I glance over Ollie’s head at Matt.
“I’m in,” Matt says.
“I thought you said you couldn’t write about me if we were together.”
“The editor I’ll be working with has already said he doesn’t care about that. This way, I still get my dream job—writing about gay athletes for a massive publication—but I get to stay in New York. I can travel for other stories during your off-season. I’ll get the best of both worlds.”
He’s still not convinced. “You won’t resent me for you turning it down?”
I understand where he’s coming from, because I was scared of the exact same thing when he came out, but this was completely my decision.
“Even if Sports Illustrated is my dream job, you’re my actual dream. Giving us a real shot is what I want.”
His eyes widen slightly. Oh, God, I’m freaking him out.
“Unless you don’t want that. In which case I’m joking. Ha-ha, I’m hilarious. Ooh, look, hockey!”
He’s on me in an instant. “Fuck, I love you.”
Ollie’s mouth crashes to mine, and this time, the world does fade around me, because the only thing I can focus on are those three little words I’ve never heard directed at me before.
It’s like I conjured this guy from pure wishing, and I don’t know what I did to deserve him, but I’m not going to question it. All I want is for us to be together.
We’re finally pulled apart when the crowd starts screaming. The lamp on New Jersey’s end flashes, and Soren’s being attacked by his teammates with back slaps and glove bumps.
He might’ve just scored the winning goal of the fucking Stanley Cup. Maybe. Could still go either way, but with the lack of score so far and how hard everyone’s fighting for it, I think it’s going to be a low-scoring game.
When the commotion dies down, I lean in and whisper to Ollie. “I love you too. Just in case that wasn’t clear by my rambling and job sacrificing and all that.”
Ollie stands and grabs my hand. “Sorry, guys, we’re bailing on going out. Tell Soren good game, and—”
Jet gets out of his chair and blocks us off. “You can’t.”
“JJ, what’s going on?” Matt asks, his tone firm.
I tug Ollie back down into his seat, and Jet wrings his hands together.
“Okay, fine, I was going to do this later at the club so we could all celebrate with drinks, but … we did it.”
“We did what?” Noah asks.
“The band got signed, and we’re recording ‘He’s Mine’ and a few other songs, and then we’re going on tour.”
“Noah’s and my song?” Matt asks. “And a tour?”
“National first, but they’re talking about going to Australia for some huge music festival in a few months if we do well.”
I’ve never seen Jet look so nervous. “Why are you freaking out?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No reason. I mean, they want to change a bunch of crap with the band, but so what? Fallout is just a name. It wasn’t even a name I picked. It came with the band. So I shouldn’t care that we’ll be known as Radioactive from now on, right? It doesn’t matter … no big deal.” He breathes deep.
“You’re worried about your artistic control,” Ollie says.
“Does that make me a spoiled shithead?” Jet asks, and I worry for a moment that he might not be ready for a record deal. He’s young, and—
In a split second, the doubt is gone, and in its place is the Jet I’ve seen on stage. Confident and happy.
“Oh, fuck it, it’s just a name. I’ve got a record deal, bitches!”
We all jump up and hug the crap out of him, even though it happens to coincide with Las Vegas sinking the puck.
Everyone around us thinks we’re traitors, but we don’t fucking care. Jet’s gonna be famous.
“Damn,” I say, “I was kind of hoping to keep you as a roommate.” Then I turn to Matt and Noah. “At least until I find a place of my own.”
Noah waves me off. “Stay as long as you want. We’re going back to Chicago in a few weeks, and with Jet leaving, we’ll need someone to look after the place.”
“Really? I mean, I can pay rent. Obviously not as much as it’s worth, but—”
Noah throws his arm around Matt. “Do we look like two people who need more money? Pay us by managing the upkeep, and you’ve got a deal.”
“Leaving,” Jet says as if it’s just sinking in. “Holy shit, I’m leaving.” He pales a little and has to take his seat again.
“You’re gonna rock it,” Ollie says.
“Pun intended,” I add.
After that, none of us can sit still. We’re all buzzing with celebratory energy, even when Vegas sinks another one.
Damn it.
I huff. “Okay, so maybe my theory of the first gay guy in each league winning won’t come true.”
Ollie wraps his arm around me. “I don’t think Soren will hate it so much. I mean, if he loses, fuck yeah, he’ll hate it, but no more than a regular player losing the Cup. He’s already told me making it to the final feels like he doesn’t need to prove anything more.”