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Me and Tyler arrive at the arena together. Cameras, microphones and iPhones are waiting for us – jammed in our faces and follow us as we walk through the arena.
Callan! Callan! They yell. I hold my hands up to my face to shield my eyes from the camera flashes. They speak and shout over each other, but they all wanna know the same thing. What do I have to say for myself? What will I do about Burkhardt's demand?
“No questions,” Tyler says, waving them off as we pass. “We'll talk after the practice.”
There's an elephant in our dressing room, obviously. Everybody seems grumpy and short. And I don't blame them. We've made it to the Finals and now winning the Cup is the last thing on anybody's mind. They have a right to be pissed off.
Coach Stevens runs a scrimmage in practice. I'm on the blue squad, Donovan's on the other red squad. He's hacking at me all morning; pushing, shoving, jabbing at me. I swear under my breath and shove him back, but he won't stop until I can't take anymore.
“You wanna drop 'em already, Don-o?” I ask. “Or are we gonna have a slap-fight all day?”
It's rare for teammates to fight in practice. Rare, but it happens. Probably hasn't ever happened in the Cup Finals before, but ... if it's what a team needs, why not?
“Big talk coming from you of all people,” he laughs.
“I'm serious. Let's go.”
He looks at me. I nod. We throw our gloves down at the same time and come together with our fists flying. The team stops what they're doing and watches. We trade a few blows, sneak a few good jabs in, before we get tangled up in each other and the fight grinds to an end. The boys step in and separate us.
There's a murmur from the few people in the stands who have come to watch our practice. I hear the shutters and see the flashes from the cameras around the rink. Donovan got me good on the nose. I dab at it and see blood on my hands. Every time I face the stands, I see more flashes as the cameras document the damage from our fight.
Coach Stevens looks embarrassed. Under the brim of his hat, he rubs his eyes. He shakes his head and blows his whistle. “Alright. Showers. No more.”
We head back to the dressing room. Vance doesn't waste any time. He tells Coach that he's calling a players-only meeting. Coach nods and leaves, shutting the door behind him.
Vance paces up and down the room, glaring at every one of his players.
“We got that out of our systems, boys? Anybody else need to fight each other? Are we done self-destructing yet?”
No one says anything. We all stare at our skates, too ashamed to look him in the eye.
“So there's a rumor that one of us is gay, huh. And because of that we're gonna stop playing like a team.” He stops in front of Donovan and stares. “You were brought in here to be a leader, Donovan. Look at the way you're acting. Childish. Embarrassing.”
Donovan holds a bag of ice to his knuckles. He purses his lips, looking disappointed.
“Sorry, captain.”
“You guys fell for it, man. Isn't it obvious? This is the distraction the Jets wanted, the one they've been counting on as their ace in the hole. And they got it. Burkhardt's been holding on to this all fucking year ... waiting for the right time to use it. And now you're playing right into his hands. Stupid. That's what this is. Who the hell cares what anyone here does in their own free time?”
Vance turns and looks at me. “Tell 'em, Cal. Tell 'em what you're gonna tell the media.”
I gulp. I look up at him, my eyes huge. Really?
“Tell 'em.” He nods. “Better they hear it from you first.”
I stand up and fidget with my hands. “Uh. Well, yeah.”
“Yeah, what?” Vance demands.
“Yeah, it's true, alright – the rumors are true and I'm gay.”
My eyes dart around the room, peering at my teammates. I see a few shrugs. A few raised eyebrows. A few blank faces.
“And why were you traded?” Vance asks me, but still he paces up and down the room looking at the other players.
“Because ... the Jets found out I was gay.”
“How?”
“I went to a gay bar.”
“They caught you at a gay bar.”
“Yeah.”
“So he likes guys. You got a problem with that, McNabb?” Vance asks.
McNabb's eyes grow huge when he gets called on. He shakes his head left to right rapidly, nervously. “N-no!” he says meekly.
Vance pats the rookie on the shoulder and whispers to him. (“It's alright, bud.”)
“Nelson? You got a problem with that?”
“Well, uh – errr ... no, not really.”
“Has he ever hit on you, Emerson? Propositioned you in the shower, anything like that?”
“Of course not.”
“Brickley?”
“No.”
“Every last one of you knows that Callan would skate through a fucking brick wall for this team. How many of you has he fought for after a nasty hit? How many times has he stood up for the rookies? We're paid to be professionals here, boys. We're not paid to be gossips, or to make judgments about who does what in their own goddamn spare time. If you don't like it – you can leave this room right now. Get out and don't come back because we won't need you going forward.”
Vance points towards the door and waits. No one dares leave.
“From now on, we win and we lose as a team. I've already lost one Cup. I might lose another, but it's not gonna be because I happen to have a gay teammate. This is the last we're gonna hear about it. Alright? If you don't like it, you can ask for a trade in the off-season. But for now, you're a Hawk, and you might not ever get this close to the Cup again. Don't blow this.”
The mumbles come from around the room. “Yeah, cap'.” “Sure thing.” “Uh, go Hawks.”
Donovan looks up at me. He nods at me. I nod back, and with that, I hope the hatchet is finally buried.
Vance sits down in his stall. But then he stands up again. “Oh, one last thing. Callan's gonna make his press conference after we're all showered up. And I want every last one of you standing by his side.” He sits back down and unties his skate laces angrily. “And if that's a problem for anyone, if you can't go on playing with us – the door is still open. We'll be better off without ya.”
Well. I wet my lips. That seems to have gone ... a lot better than I expected.
And I feel kind of stupid that this has gone on for so long. If I had known ... I would've had Vance do this a long ass time ago.
But then again, I guess I have to wait and see. It's one thing for players in here not wanting to piss the captain off. But it might be another thing for them to get over in reality.
***
AN HOUR LATER, WE'RE all freshly showered and dressed and waiting for the okay to head into the media room. I'm nervously tapping my feet. I've got a notepad on my thigh and I've scrawled out a few things to say when I'm in front of all those cameras.
A few of the boys are nice enough to come by and offer me support.
“Hey, man,” Nelson says. “Take it easy, alright? I don't care how many dicks you suck, you're a good goddamn hockey player.” He punches my shoulder. “Just kidding. About sucking dicks. Well, er, sort of.”
“Oh my god, Nelson. Shut up, dude,” I laugh, punching him back. I know he means well, but o-m-g, he's hilariously awkward.
The media people come in at last and give us the cue. “It's time.”
I blow out a big, nervous gust. “Alright. Let's do this.”