I don’t know if I can endure another season just hoping to make it to the Cup game, and the thought of making it all that way and losing again … that’d make it two years. Two years where I’d have to continue to live like this. Three if we don’t make it the next year. Four after that.
It’s as if I can hear Lennon’s voice in my head: Hey, look at that, the hockey player can do math.
My point is, it’s a lot to put the fate of your life in the hands of a hockey game outcome.
Not that I can really complain about my life. I’m on a multimillion-dollar contract that has two years left. I have future security with the money I’ve already made. Yet, for the first time ever, I want what Ma and Dad have been spouting for years.
Hockey has always been enough for me until now.
I want to take to the ice as an openly gay player. Win some games, go home exhausted, tired, sometimes bruised, and with any hope, I’d be met by a gorgeous guy—who, at the moment admittedly looks a hell of a lot like Lennon in my head—welcoming me home with a kiss … and okay, maybe a blowjob, but I don’t think I should put that on my official list of goals or anything.
I’ve put my life on hold for six years playing hockey, lost someone I truly loved and cared about, but it’s the guy next to me who gives me the courage to want to do this. And not by promising me a future or telling me I have to, but by simply understanding where I’m coming from and accepting that I need to do this in my own time. With my parents, with Ash, it has always felt like they can’t give me support until I’m out. Like I’m living my life the wrong way. Lennon … he may want to protect himself from me hurting him, but he gives me his support anyway. He’s technically in sports too, so he understands in a way the others don’t.
I never knew empathy could turn me on, but there you go.
The smell of bacon comes from my kitchen, and I know Ma’s been up since mom o’clock cooking me a consolation breakfast for losing our chance at the Cup last night.
She used to do the same thing when I was in the juniors and I’d lose the championship.
If my nose is accurate, there’s only a few minutes until the food will be ready, and I’ll have to pull myself away from Lennon. We’re not even touching, but his presence is warmer than the blanket we share, and being next to him feels like waking up on a lazy winter day, cozied under heat with no reason to get out of bed all day.
I don’t want that feeling to go away, but I know it will as soon as we get up.
There’s a knock on the door and a high-pitched singing voice. “Can’t sleep the day away.”
I groan. “I’m twelve years old again.”
Lennon chuckles but doesn’t open his eyes.
“We’re depressed in here,” I call out to Ma. “We lost.”
“You lost,” Lennon mumbles. “My team’s still in it.”
I gasp. “Who’s your team?”
“Chicago. Duh.”
“Where’s the loyalty? You were born in New York.”
Lennon smiles through a yawn as he rolls onto his side to face me. “I predict it now. Chicago versus Boston for the Cup.”
“No way. Chicago has to beat Vegas, and they’ve dominated all season.”
“How much do you want to wager?”
“Totally wanna say blowjob, but I’m guessing that’s not allowed.”
Lennon climbs out of bed, finding his clothes on the floor. “I was thinking like a hundred bucks.”
“Whoa, don’t break the bank there.”
He dresses and looks for the rest of his things, not giving me eye contact as he says, “Like you said that night of the benefit, I’m a starving artist and can’t afford to feed myself. A hundred bucks is a hundred bucks.”
“What’s a hundred bucks?” Ma’s voice comes from the now open doorway.
“Invasion of privacy, Ma. You can’t come barging in here—”
She throws up her hands. “I gave you plenty of warning, and besides, I heard you talking in here. What’s a hundred bucks? And did I hear something about starving? Food’s on the table.”
“My boyfriend thinks it’s gonna be Chicago and Boston in the finals.”
“No way,” Ma says. “Vegas and New Jersey.”
“Vegas and Boston,” I say.
“San Jose and Detroit!” Ollie’s dad calls out.
“I’ll take that bet,” Ma calls back.
“Did he miss both of them get knocked out last round?” Lennon asks.
“He only ever follows my games,” I say. “He’d rather be watching football.”
“I understand that,” Lennon says.
I flip him the bird but glance at my mother as I do. “Can, ah, I get some privacy to find my clothes, Ma?”