Chapter Sixteen
BY MARCH, IT’S clear the Hell Hounds will be a serious contender in the playoffs. It’s also clear they’ve reached a tipping point.
Overall, they’re playing good, aggressive hockey. But as they creep closer and closer to April, on some days the “aggressive” is starting to outweigh the “good.”
The late hits, the missed calls, the constant verbal abuse…
Pretending they don’t care and responding with sarcasm usually works, but they do care.
And Alex, at least, is so tired of pretending he doesn’t.
The worst part is this might just be his life going forward. He might have to deal with this for the rest of his career.
It’s exhausting.
And it’s a good thing Eli has been progressing in leaps and bounds because Alex doesn’t know what he would do if Eli still needed him the way Alex needs Eli.
Within a month, they’ve done a complete 180 in terms of who’s taking care of who.
Before, in pre-Eli times, with the amount of stress Alex is under, Alex probably would have gotten off the plane from a roadie and headed straight to a bar. Now, he breaks speed limits to get to his condo and his couch, where Eli will have food and music and sweet commentary on the nuances of collegiate life. They’ve started taking baths together, too, and Alex discovers there is nothing quite as soothing as Eli slowly washing his hair, murmuring about how hard he’s working and how proud Eli is of him.
Eli is the personification of a sigh of relief.
And the team is—the team is good too. Alex anticipates resentment, but instead, he gets anger. Not at him or Eli, but at the other teams. Other fans. Other organizations that send out pretty press releases but then say nothing about the hateful signs proudly displayed in their arenas.
“And captains know,” Kuzy yells one night after a win that still left Alex with a bitter taste in his mouth. “Captains know players talk. Why they’re not stop it? Tweet nice things—tape stick with rainbow for pride game—then pretend can’t hear when fucking winger call Alex f-word. It’s being shitty captain for not stop it. It’s—” He devolves into Russian, and Oshie says, “Hypocritical is the word he’s looking for, I think.”
Kuzy just continues in Russian.
They get the gist of it anyway.
The following night, both Oshie and Kuzy end up in the box, red-faced and yelling incomprehensibly at a Russian player from the Islanders. A call-up who was not part of the group chat, Oshie later tells Alex, who has to be half carried off the ice, with a very clearly broken nose.
Neither of them will tell Coach or anyone else what the man said but, aside from that one instance, the Hell Hounds don’t deal with any issues from other Russian players.
Asher and several of the younger players maintain this is due to Kuzy’s mob connections.
There are a few good moments, though, like the Hell Hounds pride night.
It’s against the Avs, one of the few teams that, blissfully, doesn’t seem to have a single asshole player. Well. A couple of them are definitely assholes, but none of them are specifically homophobic assholes.
The stadium is sold out, and the game is preceded by a parade because it’s Houston. So Eli invites the WAGs over to the apartment, and they bedazzle jean jackets with their player’s names and numbers in rainbow colors on the backs. They all sit together in the box and soon flood Instagram with selfies—most of them involving Hawk with her own bedazzled rainbow collar for the occasion. The internet loses its mind a bit.
Rushy covers his entire stick for warmups in rainbow tape and then signs it and auctions it off after the game with the proceeds going to You Can Play. Rads buys tickets for the Gay-Straight Alliance at Eli’s university. Jeff and several other players donate to various LGBTQ+ charities. Alex, having already consulted with Eli during their March relationship meeting, and feeling very adult about it, offers to match any donations made over the following twenty-four hours to a GoFundMe campaign for a homeless LGBTQ+ youth shelter.
It’s funded in half that time.
There’s another good moment the following day, when a Deadspin reporter makes the unfortunate decision to ask Kuzy and Jeff if the team’s environment has changed since Alex came out.
“Have you had to make any adjustments to having a gay captain?” the man asks.
“No,” Jeff says evenly, making Jessica proud.
“Yes,” Kuzy said seriously. “We make Alex wear blindfold in the shower so he’s not see our dicks. Because no homo. Is rainbow blindfold though. Because Hell Hounds also pro-homo. You know?”
On Twitter later that day, #prohomo starts trending.
Jessica doesn’t let Kuzy do media for a couple weeks.
Moments like that, though, the good moments, are getting more and more scarce. And Alex accidentally overhears Eli talking on the phone to Cody one day with a soft, terrible voice he’s never heard Eli use before.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I wish there was a way for us to just…take it back, which— No. I know. And I do. But Cody, you don’t understand. I don’t know how long he can do this without going crazy. This can’t be the rest of his career. Or if it is, I’ve shortened his career by a decade. It’s just not fair.”
When Eli comes out of the guest bedroom, Alex is lying on the couch with his headphones on, listening to his pregame hype playlist, trying to act as if his world isn’t very slowly falling apart.
The following week, after another win that feels like a loss, Rads won’t let Alex change after practice. Kuzy and Asher stay in their gear too. Ten minutes later, after some Gatorade and a lot of deflection, they’re pulling him back out onto the ice.
“I don’t understand what’s happening right now,” Alex says.
“Well, kiddo,” Rads says. “Tell me if I’m wrong, but it looked like you were about two seconds away from dropping your gloves out there last night. And in the interest of keeping your nose in the middle of your face, we thought we’d better teach you how to throw a punch.”
Alex wants to protest, but he can’t really argue that A. Yes, he nearly did try to fight someone last night, and B. No, he wouldn’t have had the first clue as to how to go about the actual fighting.
He exhales. “That’s probably a good idea,” he allows.
*
THE FIRST WEEK of April, Alex walks into Jessica’s office and closes the door behind him.
“Alex,” she says with raised eyebrows.
“I’m probably going to punch someone soon. I just thought I’d let you know.”
She leans back in her chair. “Frankly, you’ve refrained from violence far longer than I anticipated. Do you have a clearer timeline for me, or—?”
Alex blinks at her. “You’re not going to try to talk me out of it?”
“Not at all. This was, more or less, the plan, if you remember.”
“I—what?”
“Alex,” she says steadily. “Why do you think we’ve been micing you up every game since you came out? Micing up multiple other guys per game—generating hours of content we haven’t been publishing on any of our social media sites. It’s not because we enjoy hearing Rushy talk about sex toys—hilarious as that is. It’s because those mics are picking up all the shit that’s being said around you. At this point, we have an overwhelming amount of evidence that you’re being mistreated, and most of the time, officials aren’t calling the misconduct. I know the last three months have been terrible, but we have more than enough substantiation for an official complaint—even a lawsuit against the league if that’s something you want to pursue. We just need an inciting event to deploy it.”
“Oh,” Alex says faintly.
“This was in the packet I sent to you back in January,” she says, a little judgmentally. “You emailed me saying you approved. I take it you didn’t actually read it?”
He’d skimmed it.
Mostly.
“Uh…no.”
She sighs, but it’s her standard “I can’t believe hockey players are paid so much money when they’re this useless” sigh, not an actual annoyed sigh.
“We weren’t just leaving you out to dry, Alex. We know this can’t be the rest of your career. Or anyone else’s. I’ve just been waiting for you to tell me when you’ve had enough.”
“Oh.”
“So,” she says, tapping her tablet. “Do you have a particular game in mind, or—”
And that’s her calendar app.
“No. I don’t want to plan a fight. I just know I won’t be able to resist at some point soon.”
“Ah. That’s fine too. We have a press release ready, regardless.”
“Right.” He clears his throat. “So. Whenever it is, I should just make sure that my mic is working and I punch a guy who speaks clearly? Like. Really enunciates his slurs?”
“That would be preferable,” she agrees solemnly.
“I can do that.”
*
HE GETS HOME that afternoon feeling…not relieved. But hopeful. Maybe. At least they have a plan. Things might get better soon. And then he won’t have to spend so much of his time biting his tongue. But then again, part of that is his fault. He’s been trying so hard to play good clean hockey and say the right things during media and avoid too much PDA with Eli where photographers might be present, and only make Jessica-Approved Instagram posts, and… Well, that’s not what he wanted.
When he imagined the good parts of being out, he imagined being able to hold hands with Eli while walking Hawk, being able to tuck Eli under his arm and duck down to kiss him whenever he wanted; he imagined being casual with his affection. He’s an effusive person.
Physically and verbally.
When he’s in post-game interviews he wants to answer the “how are you planning to celebrate the win tonight” or “what are your plans for the upcoming break” questions honestly.
Well. Maybe not too honestly, but something other than the canned response that doesn’t allow for references to his homelife or who he shares it with. Pride night was a little taste of it, of being unashamedly gay, if that’s a thing. And it made him realize what he didn’t get to do otherwise. What he’s missing.
He wants to post pictures on Instagram—not just the Jessica-approved ones of Alex and Eli sitting across the table from each other at dinner or Eli and Hawk wearing jerseys with Alex’s name and number (adorable as that was). He wants to post the same sort of casually intimate photographs that Rads does with his wife or Rushy does with his girlfriend. Pictures of Eli at home, their home, sleep-rumpled and making pancakes in his boxers.
He wants to post disgusting romantic selfies.
Alex is Extra. He will fully admit that.
And right now, he feels like he’s bursting with all the limitations that PR talked him through in hopes of mitigating any fallout from fans that were “uncomfortable” with the new developments in his personal life.
But it’s his life.
And if fans are homophobic, they’re going to be pissed off anyway. That’s not Alex’s problem.
He needs to stop acting like it is.
“Hey,” he says to Eli that night as they’re getting dressed. It’s Asher’s birthday, and the guys are all going out, families included, to a burger place.
“Hey,” Eli agrees absently. He’s in the closet, naked and considering his clothing options.
Alex pats Eli’s butt because it’s right there.
It’s a very nice butt.
“Yes?” Eli prompts.
Right.
“Can I borrow a shirt?” Alex asks.
“Uh.” Eli very obviously studies Alex’s side of the closet—full of shirts—then his own side. “Anything of mine will be ridiculously small on you, but— Sure? Which one do you want to borrow?”
“The gayest one you own.”
“Oh—kay.”
He sorts through several hangers, considering, and Alex may or may not get a little distracted looking at his ass again.
“How about this one? Hey. Focus.”
Alex focuses.
It’s a plain white T-shirt. A little bigger than Eli’s usual fare, with “I VIOLATE ARTICLE 27, SEC. 553-4 OF THE MARYLAND ANNOTATED CODE SAFELY, OFTEN, AND EXTREMELY WELL” in all caps on it.
Alex has never seen Eli wear it before.
“What’s it mean?”
“Sections 553 and 554 of Article 27 of the Maryland Code prohibited sodomy, oral sex, and”—Eli makes quotes with his fingers—“any other unnatural or perverted sexual practice with any other person.”
“That’s fucked up,” Alex says.
“Indeed.”
“Not anymore, though, right?”
“No, not anymore.”
Alex takes the hanger from Eli, rubbing the jersey-knit fabric between his thumb and forefinger.
“You’re right; this is a very gay shirt.”
“What you wanted?”
“It’s perfect.”
It’s pretty small, clinging tightly to his chest and arms and just barely long enough to hit the top of his belt, but— It’s definitely perfect.
He flexes in the mirror, grinning.
Eli gives Alex a retaliatory ass-slap, then fits himself to Alex’s back, tucking his thumbs just under the hem of the shirt, and pressing his fingertips into the shower-heated skin over Alex’s hip bones. He hooks his chin over Alex’s shoulder. Leans his temple against Alex’s jaw. “You know everyone will be taking pictures tonight.”
“Yes,” Alex agrees.
“I thought we were trying not to offend anyone’s delicate sensibilities with our clothing and social media choices.”
“We were. I just decided I’m done caring.” Alex pauses, considering. “Unless you would rather—”
“No. No, if this is a ‘fuck it’ moment, you have my full support.”
“This is definitely a ‘fuck it,’ moment,” Alex agrees.
“Oh, good,” Eli says, kissing the hinge of Alex’s jaw. “I love those. I will also need to reconsider my own clothes tonight, then.”
Alex shifts to the side, pulling Eli to the front of the mirror, reversing their positions. “Wear the shoes,” he suggests.
“To a burger place? No.”
“Something sparkly?”
“It’s 5:00 p.m.”
“Leather?”
Eli sighs. “How about skinny jeans and something off-the-shoulder.”
Alex considers this. “Which shoulder?”
“Either?” Eli laughs. “Do you have a preference?”
Alex lowers his mouth to the left side of his neck—the juncture between Eli’s collarbone and shoulder. “This one,” he says.
He sucks on the skin there, just a little, and then glances up, meeting Eli’s eyes in the mirror, waiting for permission.
“Oh,” Eli says faintly. “Yes. Yes, that one is good.”
They’re a little bit late for dinner.
The burger place is barely controlled madness. They didn’t rent it out, but they did reserve a good portion of the booths, and nearly all the guys and their families or significant others are there.
It’s not until they’re mostly done eating that Asher asks, mouth still full, “Hey, Alex, what’s your shirt mean?”
He lets Eli explain.
“Wait,” Matts says, leaning over the back of the booth next to them. “Blowjobs used to be illegal in Maryland?”
“Blowjobs used to what?” Moose asks, popping over the back of the opposite booth.
Rads sighs, covering the ears of the toddler in his lap.
“Cunnilingus, too, depending on how a judge interpreted it,” Jeff says.
Rads sighs louder.
“What’s cunnilingus?” Cookie asks.
“Oh my god,” Rushy says faintly.
All of the women stop eating.
“Okay,” Jo says to Cookie. “That’s horrifying. What state were you raised in? Because I need to write the representatives about their failed sexual education system.”
“Here? Texas?” Cookie says.
“Who’s surprised?”
“And, uh,” Cookie puts down his drink, wilting a little under all the attention. “We didn’t actually have sex ed in school? That I remember? It was just like— Don’t do it. The end.”
“Oh my god,” Rushy repeats.
“Okay,” Jo says. “Who has a mini whiteboard in their car?”
Several of the men at the table dutifully raise their hands.
“And markers?” Some of the hands go down.
“All right. Well, someone bring me a whiteboard and at least two different-colored markers, please. This booth is about to become the sex-ed booth.”
“Have I mentioned I love you recently?” Jeff asks her.
“That’s my cue to leave,” Rads says, standing. He balances his daughter on one hip and picks up his drink with his free hand. “I’ll send the other rookies over though. They could probably use a refresher.”
“Good man,” she says. “Hey, will someone go ask the milkshake maker guy for a banana? We’ll give it back when we’re done.”