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The rest of winter—such as it was in Jacksonville—moved in a hurry toward the playoffs.
The Sea Storm won the next two games with their rivals, which was great, even if one of them again ended in the third round of a shootout. Bridey was thrilled that it had ended because, as he said, “Next they’re going to send the defensemen out there. I’ve seen it before when shootouts just keep going.”
Bridey didn’t have to take a shot, but in the next game, he took a slap shot to the knee and ended up out of the lineup indefinitely. It was an accident, and the Renegades’ player who shot the puck even came to apologize and ended up hanging out with Bridey in his hospital room for an hour. It turned out they played with a few of the same guys in the juniors, and there were clearly no hard feelings.
The fans didn’t feel that way, though, and the Renegades and Sea Storm rivalry was notched up a few levels. The crowds were steadily increasing, and Lane was both embarrassed and ridiculously pleased to see Zoe wasn’t the only one sporting a Courtnall jersey. That was weird.
Lane was finally able to buy a car, which was an eleven-year-old Toyota Corolla with a sunroof. Which was good, because the air-conditioning was broken and that would suck in the summer. He and Jared sometimes met for a night in Brunswick, Georgia, in the middle of the week. They spent a lot of time on the phone and on Skype. But the middle-of-the-week meetings became rare, and Lane looked forward to their next one—until he was told to pack a bag, grab his gear, and drive like hell to the Jacksonville airport.
He was being called up to play a game with the Syracuse Crunch.
Everything happened in a blur. Ryan hit him on the back three times, saying “all right, Courts, fucking all right!” Lane flew through his room, grabbed a Dr Pepper, and jumped in his car like a superhero on the way to battle dark forces. Since he was going to catch a commercial flight, it was pretty much the same thing.
He texted Zoe with omg syracuse!!! and called Jared, who he knew had a game that night. He left him a message that said, “Holy fuck. Going to Syracuse. Hate sex-canceling, but omg, man, Syracuse!”
Jared called him back when he was on the plane. He had a message when he got out into the freezing winter air—wearing only his Leafs hoodie, which in hindsight was a bad idea and made him feel like a failure as a Canadian.
“Holy fuck” was Jared’s voice mail message. “That’s awesome! But I can’t believe you just said ‘omg.’”
It was awesome but it was also stressful. He had to jump into a morning skate with a team he didn’t know. And no matter how much professional hockey he’d played, these guys were a level above Lane, and it showed. He could compete with them. He knew he could, but it was hard to do so with only one day and very little sleep.
He took advantage of having a single hotel room to himself by having loud phone sex with Jared. Twice. He was a ball of energy and adrenaline. He even got himself off again after Jared hung up.
Lane was filling in for a third-line center whose father was ill and who was expected back in the next few days. The guys were all pretty okay, and if some weren’t overly friendly, they certainly weren’t dicks—just intense and focused. Playoffs for the American Hockey League were just beginning.
He didn’t clock very much ice time, but he did assist on a goal in the second period. The pace was frantic, and the speed of the skaters kept him winded, but the crowd was fun and loud. More than that, Lane was very aware that he was one level away from his ultimate goal of playing in the NHL, and it reinforced his desire to train harder and increase his speed. That was where he wanted to be next year. It was the next step in his career.
It was also really far away from Savannah. There’d be no driving to Brunswick in the middle of the week. That was for sure.
The Crunch lost the game, but the coaches were complimentary and said he’d had a good showing. They told him they’d heard he was having a great season in Jacksonville, and they were keeping an eye on him. The guys gave him stick taps and wished him good luck. Lane tried not to feel like a little kid, even though he was one of the youngest guys there. He was one of the youngest on the Storm too, but it seemed a lot different in Syracuse.
When he got home from his impromptu trip, Zoe was in his living room, sitting next to Ryan, watching a movie. Ryan had his arm around her.
“How was your trip?” she asked, as if it were normal behavior.
“Did you show those guys up?” Ryan asked, looking very happy. “I bet you did. I bet you ‘brought the Storm.’ Yeah?” Ryan said that in a really loud, announcer-type voice.
“Ryan,” Zoe said sternly.
“Sorry, baby,” he answered, and squeezed her. A little exuberantly. He better be careful with her, or Lane would hit him. He’d been taking some fighting lessons from Jared—which always ended in blowjobs. But still.
“It was good. I got an assist.” Lane went to drop his stuff in his room, more freaked out about finding Zoe and Ryan watching a movie than if he’d walked in and found them fucking on the living room floor. He texted Jared, which distracted him for a minute, and then took a shower. When he went back to the living room, it was empty and quiet. Lane shook his head, gave up trying to figure out what was going on with his best friend and his roommate, and ate some cereal.
In the morning, Lane ambled into the living room to find Zoe was still there, and Ryan was making eggs in the kitchen.
“Wait. You know how to cook?” Lane blinked. “Really?”
“It’s just eggs,” Ryan protested, with a “play it cool, man” look at Lane.
“Yeah. I know. But you don’t make girls breakfast when they stay over, ever. Even eggs.” Lane grabbed a piece of pizza because he was starving. “What?” Ryan was glaring at him.
“It’s okay, Ry,” Zoe reassured him, giggling. She was wearing one of Ryan’s shirts and no shorts. “I’m used to Lane by now. Believe me.”
Suddenly Lane got all protective of his best friend. “Why are you making her eggs?”
“Because it’s time for breakfast?” Ryan was still shooting daggers at him with his eyes. “And not for my socially-awkward roommate making me look bad in front of the girl I like?”
“Like? As in, like out of bed or in bed? Because that’s fine if you’re just sleeping with her, but if you’re making her breakfast, you better be nice.” Lane had never quite experienced that feeling before—protective and on guard. That must be what it was like to be a goalie.
“I’m nice. I am.” Ryan looked at Zoe. “Baby, tell him I’m nice.”
“Lane, can we talk about this later?” she asked him, in the sweet version of her accent that Lane knew meant she was serious.
“Yeah, sure. Can I have some eggs, since you’re making them? I can eat them in my room,” he added as a concession.
“Sit down. Eat,” Ryan ordered, pointing with the spatula. Lane didn’t even know they had one of those. Or a pan. Come to think of it, he’d never seen eggs in their fridge either.
Lane went to get a Dr Pepper and casually looked in the trash can. There were a couple of plastic bags from Publix. Lane rolled his eyes, but smiled. That was something, if Ryan was buying groceries for her.
He didn’t get a chance to talk to Zoe until a few days later, though he saw her once—and heard her, more than once—in his apartment. They went for a walk on the beach again, and this time, Lane made sure she met him after he’d run a couple miles first. It was the playoffs, and he had to stay in top shape. Especially given his diet of pizza and Dr Pepper.
She brought him some water, and they were quiet for a few minutes as they walked. “Do you know why I was all bitchy in the car when I took you to Jared’s at Christmas?”
“This is one of those questions I shouldn’t answer.” Lane nearly finished his water in one drink.
“Probably,” she agreed. “I brought you another one. It seems like all that running would make you thirsty.” She waved the other bottle in her hand. He finished the first gratefully and tossed it in one of the containers for recyclables.
“Anyway I was mad because, I... like him. Ryan.” She made a face. “I can’t believe that, given what a sexist ass he was when we first met. But the thing is, I’m learning that a lack of social skills among hockey players is not just limited to you, Lane.”
“Thanks.” Lane took the other bottle and drank half of it.
“You’re welcome. Anyway I was mad because I didn’t want to like him. He apologized for that whole blowjob comment and said he was just trying to get you laid because you were sort of uptight.” She giggled. “Then he let me explain why doing that to a waitress was both sexist and classist.”
“So it’s tits?”
“Shh. Ugh, Lane, you’re impossible.” She was smiling, though. He could tell. “He suggested I could smack him if it would make me feel better, so I did. He really likes that.” Her smile turned into a leer. “Which is great.”
“Except it’s not. You said that was what made you mad.” He would never understand girls. All of the feelings and things that went with them seemed like way too much work.
“Not the smacking. The thing is.... Lane, it’s hard to explain this, but it’s not easy being bisexual. I imagine Jared would get it, maybe? He seems not to be too concerned about that kind of thing, which is maybe because he lives in your world of macho boys with amazing abs and endless references to sucking cock.”
“It’s a nice world, when you put it that way,” Lane said dreamily. “No wonder I wanted to be a hockey player.”
She laughed. “That was funny, Lane. But it’s not easy to be bisexual, especially as a girl. And I know, I know. People say it’s okay because who doesn’t like two girls making out? And don’t you dare say you, because you’d watch it, and I know it.”
“Only if it involved the roller skates, I think.” He coughed. “Sorry. Keep going.”
“A lot of people think it’s a phase, and that we always end up with men anyway. So we’re just playing at being gay.”
“But you’re not gay,” he said, tossing the second empty water bottle at the next container. He missed by a mile. Reasons why he didn’t play basketball, part one. “You’re bisexual. So why would anyone expect you to act like something you’re not?” He jogged over to pick up the bottle and throw it away.
“It makes sense when you say it that way,” she said when he jogged back to join her. “But trust me. It happens. And I guess part of it wasn’t... like I would think about how people will say, ‘You’re not really into girls’ and ‘You’re just causing problems for the true gay people,’ or ‘Isn’t it infuriating how your family will start talking to you again if you’re dating a boy, even if he’s a player?’”
“They don’t like hockey?”
“No. I mean the kind that sleeps with a lot of girls,” she corrected. “My family hasn’t ever watched a game of hockey in their lives.”
“Maybe they will if you’re dating Ryan.” Lane still wished she’d date Riley, though for some reason, he didn’t see Riley letting Zoe smack him.
“Maybe. Anyway I thought all of this stuff and realized, hey, you know, maybe it’s not other people that think all that stuff. Maybe it’s me? Like, I internalized all that stuff and was just projecting it on others.” She bowed. “I took one class in psychology in undergrad. Behold it paying off.”
“So you mean... that’s not true? People don’t think you’re just pretending, or whatever it was you said?” Lane felt like that was somehow relevant to his life, but he wasn’t sure why or if he wanted to think about it too hard.
“No. But I can’t do anything about that. And I don’t even know who I’m talking about, really. My friends don’t think that, and my parents aren’t my problem. And I’m not going to not be happy just to prove some kind of point. You know? I told them I was bisexual. I am. And I was in love with a girl, and now I am dating a guy.” She tilted her chin up a little, defiant. “And they can fuck right off, all of them. So if I was worried about all of that, maybe it was me who thought I was just playing before, or that I was somehow not really who I said I was. But I know who I am. It was just all a mess in my head that I had to get sorted out.”
“Okay.” Lane didn’t know what to say. That was a lot of stuff to take in, and he also had a nagging feeling that it was maybe applicable to his own situation. He didn’t want to think about that, at all. “So you.... It’s all straightened out, then?”
“You didn’t even mean that pun, did you?”
Lane ran through that again and then brightened. “No. But that was one. Wasn’t it? A pun. Cool.”
“Yes and yes. And really.... Hey, stop for a second. Walking with you is like a workout because you’re too goddamned tall.”
Lane stopped, and she surprised him by hugging him tightly. “Thanks, Lane. For being such a great friend. I’m so glad y’all sat in my section that day, even if I almost cried seeing how many of you there were.” She elbowed him playfully in the ribs. “Race you to the car. Winner buys the milkshake. And you’re not allowed to slow down and let me win.”
“But I don’t know where the car is,” Lane told her, momentarily distracted by the thought of both competition and a milkshake.
“That’s what makes it interesting,” she said and started to run.
––––––––
Determined to play in the AHL next season, Lane asked for some pointers from the Storm’s coaching staff on how to improve his speed. The assistant coach, Jean-Louis Demarre, agreed to meet with him on some of the off mornings to go through a few drills. Until the playoffs. Because he couldn’t risk their number-one scorer being injured doing drills at optional practices.
Especially considering that Bridey was still out with the injury to his knee. It was unlikely that the Storm’s defenseman would be ready in time for the playoffs. If the Storm had one main weakness, it was a lack of defense. And when a team had a weakness before the playoffs, it meant one thing—a trade.
One morning following his optional skate with Coach Demarre, Lane went into the locker room to find the Storm’s captain, Max Reid, cleaning out his locker. Reeder had been skating on the second line for a while, since Lane had been scoring so much. But with Lane a sure lock for the ECHL’s Rookie-of-the-Year award, he seemed to not mind.
“Hey, Courts.”
Lane was really glad that he was awkward with people most of the time, because he didn’t have to try to not be in situations like this. “Hey, Reeder.... Why are you cleaning out your locker?”
“I got traded.”
Lane just blinked at him. “Huh?”
“Traded, Courts.” Max kept putting his stuff in his bag.
“Why are you all dressed up, though?” It seemed strange to Lane that he’d wear a suit and tie when it wasn’t game day.
“You ask the weirdest things, man.” Reeder shook his head. “I got told I had an important meeting, so I wore nice clothes.” He made a face. “My fiancée told me to. She’s smart about this stuff.”
“Oh. I didn’t know you had a fiancée.” Despite the fact neither of them took their inherent rivalry on the Sea Storm personally, they didn’t hang out much. Lane was suddenly sad about that, because he liked Reeder. Also, he looked really good in that shirt and tie.
“Yup. Her name’s Bethany. We’ve been together since high school.”
“Can she go with you?”
He nodded. “Yeah. It’s funny that you ask that, and you haven’t even asked me where I’m going.”
Lane was never going to be good at that—ever. He sat on the bench, unlacing his skates. “Where are you going?”
“Vegas. And if you apologize, I’m going to hit you with my stick.”
“Why would I apologize?” Lane fixed him with a steady look. “I’m just playing hockey. That’s what I’m here for.”
“I know. And you’re good at it. And here for optional skating sessions with Demarre, so obviously you’re a masochist.”
“What’s that?”
“Someone who... ah... likes to be hurt.” Reeder waved a hand. “Anyway I’m glad you’re here, Courts. I was going to call you and have this conversation on the phone, which I thought would be less awkward. But maybe now I’m not so sure that’s possible with you.”
Lane shrugged and gave him a what-can-you-do look. “It’s probably not.”
“Look. So I know we gave you a hard time when you showed up.”
“Yeah. But I deserved it.” Lane winced. “I said some dumb shit.”
“Right. But knowing you better, I think the whole team would agree you were just being you. Still, I’m sorry. We kept waiting for you to yell at us or tell us off, but since you didn’t, we figured you just meant all that stuff, and so we gave up.”
Lane nodded. “It finally occurred to me that maybe being quiet all the time wasn’t helping me out any,” he said, and something in his head made a noise like a bell. Or a goal horn. Lane ignored it. He was getting good at that.
“That’s not what you do on a team.” Reeder shut his locker, then zipped up his bag. “Since I’m the Captain, I’m allowed to make a recommendation as to who the next one should be. And I’m recommending to the guys that it be you.”
“Me?” Lane was flattered but also surprised. “Did you miss the part where I’m terrible with people, Reeder?”
“No. You know what? You’re a lot better than you think you are. You say things in interesting ways, but you have leadership abilities. I can tell. Come on, man. We’re hockey players. None of us are good with people, or we wouldn’t be here.”
That was certainly true. Lane laughed, raking a hand through his hair. “I guess you’re right. Still, I’m new. Do you think...? I mean, you vote on that. Right?”
“Right. And I think that my recommendation will go a long way with the team. But let me tell you something about being captain, Lane.” Reeder finished with his bag and stood up. “You have to say things sometimes that people don’t want to hear. And they have to trust you and believe that you mean what you say. I think you can do that, probably better than anyone else on the team.”
Lane had no idea his captain thought that highly of him. He was almost embarrassed—though pleased—to hear that. “Thanks,” he mumbled, staring down at his hands.
“You’re welcome. One thing, though, Lane.”
Lane looked up. “Yeah?”
“For them to trust you? You have to trust them.” Max gave him a pointed look.
Lane was honestly clueless for a few seconds, but then he realized what Reeder was telling him. “Oh.”
“It’s the same thing as before, Courts. If you’re quiet about it... well, no, maybe it’s not exactly the same, but it is still you setting yourself apart, and that’s not something a leader can do. Especially the captain of a team,” Reeder said very seriously, like a motivational poster. He cracked a smile. “You’re a good guy and a great hockey player. I’ve enjoyed playing with you. I think it will be fun to play against you actually, and luckily they’re sending me to a team in playoff contention. No mercy, Courts.” He held out his hand.
Lane stood up and shook it. “No mercy, Reeder. It will be fun, but I wish you could stay here.” It was a simple, heartfelt statement, and he meant it. “Maybe we’ll play together again sometime.”
“I hope so, Lane. I really do.” Reeder gave him a happy grin. “And just so you don’t feel bad, this trade gives me a two-way clause in my contract. So I could possibly move up to playing in Portland for a few games. So you don’t have to worry, this isn’t a bad career move for me or anything, Gretzky.”
“Stop it.” Lane hit him on the shoulder. “Good luck, Reeder. Except in the playoffs, because we’ll destroy you.”
“Right. Whatever,” Reeder chirped, hitting him back. “See if you can get past the Renegades first. I’m pretty sure my new rivals are the guys in Utah.”
“All of them?” Lane smiled to show he was kidding. “Hey. Who’d we get for you? It better be someone good. I can’t score all the goals.”
“See. And now I know you, so that doesn’t make me want to punch you in the face. All that much anyway. But sadly no goal scorers here. The deal was for a defenseman. Name’s Ethan Kennedy. We need one.” He stopped for a minute. “You need one, since Bridey’s out.”
Max looked a little emotional, which Lane thought was probably par for the course in situations like this. He just went about packing his things and let Max compose himself. Ignoring emotions was always the right thing to do, wasn’t it?
They walked out together, and Max joked that at least he didn’t get traded somewhere cold. “I’d be pissed if I were going to Toledo. But hey. It’s Vegas.” He stopped by his car, which had Minnesota plates. Lane hadn’t ever noticed that before.
Maybe I should pay more attention to people. His inner voice sounded like Zoe.
“Think about what I said, Lane. And this team has a good shot at the Cup this year, so I hope you at least get far enough where we can knock you out.”
“Do my best, Captain,” Lane said. The two of them shook hands, and that was that. Lane was behind him as they left the empty arena lot, each of them going in opposite directions. If Lane were the type to notice those things, he’d probably find it symbolic.
Ryan was eating pizza when Lane got home, which meant that Zoe wasn’t there. Ryan only cooked when she came over. Lane knew that Zoe was aware of that and thought it was cute. “Hey. How was your skate? You hear about Reeder?”
“Yeah. How did you? I heard ’cause I saw him at the rink.”
“Younger called me. I think he heard it from Landers. Don’t know. Did you hear who we got?”
“Ethan Kennedy. A defenseman, Reeder said.” Lane took a piece of pizza. “Sucks for Bridey, though.”
“Yeah. No shit. Knocked onto the IR before the playoffs,” he said sadly, referring to the injured-reserve list. “Hey. You’re not mad or anything about Zoe. Right?”
The subject switch from hockey to girls was not new to Lane, but it still took him off guard. “No. She likes you. Don’t be a dick or anything, though. Okay? I’ll have to hit you.”
“I won’t,” Ryan assured him. “Not because of that, though. Because I saw your one attempt at a fight, Courts.”
“Right. I’ll... have Zoe hit you?” Lane cleared his throat, reaching for another piece of pizza. It was only eleven thirty in the morning. Had Ryan called the pizza place right when he woke up? “Wait. No. You like that.” He kept talking. “Just don’t, because she’s my best friend. And if she gets hurt or whatever, she’ll have a lot of feelings, and I am not good with those.”
“I noticed,” Ryan said dryly. “Shockingly enough. But I’m glad you don’t mind. Or aren’t jealous or whatever. Even though you’re dumb, because she’s hot. And that accent, man.”
If you want them to trust you, you have to trust them.
Lane put down his pizza. His heart was hammering in his chest, but it was time to stop hiding. “I’m not interested in her. But it’s not because I’m dumb.”
“Matter of opinion, bro.”
“It’s because I’m gay.” Lane could have said he was seeing someone or made it vague, but he didn’t want to. Not anymore.
Ryan took another piece of pizza, and the look he gave him was almost sympathetic. “I know, Lane. But thanks for telling me. I was wondering if you were ever going to.”
Lane’s mouth set in a tight line. “Did Zoe tell you?”
“Oh, no,” Ryan laughed. “Courts, there are only so many times you can run away from a sure thing without a dude starting to wonder. All those girls I’d bring home? One for you, even? Not that I don’t appreciate the threesomes, but come on.”
“So you just... figured it out?” Lane leaned back against the counter. “Huh.” He squinted up at the ceiling. “And you don’t care?”
“Dude, I’m from Toronto. No. I don’t care.”
“But we’re teammates. I’m your roommate.” He was still talking to the ceiling and he made himself stop and look at Ryan. “It’s different when it’s someone who’s one of those. Or both of those. Isn’t it?”
Was he doing that thing Zoe talked about? Projecting? “Seriously is it? Because maybe it’s not. I don’t know.”
Ryan shrugged and knocked his shoulder. “Maybe. I don’t know. I just know I figured it out. And I was kind of glad, because that meant you weren’t sleeping with Zoe and I still had a shot. Do you want to go running in an hour? I need a workout that isn’t conducted on my back.”
“Don’t talk about Zoe disrespectfully,” Lane told him. “Was that disrespectful, do you think?”
“No. But if it were, I’d tell her I said it. She’ll give me a lecture about social justice. It’s funny, ’cause I keep trying to remind her I’m Canadian and that we have universal health care and legalized gay marriage before America. But she’s cute when she gets all riled up. It makes her accent sound like candy.” He grinned.
Lane messed with the pizza box, opening and closing it four times before Ryan hit him and made him stop.
“What is it?”
“Do you think I should—” He stopped because Lane realized that Ryan couldn’t tell him whether or not he should tell the team. Only Lane knew the answer to that. “Do other people know?”
“Look, Courts, we don’t sit around and discuss your love life. I mean, I live with you. So I notice things. But I never said you were a weirdo who didn’t want the hot chicks I brought home with me. Well, I did once or twice. But then I didn’t want the guys thinking I had horrible taste.” He finished his last piece of pizza. “Do you want to go running or not?”
“I do, but I had that optional skate this morning. Can’t we play video games instead?”
“I’ll play when I get back. It’s not a big deal. And you know, if Riley wants to stay over sometime, I think I’ve given you enough sex shows through the walls that I deserve some of my own. Even if it’s... ah... not my bag. So to speak.”
“Riley? Why would Riley stay over?”
“Lane, I know you’re gay, remember? You don’t have to pretend you just go to Hunter’s place to avoid my throwing girls at you and because Riley cooks and has more soft drinks than a vending machine.”
“But that is why,” Lane told him, following as Ryan moved toward his bedroom door. “I’m not dating Riley.”
“You’re not? Are you dating anyone, or are you just playing the dude field?”
“I don’t know what that is, Ryan. But yeah. I have a boyfriend.”
Ryan’s eyes widened. “It’s not Reeder, is it? That would be tragic and sad. Oh, wait. He has a fiancée. Zoe thought she was hot. Zoe likes girls too,” Ryan said, sounding proud. “I’m a friend and ally to your people, Lane.”
“Thanks, Ryan. I’ll put it in the next newsletter.”
Ryan burst out laughing. “You know, I like to think living with me improved your humor. That was funny.”
“I make jokes, but sometimes they’re not funny,” Lane told him helpfully.
“So who are you dating, then? I’m going to go through everyone on the team if you don’t tell me.”
“It’s no one on the team,” Lane assured him. Jared had told a few of his teammates about Lane, so Lane figured it was all right to tell his about Jared. “It’s Jared Shore.”
“Wait. Really? I’m not sure if I’m impressed or intimidated right now, Courts.” Ryan pulled his shirt off, wandered into his bedroom, and put it in the hamper. His room was clean, and his bed was made. “Zoe’s coming over later,” he told Lane, as if he’d read Lane’s mind.
Realizing his roommate was shirtless, Lane was in the awkward position of not knowing if he should leave or not. But Ryan was still talking—loudly as usual—making finger guns at him at one point and changing into his running clothes. “Come on. Get ready and go with me. I want to hear how this even happened. Also it’s very important you tell me what I can say to him on the ice about it, since he’s on the second line for the Renegades now too.”
Lane went to change. He didn’t want to go running, but he always liked talking about Jared. And besides, he could suggest a few things to Ryan. Hockey was hockey, man. Jared would understand.
Lane thought about how to tell his teammates, and he was still thinking about it when Coach Spencer called a team meeting to discuss Reeder’s trade and their new player, Ethan Kennedy. At the end of the meeting, he brought up the team captaincy and how it was vacant now that Max was no longer on the team.
“Reeder made a recommendation for his replacement, and that’s none other than our very own Mr. Lane Courtnall.” Coach Spencer motioned at him. “Come up here and tell the team why you should be the Captain, Courtnall. And I’ll go outside. So if you want to talk about how you’ll feed me my whistle for dinner, you can. But good luck. We’ve all seen you fight.”
Even Lane laughed at that, but nervously. When the coach left, Lane swallowed hard and made his brain shift into hockey mode. It didn’t make him a better speaker or anything, but it helped him focus. “It’s an honor just to be nominated,” he started, and everyone laughed—even though Lane meant it seriously. “Seriously it is. Reeder told me that, and I was kind of surprised, because I did say stupid stuff, and then I didn’t say anything. And I know that was the wrong thing to do. I’m not that great with this speaking thing, and you all know that because I try to talk to you and usually at some point... you laugh at me.”
Everyone laughed at that, but Lane expected them to. “Anyway I’ve learned a lot being here. And you might not believe this, but it’s made me better with people.” Lane smiled ruefully. “I promise. And it’s made me better at hockey, because now I know what it’s like to be a teammate. I didn’t know that before I came here. Which is maybe not the thing to say if you want to be captain, but I think a good captain should listen and learn stuff, not just tell people what to do. And I can do that. The listening and stuff, not the telling anyone what to do. Though if I have to, I can probably do it without sounding like a dick.”
Lane waited for a moment, trying to work out what to say next. But before he could do that, Cody Sparks raised his hand very solemnly. “Do you promise to give these inspirational speeches before every game? If so, you’ve got my vote.”
The guys laughed again, and Lane knew as well as anyone that their attention span for that kind of thing was at an end. It was now or never. “Also, Reeder told me that you guys would trust me if I would trust you. And so you should probably know that I’m gay.”
The room stopped and went quiet. It was Sparky who broke the silence. “Someone call Bridey right now. I don’t care if he’s in the hospital or in surgery. Tell him he owes me twenty bucks.”
Lane gave a horrified laugh. It was inappropriate, but he didn’t know what else to say. “Look. It’s not really—you don’t have to say anything. I just thought you should know.” No one would look at him, though, so Lane was pretty sure he’d made a huge mistake by telling them. “That’s all, I guess.”
He walked into the hallway. If Coach Spencer heard him, he didn’t say anything. “Wait out here a minute, would you?”
Lane nodded. He leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, and he was shaking a little. His mind felt numb, like he couldn’t believe he’d just done that. Maybe he should have told them individually. Maybe he shouldn’t have made it a big deal. Maybe—
No. It was the right thing to do. If they can’t deal, it’s not your fault.
“All right, Courtnall, get back in here.”
Lane put his chin up and walked back into the room. Zoe was right. It wasn’t his problem if his teammates didn’t like it—or him—because he was gay. They were there to play hockey. He didn’t have to be captain, and he had friends on the team who already knew. So it would be fine if they wanted someone else. Totally fine.
Standing up there and telling his teammates he was gay had been the scariest thing Lane had ever done. Scarier than that moment before he kissed Derek. Scarier than throwing his gloves down and squaring off with Jared Shore. Scarier than anything.
But whether he lost the vote or not, it was also the proudest moment of Lane’s life.
“Congrats, Courtnall. The vote was unanimous, meaning you went from team pariah to team captain in less than a season. Impressive, kid. Real goddamn impressive.” The coach’s hand was warm on his shoulder. He squeezed and let go. “Now go home and get some fucking rest, kiddos. The playoffs are coming, and I want to drink second-rate champagne out of a goddamn trophy before I retire. This is the best chance I’ve had, so don’t fuck it up.”
“Let’s take Captain Courtnall here to Cruisers and get him drunk,” Sparky said cheerfully, clapping Lane on the back. “I don’t want to sleep with you, though,” he told Lane. “No offense. I’m just saving myself for a Victoria’s Secret model.”
Not everyone went with them to Cruiser’s for a drink, but enough that Lane knew it was going to be all right.
––––––––
Jared had played playoff hockey before, but none of his teams had ever gone beyond the second round. The Renegades were looking at a first-place seed in the conference and home ice advantage throughout the playoffs.
The Kelly Cup wasn’t the Stanley Cup, but Jared wanted it more than he’d wanted anything in his life. With maybe the exception of a cocky brat with amazing abs, a blowjob mouth, and a terrifying inability to think through how things sounded before he said them out loud.
Jared was playing the best hockey of his entire life and was giving his agent a reason to start calling the Renegades’ top brass to negotiate a deal for next season.
Coming home from a grueling road trip that included Ontario, Utah, and Toledo, Jared was too tired to process the information left in a voice mail by his agent, Jimmy Hanes. He put it off until after a good night’s sleep and a very inspirational Skype session with Lane.
Captain Lane. Jared was so proud of him. He had told Wynn and Leblanc that Lane was the captain of the Sea Storm, leading his team to serenade Jared with a song called “Captain of my Heart,” which sounded like a mix of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” and “My Heart Will Go On.” It was definitely made up.
His agent was not one to leave specific instructions to call him back, because Jared wasn’t a client who required a lot of his time or attention. Jared could probably handle his contract stuff on his own, but it was nice to have someone file papers and all that other shit. As long as he kept his current address on file, he didn’t have to worry about it.
But there was a message to call him, so Jared did so. Jimmy went through the usual greeting, proving he’d picked up Jared’s file to memorize some things and sound like he was on top of it all. “Hello, Jared Shore. How is your hockey season with the Savannah Renegades, to whom you are signed for a season at a reasonable rate for a thirty-one-year-old player, progressing?”
“Listen, Jared. I wanted you to know that I’ve talked to the guys for the Renegades, and let them know your interest in a three-year contract. I think it’s a good possibility. Real good. So if you want to look at that condo, I’d say go for it.”
Jared thanked him, told him to keep going with the negotiations, and hung up. He knew that Jimmy would indeed work on his contract, but not until the summer, like he always did. It was nice to hear that he might get the contract he wanted and be able to retire from a team he really liked in a city he’d come to love.
Lane was called up again, to Syracuse, right before the playoffs. He didn’t have a great game—in fact he was on the ice for a goal against the Crunch. But he did keep up better with the other players, and the coaches remarked on his improved speed. Jared was happy for him, and he knew Lane wasn’t going to stay in the league another season. He was going to move up sooner rather than later.
They found time to see each other, and for Lane’s birthday, Jared was happy to meet some of Lane’s teammates, who went out with them. After all, it was Lane’s twenty-first birthday, and they had to get the guy hammered. Right? He met Riley Hunter, the Storm’s goalie. And they did not have a threesome with him, though Lane suggested it, slurring his words and trying to kiss Jared in the bathroom at the bar.
Zoe was there with Ryan, who had skated by Jared a few weeks before and said, “Keep your hands off my captain’s ass, you fucking cocksucker.” Then he laughed maniacally and stole the puck from him. Jared responded by knocking into Lane on the ice—hard. Then Jared scored a goal on Riley after telling him, “My boyfriend thinks you should blow me.”
None of it was anything Jared took personally, but he gave Ryan and Lane shit for it. But not when Zoe was around, which made Ryan nod drunkenly and fist bump him, telling Jared, “You get the guy code. Cool.”
Riley, who was one of the calmest goalies Jared had ever met, just shrugged. He didn’t appear drunk, but it was hard to tell with him. A couple of the other Storm players dropped by and didn’t stay, but it was nice to see that Lane had friends there who accepted him for who he was.
But he’s not going to be here, not that long. Jared couldn’t help thinking that, if Lane were to stick around for a couple of years, everything would be perfect. Except it wouldn’t be, because there was a reason they called the league “Easy Come, Hard to Leave.” And Lane, having found acceptance and friendship, camaraderie and a team captaincy.... What if that was enough to keep him from what he really wanted?
Jared gave up his chance for a big-league career when he walked off his college team and signed with the Cyclones. And now that he was playing so well, he couldn’t help wonder what might have happened if he’d stayed. If he’d been drafted out of college, where would he have ended up? If someone had believed in him, instead of lying to him and telling him they did, just to fuck him....
It doesn’t matter. He wasn’t Lane, and he couldn’t make Lane’s decisions for him. But when Lane was crawling all over him, drunk and handsy, and his eyes a bright blue blur of happiness and alcohol, it was tempting to think about having him for longer than a few more months.
Because Jared realized that it wasn’t just Lane who was happier. He had also found friends and acceptance, a team... things he hadn’t known he wanted. But without them, he’d been slowly sinking into a mild depression. Jared wasn’t really afraid of what to do after hockey anymore, and he knew it was because of Lane.
Now he was just afraid of that. Because Lane was young and had his whole career in front of him. He wouldn’t want a retired player following him around. Would he? There would be plenty of other guys, younger guys, who would be all over Lane. Maybe he was supposed to be there to help Lane get over his issues and be comfortable with being gay? And that was all fine and great, really. But what did that mean for Jared?
He’d gone from being freaked out about what to do after hockey to being freaked out about what to do after Lane.
Maybe these weren’t different things. He didn’t know anymore. Maybe if this ended—when this ended—it wouldn’t devastate him like it had the last time. Lane learns to be gay, I learn to love again? Jared considered punching himself in the face for that one because it sounded so absurd.
But it did make him think about Andrew Whittaker and why he’d left college. And Lane, in his earnest voice, telling him, “I can wait to hear your story until you’re ready.”
Jared was ready, but there was one small problem.
The playoffs.
––––––––
The race for division winner came down to the last game of the season.
The games were grueling, but the atmosphere was electric, and everyone was caught up in it. Jared got some good-natured teasing—and some not good-natured teasing, because it was that time of year—from his teammates about “sleeping with the enemy,” though he and Lane had barely seen each other in weeks.
The last regular-season game between the Storm and the Renegades turned into a brawl, with even the team’s two goalies—calm, even-tempered Riley and the Renegades’ temperamental Vladimir Zubarev—throwing down their gloves. Hunter was thoroughly pummeled by the much bigger Zubarev, who had been known to throw his goalie stick at his own teammates during practice.
Jared, who’d been fighting Ethan Kennedy, as everyone expected, was surprised when Kennedy stopped messing with him and made a beeline for the two goalies. He yanked Zubarev off Hunter and gave the Russian netminder a black eye while yelling, “Get the fuck away from my goalie.” He also got a two-game suspension, which everyone—even Zubarev—agreed was ridiculous. Jared, who didn’t have a fight partner after Kennedy took off, found himself standing next to Lane.
“Wanna go?” he asked, grinning. “I gave you lessons. Come on. Show me what you learned, pipsqueak.”
Lane threw his gloves off and tried to tackle him. Jared was cracking up laughing, until Lane socked him in the jaw—a lot harder than last time too. Jared stopped laughing after that, and he thought he and Lane had a respectable fight. It was uploaded to YouTube later that night, and he and Lane watched it repeatedly after they had really rough and fantastic sex on Jared’s floor.
The brawl ended with the Sea Storm winning the game 6-2, the coaches pissed off, and highlights on ESPN that both teams saw when they went for beers after the game.
“Sorry I had to leave,” Ethan Kennedy said at the bar, sliding next to him on a stool. “I was going to beat you up, but you know. Had to protect my goalie.”
Zubarev and Hunter were both having a beer and talking very animatedly. They looked like old friends by the time the teams went their separate ways, and Jared overheard Kennedy apologizing for the black eye he’d given Zubarev.
“I don’t have anything against Russians,” Kennedy said. “I think we should have open borders. Just don’t try and hit Hunter again. Okay?”
That’s what happened when your sport was invented by Canadians—even though Kennedy was from New York.
Hockey players. They weren’t like other people, but Jared loved that two teams in a death match one minute could go for beers and cheer at their fight recaps the next.
Jared wanted to tell Lane about Andrew that night, but they were both too turned on after the game. Besides, it was going to be a while until they saw each other again. They had to make the most of their time, and that definitely didn’t include using their mouths—to talk.
The Renegades ended the season two points behind the Sea Storm, putting them in fourth place. Everyone was disappointed, but nearly the entire team agreed that the brawl had been fun—so let the Storm have the home-ice advantage, along with all the pressure. They were ready. They were going to do it, and it didn’t matter on whose ice. They were going to win.
And they did win. The playoff schedule was three rounds of best-of-seven games, and the Renegades took care of the Toledo Jackhammers—named such, according to the Jackhammers’ captain, because Ohio was always under construction—in a fairly easy three-to-one series.
The Sea Storm, as the number one ranked team, eliminated their first opponents in a four-game sweep. Lane led the playoffs in goals scored, and Jared was proud of him when he was sure no one would notice.
Jared scored a few goals but he also notched quite a few assists, so much so that he led the playoffs in that statistic. He went through the last two games of their series with the Jackhammers without a single fight, which was both amazing and a little disappointing for the fans—if not for Jared. They were still thrilled at their veteran’s amazing season. They just wanted him to throw a punch or two at the same time.
Luckily for them the next round delivered that and then some. The Evansville Eagles were an upset win over a higher-ranked team, and they were riding high on adrenaline and ready to play. They weren’t quite like any other team the Renegades had played before, and they gave them fits. Their skaters were fast and, like the Storm, they were prone to fancy moves and complex plays. Unlike the Storm, the Renegades hadn’t played them enough to figure them out.
After the fourth game, with the series tied at 2-2, Lane sent him a text message. u can beat them come on want 2 have a conference final with your team and then, go high glove side on their goalie once and you can score there all night.
Jared sent back so the goalie is your mom??, because he was in playoff mode. Followed by thnx that’s good advice good luck with the Ice Dogs. Which wasn’t necessary, because the Sea Storm proved why they were the leading team in the conference—and the league—and defeated the Ice Dogs four games to two.
The Renegades won the next two games with the Eagles, though the final game went to overtime. Not a very long one, though, as Leblanc scored in the first twenty seconds and sent the Renegades to the conference championships for the first time in franchise history.
They weren’t that old a franchise, but still. The party after the win was epic, and Jared had to endure Lane’s howls of laughter when he played the voice mail message Jared left, which was nonsensical screaming interspersed with him yelling, “Me and my lucky dragon will own you, Courtnall!” and ended with Jared saying, “I love you, okay?” three times in a row.
The Renegades and the Sea Storm were going to the conference finals, which was amazing and awesome and meant that the winner would play for the Kelly Cup in the championship. Jared wanted that more than he’d wanted anything in his entire professional career, and that was something else he’d figured out about himself. He’d been afraid of it—the emotional highs and lows of completely immersing himself in the competition of his sport—and if he regretted anything, it was that it took him so long to do it. It was his Stanley Cup. No. It was his Kelly Cup. He wasn’t ashamed to play in this league and fight for its prize. He just wanted to win.
He and Lane decided they couldn’t see each other during their playoff series, for a variety of reasons, including that their respective teammates would kill them. They kept that promise for all of two games. But then they ran into each other after the game, found a hidden spot in the arena where they could make out, and then Lane sucked him off, and Jared gave him a hand job.
The series was tied 2-2 after the first four games. When the Storm made it three games to two, the Renegades had a chance to avenge their end-of-season loss and keep the Storm from advancing to the finals on Renegade’s home ice in Savannah. The game was high-spirited, but the teams were too focused for there to be much extracurricular activity.
The Renegades won the game and sent the series back to Jacksonville for the most electrifying and terrifying of all playoff games—a game seven.
Jared checked his stats on the database website because he knew he’d played in a few game sevens in his career, but he wasn’t sure if he’d ever won one. And he almost wished he hadn’t checked, because he’d lost every single one he’d ever played in. Lesson learned. Never read your stats. Got it.
The overwhelming majority of game sevens were won by the home team. This one would be played in Jacksonville, but Jared didn’t care. They were going to win, and he knew it. He would make sure of it. Jared was a fighter, and as he’d learned the past season, that didn’t always mean using your fists.
Lane scored a goal two minutes into the game and assisted on another not twenty seconds later. Tempers flared at the end of the first period, with the rowdy Renegades earning a penalty. They watched in frustration as the Storm netted another goal, to earn them a 3-0 lead when the buzzer sounded to end the period.
Jared, who wasn’t one for making speeches, stood up after the first intermission and made up a bunch of statistics that he “read last night” on the hockey database website. He told them that was the most dangerous lead in hockey and the easiest deficit for a team to come back from, because the other team sat back and coasted on their lead. He told them that he’d played for more teams than he could count, several who didn’t exist anymore, and they were the best team he’d ever been on, and he wasn’t ready for their season to be over.
By the end of the second period, the Renegades had tied the game at three goals each. Jared’s second intermission speech was simply, “I told you so. Let’s go win.”
The third period started off with a goal by Leblanc, causing jubilation on the bench for the Renegades—for all of two seconds—until Lane tied the game again at four.
Riley made a breathtaking save at one end, and at the other, Vladimir Zubarev stopped a shot that was so dead-on, the Sea Storm players were already celebrating at the bench. It was a game that highlighted the best things about their sport—the passion and athleticism, the quickness, the rapid momentum switches, and the zeal felt by every single fan, player, and coach in the building. When the clock ended and the game was—of course—tied, Lane skated by him and gave him that cocky grin of his, and then he winked.
Jared just smiled at him. I don’t think so, Courtnall. I don’t fucking think so.
He and Lane ended up across from each other on the face-off line, which made Jared wonder if someone had told both coaches that he and Lane were sleeping together.
“Gonna add this to your ‘game sevens you’ve played and lost’ stats, old man,” Lane chirped, eyes like ice.
“You keep being a brat, and I’ll shut that trap of yours with a puck,” Jared shot back, meeting his gaze. He was trying to make that sound mean, but it just came out gleeful. Ah, well. Hockey players were a strange breed.
They passed each other on the way to their respective benches. Lane gave him his “this is so much fun” grin that he sometimes gave Jared in bed, and Jared grinned back at him. At the next shift, they went back to trash talking. It was great.
“I thought you two had a thing,” Aaron said when they sat back down on the bench after their shift. Jared had never said anything to him about that, so someone else must have.
“Right now the only thing I have is a trip to the Cup finals, and he’s in my way.” Jared shrugged, breathing hard. He squirted water into his mouth from his water bottle.
Jared gave everything he had during overtime, and then some. Since it was a playoff game, there’d be no shootout. The game would progress until someone scored a goal. That would be the team going to the finals, and—goddamn it—it was going to be Jared’s team.
Fifteen minutes into the first overtime period, Jared found himself racing alongside Lane toward the goal, and Lane had a look on his face that Jared knew way too well—the one that always ended in a goal light or an orgasm. As Lane pulled back to shoot, Jared saw the Renegades’ goalie screened by one of the Sea Storm’s defensemen. And he knew, he knew Zub didn’t have a chance in hell at saving that puck.
When Lane sent the puck toward a practically empty net and a certain, game-winning goal... Jared cheerfully threw himself in front of the puck and caught it in his glove.
There was a moment of stunned silence, and Lane looked at him in utter shock, clearly not understanding why the goal light hadn’t gone off. Jared opened his glove, dropped the puck, and skated by him, saying, “Know what that’s called, kid? Winning. Nothing else. Saint Patrick sure had it right.” He laughed as Lane shouted every name in the book at him on his way to the bench.
Jared was practically mobbed by his teammates as he returned to their bench. You’ll be showing that one to your grandkids. Or Zoe’s. Someone’s kids, anyway. And you’re going to remember, every single time you watch it, that it was me that stopped your shot. And you can turn around and yell at me, because I’m going to be there with you. Even if you don’t know it yet.
Two minutes later, Darcy Leblanc stole the puck and went racing like a madman down the ice. Jared heard his teammates holding their breath, heard the entire building hold its breath, but he knew what was going to happen before the goal light went off and the Renegades scrambled over their bench to celebrate their win.
In the handshake line after the game, Lane shook his hand and hugged him briefly, like he did all of the other players. “Nice stop, Patrick Roy,” he said, and Jared knew how disappointed he was. He’d lost plenty of times in his life, but that only made it feel even better when he finally won.
Jared didn’t say what he thought to Lane. One day you’ll win the Stanley Cup in a game seven. Probably in sudden death overtime, because you will never, ever make anything in my life easy, and I’ll probably have a heart attack watching the game.
“This was the conference championships, not the Kelly Cup finals,” the Renegades coach said to his team, but he smiled widely and waved his hand. “But it’s okay if you want to go party like you just won it, because I sure as fuck am.”
Jared showered and changed, got his gear packed, and left the building to go meet his team to celebrate. There wouldn’t be any members of the Sea Storm partying with them this time, which Jared understood. He’d text Lane later, and they’d figure out a time to meet before the finals started. The finals that Jared would be playing in. Holy fuck.
“Hey,” he heard a voice say, and saw Lane waiting in the shadows. He looked exactly how Jared would if it had been his team that lost—disappointed and still a little angry, but with the satisfied air of an athlete who’d just competed and played hard. He’d lost, but that was part of it. And someone who was going to be an NHL star someday should probably figure it out sooner rather than later.
“Hey,” Jared said, smiling a little. “Good game.”
“For your next Christmas present, I’m not buying you any more books about goalies. You just get ideas.” Lane hit him on the shoulder. “That was from Zoe. She told me to boo you. She said to me, ‘Lane, you never told me that being a sports fan could hurt so bad.’”
Jared smiled. “Tell her I’m not at all sorry, but I get it.”
Lane nodded. “I can’t believe you stopped that shot. Do you know how many cockblock jokes I’ve already had to hear?”
Jared laughed. They were going to be fine. “Still not sorry.”
“Yeah, well. You shouldn’t be.” Lane moved in and kissed him, then rested his forehead against Jared’s. “Tomorrow I’ll be proud of you. Tomorrow I’ll get a goddamn Shore jersey and wear it to your games.”
“No. You won’t,” Jared told him. Lane smelled clean and showered, and Jared’s adrenaline was through the roof. He wanted to take Lane somewhere and fuck him senseless.
“No,” Lane agreed. He wasn’t smiling, but Jared had a feeling he was as close as he was going to get. “Go on and celebrate, dickhead. I’ll go clean out my goddamn locker.”
“So dramatic.” Jared kissed him again. “Hey, Lane?”
“It’s too soon for whatever you’re going to say, Shore.”
“No,” Jared said, serious for a moment. “It isn’t. It’s past time actually. But I love you, and tomorrow, do you think you can find us a place we can be alone for a few hours?”
“If you think you’re getting laid after that glove stop, you are so wrong,” Lane said, all heated and intense, even though they both knew he didn’t mean it. “Yeah. That’s fine. I should be less furious with myself by then.” Lane looked momentarily startled. “With you, I mean. Less furious with you.”
“Being a good player and a good captain means more than winning, you know. It means knowing how to lose. And it means letting your team see you’re upset you lost. Because trust me, Lane, this is a different sport entirely when you don’t let yourself get excited about winning.”
“Can you spare me the veteran hockey player wisdom?” Lane leaned in again.
“Sure. But let me tell you something, pipsqueak.” At Lane’s angry glare, Jared kissed him again. “You weren’t on my team, and you weren’t my captain, but you taught me how to love this game again. You showed me it was okay to think more of myself than I did and believe I could do more than throw my fists around. You gave me back something I didn’t even realize that I’d lost.”
“You’re saying it’s my fault you made a sick glove save on me?”
“It was pretty sick. Wasn’t it?” Jared agreed, unable to help himself. But he smiled at Lane and kissed him. “Remember how you said you’d wait to hear my story? I want to tell you, because I’m ready now. I thought I was before, but I think I needed this to really be ready.”
“Fuck you,” Lane muttered, but he nodded, and Jared saw a little hint of a smile. “Go celebrate your win with your bunch of thug teammates. Also, tell Aaron it’ll be a cold day in hell before my pretty boy mouth sucks his dick. I might give him a hand job, though. If he was drunk and you were into it. He looks kinda like a werewolf.”
“Will do.” Jared stopped and watched as Lane squared his shoulders like a defeated general. “But I’d stay, you know. If you wanted me to.”
Lane looked like he was considering it, but then he shook his head. “Go have fun, Shore. That’s what I’d be doing, if it were me. I’d have a lot of fun. I’d maybe have three, four Dr Peppers.” Lane had forsworn alcohol after his birthday, upon discovering that hangovers were awful.
The joke meant they would be fine, though he hadn’t really thought they would be anything else. A game wasn’t going to tear them apart. Jared kissed him one more time and then said, “I’m going to tell you this story, and you know what you’re going to do after that?”
“Cry?” Lane looked at him askance. “It’s that kind of story. Isn’t it.”
“It used to be, but I don’t think it is anymore.” Jared leaned in and pitched his voice low, right against Lane’s ear. “You’re going to fuck me.”
With that, he went to join his team, to celebrate and get drunk and watch that save of his over and over and celebrate being the hero.