“NHL bucks,” I retort.
“I’m sure that’s chump change to rock stars.”
I shrug. “I never see any of the money. We were given a black Mastercard and the label takes care of it all.”
“You don’t know how much money you have?”
“I have my own accountant. He knows that stuff.”
Luce leans in. “Let’s just say, ever since ‘Someone Else’s Perfect’ went multi-platinum for Eleven, Jay doesn’t have to worry about money for the foreseeable future. You know, unless he pisses off his label by pretending to have nodes and gets sued.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. I fucked up. That’s why we’re here.” I gesture around the plane.
“Getting nervous?” Soren asks.
“About Harley? Nah.” About what I’ll do when I see Harley? Yeah.
“Just remember I’m here for you, whatever you need. If you need me to be a friend or you need that escape you wanted … I’m here for you.”
My tongue feels thick in my mouth.
No one has ever treated me with the kind of respect Soren has since landing in Fiji, and doesn’t that say something about me? Or maybe it says more about the people I hang around with and date.
Even Harley was known for being selfish—somehow always turning the topic around to himself.
Like this one time when I was being interviewed by some teen magazine and they’d quoted me saying some bullshit about being able to be persuaded by the other side if the right girl came along when I’d said it sarcastically and then mouthed off about how that’s not how gay works. Yet, the article still made it sound like I was bi or pan, which there’s nothing wrong with, but I was pissed she’d purposefully mislabeled me. To get more clicks online, to build controversy, I don’t know, but the point is, when I was losing my shit over that article, Harley was there telling me about the time some other interviewer basically screwed him over years ago and how they almost fucked up his entire career.
Not helpful to my situation at all.
In a selfish world, voices get drowned out by everyone trying to out-woe each other.
Soren isn’t like that. In fact, apart from a few comments about Bryce, he hasn’t spoken much about himself at all.
Now who’s the selfish one?
“Tell me about hockey,” I say.
He looks confused. “What do you want to know?”
“What made you want to be a hockey player?”
Soren’s face turns derisive. “Please, I’m Canadian.”
I laugh. “Okay, but not every Canadian makes it to the big show. What makes you special?”
“My dad was a coach. I’m sure the first shoes I ever wore were a pair of skates.”
“Oh, wow. Pressure.”
“Not really. I loved every minute of it. He could be hard on me, sure, and there were times when I wanted to quit, but I never would have. I love it too much.”
“How did he take it when you came out?”
Soren purses his lips. “It’s a bit of a sore spot. Both my parents had known or suspected. I came out to them when I was twenty-five. Dad only said I was smart keeping it quiet from the NHL but apart from that didn’t support or condemn it. He was sort of indifferent, and we don’t talk about it. Mom was great. So was my sister. She’s the one who dragged me to Noah’s benefit that night the first time I saw you on stage.”
“Ah. So I have your sister to thank for turning you into my very first fanman.”
“Grace would love to meet you.”
Okay, I didn’t mean we should jump to that.
Soren laughs. “You look terrified. We can wait for the sisterly introduction. But just think, what if she hadn’t been visiting or didn’t make me go to that benefit? We might not be here now.”
I don’t want to even think about that, because even though Soren and I have danced around each other ever since we met, and I’ve been hesitant and holding back this Fiji trip, I couldn’t be more thankful for him now.
We talk more about Soren’s family and his life until we land at LAX.
Focusing on him is a good way to keep my mind off everything, but now, arriving back in the States, there’s no fighting the inevitable.
Starting with the paparazzi waiting for us curbside next to what is no doubt our chauffeured Escalade.
“Couldn’t have ordered a normal-sized car?” I ask Luce.
An Escalade basically screams famous person. Chances are, the paps don’t know who they’re waiting for, but once they see me, it’s gonna be question after question about the tour and the “fight” with Eleven, which is the story mainstream media is running with.
“Joystar’s fault,” Luce says. “Here.” He hands me his sunglasses.
Soren gives me his ball cap.
It doesn’t help.
“You get Jay in the car,” Luce says to Soren. “I’ll put the bags in the back.”
The driver helps him, and I’m quick to climb into the backrow seat, but that doesn’t stop the shouts or cameras going off.