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Thirty-thousand feet in the air. Callan's four inches away from me, but we might as well be miles apart.
After we left San Jose, the team went back home to Chicago for a day of rest. The next day, we're off to Winnipeg to face the Jets for Games 1 and 2 of the Cup Finals.
When we boarded the plane, Callan sat next to me without saying a word. We haven't talked, haven't seen each other, since the flight home from San Jose.
I doubt he actually wanted to sit next to me then, or today. He probably feels like he has to, because that's what we've always done. And if he didn't sit by me now, then things might seem even more weird between us.
But, we don't have much to say to each other. So things are weird regardless.
Then again, he's kind of surrounded by weirdness right now.
I don't pay attention to the media. I'm pretty sure Callan hasn't, ever since our trip out to the beach. He probably knows that if he starts following it again, he'll fall right back into that downward spiral.
But not everyone on the team has the same reservations. And I can tell by the way the guys look at Callan that the story is getting worse. I can tell they're starting to have their doubts about him. I hear the whispers all around us, and I know just what it is they're talking about.
I'm sure Callan does, too.
It's disappointing as hell for it end like this. After Callan came in and helped inject some life into this team ... everything we've worked for all year is gonna crumble apart when it matters most.
Don't get me wrong. I don't think the guys are opposed to playing with Cal because he's gay. At least, hopefully not. I'm pretty sure everyone on this team has the same goal: to win the Stanley Cup. But there's a distraction involving our team. And that means we're all a part of it. We can't walk by a journalist without hearing about it.
And Donovan's right about one thing. Callan's silence on the issue is starting to speak louder than words. The guys are coming to the realization the same time as everybody else.
When, really, all they should be thinking about is hockey. Instead, they're thinking about whether or not their teammate is gay.
Our heads aren't in the game, where they need to be. But who am I to speak? My head's not in the game, either.
All I can think about is how shitty this feels. Being turned down by Cal, I mean. The guy who makes me realize I might like guys, I mean prefer them ... doesn't like me. Ha ha ha. God's got a wicked sense of humor sometimes, doesn't he?
I'm trying not to take it personally. But it is personal. Isn't it? That's just the thing about rejection. You reject somebody when they aren't what you want. Seems pretty 'personal' to me.
So, thanks to Cal, I officially know why I never really went crazy for women. And also thanks to him, I officially know what it's like to have my heart broken.
Could I ever go back to women? After what I'd been through with him? After knowing what joy it brings me to please another man?
Doubt it.
It makes me wonder what would've happened. If I had made that shot four years ago, and proposed to my girlfriend. And suppose she said yes. Suppose we got married. Would I ever have been happy? It's clear to me now that I was putting marriage off for as long as I could – waiting for some finish line, some clear sign from the universe to tell me, 'you've made it!'
Here's a more disturbing thought. What if I had married her ... and then the stuff with me and Cal had happened? How could I ever live with myself? How could I tell her what I'd done?
Scary stuff. Stuff I'll have to keep in the back of my mind if I ever try to be 'normal' again. But at least I know how to 'find' women.
I don't know what to look for in another guy. I wouldn't know the first thing about approaching a guy I thought was cute. Or what I'd say. Or how to find out if he was like me. It's hard enough finding love – now try to find it as a gay man. As a gay man who is also a professional athlete, and people recognize you wherever you go.
It really puts Callan's situation into perspective for me. Poor guy.
I won't sneak around in the shadows living some secret, double life. I've seen what Callan's going through and I know that's not for me. But I won't lie to myself, either. I won't 'settle' and marry someone I'm not attracted to or can't possibly truly love like I should.
The only option left is pretty clear. It's the one option I was considering a few years ago when I felt my heart wasn't in hockey anymore: retirement.
With all this hanging over me? Yeah. No thanks. It's time.
It'll piss plenty of people off that I'm leaving the game when I still have a few good years left to give to the sport ... but that's not my problem. That's their selfish desire – to see me play until I can't keep up anymore and no one will deny that it's time to hang my skates up.
But who really wants to go out like that? Who wants to go through the pain of becoming a shell of their former selves? Of realizing you can't keep up anymore?
I've lived my childhood dream and I don't have anything left to prove. I've made my money and now maybe I wanna enjoy it. Maybe I'll move to some small Caribbean Island and live out the rest of my days relaxing on the beach. Sailing, fishing, snorkeling along the coast ... doesn't sound too bad, does it?
Like I said. We've finally got another chance at the Stanley Cup, and our heads aren't in the right place.
***
THE FIRST GAME IN WINNIPEG is a blur. It's like it all happens before we're even ready for it. We get in town, check into our hotel, then we're on the ice, and the puck is being dropped, and the Jets are skating circles around us. They're hitting us hard. They're a team in fast-forward, and we're still moving in slow-motion. We're still waiting for the game to start when we check the scoreboard and see we're losing 4-0 with half a period of hockey left to play.
We look flat. Lazy. Disinterested. And whatever chemistry me and Callan have built up over the course of the season has dissolved overnight. In the past, I didn't have to look for him on the ice – I knew where he'd be. I could sense him. When two players have a connection like that, it's almost supernatural.
But it's not like that anymore. He's not where I expect him to be and vice versa. I'll make a quick pass to where I think he should be, only to turn and look and see him still fifteen feet away.
Back on the bench, we don't talk about it. He just shakes his head. I know that expression.
But it's not my fault, and it's not his fault, either. Chemistry in hockey can be a delicate thing. And players that once clicked can wake up one day and find out they don't have the magic anymore. We have to battle through it and find our way again. But first, we have to want it.
Then there's Burkhardt. The Jets captain and grizzled veteran defenseman sees us falling apart before his eyes, and he's loving it. But he clearly gets the most joy out of seeing Callan wilt like a flower in the summer heat. He chirps Callan all over the ice, hits him any chance he gets. And he never fails to remind us just what Callan stands accused of.
“Now you see why we traded 'em, eh boys? How's that deal workin' out for ya?”
It's even more injurious that Fresno is their star of the game. He scores a pair and sets up the other two.
“Where ya goin' after the game, Jonesy? You gonna visit any of your old pals in the Winnipeg gay bars?” Burkhardt's voice booms from the bench.
We're supposed to stand up for each other. We're not supposed to let another team talk like this about one of our own. Burkhardt is a huge guy – sure. But no one seems interested in pushing back at all. My teammates seem to accept the charges – because in their eyes, it looks like Callan's already guilty.
It's embarrassing. Something has to be done.
Between shifts on the bench, I shoot Donovan a look and shrug my shoulders at him. I don't need to say anything. He knows what I'm saying. I wanna know why the hell he's not doing his job. He's the only player on our roster big and strong enough to go toe to toe in a fight with Burkhardt. And if there was ever a time for it, it's now. In a game we'll clearly lose, we need to make a statement – we need to do something to change the narrative. So that the Jets don't have all this momentum heading into Game 2.
But Donovan looks back at me, smirks, and turns away.
I gnash my teeth. Okay, fine.
My next shift, I hop over the boards and chase the puck into the Jets' zone. Burkhardt has the puck and he's looking for a breakout pass. He sees me bearing down on him and moves it before I can close in on him.
But I don't stop. I rush at him, even after the puck has left his stick.
“The hell are you doing, Vance?” he laughs as he realizes I'm coming right for him. “You can't be ser—”
I throw my stick down, my gloves with it, and grab him. He's half-a-head taller than me and at least 20 pounds heavier. I don't stand a chance in a fight with Burkhardt, but I don't care. Someone has to make a stand.
The crowd roars when they see the two captains come together. I can hear the mockery in their cheers, and I know the Jets fans are partly laughing at me – for being so stupid. I don't have any career fights in the NHL, after all. And I've chosen to square off against a heavyweight in my first.
They're right to be amused, or to think I've lost my marbles. Burkhardt's a legitimate buzz saw and he chomps through fighters in his weight class. I know full well he's gonna feed me my lunch.
So with one hand, I hold onto the collar of Burkhardt's jersey for dear life. With the other hand, I throw wild rights, praying I might land one. And I do my damned best to dodge the ten-ton fists flying at my face out of nowhere.
Just like the game, the fight's a blur and it's over before it's really began. But I'm still standing on my skates when the refs separate us. I hit Burky a few times – doubt I hurt him too much – but that's a few more times than I was expecting. He got me good on the eye socket and a trickle of blood runs down my cheek, drips off my chin and stains my jersey.
But I feel alright.
Actually, I feel great.
The refs escort me not to the penalty box, but to the bench. The trainers will have to take me into the back so they can stitch me up. As I skate by our bench, the boys tap their sticks against the boards out of respect.
“Atta boy, cap.” “Good fight, Vance.”
And I give Donovan a scowl as I skate by and leave the game. He hangs his head. His gambit has backfired, and all he's done is made me fight in his place. Pulling shit like that will only make him lose respect with the team.