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Living with Ryan was both better and worse than living in the Econo Lodge. If pressed, Lane wasn’t sure which one he’d say he preferred.
Ryan was messy, which was fine, because Lane had his own room, and he wasn’t exactly the neatest person in the whole world either. But Ryan also ate pizza for just about every meal, and they had so many boxes that they could probably construct an entire new apartment with them.
Ryan was also very, very popular with the ladies. Ryan had a lot of girls stay over, and Lane gave him credit for being enthusiastic and, if the moans he heard were any indication, pretty good at it.
It was fine until he came home one night with two girls, Becca and Mandy, and one was for him. Lane knew he either needed to tell his roommate he was gay or else learn how to be bisexual really quickly, because he could only make so many excuses. And he was going to have to pay Zoe rent if he kept sleeping on her couch. Her couch was in her living room, which was tiny, but it faced the ocean. Lane was too concerned about sea creatures to go in the ocean, but he liked looking at it. Like girls, maybe. That was probably a bad analogy.
The thing was, Lane probably wouldn’t mind watching Ryan with a girl. It was the part where he would have to do things with one that made him wary of the whole thing.
Sometimes he would open his sock drawer and find the note Jared left him with his phone number on it. Lane finally had a smart phone, and he kept thinking about calling, just so Jared would have his number. But he didn’t.
Calling Jared to ask how to learn to like sleeping with girls was a bad idea. Lane knew that because he’d asked Zoe and she’d told him so.
Lane’s parents were coming to visit for their next home game stint. That was a momentary distraction. Lane cleaned up the apartment as much as he could, ignored the stares of his fellow tenants as he hauled three weeks of pizza boxes to the dumpster, and made sure his laundry was mostly under control. He shoved a lot of stuff under his bed and reminded himself that his parents were only stopping by the apartment. They were staying in a hotel.
Other than the impending disaster of what would happen if his sexual preferences were made public, things were going well for Lane. The Sea Storm were winning. Lane wasn’t cocky enough to think it was all because of him, but there was no question they played better when they actually played as a team. They were at the top of their division in the standings, in a constantly rotating battle for first place with the Renegades.
Who they would be playing the next week, in Savannah. Zoe kept telling him to text Jared and see if he wanted to meet up, reminding Lane that he left his phone number, didn’t he?
Still, it was a week away, and Lane had to concentrate on their upcoming games and on seeing his parents. He got them tickets, of course, and when they came in to town on Thursday night, he took them to Cruisers. It was basically the only restaurant he ever went to. When Zoe was working, she gave him milkshakes and french fries for free. That was not something he shared with his parents, though. Their little trip was going to shatter enough of their illusions about life in professional minor league hockey. He should leave a few in place if he could.
It wasn’t the money that restricted him as much as his lack of a car, but he’d started saving up for one. Maybe their next trip down, he could take them to dinner somewhere on the beach. He should also really try to explore the city, because it was actually pretty nice. And the weather was fantastic. There was no denying that.
Cruisers was busy, and they had to wait ten minutes for a table, even with Lane’s stellar connections and recent professional-hockey-player paycheck in his pocket. Or what was left of it, after taking out the rent and utilities and some gas money for Zoe, which left him enough to pay for dinner for him and his parents and split a few pizzas with Ryan.
Lane had been waiting a long time to buy his parents dinner with money earned by actually playing professional hockey. And sure, it was only a couple of burgers and a few beers, but it meant a lot to Lane to be able to do it.
He wanted to thank his parents for the years of driving him to practice, cheering at the games, and believing in him enough to trust that this day would come. For the sacrifices he knew they’d made for him, for teaching him the game he loved, and for letting him follow his dream.
Instead, he said, “You should get a milkshake. They’re really good.” Zoe wasn’t their waitress, but she came over beaming and waving at Lane from her section of the restaurant. “Sure is busy in here,” she said, leaning on the back of Lane’s chair. “Hi. Y’all must be Lane’s parents. Welcome. Lane, you should’ve told them to sit you in my section. Are y’all going to the game tomorrow?”
His parents were staring at Zoe like she was a strange, foreign creature—and with that accent, her bright, ruby red hair, and the full-sleeve tattoos, maybe she was. Not that they didn’t have girls like Zoe in Canada. They just didn’t usually hang around with Lane. His parents nodded, like they weren’t sure what to say.
“Of course y’all are. Duh. Silly me. Hey, Lane, I’ve got a four top that’s taking forever to finish up, but I’ll come over if y’all are still here when they’re gone. Try a chocolate milkshake. That’s Lane’s favorite, ain’t it.” She ruffled Lane’s hair, which was a thing she did.
Zoe was Lane’s best friend—the first one he’d ever had. Unless he counted Derek Bishop, but Derek never talked to him again after his mom walked in on them kissing. When he saw his parents looking at each other, Lane was happy to finally have a friend to introduce to them.
“And how did you meet her?” his mom asked, her eyes practically shining.
“Oh, umm. Here? The guys and I came here after the game with our rivals, the one that I scored the game winner for. Remember?” They nodded because they were hockey parents, and it didn’t matter that Lane played his games thousands of miles away from home. When their son scored a game winner, they knew about it. “She was our waitress. My roommate is kind of... uh... sometimes he’s not very polite,” Lane said gravely, which made his parents look concerned, like Lane had told them Ryan was a drug dealer. “Anyway we ended up talking, and she gave me a ride back to my hotel.”
Lane remembered what happened after Zoe dropped him off, and it made him blush hotly to think about that night while sitting with his parents.
His mom patted his hand. “I’m glad you were polite. Every mother wants to hear that. Someone should tell your roommate,” she said darkly. Then she smiled at him again. “She seems like a very nice girl, Lane.”
They had dinner, and while Lane was talking about the schedule and his coach and the skills he’d been working on, Zoe came back and collapsed in the seat next to him. As promised, she was carrying a milkshake. It had three straws in it.
“Where’s your straw? Don’t say you can’t have any when you’re working, because you always steal some of mine,” Lane teased her, and she hit him upside the head. “Ow. Stop it. Head injuries are serious, you know.”
“Don’t tease me about chocolate.” Zoe stuck her tongue out at him. “And don’t forget I give you those milkshakes for free, Laney. Did y’all like your dinner?”
His parents enthused over their dinner, which was nice of them, considering it took forever, his mom’s burger was overdone to the point of being unrecognizable, and his dad’s was still making soft, mooing sounds.
“Do you live close by, Zoe?” His mom asked, sipping the milkshake.
“Not too far.”
“She has a wicked house on the ocean,” Lane pointed out.
“Uh... that sounds way fancier than it is. It’s a rental. It’s the size of a shoebox, and I can’t live there after December.”
“But it’s on the ocean,” Lane said again.
“I don’t know why you like the ocean so much, since you’re afraid to go in there.”
“I’m not afraid,” Lane protested. “I’m concerned.”
Zoe gave him an unimpressed look. “I should probably finish my sidework. Y’all enjoy the milkshake. That’s on me. I’ll be at Lane’s game tomorrow, so y’all can tell me embarrassing stories about him.”
“Do you go to all the games?” his dad asked and beamed at Lane.
“If I’m not working, yeah. I’d never seen a hockey game until Lane gave me tickets to one of his. It’s exciting. He had to explain it to me using the salt shakers and stuff on the table before I went, but I pretty much know what’s going on now.”
“We’ll be happy to help you figure it out, dear,” his mom told Zoe. “We’re experts.”
“I bet. Okay. Well, have fun, y’all. Bye, Lane.”
“Bye, Zoe.” He watched her go with a fond smile. She had clearly charmed his parents, which was great. They asked a lot of questions about her, which vaguely embarrassed Lane. He never realized before how badly they wanted him to have friends.
His parents dropped him off at his apartment, and his mother leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Your father and I are so happy you’re enjoying it here and that you have Zoe,” she said. He just nodded, told them he’d see them the next day, and hurried upstairs to bed.
They had a game the next day, so Ryan wasn’t entertaining. They played a few rounds of NHL 14, and Lane played as the Leafs—though it occurred to him that maybe he should play as the Lightning, considering that was the team who’d drafted him.
That night in bed, Lane thought about Jared and the night they’d spent together while he palmed his cock through his pajamas. Sometimes he thought about how everything played out in perfect order, and sometimes he thought about it more specifically and lingered on certain moments. The night before, he’d flipped over, pulled his pajama pants down, and gotten off rubbing against his mattress and thinking about how good Jared felt on top of him.
Tonight he was just letting his mind wander, thinking about a hazy, vague future encounter in Savannah, and the one in his hotel room. He kicked his covers off and stroked himself hard and fast, thinking about how Jared had put his mouth on him and how that was maybe the best thing Lane had ever felt in his life. He wanted that again.
He thought about calling Jared right then and saying, “I’m thinking about how you sucked me off, and can you do that again, please, when I’m in Savannah?” And he thought about how Jared had teased him and almost not let him come in his mouth like he wanted to. Lane arched up off the bed and came hard. It felt good but it wasn’t what he wanted, and he didn’t know if he was allowed to have what he wanted or not.
After a few minutes spent catching his breath, he cleaned himself up and made sure his alarm was set, telling himself that he didn’t have time to worry about Savannah right then. He needed to focus on the game and be ready to bring his best to the ice. His parents were already so happy with him. If he could just score a goal or two, and if the Sea Storm could win, they would have the perfect visit. His parents would be proud of him for living up to their belief in his talent. They’d sit next to the first best friend he’d ever made—and one who had nothing to do with hockey. Maybe he had enough money to take them and Zoe back for another burger. Or maybe they’d have to go somewhere cheaper. Still, it would be perfect.
He was almost asleep when the simple, obvious thing he’d been missing all night slammed into him with the force of a freight train. His parents weren’t happy because he’d made a friend. His parents were happy because they thought Zoe was his girlfriend.
All those smiles, those looks they’d been exchanging. It was because they thought finding him kissing Derek was nothing more than teenage experimentation.
Lane punched his pillow in frustration. It wasn’t their son’s professional hockey career that made them happy, it was his apparently not being gay. Lane had hated the look of disappointment in his mother’s eyes, but suddenly he hated the happy one a whole lot more. Because he was gay, and that had absolutely nothing to do with how he played hockey.
Lane sat up and shoved the covers off, yanked his sock drawer open, and found the note from Jared. He took his phone, found the “Add a Contact” button, and typed in Jared’s information. Then he typed a message that said hey it’s lane can we do that again next week thanks and sent it before he could think better of it.
He sat there on his bed, his feet on the floor, burning with some new anger that he didn’t know how to deal with. He was grateful to his parents for believing in him. All he wanted to do was thank them, show them how he’d lived up to their expectations and proved himself worthy of all of it—the money, the lost weekends, the constant travel and fatigue.
And all they cared about was who he took to bed after a game. Goddammit. Goddamm it. Did it really matter that much to them? Did one stupid thing mean more than all the years of practice and sweat and blood?
Apparently it did.
Lane lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He had tears of anger in his eyes and he couldn’t do anything about it but fume. He tried to take a few deep breaths to calm down, but nothing worked. Finally he got up and took a shower, and he let some of those tears go because they mixed in with the water, and the sound of the spray drowned out the one quiet sob he allowed himself. Then he got out, brushed his teeth, and headed back to bed.
He was going to sleep. He was playing hockey the next day for the Sea Storm—for his teammates—and that required his A game. So that’s what Lane was going to bring. His parents would be there, but it wasn’t going to be for them. Not this time.
He saw the flash on his phone, indicating he had a new message. It was from Jared, and all it said was hell yeah—j.
Lane put the note back in his drawer, made sure his alarm was on and his phone was plugged into the charger, and went to sleep.
––––––––
The Sea Storm won both their games that weekend. On Sunday, Lane Courtnall scored the first hat trick of his professional career and was named the game’s first star.
That meant he got to fire a T-shirt cannon into the crowd. He wanted to aim it at Zoe, but that seemed unfair because he knew her. So he silently promised to buy her a shirt, and aimed the cannon at some kids who were waving their arms around frantically.
When he left the arena, there were fans hanging around taking pictures with some of the other Storm players. Lane took a few pictures and signed some autographs, even though signing made him feel vaguely embarrassed.
His parents and Zoe were waiting for him by his parents’ rental car. The glamorous chariot for the game’s first star. Lane was perfectly happy about his performance in both games. He was happy his team won, happy it was sunny, and happy Zoe had seen him get a hat trick.
Happy he was going to get laid in a week.
Happy his parents were going home.
“Oh man, Lane, that was great.” Zoe threw her arms around him and gave him an exuberant hug. “You got a cap trick.”
“Hat trick,” he corrected, hugging her back. “Yup. I did.” He could feel his parents watching, and the anger hit him harder than he expected, because they were probably happier he was hugging a girl than because of the game he’d just played.
“Next time you better shoot that T-shirt thingy at me, though,” she said, punching him as he pulled away. “What’s the use of having a friend on the team if I can’t get any free swag?”
Lane hadn’t said a word to her about his parents, or how they clearly thought he and Zoe were dating. He saw his mother and father watching him with the obvious question in their eyes—“Doesn’t she mean boyfriend?” or “Aren’t you two dating?”
Lane didn’t say a word. If you want to know, you can ask me. He wasn’t going to lie if they asked him about it.
But they didn’t ask, and Lane didn’t say anything. He watched them go and wondered what they would take away from the trip—what they would say to his family and friends back home. If they’d talk about Lane’s hat trick and the excellent hockey he was playing, or how he was, for the first time ever, really part of a team. Or if all they’d take away from was that he had a girlfriend.
He stopped calling them after games and practices. If they wanted to know what his stats were, they could look them up on the Sea Storm website. If they wanted to know about his personal life, they could ask. They’d nurtured him, sure. But it was Lane’s talent, Lane’s hard work that had gotten him where he was.
––––––––
Zoe was just finishing her bar shift at Cruisers. She’d been promoted to bartender, but it wasn’t all that much better than waiting tables. “It’s better hours and more money, but I’m really tired of wiping water spots out of glasses. And also, what’s up with people who order drinks like a ‘Ronald Palmer’? What the hell is that?”
“I don’t know. All I drink is beer and sometimes whiskey.”
Zoe snorted, slinging a towel across her shoulder. “All you drink are milkshakes and Dr Pepper, Lane. Come on.”
“I meant alcoholic stuff,” he protested. “Also I drink water. And sometimes Gatorade. I had some coconut water the other day because our goalie told me it was good. But it wasn’t.”
Zoe sighed. “You’re bad at stories sometimes.”
“I know. Can I have a Dr Pepper refill?” He pushed his glass at her and smiled. “I got you a T-shirt, by the way. Because I felt bad I shot that cannon at a kid instead of you.”
The man next to Lane gave him a weird look. Lane cleared his throat. “It was a T-shirt cannon,” he explained. That didn’t appear to get him any leeway. “At a hockey game.”
“Mike, this is Lane Courtnall. He’s a center for the Jacksonville Sea Storm. Which is a hockey team. That thing they play on ice, with a puck.” Zoe gave Lane his Dr Pepper. “Lane, this is Mike Barrie. He owns Cruisers.”
“Oh, hey. Really?” Lane held his hand out to shake. “We come here a lot, the team. You have good burgers. Unless you’re really busy, and then sometimes whoever makes them isn’t paying attention and they’re not that great. But the milkshakes are always good. And Zoe is definitely the best waitress here, so she’ll probably be the best bartender in a week or two. Once she figures out what all the drinks are. Do you know what a ‘Robert Palmer’ is?”
“Sometimes I think you’re not a real person,” Zoe said, glaring at him.
Lane shrugged and looked around as if the answer to why she’d think that was hidden in the mostly-empty bar area. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and they had the day off, so he was hanging out, avoiding his apartment. “Was I not supposed to say that, about the burgers? Sorry. It’s just that I’m used to people being critical all the time. Is that not how restaurants work?”
“Where are you from?” Mike asked bluntly, but he looked kind of amused.
“Canada,” Lane answered, and the guy said “ah,” downed the rest of his drink, and stood up.
“It’s good to meet you. Hey, if you get me a signed pennant or whatever hockey teams have, I’ll put it up on the wall. I didn’t know a whole sports team came in here. Are you guys any good?”
“We’re first in our division right now,” Lane told him proudly.
“Great,” Mike said, clearly having no idea what division he meant or what it was a division of. “You need any sponsors?”
“Uh, probably? You should call the office, though. I just play hockey.” Lane took a pen and wrote a number on one of the coasters. “Here. This is the main office. I know that because if you look up Jacksonville Sea Storm in the phone book, this is the number you get, and if you call in the summer, you’ll just keep getting an answering machine and have to show up with your stuff and some cash and live at the Econo Lodge.”
Mike pocketed the coaster and then backed slowly away from Lane. “Does he get hit in the head often? I hear that happens.”
“Nope. He’s a flashy puck guy. People try and hit him in the head, but then other guys stop them.” Zoe beamed. “I’m fixin’ to be an expert about hockey, Mike. Watch out.”
“I’m fixin’ to find me a bartender who knows what a ‘Robert Palmer’ is,” Mike answered, but he was smiling. “Later, Zoe. Nice to meet you, Lane.”
“You too. And I really do like your milkshakes.” Lane watched him go, then turned back to Zoe. “He seems nice.”
“Really? He’s okay. Smarmy guy. Sort of a sleaze.”
“You called him by his first name, though.” Lane couldn’t imagine doing that to his bosses, who were all coaches.
“He makes you. It’s a suggestion of false intimacy, and I hate it,” she told him bluntly. Lane just nodded like he understood that and wondered if it were too early for a milkshake, because suddenly he wanted one.
“My parents thought we were dating,” he said, apropos of nothing, twirling his straw in his glass. He couldn’t look at Zoe. “Did you pick up on that, because I didn’t.”
He looked up finally, when Zoe was quiet for so long that he thought maybe he should repeat himself. “I said—”
“Yeah. I heard you,” she muttered, snatching his glass and filling it back up with the nifty soda dispenser, the one with all the buttons on it. Lane wanted to use that thing but he was concerned he’d get her fired if she let him.
“I guess maybe I did... a little? I mean, I can see why they’d think that. We hang out. We shared a milkshake straw. You told them about the ocean view from my house,” she said, giggling. Her expression turned serious when he didn’t crack a smile. “They don’t know, though. Right? About... you know.” She raised her eyebrows.
“Oh, they know,” Lane said, stabbing the glass with the straw. It was very unsatisfying.
“What? Really?” Zoe leaned forward, her voice quiet. “You said you didn’t tell anyone.”
“I didn’t,” Lane said flatly. He looked around, saw they were mostly alone, and said quietly, “I’ve had exactly one other best friend, before you. His name was Derek, and I had a crush on him. I was sixteen, and his family moved in next to mine. I was home from my major junior team, and we hung out and played street hockey and video games and shit. And one day we were in my room. The door was closed, and we were on my bed, and I just... got on top of him and kissed him.”
“Hot.” She smiled, but it was clear she understood this story wouldn’t end well.
“More like awkward and weird. But okay. I guess it was hot for two minutes, until my mom opened the door and saw us.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah.” Lane still didn’t like to think about that, but now it made him mad instead of guilty. Or mostly it made him mad. Feelings were confusing.
“And then what? Your parents cried, told you that you were a disgrace to their name, and asked how they’d ever show their faces at church on Sunday?” She coughed. “Or something like that, maybe?”
Lane was kind of terrible at understanding subtext, but even he got that that must have been what her parents’ reaction was. “She closed the door.”
“Oh. And then you came downstairs, and they were sitting on the couch, holding hands, looking at old home movies of you, and crying?”
Lane blinked at her. “Huh? Was that before or after the yelling and the church thing?”
“That second one wasn’t mine, it was Erin’s. Look. Sometimes your stories need a little help, Lane.” Her smile was kind, and her eyes were warm. “Also, I’m over here trying not to cry a little that you said I was your best friend.”
“Oh. Bad crying, or ‘we just won the Stanley Cup’ crying?” He eyed her suspiciously. “I won’t call you that, if it’s bad crying. I don’t know anything about girls. Remember? And I definitely don’t know about them when they’re crying.”
“It was in a good way, but don’t worry. Now I just want to punch you. But are you saying your parents just... never said anything?” She made a face. “That’s kind of fucked up. But if they knew, why’d they think we were dating?”
“They want to think that. They didn’t ask me, and I was too mad to say anything when I figured it out.” He looked down at the bar, flushing. “And I... I don’t know. I should have said something. Are you mad that I didn’t? I’m kind of mad at myself.”
“Of course I’m not mad,” she said, reaching out and patting him on the hand. “They seemed really happy you were doing so well. If they think we’re more than friends, then that’s their problem, not yours.”
“That’s the thing,” Lane told her. He took her hand in his, and it astounded him how easy it was to touch her in affection, when he had always been bad with that kind of thing. Maybe because he was around guys a lot of the time, and he wanted to touch them with a lot more than just affection, but that couldn’t be the only reason. He didn’t want to sleep with every guy he met.
Well, mostly he didn’t. But he’d been kind of hard up for it, for a while.
“Lane...? That’s what thing?”
Oh. Right. “They weren’t happy things were going well for me. I mean, they were. But Zoe, I know my parents. They were happier meeting you than watching me score a hat trick and win a game. Or when I could take them to dinner for the first time and pay with money I’d earned playing hockey.”
“Well, I am pretty great,” she told him, deadpan. “But are you sure you’re not just.... I mean, I sat by them at the game, Lane.”
He smiled at her, but it didn’t feel like a smile at all. “Did they ask you a million questions, or watch me play?”
“Well, they.... I mean, they watched you obviously, but....” She sighed. “They were pretty curious. I just thought they were kind of awkward. You had to get it from somewhere.”
That made him laugh. “Yeah. Well, trust me. It wasn’t that. You know, I used to feel really bad about it. That I was... that I was gay,” he said. It was always easier, every time, as long as he was saying it to someone safe. “Like somehow that meant all the sacrifices and stuff they made for me, that it wasn’t worth it because I failed.”
“Failed? What exactly did you fail by being gay, Lane? Being straight? What the hell does that have to do with hockey?” Zoe started banging things around behind the bar. “You were drafted by the NHL. Isn’t that, like, the pinnacle of success if you’re a Canadian boy?”
“Pretty much. It’s that or join the Mounties.” He cleared his throat. “I was kidding about the Mounties.”
She still looked mad, and it took him a moment to realize it wasn’t at him. “So they can fuck off, then. I don’t think they made you sign a contract that said, ‘I, Lane Courtnall, promise to be straight if you nurture my God-given talent to be good with a stick.’”
Lane started giggling, mostly because he felt weird and embarrassed about what she was saying—but something else too. “Being good with a stick is the problem. Remember?”
She smacked her hand down on the bar. “No. It isn’t,” she snapped. “It’s how you are. So you’re good with a stick, and you’re good with a stick. So what? It makes me so goddamn angry, because my parents pulled this bullshit with me too. Like everything I’d ever done failed to erase my sin of loving a girl. They used to tell me they’d kick me out if I dyed my hair, got any piercings, or—God forbid—any tattoos. I told them I had a girlfriend my freshman year in college, and you know what? That’s why I got all these tattoos. Because it didn’t matter. I’d found the one sin that was worse, and somehow my body and who I chose to share it with was offensive to them. So why not mark it up?”
“And they’re hot,” he said, reaching down for the soda gun. He pressed a button and watched some clear, carbonated soda spray out.
“What the hell are you doing?”
He looked up at her. “Looking for the button that turns on your closed captioning, because your accent is really thick when you’re mad.”
Zoe’s green eyes were flashing in anger. She was all flushed, and her mouth was drawn into a straight line. Then her lips twitched, and she snorted and then started giggling. “Lane? I know we’ve known each other for basically less time than my dye job lasts, but you know what? You’re my best friend, too.”
“Even if I like guys?”
“Even if you’re as queer as a two dollar bill,” she assured him, still giggling. She was trying to get the soda gun away from him, but Lane was actually enjoying putting all of the different sodas into his glass, so he kept it from her. “Give me that back.”
“As queer as a... toonie?” Lane pushed the buttons, looking for the Dr Pepper.
“A two-dollar bill. Did you say toonie? You’re out of your goddamn mind. Give me that back.” She tried jumping for it, but she was short, and Lane was six foot three and half standing on his barstool.
“A toonie. It’s a two-dollar coin. We have those in Canada. And one dollar coins too. Know what we call those?” He aimed the gun at her. “Go on. Guess.”
“If you tell me it’s a one-y, I’m not going to believe you.”
“Nope. A loonie. It’s got a loon on it. That’s a bird, in case you don’t have those here.”
“Oh, I got a looney here, but it ain’t no bird,” she chirped at him, and Lane grinned and spritzed her with the gun. Just a little, but she shrieked—like a girl, which he told her gleefully—and threw a straw, a coaster, and one of those little swords with a piece of pineapple on it that people put in drinks.
“What is the matter with you?” She was still glaring, but Lane could tell she wasn’t really mad.
“You know what? No one’s ever done that for me.”
“Thrown things at you? I don’t believe that for a minute.”
“I don’t think they’ve done that either, but mostly I meant... stuck up for me. You got mad. And I know it was for you, but it was a little bit for me too. Right?”
Zoe gave him a look that made him feel embarrassed again. And that other thing, which he realized was some mixture of affection and whatever a brother might feel for a sister.
“It was a lot for you too,” she said quietly, wiping up the mess he’d made with the soda gun. “And you know, maybe they’ll get over it. They might. I’ve seen it happen.”
“Did yours?”
“Oh, hell yes. My mother’s not going to let sins against nature make her look like a fool in front of her people. She puts a hat on me and takes me to Sunday service when I’m home, and tells everyone about my new tattoos and how I’m ‘a lesbian and she couldn’t be happier to still love me.’”
Lane’s eyes widened. “Can you promise I will never, ever have to meet her? She sounds terrifying.”
“She is. But when I called her on it, she said if being bisexual was how God made me, she was just being how God made her. And that if I ever thought I couldn’t bring someone home to meet her, I should think again. She was my mother, and if I had a lesbian baby—which, I don’t know, okay, don’t ask—she was going to be its grandmother. So could I please get over myself and make sure I covered my tattoos at dinner.” Zoe laughed and spread her hands. “I don’t go home a lot, but when I do, she points out some really nice girls at church and then asks if I’ve been saved and am I ready to go back to boys yet.”
“I don’t think this story is true,” Lane said, because how could it be? No one’s parents were like that, were they? “Does your mom really say all that stuff out loud?”
“Oh, yeah.” Zoe’s smile faded a little. “My dad hasn’t spoken a word to me since he found out. I guess my sin against nature makes it too hard for him to look at me and remember I’m actually his daughter and he’s supposed to love me. Or, okay, I know he still loves me. But I guess it’s okay if he just doesn’t speak to me. My mother told me he thought it was his fault for not spanking me enough. That made me see women as the dominant partner.”
“So you don’t think I should do the brave thing and call them up and say, ‘hey, Zoe’s not my girlfriend because I’m gay’?” Lane felt the words, heard them echo in his head.
“Honestly? No. You know why?” She threw the towel back over her shoulder, and it got her shirt all wet. She leaned forward, with her arms braced on the bartop—and then snapped her fingers sharply. “Lane. Stop staring at my tits. You’re the worst gay guy ever. You’re maybe queer like a loonie instead of a twosie.”
“Toonie.”
“Whatever. What I was saying is, I don’t think you should tell them you’re gay by telling them what someone isn’t, to you. I think you should tell them you’re gay when you tell them what someone is.”
Lane nodded. “Okay.” He thought about that for a minute. “Wait. What?”
She sighed and handed him a Dr Pepper to go, fresh and sparkling with ice. “Don’t tell your parents you’re gay and I’m not your girlfriend. Tell them you’re gay because someone is your boyfriend.”
“Can I tell them it’s that hot guy on Teen Wolf?” He leaned forward. “It’s time for me to go home, huh?”
“It is so time for you to go home,” she agreed, but she said it nicely. “You can take my car, as long as you remember to come pick me up. And all I meant was, tell them when it matters. Y’know?”
“You do matter, though,” he said sincerely. “If I weren’t gay, I would really like to be your boyfriend. And also to see your tits. I’m just curious. They look nice.”
“Lane. The thing where you say sweet stuff and then follow it up with a dumb guy thing.... Well, you’re a gay dude who plays a sport for a living. What was I expecting?” She tossed her keys across the bar. “I’m done at ten, but you know that means more like eleven.”
“Right. Thanks for letting me borrow your car.”
“Don’t clean it out again, Lane.”
“But you had four bags full of pop cans. Okay. Never mind. I won’t.” He waved at her, then said nonchalantly, “Oh by the way, I texted Jared, and we’re going to, uh... hang out after the game in Savannah. Have a good shift.”
“Lane. Lane, you brat, why didn’t you tell me that first?”
Lane grinned and ducked out into the sunshine. He put the thing with his parents away, not to forget about, but just to think about when he was ready. For the time being, he was going to go to the gym and then take a nap. Maybe at Zoe’s, because he had her keys.
Except now he was thinking about going to Savannah that weekend and seeing Jared. And he might have to do something else before his nap, and he was pretty sure he shouldn’t do that at Zoe’s. His parents might be horrified their son was gay, but they’d be glad to know he still had manners.
––––––––
Jared had been around enough ECHL teams that went bankrupt and folded to know that the Savannah Renegades would, at some point, suffer the same fate.
It kind of bummed him out too. He was on his third season with the Renegades, and they were by far one of his favorite teams. The guys were great, and they knew how to have fun. They also liked to win, and it wasn’t always an easy thing to balance those two things. Sometimes guys who liked to have too much fun were douche bags who didn’t carry their weight on the ice. On the opposite end of the spectrum were the guys who were too into winning and sucked all the fun out of the game, like a giant, fun-sucking vacuum.
But the Renegades were professionals who knew the score, knew they were playing ice hockey in a region where the majority of the population would rather watch televised poker than go to a hockey game. Not that Jared could blame them. The humidity was like a living thing, a monster that seeped into your lungs and turned into a sponge. But the Renegades had a loyal fan base, and a booster club that made honest-to-God casseroles and said bless your heart without irony.
Jared loved Savannah, the city, more than any town he’d ever lived in. The houses were great—creepy like a horror movie and covered in vines, shaded by trees older than entire generations. He liked that it stayed warm well into the fall. He was from Michigan, and it was definitely not like that at home. There was a lot of history in Savannah, which he loved, and it was close to the beach, which he also loved. He’d spent his entire career wary of doing anything that suggested he was putting down roots, but a few months earlier, he looked at a little condo by the river. Not anything fancy. He’d not moved on it or made an offer, even though he wanted to. He was sure the second he did, the phone would ring, and off he’d go, somewhere else.
Probably somewhere cold.
For most of his career, Jared had signed one-year deals. Though last time his agent—who he only thought about at tax time—had attempted to ink a three-year deal with the Renegades to keep Jared in one place. After which it went understood that Jared would retire. The three-year deal was rejected. Jared knew it would be. Not because they wouldn’t like him to stay that long, but because they were all uncertain of the future of the market.
Jared was signed through the end of the year, and supposedly they were working on a deal that would keep him here for that season and two more. And then, Jared figured, he could retire and maybe keep a job within the organization. But he didn’t want to leave Savannah, and that was a problem, because it meant possibly making a commitment to something. Somewhere.
Someone.
He’d never been the player who inked multiyear deals in the ECHL. He wasn’t young, and his days of being a fast-skating center were way, way over. Actually, had he ever had those days? He didn’t think so. But with the scar on his cheek and his close-cropped hair, his pale eyes and somewhat stocky stature, Jared had no problem being a team villain. It was fun actually, and everybody knew he didn’t really eat kittens and babies for breakfast. He was a fighter with a code of honor and liked to think he was well respected in the league because of it.
He’d made a few kids cry once, but he blamed that on his playoff beard. And they were really little kids too. His best friend, Alex Rawles, who’d been Jared’s teammate, rival, and roommate throughout their careers, thought that story was hilarious. Alex couldn’t scare an ant. The one time he’d fought Jared on the ice—during one of their stints as archrivals—Alex told Jared to give him a shiner so he could get laid later. Alex then took a wild swing at him that actually landed, because Jared was laughing so hard he couldn’t get out of the way in time.
Alex, who had retired two years before to manage a local sports store in Cincinnati, had known Jared longer than anyone—since Jared showed up for tryouts for the Cincinnati Cyclones as an angry kid out of Ferris State with burning eyes and a fierce need to be on the ice. Jared had left tryouts with a year’s contract and Alex as his roommate, his right-winger, and the only one who didn’t seem to mind Jared’s moody, hair-trigger temper.
He was also the only person Jared had told about his college hockey career and what happened there that sent him to the minors with a chip on his shoulder and a fire in his belly to prove everyone wrong. Alex listened to Jared’s story, which he practically vomited one night in some nameless hotel in the middle of a road stint. He patted him on the shoulder and then got him some water and put him to bed.
And he slept with him. He didn’t fuck Jared, he didn’t let Jared fuck him, and while Alex was pretty easy when it came to having his dick sucked, there was none of that either. He wasn’t straight as an arrow like some guys, but he was a pretty firm, north-south-pointing kind of guy. He climbed in that crappy double bed and wrapped his arms around Jared, who was as skittish as a feral cat in those days and wary of anyone who even looked like they might want to help him. In the morning, Alex told him that he should immediately employ the wounded-lover thing to get laid, because the only way to get over something was to move on. And maybe Jared had forgotten that girls went nuts over the broken-heart-of-gold story.
It was a crude philosophy, but it turned out to be true. Jared remembered that first girl he took to bed, whose name he never did know, but who looked like a Playboy bunny and was smart as a whip. She had legs that went on for miles and really, really long fingernails that left welts in his back. So what if he cried in the shower when she left because it felt good, but she wasn’t who he was supposed to be in bed with? He was a stupid kid, barely twenty, and it was hard to carry heartache around all the time—hard to keep waking up in a hotel room or on a darkened bus and think that it was wrong and he wasn’t supposed to be there.
A lot of guys might feel that way about the ECHL, and Jared had met more than a few who did—guys who thought they belonged somewhere better, making millions for playing hockey on perfect ice after a night spent in a five-star hotel, traveling by jet plane and having their food prepared by a gourmet chef. Not playing three games in three days, traveling across the country by highway in a bus like a beat poet from the fifties, eating sandwiches from a cooler or cold pizza, drinking orange juice from a lukewarm container, and skating on ice that resembled the surface of the moon more than glass. Jared was pretty sure anyone in his league could play a perfect game too—if they didn’t have to fall asleep after playing in Las Vegas and wake up to play a game in Utah and then another one two days later, in Orlando.
He’d like to see those guys in the big club try that shit. Not that Jared didn’t love hockey and the NHL, because he did. When he’d shown up at the Flyers’ camp after a season with their AHL team, the Adirondack Phantoms, he’d been as starstruck and wide-eyed as any kid. He was impressed by the lockers and the facilities and by the speed and skill of the players at that level. He knew he had barely a shot in hell at making the lineup, and he wasn’t surprised when he was cut.
But Jared was almost thirty-two, and his tryout invitation was the only thing he owned that was actually in a frame.
He was in the twilight of his career, and he knew it. It was waking him up in a cold sweat at night—because what the fuck was he going to do? Not go back to Michigan, that was for sure. He was on moderately pleasant terms with his parents, but they were both intellectuals and thought hockey—and just about every other sport—was barbaric. He hadn’t talked to his older brother, James, in almost a year. James was a doctor in Fort Worth and was married with two kids. Jared used to spend the night at his brother’s house when he was traveling through Texas, but he hadn’t bothered the last few years. And his sister, Jessica, was a lawyer in Grosse Pointe and worked so much that even his parents barely saw her.
On the one hand, he’d gotten exactly what he wanted, which was absolutely no ties to anyone or any place. On the other, what the hell would he do when he retired? He had plenty of connections in the minors, but whenever he tried to think about it, he immediately wanted to drink and take a nap.
Maybe he’d play in the CHL, which was a league below the ECHL. But that was depressing—not because it was a lower-tier league, but because Jared was almost thirty-two and really couldn’t keep playing forever. Hockey players aged like dogs, and he was practically ancient. The only guys who played much longer were goalies, and even that was rare.
He’d been telling himself not to worry about it, that things would work out, one way or another. He had a good thing going with the Renegades, and he’d become something of a fan favorite. There was even a horrible local car dealership commercial with Jared and Darcy Leblanc, the Renegades’ best player, where Jared pretended to fight high prices while Darcy shot a puck into the back of a Chevy truck. It was ridiculous.
But he didn’t want to be around for the Renegades’ inevitable financial decline. Playing in a team’s last year, after the death knell of possible relocation or temporary suspension, was depressing as hell. And Jared paid attention. He could tell that attendance was waning and there were fewer sponsors than before. He’d also heard talk about the possibility of a new minor league baseball team moving to Savannah, an AA farm team at about the same level as the Renegades. The Renegades might as well pack it in and cut their losses. Jared had an irrational hatred of baseball, just because he was trying to play hockey in the south.
This season was going well so far, so he stopped thinking about it. He told the realtor thanks but no thanks and promised to keep her in mind if he was going to be there longer than a year. But he kept a box of important stuff next to his bed already packed in case he got that call that he’d been traded. It made him wonder why he was keeping any of it, if all he did was haul it around from state to state and never take it out of the box. But that was one of those things that would work itself out eventually. He was trying to enjoy the moment, have fun, and not get caught up in the moodiness that sometimes took hold at night and kept him awake.
And that worked, for the most part, until that fucking road trip to Jacksonville.
He had a thing—a thing, ugh—for a twenty-year-old rookie who was going to be long gone from the ECHL before the ink dried on Jared’s next contract—if there was one. Jared saw the potential for the kid to play in the majors, but even if he didn’t, he would definitely be up in the AHL before too long. Either way, it wasn’t going to end well for Jared.
Of course, it seemed like maybe it had already ended when he got back to Savannah and didn’t hear a word from Lane. Not that he wanted to—he did—and not that he checked his phone for messages more than usual—he did that too. It was just that he’d had fun with him, more than most people he’d been to bed with lately. Which wasn’t very many people. He barely knew the kid. Sure. But he sort of felt like he knew a guy when he played the same professional sport. It was hard to explain to other people what it was like to give up everything for a career based on short-term promises and governed by so many unknown variables.
Back in Savannah he was sufficiently mopey that his teammate Jace Wynn took him out to a local bar after practice and bought him a whiskey and Coke. “It’s real whiskey too. Well, it’s Kentucky Tavern, but that counts.”
Jared hardly drank anything other than beer, but he never turned down a free drink. “Thanks, man.”
“Why are you such a woe muppet, anyway? You get knocked in the head too hard?” Wynn asked, eating a handful of peanuts. Wynn was about twenty-four, in the prime of his pro career, and clearly loving every second of it. Jared liked him a lot, which made him wonder why they’d never hung out before.
“Nah. I’m just old,” Jared told him, smiling slightly. “So, did I hear you were going to maybe get a tryout with the Chicago Wolves?”
“No changing the subject. We’re talking about you being a woe muppet.” Wynn narrowed his eyes. “Did you get dumped? You did, didn’t you. That’s Leblanc’s theory, and it would explain why you didn’t go score with the hot Jacksonville girls when we were there. I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone.”
“I wasn’t,” Jared assured him, then mentally kicked himself. You idiot, you’re still not. “And why are you talking about that with Leblanc, anyway?”
“Because everyone likes you, and we’re worried that you’re getting head-concussion depression or whatever.”
Jesus Christ. Jared wasn’t sure if he should be touched at his teammates’ concern, or hide under the table in embarrassment. “I don’t. I’m serious. It’s just... I’m thirty-one, you know.”
“Yes. And you wear number twenty-two, and you’re from Michigan. Hi. I’m Jace Wynn. I’m from London, Ontario, and you’ll find me on your line on the ice. On your right.” Wynn smiled sunnily and held his hand out. “Nice to meet you. Jared, is it?”
“Oh, shut up,” Jared muttered, but he fist-bumped Wynn and picked up his drink. “Being over thirty in this league isn’t a picnic.”
“Hey, I’m twenty-four, and I’m still hanging out on the blanket. You’re fine.” Wynn took another handful of peanuts. “The picnic blanket. Did that make sense?”
“Not really. No. But you’ll see what I mean if you’re still here in a few years. Which you won’t be, because you’ll be playing in Chicago or, hell, St. Louis by then,” Jared said, referring to the Wolves’ major team affiliate, the Blues.
Wynn rolled his eyes. “Okay, first, nobody will be here in a few years. As in, in Savannah. The Renegades will move to Columbus and get some new godawful jersey. Second, I’m a fourth-line winger, Shore. My agent is trying to justify the small amount of income I bring him, which he uses to pay the meter when he meets with me. I’m serious. It works out to neither of us bringing anything to the table. It’s great.”
“I can barely remember what team I played for when I was twenty-four.” Where had he been? Reading? Toledo?
“Thank you, oh wizened sage,” Wynn intoned, folding his hands together and bowing. “So if you’re so old and tired like a sad zoo lion, why are you still playing?”
And Jared thought he could get away from thinking about that shit. Apparently not. “Because I’m a hockey player. What else should I do?”
“Not act. Definitely. I saw that commercial.” Wynn mimicked punching at the air and laughed when Jared turned red and slumped down in his seat. “Sorry. Look. I like you. You don’t mind when girls stay over, and that was hot when what’s-her-name went in the shower with you. I told her to do that, you know. You’re welcome.”
“You told her? What the hell? That’s not helping my ego, and also it’s creepy as hell, Wynn.” Jared took a handful of peanuts.
“Well, I mean, I suggested it. Seriously, Shore, are you okay or what? I have to report back. This is awkward, and it’s about, like, feelings and things.” Wynn made a face. “How do girls do this all the time? I should ask my sister.”
“Maybe you should tell her to get in the shower with me,” Jared teased, and laughed at the glare he got in response. Wynn’s sister was eighteen and a knockout. Half the guys on the team had a hard-on for her. The Code prohibited that sort of fraternization, but Jared had heard more than one of their teammates joking that Wynn should get traded so it didn’t.
“Fuck you. That’s my sister. I don’t care if you can beat up high prices and NHL rookies. You’re not taking her anywhere.” Wynn looked at him, considering. “Actually you’re okay. You could maybe take her on a date. But no kissing.”
“You realize that girl—those girls—you had in our room in Jacksonville, they were someone’s sister. Right?”
“No. I specifically checked, and they were only children.” Wynn winked. “I know. I know. Are you secretly in love with my sister?”
“Wynn, your sister is eighteen and lives in Ontario.” Jared was thinking about that NHL rookie comment, and it was making him throw peanuts angrily at the basket.
Wynn put his chin in his hands and gazed at Jared across the table. “Tell me more things I already know, Shore.”
“All right. You’re an asshole. How’s that? And yeah. I’m okay.” Except maybe he wasn’t. Maybe this was it, his last season, and maybe his body was trying to get that point across, since his mind was either ignoring it or preoccupied with thinking about going to bed with Lane Courtnall.
Wynn backed off after that—at least about Jared’s mental state. He did make Jared laugh, telling him stories about playing in the juniors with a couple of guys who were in the NHL and how they were douche bags. Wynn bought a round and then tried to buy another, but Jared put a stop to that because it was three in the afternoon.
“Besides, if you’re so worried about me having a head injury, should you really be buying me drinks?”
Wynn shrugged and finished the rest of Jared’s whiskey. “It’s okay because it’s whiskey. And that was used as medicine, back in the olden times. And as you keep pointing out, you’re old, so there you go.”
“It’s a good thing you’re not a doctor,” Jared told him. “Thanks for the drinks, Wynn.” What he really meant was “Thanks for dragging me out and telling me our teammates think I have either a head injury or a broken heart,” and he was pretty sure Wynn got that.
Jared went home and looked at the box of stuff that he kept with him—photographs, jerseys, and that kind of thing—and took out the framed invitation to the Flyers camp. The Flyers organization would like to invite you.... He took it into the small living room and set it on the mantle above the fireplace he never used. Savannah had a hilarious idea of what winter was. It really did. He wasn’t buying a condo, but it was at least a sign that he lived there. The rest of the apartment really did look about as personal as the Econo Lodge in Jacksonville.
Thinking about that made him check his phone, which made him mad. And he thought about going out, meeting Wynn and Leblanc and some of the guys down at one of the trendy bars in the Historic District. He could use some company, and it didn’t seem like it would be a problem if he picked up a girl. He wasn’t sure why it would be a problem if he picked up a guy, since he and Lane had nothing beyond tentative plans to see each other again. But instead of going out, he got off thinking about Lane and then fell asleep watching an Avalanche game. He dreamed he was playing hockey with Lane, and the goalie was Patrick Roy. Wynn was saying “Don’t pass the puck to that guy on your left,” and Jared scored a goal. On Patrick Roy.
Lane kissed him on the ice in front of everyone, and then he turned into Wynn’s sister, in the shower in Jacksonville, wearing a Flyers jersey.
People who claimed dreams told the future were stupid.
Except that, in his next game, Jared did score a goal. It wasn’t on Patrick Roy, but the goalie was sort of crazy, so maybe that counted. It was the first goal Jared’d scored since the last season, and he’d forgotten how fun it was. As he skated past his teammates and fist bumped them on his way to the bench, he remembered being nineteen and flying down the ice, the puck on his stick and the goal light already flashing in his head.
He hadn’t always been the villain. A long time ago, he’d been the hero. As he took a drink from his water bottle, breathless from exertion and the simple, happy euphoria of his sport, he wondered when that had changed and why he’d never noticed.
And if maybe, just maybe, he could change it back.
The logical answer to that was no, it would be way too difficult—but that had never stopped Jared before. If he only did things the easy way, he would have played peewee football, not hockey. Or he would have been a defenseman instead of a center, like everyone and their mother told him he should be.
And he would have gone home to Ann Arbor after Andrew Whittaker looked him in the eyes and said, “I just told you all that stuff so you’d play better, Jared. I’m sorry you thought it meant something that it didn’t.”
Jared notched an assist in the Renegades’ third-period win against Evansville, and combined with a first period fight and his surprise goal in the second, he got himself a Gordie-Howe hat trick and the game’s first star.
Maybe he didn’t have to be the villain or the hero. Maybe he could be both. If he was hanging his skates up for good after the season, at least he’d know he tried. Next time Lane Courtnall was on the ice with him, he was going to give him a run for his money.
Then Jared was going to take him to bed and fuck him senseless.