows shows how much neither of us truly believe it even though we want to.
“So, what’s your deal?” Soren asks. “Closet full of exes back home who all left because of the whole hiding thing?”
I get the feeling Soren’s and my stories are similar.
“Uh, just one of those. You?”
“Only one that mattered,” he mutters.
The door behind us opens, and Lennon’s the first person I see as he, Damon, and Ava step through.
I must make a face or smile or something because Soren says, “I guess that answers my question about current relationship status.”
Here’s hoping anyway.
Chapter Twenty-Six
LENNON
“You two might want to stay out of the public eye for a while,” Damon says to Ollie and Soren. “Lay low for a few days, and maybe don’t go back to your apartments.”
Soren nods. “I can get a hotel room or something.”
“Not under your own name,” Damon says. “If you get stuck, you can come to Brooklyn and stay with me and my boyfriend.”
Surprise etches itself onto Soren’s face. “Are you taking on new clients? I’ve been trying to get a hold of my agent all day, and he’s not answering the damn phone, and here you are running your client around and offering your house to someone who isn’t even one of your players?”
Soren doesn’t know it, but that’s just the type of guy Damon is. Last year, I interviewed him, and it was easy to tell the world how great he is and how he’s an agent for all the right reasons, not for the ten percent of multimillion-dollar contracts. Sporting Health didn’t publish it because it wasn’t strictly sports related, but I was able to shop it around to other publications, and it was picked up by Sports Illustrated. It put Damon King on the map and was my first massive publication.
Damon breaks into a half grin. “Come stay with me, and we’ll talk.” He turns to us. “Ollie, you got a place to stay?”
“He can stay with me at Noah and Matt’s,” I say.
They’re back from Fiji now, but I’m sure they won’t mind Ollie crashing for a night or two until shit settles down.
Damon purses his lips. “As long as I don’t have to explain to the press tomorrow about Matt Jackson shacking up with his boyfriend and the newly outed hockey player—because we all know that’s how they’d spin that—I’m cool with it.”
“I think everyone’s under the impression Matt and Noah are still on
vacation, and no journalists came around the house while I’ve been staying there,” I say.
Ollie leans in. “You say that as if you’re not one.”
“After this, I don’t know how long I will be one.” And that scares me more than anything else that’s happened today.
My threat to quit if Harry ran a story outing someone against their will was real, but now we’ll never know because we beat them to it. Having said that, I don’t know if I want to work for someone who even contemplated it.
But what other options do I have? Everyone knows print media is dying. Jobs are rare, and wages are low. I need to play this smart and bite my tongue until I can figure out what to do.
“Whoa,” Soren says, “you’re dating a journalist? You’re brave.”
“Nah, I’m just super irresistible. Clearly.” I gesture to my nerdy self.
“He’s being self-deprecating, but he doesn’t realize how true that is.” Ollie’s lips land on my cheek, and even though I put up a front by rolling my eyes, I’m giddy on the inside, and that mushy feeling I woke up with this morning is back.
Damon offers us a lift back to the city, seeing as he has to go that way anyway, so the four of us climb into his car.
It doesn’t take even five minutes for Ollie’s hand to start wandering over my thigh, and I have to stop him from practically groping my dick numerous times.
Damon and Soren talk in the front, seemingly oblivious, but still. I give Ollie my best scowl, which only makes him smile. Of course. His new favorite thing is torturing me, it seems.
“Should’ve caught a cab,” Ollie mutters.
“I wouldn’t have let you touch me in a cab, either, Mr. Grabby Hands.”
“But I’m totally allowed to now. Whenever and wherever I want.”
“Uh … not to eavesdrop or anything,” Damon says from the front, “but that’s not a good idea. Especially in public.”
“Wait, I’m out now, and I still can’t touch my boyfriend in public?” Ollie asks.
My heart skips a beat at the boyfriend label again. I have no idea how we’re going to make this work, but fuck, I want to.
