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After we've swam enough races, and splashed each other for far too long, we head back to the beach. I brought some beach towels that I picked up at the store and I lay 'em out for us both. We lay down and soak up the late Spring afternoon Sun.
And lemme tell ya, it feels great. Like it's charging up the batteries that get depleted over the course of a long, grueling season that is far too physically taxing ... not to mention all the team and media BS that saps you mentally.
“You really thought of everything, didn't you?” Cal asks, turning over so his back gets some Sun, too. I follow his lead.
I shrug. “I kinda thought it up last minute, actually.”
“That's even more thoughtful then ... hey. Listen, I appreciate it. I really do. You kinda saved me from myself. I think I'd still be in there with my phone, obsessing over – well, you know. I shouldn't even bring it up. I should relax instead.”
He scoops up a handful of sand and lets it sift and spill through the cracks of his fingers.
“Yeah, just give your mind a break. You need it.”
He agrees.
“But I know what it's like – what you're going through. Not the same, but I had my own experience.”
“Really? What?” Callan asks.
“Well, you remember when my team made it to the Cup Finals ... game 7, double overtime, I hit the post, Westbrook scores for the Kings and we lose.”
“Yeah, of course. I watched it on TV.”
“And then the league trots out the playoff MVP trophy and gives it to me of all people. Even though our team lost.”
“Yeah, well, you deserved it more than anyone. You were unreal that year and in those playoffs! No one else even came close to your point total.”
“But I wish they would've given it to somebody else – somebody from the winning team. And I don't mean because I didn't want the trophy or appreciate the reward. I didn't want it, because I was so upset ... I was too weak to even pick it up. Hell, I could barely skate. I was afraid that if I picked the trophy up, I might drop it. So, instead, I didn't pick it up. First guy in history to not pick that trophy up after winning it. I just skated away from it.”
Callan chuckles. “I remember that.”
“Do you remember what the media said afterward about it?”
“A little, but probably not as much as you do,” he admits, his brow arching. “I know they were dicks but I can't remember why.”
“I got ripped apart by every media outlet that whole off-season, Cal. Everyone was talking about what a shitty leader I was. 'A real leader would pick that trophy up!' They said I didn't respect the trophy. That I was a cry-baby throwing a tantrum because I didn't get what I wanted. Hawks fans were saying this shit, too – actually, they were some of the loudest. They said it was a mistake that the team made me a captain in the first place. I was too young, too inexperienced, too selfish, too quiet, they said. We would've won that game if Emerson was our captain, if Fresno was our captain. Etc., etc., etc. Our fans were done with me, Cal, and it was all centered around the smallest of things – the fact that I didn't pick up that trophy.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah. And you know what I did? I did just what you were doing today. I read every comment, every blog, every article ... I listened to every podcast and all the analysis. It sure felt like no one had my back. Everyone was ready to throw me to the dogs because that shot didn't go in and I didn't pick the trophy up.”
“Fuck.”
“Uh huh. And so I had myself a terrible off-season. And then, a few months later, the next season started. And I played like shit. Because they'd damn near ruined hockey for me – the fans, the media, the pundits. They didn't know a thing about my situation and nobody cared to interview me about it. It felt like I was watching my own execution take place publicly and I couldn't do a thing to plead my case or stop it. The whole thing was Kafka-esque.”
“I dunno what that means.” His eyes dart away. “Remember, 10th grade education over here.”
I chuckle and pat him on his shoulder blade. “It's okay, dude. He was an author. I'll make you read The Trial someday.”
“Okay.” He grins, but it's a kind of disbelieving grin.
“The point is, I let all that talk get to me. And I had a miserable year because of it, and then we missed the playoffs. And then the bleating about my game, and the questions about my brand of leadership, grew even louder. To the point where I couldn't even go on anymore. I was honestly ready to retire – in my mid-20's. Because I felt like I was being choked from the inside, walls closing in all around me. And I knew if I wanted to continue, I had to stop caring what people said about me. I had to tune everything out completely.”
He nods. “Okay ... sure. I get what you're saying. But I still think my case is different. I mean the guys might not wanna play with me. Look at what happened in Winnipeg, for God's sake. They straight up traded me within a matter of hours. You know? I can't just magically tune out the general manager when he tells me to pack my bags because I've been traded.”
“True. But I'll tell ya right now, obsessing over the social media crap isn't going to help you. How much better do you feel right now, compared to a couple hours ago at the hotel?”
“So much better. Worlds better.”
“There you go. Don't you think you'll play better if you're in a good mood?”
I can tell Callan still doesn't get it. His lips purse and his eyes crinkle up as he struggles to comprehend what I'm trying to tell him.
“People see what they wanna see, man. You can't change that. If they wanna be bigoted, fuckin' assholes, then fine. Let 'em! You don't have to listen or care. All you can do is be yourself. If the GM wants to trade you because you're gay, make that decision hard as hell for him. Go out and be the best damn player on the ice and make him look like an idiot for giving up on you just because of who you happen to like in your own personal time.”
He sighs. “Yeah, okay.”
“I told you I've got your back and I meant it, Cal.”
“Well, thanks,” he says quietly. “I want you to know how much I appreciate this, Tyler. Really. And I'm sorry about the trouble I've caused. I know it's been pretty crazy ever since I came here.”
“We needed it!” I laugh. “Seriously, the room was too bland, too content, before you came on board. We needed a mix-up. We knew what we were getting with you. That's why we wanted you, man.”
“Thanks.” He dips his head and accepts the compliment humbly.
We sit quietly and watch the Sun as it lowers on the horizon. A cool breeze is starting to pick up, and once the Sun sets, we might even be a little chilly.
“Shouldn't we head back?” Callan asks. “Lord knows the last thing I need right now is to miss curfew.”
I try to hide my smile. “I already took care of it.”
“What?” he gasps. “Took care of what?”
“C'mon.” I stand up, dust the sand off my butt, and roll up my beach towel. “Let's head back to the car. I bought some more stuff from that store, remember?”
“Oh Ty ... the hell are you planning ... it's already getting late.”
I head up the stairs that trail up the rocky coast and lead us back to the path. Callan follows behind me and hurries to catch up. The air under the cover of the trees smells fresh, and it's cooled down a lot. We get goosebumps and hurry through the rest of trail until we re-emerge in the parking lot.
I pop the trunk and pull out the giant tent I bought.
“Check this out,” I grin, showing him the tent I got. “I got a big one, dude.”
“A tent!” Callan shouts, bewildered. “We can't stay out here, Ty, we have a curfew tonight!”
“I said I took care of it.”
“No. No no no no.” Callan hurries to the front of the car, climbs into the passenger seat and slams the door shut.
I chase after him and try his door handle. He's locked it. He's staring straight ahead, his arms crossed. He looks so pissed off. It's kinda cute. I chuckle and tap on the window.
“Cal, get out here. C'mon.”
He turns to me and mouths the word 'NO.' I walk around to the driver's seat and get in.
“Cal.”
“I can't camp out here, Tyler. With everything that's going on? What the fuck? No. No way. And you shouldn't either! What's wrong with you? What are you even thinking?”
I laugh. He's right, in a way. “I guess I'm thinking I don't care anymore.”
“What?” He looks at me like I'm crazy. “That doesn't even make sense.”
“Maybe not.” I take a long, deep breath and look over all the scenery. “But everything I told you earlier was true. When we lost that game and the fans turned on me, a big part of me stopped caring. My heart hasn't been in the game since then, Cal. I love hockey and that'll never change. But all the bullshit around the sport – the politics, the money, the media, the gossip and the rumors – it's so goddamn aggravating. When I think about it, it honestly makes me never wanna play another game again.”
“I dunno what this has to do anything ...” Callan stares at his feet and fretfully shakes his head. He looks like he wants to be anywhere but here right now.
I pat my hand on his knee to calm him.
“What I'm trying to say is ... you changed that for me, Cal. You made me feel young again. You made hockey fun for me again.”
“But—”
“But you're looking down the barrel of a gun, blah blah blah. I know. Don't you see? The same crap you're facing right now is the same crap that made me wanna retire. I'm sick of it, Cal. Sick of what it does to good people.”
“But if the team found out—”
“They don't need to know what we're up to.”
“But I don't want special treatment—”
I can't take it anymore. I lean over the center console, cradle the back of his head, and bring his face to mine. He looks surprised as hell, and I guess he should be. He tries to push me back, but then my lips bump into his and his wide eyes softly and instinctively shut.
I lose myself in those lips. He tastes like the outdoors: the salty but fresh air. The brine of ocean water. A savory hint of kelp and seaweed. His sun-kissed sweat, baked into his upper lip. The tastes are so delicious, so right, I only wanna kiss him deeper.
Callan tries his best to resist me, no doubt trying to save me from myself – but I don't care and I won't stop. His lips are thick and full and I kiss him the way I wanted to kiss him back on that roof-top if only I would've let myself.
The taste of the beach on those stubbornly stiff lips is irresistible, and I can't help myself – I need more. Fuck it if he doesn't want to kiss me back. I kiss and suck at his lips, which fluff up and soften with each wet embrace – and then, with a whimper, I feel all his built-up tension break. And at last, his lips melt and he lets me in.
And slowly, he awakens, and he kisses me back – slowly, cautiously. But with each kiss he awakens a part of himself. And he can't resist what's happening any longer. His lips come alive, and then his hand finds its way to the back of my head, and we're pulling ourselves deeper into each other, and we're breathing the same air – the same new-vehicle-smelling air.
It's a realization that seems to hit us both at the same time. We both start laughing, and we come apart, shyly retreating to our own seats like embarrassed teenagers when a parent happens to walk in at the precise moment a hand starts to wander up a thigh.
“All that beautiful nature out there, and we're doing this in here,” Callan laughs softly.
“Yeah. I know,” I chuckle quietly, a hand against my flushed cheeks. “That's why I got the tent.”
“You're serious.” It doesn't sound like a question, but more of a statement.
I shrug. “Yeah. So are you gonna help me? Or do you really wanna head back? Because I'll take you back if you really want to go.”
He looks out his window and shakes his head. I hear him take a few deep breaths. Then he turns back at me and smiles.
“I'd love to. As long as you're sure.”
“I am.”
He grins and reaches for his door handle. “Then let's go.”