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I get back from Callan's room and have to catch my breath.
Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa. My head's spinning.
I'm not into labels. I never have been. Callan keeps calling me 'straight guy,' which is funny, because he's almost using it against me like it's an insult.
But the one thing I keep wondering is, when is a guy not so straight anymore? For example ... a guy watches his buddy jerk it in the shower. Is he straight? Even if he stays and watches 'til his buddy cums?
Is he still straight when he finds himself naked with that same buddy, and they're jerking off together in the rain?
Or if he lets his buddy grab his dick and finish him off?
It's funny, now that I realize it. It's funny how your whole life can go by dragging this huge, heavy weight behind you – this part of yourself that you refuse to acknowledge. And maybe you don't even know it's there until someone points it out and shows you what you're doing.
But once you see it, that's it. You can't deny it anymore. I'm not a guy that likes to sit here and lie to myself. Once you draw something to my attention ... okay. I see it. And it's funny how fast things can change in your life once you realize certain things that force you to tear down everything you thought you knew.
Standing that close to Callan while he loaded up his tablet got me all riled up. I could smell him, that same smell, that same taste of his lips, his breath, when we were up on the roof-top. And I wondered – can he smell me?
I leaned closer and closer into him. I wondered if he knew. Could he feel me taking in his salty scent? I was practically getting drunk on him. Could he feel my desire – the way I had to hold myself back?
It took all my willpower not to knock the stupid tablet out of his hands and steal a real kiss. Hopefully one that would last a little longer than a second or two.
I toss and turn in bed for hours. I can't stop thinking about the roof-top.
When did I get like this? How far back does it go?
***
I GRAB CALLAN IN THE morning and we head to the airport together for our flight to San Jose. When we arrive, all our teammates are huddled around Donovan. He's reading something from his cell phone aloud to the other players who jostle to peek over his shoulder.
The boys see us walk in and all stare up with stony looks.
“Shit,” Callan whispers sullenly under his breath.
“What's goin' on here, boys?” I ask.
“The rumor mill is at it again,” Donovan says, shaking his head. “You might wanna get your lawyer involved in this one, Jonesy, before it gets too out of hand.”
“Ugh,” he grumbles. “What is it?”
Donovan reads the headline. “'Could Callan Jones Be Gay? YouTube Personality Claims He Had Steamy One Night Affair with Hawks Star!' It's on DeadSpin.”
Callan gulps. “No way.”
“Yup. Here, look.” Donovan shows him his phone.
Callan covers his mouth as he stares at it. “Well, that's fucked.”
“Yeah,” Nelson agrees. “Do what Don-o said. Sick your lawyer on 'em ASAP. That'll teach him to make up terrible lies about us. Call him now, man.”
“Yeah,” the others urge. “Now!”
“Yeah, that's uh, that's a good idea,” Callan blinks. He walks away and goes outside to make a call.
Donovan pulls me aside. “Can you believe this shit? I know he's not gay, but man it's astounding how that kid can't stay out of trouble. Whether it's real or made up. It follows him everywhere!” He shakes his head in frustration. “Right before Game 7, too. Ugh.”
“It's clearly bullshit,” I lie, and I feel the consequence right away as a spurt of warmth rushes into my cheeks. I'm afraid my face looks as red as a tomato. “What uh, what do you want me to do about it, Don-o?”
Donovan gives me an odd look. “Nothin' ... what can you do? It'll pass ... it has to. Right?”
“I guess so.”
“In the meantime, we just do our jobs and play hockey. It's just fucked up and unfortunate that this happens. After he finally put his head down and focused on playing hockey. This shit's all over Twitter.”
We board the plane. The other guys are acting skittish and freaked out. They whisper among each other, talking about what they'd do if these awful rumors were being spread about them.
But they're sure that the rumors will die down, they say, as long as Jones has his lawyer jump on it right away.
The one thing no one seems to be asking is ... what if it's not a rumor?
I take my seat next to Callan on the plane. Usually, he wants the aisle seat – he says it makes him sick to see from so high up. Which is fine for me, because I've always loved watching the land roll by.
But today, Callan wants the window. His leg bounces nervously the whole time we're waiting to take off. He nervously chews at his lip. He stares out that window, and I can only imagine what's going through his mind.
The plane climbs higher until it reaches its cruising altitude. The pressure of the cabin makes the air feel heavy and sleepy. Some of the guys nod off. Others bust out their electronic toys or pull out some reading material.
“Hey,” I whisper, nudging his bicep. “Callan.”
He turns and looks at me. He looks surprised. He whispers back to me. “Oh. Hey. Didn't see you sit there.”
“I've been here the whole time, man.”
“Oh. Well, I got a lot going through my head.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I haven't got a clue. My mind's a mess.” He pauses. “I'm scared, I guess.”
My heart wrenches and I frown. Poor guy.
“I don't know what to say, Cal.”
“It's alright. You don't have to say anything. It's my mess.”
I wanna help him. If only I knew how.
“It's not right.” That's all I can say. “It's just not right.”
He chuckles softly, bitterly. And in his eyes, I can see just what he's thinking: Yeah, welcome to the story of my fuckin' life.
The rest of the flight isn't much different. Callan stares out that window quietly, suffering his torment in his own world. I wish he could talk and share it with me to feel better, but – obviously this isn't really the time or the place.
So we don't talk the rest of the flight. Instead, I watch him – that anxious ball of nerves – wishing there was something I could do.
After a few hours the plane lands. We grab our bags and exit the plane. Our teammates don't have anything else to say. Everyone's quiet, and it almost feels like a funeral procession as we march out of the airport and get shuttled over to the hotel.
***
THE TEAM CHECKS IN at our hotel on Santa Clara St. It's a beautiful afternoon in California, and we've still got plenty of daylight left. The guys start talking about heading out to explore the city and grabbing dinner.
They invite me and Callan along. Callan says he'll think about it, but I know he won't. I stay behind, too.
We head to our room. Once the door closes, Callan allows himself to transform into the nervous wreck he's been all day. He paces about the room, reading to me the various comments and speculation he happens to find on the internet.
I talk out loud, hoping to take his mind off the gossip. “So we've got all day to ourselves to rest up – and then Game 7 tomorrow at 7 PM. We could go grab dinner later, just you and me if you wanted.”
But Callan isn't listening. He sits at the foot of the bed and puts the NHL Network on TV, just in case they happen to bring his rumors up, too. All while he digs through social media sites and blogs to see what they're saying.
“Cal, I wish you'd stop doing this to yourself,” I say.
Because I'm starting to worry. I feel sick to my stomach watching him in this state. His eyes look sunken, his lips weighed down into a permanent frown. I'm worried he's gonna bite his bottom lip off if he clamps down on it any harder.
“Fuck,” Callan groans. “It's gaining steam, man.”
“Cal.”
“Oh, great – now it's trending on Reddit.”
“Cal!”
“Three different threads about it on the hockey forum.”
“Cal!” I roar. That gets his attention. Spooked, he whips his head around and looks at me. “Please, Cal. Please, just relax. You're gonna drive yourself mad.”
“Then tell me, Vance, what do you think I should be doing right now? Take a seat on the deck and calmly watch as my career sinks into the ocean?”
“You wanna wallow in your misery? Fine, buddy, go ahead – wallow. I don't care.” I throw my arms into the air and groan. I make my way to the door. “I'm goin' out for a walk. Bye.”
Callan watches me leave. He looks wounded, sitting with his shoulders slumped.
“Damn it,” I mumble, standing in the doorway. Now I feel like shit. “I just wanted to help you. I'm sorry, man.”
“It's okay. I don't blame you. I'll try to get my act together.”
“I'll be back in a bit, alright? I just need some fresh air.”
I head outside and take a walk. I stroll past the arena where we'll be playing tomorrow. A row of palm trees dot the entrance just outside the arena.
As I walk past, I think how close I am to the Cup again. I haven't thought about it much. I can't say I'm excited, really. I'm also not nervous or scared. For once it just feels like hockey isn't the most important thing in the world to me.
Which is funny when I see Callan's meltdown. Don't get me wrong, if I thought my career was about to be over I'd be reacting like him. But ... right now, I can't get over how stupid this whole thing is.
So what if Callan likes men. Big fucking deal. Does that change how he plays hockey? No, it doesn't. He's still a great player. And more importantly, a great guy.
It's not right that someone should have to go through what he's going through ... all because of a stupid game. All because of a stupid media that acts like athletes are supposed to be Gods, and not actual human beings with their own issues and preferences and problems, too.
It's a game. A child's game, really, played on ice, where we bat around a biscuit-shaped, frozen piece of rubber into a net and hit each other in the face with our fists. And for being good at this child's game, we are paid vast sums of money.
There are more important things in life. That's what I believe. Love is one of 'em. Should a guy like Callan have to sacrifice love, just so he can play hockey?
I don't think so. I don't think it's anyone's business at all. And it's a damn shame that people care so much that it turns into a circus like this.
I walk back to the hotel. But instead of going back to my room, I go to GM Doug Johnson's room. He answers.
“Oh, hey Tyler,” he says. “What's up?”
“Got a sec to chat?”
“Sure.” He lets me in. He's just made a pot of coffee on his hotel room brewer. He offers me some, but I turn it down. “So what's on your mind, Tyler?”
“I'm sure you've heard. The stuff about Jonesy.”
He blows out a long gust and takes a seat at his table. “Yeah. Sure have. How's he doing?”
“He's not taking it so well, Dougie.”
He frowns. “Perfect fucking timing, huh? Right before Game 7?”
“Yeah. It sucks.”
“Just what we need. He was doing so well, too.” Doug pounds his fist on the table. “Maybe I should've kept Fresno after all. You know? At least with him, we knew what we had – a soft, streaky scorer. With Jonesy ... I hate to say it. But as good as he's been? I'm always worried he's gonna slip up and burn us again.”
I stay silent. It's not for me to comment on.
“So?” he asks.
“So what?”
“Is it true? Is he gay? I mean, you room with him. Hell, you practically live with him at that hotel, too. I guess you might know if he brought a guy back to his room or something.”
“He's never done anything like that. But if he's gay or not, I don't know,” I lie. “If I did, it really wouldn't be my place to say, Dougie.”
“Yeah.”
“If he was, though – hypothetically. Would it be a problem for you?”
I study Doug's face. He takes a long drink from his coffee cup.
“Not for me,” he says at last. And he's telling the truth. “Now that kind of thing is obviously not my cup of tea, but I don't fuckin' care what you guys do in your free time.”
I nod.
“... But what about the boys?” he asks.
“Yeah. That's the big question.”
“If they didn't wanna play with him, what choice would I have?”
“Yeah.” I purse my lips. “Yeah. I get ya.”
We sit silently for a bit. Then I remember why I came.
“Anyway – like I said. He's in bad place right now, doesn't know how to handle all this. I think I can help him out, Dougie, but I gotta bend the rules a bit.”
“Uh oh. Like what?”
“Curfew. Might be a bit late tonight.”
He sips his coffee and shakes his head. I know he'd prefer not to know about it at all, but I'd hate to betray his trust.
“Just don't let anyone else see you coming in late,” he says.
“Alright.”
“And for the love of God, don't show up half-hungover, half-wasted for Game 7, alright?”
“I'd never, Dougie. You know how much it means to me.”