Chapter Text
Friday, June 14, 2019
Gabriel considers not answering his phone when the Hawks’ front office’s number shows up on his screen. He’s been doing that a lot lately – not picking up when his mother calls, not returning texts from his local friends who know he’s back in Toronto for the summer, only replying to Amber half the time. Cutting people off is vindictively satisfying.
He lets the phone buzz for a few moments and tries to remember if the front office has ever called him in the summer. He’s pretty sure even when he was negotiating his new contract, the front office called his agent, and Peter called him. So maybe the Hawks are trading him. He doesn’t need to hear that from the front office, really, he would be fine reading about it online, but it’s not the staff’s fault he doesn’t want to talk to them, and they might feel bad about him finding out from Sportsnet.
He taps the green circle, accepting the call.
Gabriel flops down on his couch after disconnecting the call. He toes off his shoes and lets them fall to the floor, because there’s no way he can go to the grocery store now without being caught there when the news breaks. He’s not that famous, not even close to the most famous hockey player in Toronto this summer, but this is still Toronto. And now he’s a minor player in the Ilya Sokolov trade, which everyone has been speculating about since before playoffs.
He wonders whose idea it was to ship him out along with Socks. He wouldn’t be surprised if Chris made it a condition when he signed his new, five-year contract last week. He can’t fault management for wanting to keep their star winger around and keep him happy. Gabriel is all for making Chris happy, even though he hasn’t, personally, been very good at it lately.
Maybe this is for the best. Maybe with some distance, Chris will realize that he can still be friends with Gabriel. Maybe some distance during the season will make Chris more open to the idea of training together in the offseason – he has enough family in Toronto that he comes to the city for a few weeks every summer anyways. And, however slim the possibility, maybe Chicago will be willing to take him back and reunite him with Chris at some point.
That’s a lot of maybes and he’s too wrung out to be hopeful right now. He’ll save his fake hope for when he has to give the Rangers’ front office a soundbite about looking forward to joining the team.
Gabriel knows the news has broken when his phone starts buzzing and doesn’t stop. He’s about to turn it to silent, or turn it off completely, when Ilya’s name pops up on his screen. He doesn’t really want to talk to Ilya, but it feels wrong to ignore him right now.
“Hi Socks,” Gabriel says.
“Carts!” Ilya replies. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” Gabriel says. He’s going to have to be. He’s losing the chance to actively convince Chris they can still be friends, the management of the team that signed him doesn’t want him anymore, and his new teammates will probably hate him as much as his old ones did. But it’s not like he can do anything about it.
The deflection must be obvious because Ilya says, “I am sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Gabriel replies quickly. Ilya may have asked for the trade, even pushed for it, but it’s not his fault Gabriel is collateral damage. “I’m happy you got the trade.”
“Thank you,” Ilya says. “But, I am sorry you were traded because I requested a move.”
“It’s alright. You deserve the trade. You should play for a team that appreciates you.”
“So should you. I think the Rangers will appreciate both of us.”
Gabriel snorts bitterly. “It’s not exactly the same. Just because they want an exuberant Russian, doesn’t mean they’ll want me around.”
“I do not think that all teams will have a problem with a player who is…” Ilya pauses.
“You can’t even say the word gay, can you?” Gabriel snarls. “I’m not sure why you’re expecting a whole team of professional athletes to do better, then.”
“I do not know if you are gay or bisexual or if you identify yourself differently. I do not want to assume,” Ilya says, faintly exasperated, rather than offended.
“I’m gay.” Gabriel offers it up as an apology for assuming the worst, as a lifeline in the face of not knowing how to feel about this unexpected decency.
“Thank you for telling me.” Ilya sounds like he means it. “I have no problem playing with a gay teammate, and I am sure many other hockey players have no problem. They should not have a problem with it. Not every team has players like Chris and Anthony. Or at least not every team makes them alternate captains.”
Gabriel’s first instinct is to defend Chris, but Chris is the reason Ilya asked for a trade, well Chris and management. So Gabriel swallows back the words before they can leave his mouth, doesn’t say anything about how it wasn’t really Chris’s fault that he made Gabriel miserable.
“I am glad we will still play on a team together,” Ilya says. “Chicago was not always an easy place for me to play, but you were always kind, even when some of the team was not. And you are a good defenseman. I am lucky to continue playing with you.”
Gabriel’s not sure what to say. He doesn’t think anyone has ever called him kind before – it’s not the sort of compliment people give.
“I am still sorry you have been traded when you did not wish to be,” Ilya says.
“No, no, it’s good,” Gabriel says before Ilya can go on, tired of the conversation. The silence is awkward, so he adds, “I’m glad I get to keep playing with you too.”
“Thank you,” Ilya says. “I suppose I should let you go talk to the other people you will want to talk to.”
Gabriel doesn’t want to talk about the trade with anyone else, but he’s sure Ilya does, so he says goodbye. Gabriel doesn’t have anyone else to talk to, at least not until Amber’s back to somewhere with cell service, and that won’t be for another week.
It takes Gabriel a long time to fall asleep that night. He tries to convince himself he’s just stressed about the trade, but there’s a sick, guilty feeling sitting low in his gut that he can’t shake. Management blamed Ilya for the team’s failures, because he may have been their best player, but he didn’t fit the bland mold marketed by the NHL. And Chris took that and ran with it, mocking Ilya in the locker room and criticizing his play to the pettiest beat reporters. And maybe Gabriel was kind to Ilya, or at least not unkind, but he never stopped being friends with Chris. He ignored Chris being an absolute asshole to some of their teammates just because he liked the way the guy looked in hockey gear. And the way he skated, because seriously, he skated like a fucking dream.
Sunday, July 20, 2019
Ezra is outside waiting, slowly swinging on his parents’ creaky old porch swing, when Carly pulls up. She jumps out of her car and he’s only made it halfway down the walkway before she throws herself into his arms, as though it’s been a lot longer than a week since they last saw each other. He hugs her back tightly.
“Hey, bigshot,” she says, pulling back and grinning widely.
“Hi, smartypants,” he replies, heading towards her car.
Carly slides back into the driver’s seat and pulls away from the curb. “Well, this has been an eventful week for a sport that’s not even in season. How are you feeling?”
Ezra thinks it’s been more eventful for him than for hockey in general, but that’s not her point. “Excited. And nervous, but mostly excited.”
“Good,” she says. “I’m excited for you. I’m going to have to figure out how those NHL subscriptions work so I can watch your games now, you know. No more easy AHL subscription for me.”
He smiles, not quite knowing how to thank her for making the effort to watch a sport she doesn’t particularly like just because he’s playing.
But then they get to Science World and she links her arm through his and leads him to the frankly horrifying visiting exhibit on cannibalism, and he remembers these are simply the kinds of things they do for each other.
After ten minutes of focussing on Carly’s delighted fascination instead of the pictures of human innards, he finds himself reluctantly drawn in.
His parents are watching a Frasier rerun when Carly drops him off after dinner at Maenam Thai. “How’s Carly doing?” his mom asks, as he walks by the living room.
“She’s good,” Ezra answers, still walking towards his room.
“Come join us,” his dad says, and Ezra tries not to frown. His parents know he doesn’t like watching television with commercials, so they’ve mostly stopped asking him to watch shows with them. He sinks down into one of the recliners bracketing the couch, wondering what’s going on, and knowing he won’t find out until the end of the episode.
Right on cue, his dad turns off the television as the credits begin. “Have you ever thought about dating Carly?” he asks.
Ezra gapes at him. “What?”
“People are going to want to know about your personal life when you make it to the NHL,” his dad continues. “Having a girlfriend will stop them from asking too many questions. You and Carly are close, and she doesn’t have a boyfriend, right?”
“Carly and I don’t want to date each other,” Ezra says, taken aback. His parents were cautiously supportive when he told them he was bisexual and that he mostly liked guys a few months before he was drafted. His dad told him to be careful telling other people, but he had nodded along when his mom had said they’d always love him.
“Ezra, come on,” his dad says. “This isn’t about who you like anymore. This is about you being able to focus on playing professional hockey. You can’t possibly think you can do that and be the first gay player.”
There are so many things wrong with that statement that Ezra does frown then. His dad amends, “Or mostly gay, or whatever. You’re not even all the way gay. You like girls and you like Carly. It wouldn’t be hard for you to date her. Just tell your teammates and the media it’s long distance and hold hands with her when you’re home. It’s not like you don’t already do that. Who knows, it might turn into something real.”
“I was actually thinking about coming out to my team,” Ezra says. “And I can tell the media no comment whenever they ask personal questions. Or politely evade them. I have had media training.”
“That’s a terrible idea.” His dad sounds quietly angry in a way that Ezra hasn’t heard since he was in middle school and shirking his training. “You’ve never played in the NHL before. You don’t know what the media is like, and even your teammates… You’re not going to be able to trust all of them.”
Ezra hasn’t argued with his dad in the last decade, but he wishes he could now. Instead, he feels tongue-tied and numb. His dad stands up and walks over next to the recliner. “I’m not trying to be unsupportive,” he says more softly, squeezing Ezra’s shoulder. “I’m supporting your career. You’re more than ready to be in an NHL net, but you’ve never lived under the kind of spotlight pro athletes get, and you’re going to need some help with that until you find your footing. Think about what I’m saying.”
After his dad walks out, Ezra’s mom turns to him. “Your father may be blunt, but he knows what he’s talking about, and he only wants what’s best for you,” she says. “Would it really be that bad to date Carly? You two are so close.”
“I’ve already told some of my teammates I like guys,” Ezra says stubbornly, but doesn’t mention that by some, he means over half of the team. He doesn’t think he can deal with her worrying more. “They’ve been great about it.”
“Be careful, baby. And think about what he said.”
Ezra wants to tell her it’s been more than two years since he came out to his closest friends on the Wolf Pack team, that with every teammate he’s told, he’s felt lighter, that everyone he’s told has reacted well. He wants to say that some of the guys he’s told are playing in the NHL now – not on the Rangers, but still. His dad’s just projecting homophobia onto his team. He can feel his eyes watering though. “I’ll be careful. I think I’m going to bed early tonight,” he says quickly, escaping to his room before he starts crying in front of his mom.
Ezra tosses and turns for hours, never properly crying, but never far from it. He thinks about calling Carly, thinks about driving over to her apartment for a sleepover, but she has work in the morning, and he would feel guilty when she inevitably sat up with him anyways.
When he wakes up at 2am, after an hour or so of fitful sleep, he calls André instead, because it’s 6am in Nova Scotia and André can put him on speakerphone while he gets ready for training.
“Hey, Ezra,” André says after the third ring. There’s some shuffling in the background and he sounds distracted. “You’re up late. Or early? What’s up?”
“Both, I guess,” Ezra says, dully. “I can’t sleep.”
The shuffling stops. “Are you alright?” André asks, concerned.
“Was I stupid to come out to you guys?” Ezra blurts.
“No. Of course not. I’m really glad you trusted us,” André answers, and Ezra lets out a long breath. “Why are you worried? Is this about you making the show this year? You know none of us are going to out you.”
Ezra hadn’t thought he could feel worse, but apparently he can. “I know that. I trust you guys,” Ezra says quickly. “It’s just, my parents…” he trails off, not wanting to rehash the conversation.
“Hey, it’s alright,” André says gently. “Your parents don’t know what they’re talking about.”
Ezra starts to protest, but André keeps talking. “No, listen. I don’t mean that generally – not like they’re dumb or anything, but they don’t know what our team is like. Your dad hasn’t played professional hockey in two decades and neither of your parents know us that well, so they don’t know you can trust us.”
“Thanks,” Ezra says.
“Hey, no problem,” André says, and Ezra can hear him smiling. “Try to get some sleep?”
“Alright, good night,” Ezra says.
“Good night,” André replies, before hanging up.
It doesn’t take Ezra long to fall asleep after that.
Monday, July 28, 2019
Gabriel wonders how he never noticed that every part of his workouts has the same rhythm as punching someone in the face over and over and over again. Push ups? Punching with both arms. Stair runs? Uppercuts. Exercise bike? Alright, maybe that’s more like stomping on someone.
He’s never wanted to punch someone before, not even on the ice. He’s had more than a few opponents try to goad him into a fight, had more than a few coaches encourage him to rise to the bait every now and then. But Gabriel’s always considered fights the worst part of hockey, and while he won’t voice that opinion aloud, he does avoid them.
He’s thinking about fighting now, and thinking that he would be more than willing to drop his gloves with Anthony. Or not even wait until they were on the ice. He should have done it when he had the chance. It’s not like Chris could have hated him any more than he did. It’s not like being gay and punching Chris’s best friend would have been worse than only being gay. Besides, it might have made Gabriel feel better.
Gabriel’s looking forward to the morning he wakes up able to daydream about punching Chris. He’s getting there, but every time he thinks about Chris, he inevitably gets sidetracked by fantasies of Chris apologizing and kissing him, not always in that order.
His training has been going better since he started timing his workouts to the rhythm of punching Anthony in the face. He will admit he introduced this new visualization technique around the same time he started sleeping more than five hours a night, so he’s not really sure how to attribute credit. Either way, the Rangers won’t be able to be disappointed in his performance, come October. And Gabriel won’t let them find out anything else they could be disappointed about.
In the meantime, he can imagine how satisfying it would be to punctuate a conversation with Anthony using his fists. Anthony was always a fan of the bro code. Apparently his version of the code didn’t extend to not outing a bro to the entire team, but Gabriel figures it does extend to fistfights. With the way he’s training now, Gabriel likes to think he would win one against Anthony.
Tuesday, August 14, 2019
Gabriel laughs until he cries when the album shows up in his Facebook feed. Chris is wearing a summery, dove gray suit, and he looks as good as he always does. Objectively speaking though, he can’t hold a candle to his girlfriend, who looks stunning in a floaty mint dress and gold jewelry, and who is taller than Chris in her heels. Gabriel has to stop and check her name – Tanya – even though it’s her album he’s looking at.
The grooms are attractive too. They’re definitely not athletes, unless they run marathons or something, but they could both be models. One of them looks like he’s related to Tanya. The whole album could be a progressive J. Crew wedding apparel campaign.
Chris looks right at home. Gabriel thinks he can be excused for the laughter at least, if not for the tears. “Are you fucking serious?” he asks experimentally. It feels good, and there’s no one around to judge him.
He wants to text Chris. The message would be something like you goddamn fucking hypocrite.
When he pulls his messages up, there’s a long string of unanswered texts staring back at him. He sent the last one – hope your summer training goes well. See you in the fall – a few days after he got back to Toronto. Texting Chris now would give Chris another opportunity to ignore him, to demonstrate how little he cares what Gabriel thinks.
And really? When had that not been the way they worked? Even when they had been friends, Chris hadn’t even pretended to care when Gabriel hinted he should tone down the rookie hazing or keep his problems with Ilya inside the locker room. Chris did what he wanted to do, Anthony made sure everyone else did what Chris wanted them to do, and Gabriel went right along with them.
Gabriel feels a hot rush of mortification looking back at the string of unanswered texts. Chris treated him like shit, treated their teammates like shit, probably treated everyone he met like shit, and Gabriel kept begging Chris to take him back.
He wishes he had Tanya’s number so he could tell her what a hypocrite her boyfriend is. She attended a gay wedding and took Chris along with her, so she probably won’t think much of his homophobia. And refusing to talk to Gabriel because he was gay, that was homophobic, as much as Gabriel had been trying to avoid the term, avoid the way it made him feel like a victim. Embracing it would be worth it if Chris’s girlfriend left him and he felt the same heartbroken humiliation Gabriel has been feeling.
But even as Gabriel considers who he could get Tanya's number from, he realizes what a terrible idea that would be. She wouldn’t pick up if he called her, and if she did, she would probably say that gay guys were great – and so, so cute – but she would have been uncomfortable with a lesbian in her locker room, back when she played sports. She might feel sorry for him as she agreed with Chris, but that would be it.
He thinks better of finding her number, tells himself it’s only because it would be creepy to call her. There’s no one around to call him out on pretending it has nothing to do with the way she would laugh in his face.
Instead, he takes a screenshot of the picture and texts it to Amber, grateful that his sister’s made it back to California. He captions it with I really fucking hate the fucking hypocrite.
She replies a minute later. Fucking finally. I’ve hated him for months. Skype me this weekend and we can both complain about him? She follows it up with an uncharacteristic smiley face.
He texts her back – Absolutely.
Wednesday, September 4, 2019
Ezra had a teammate on his peewee hockey team, a boy named Seth, who would loiter in the locker room after every game, packing and repacking his gear, dragging anyone whose attention he could catch into long conversations, traipsing between the rink and the locker room on the flimsiest of excuses.
This is the first time in years he’s thought about Seth, maybe the first time he’s thought about Seth and realized why he was so reluctant to leave after games. He feels a pang of guilt at not having thought about him for so many years, for never trying to figure out if he was alright after he left the team, for only thinking of him now, when he might actually be able to relate to how Seth felt.
Ezra considers lingering in the shower, decides against it. Delaying the dressing down he is inevitably going to get on the drive home will only make it worse, and his thoughts are racing too much for him to plan out logical responses to whatever his dad is going to spew at him.
He tosses his gear bag into the trunk and climbs into the passenger seat without looking at his dad.
His dad waits until they’re on the freeway to speak. “I’m going to repeat what I said earlier and maybe you’ll listen now that we’re off the ice, although god knows why you won’t listen to me on the ice anymore.” Ezra stares straight ahead. “When I tell you to stop a shot from the butterfly, you stop it from the butterfly. You don’t do whatever the hell you feel like doing while we’re training. You practice the techniques I tell you to practice.”
“Do you understand?” he asks when Ezra stays quiet, his voice forceful enough that it seems to reverberate in the confined space.
Ezra should say yes. His dad only has ice time booked for them another three times before Ezra flies back to Hartford, so he should simply say yes and do what his dad wants for their last few ice sessions. He can humor his dad and avoid a fight and go back to doing what he knows is best when he gets to training camp. That’s what he should do. But the simmering resentment he’s felt all summer is close to boiling over, and he decides to let it for once.
He tries to keep his tone light as he says, “Nicklas had us using different techniques all last year and I think Coach Myers will be more impressed if I’ve practiced the kind of play his organization uses.”
“I know I’m only a bantam coach, not a professional coach like the guys you’re apparently willing to listen to,” his dad replies, and Ezra knows his barb landed. “But I’m pretty sure Coach Myers will be impressed if you know a variety of techniques.”
Ezra feels petty, not vindicated. On this particular point at least, his dad is right: Ezra has never believed the only coaches and players who matter are the ones who have made it to the show. “It’s not that you’re a bantam coach,” he says. “It’s just that you’re you.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s supposed to mean that I have absolutely no reason to trust you know what’s good for me as a professional hockey player. I guess that extends to your coaching.” Ezra’s been thinking about this for weeks now, about his dad’s tepid support when he came out. He had talked to Ezra about girls before that, but never said a word about guys or girls afterwards, at least until the whole why-don’t-you-date-Carly shitshow. Ezra’s thought about it enough to get past the confusion and the hurt and hit the anger head on.
“Seriously?” his dad asks, voice absolutely flat. “Please do not tell me this has anything to do with what I said about Carly.”
“I guess it does,” Ezra says.
“You’re better than this. You are not going to throw away your best shot at playing in the NHL because I told you to date a girl.” And there it is.
“My shot at playing in the NHL has nothing to do with you.” Ezra feels like he’s spitting the words out, painful, like tacks.
“Like hell it doesn’t,” his dad snaps. “I’ve coached you since you were able to balance on skates. And who the hell do you think has been paying for your fucking expensive goalie equipment and fancy coaches.”
“Spending money on me doesn’t make you any less bigoted,” Ezra says softly, in the suddenly ringing silence, shocked at himself, even as he says it.
“I’m not some homophobe and you need to stop throwing immature accusations around.” Ezra hates how patient his dad sounds, cooled a hundred degrees from his outburst. “I don’t care who you want to sleep with, but I do have a realistic perspective on how it’s going to affect your career. Which is something I thought you cared about.”
Ezra wonders if his dad really believes he’s stopped caring about his career or if he’s saying that just to be cruel. He hates that either possibility hurts. “So you’re fine with me being bisexual. In theory at least. Except, you don’t want anyone to know about it.” Ezra can barely hear himself over the car’s air conditioning. “I don’t really see what the difference is. It sounds a lot like that hate the sin, love the sinner bullshit you said only religious idiots believed.”
“This isn’t about whether or not I love you. You’re my son – of course I love you.” Ezra can feel his eyes watering. “This is about what’s going to happen to you in the League, how the players and coaches are going to treat you, how the commentators are going to talk about you, whether you get remembered for being a great goaltender or if your only legacy is that you were the first gay guy in the League.”
Ezra doesn’t have the energy to remind his dad that he’s bisexual, not gay. “Maybe I don’t mind if that’s my legacy. You’ve never bothered to ask.”
“Is that what you want?” his dad asks incredulously.
“I don’t know, but I don’t see why I can’t be remembered for my goaltending and for coming out. Someone has to do it first.” Ezra wouldn’t mind being remembered as the first out player, but he definitely does not want to be the first out player. Honestly, he’s not sure he would survive all the scrutiny and his dad probably knows that. Still, he never has bothered to ask.
“That’s incredibly stupid,” his dad says.
If Ezra tries to answer, he’s going to start crying outright. Luckily, they’re only a few blocks from the house and his dad seems to be done talking.
Ezra practically jumps out of the car the second his dad parks and grabs his bag out of the trunk. He goes straight to his room, drops his bag by the door, kicks off his shoes, before letting himself fall onto his bed face first.
Later, he’ll toss his practice gear in the washing machine, but that can wait until he doesn’t need to scream into a pillow. Even sweaty jerseys don’t start to reek that fast. And after that, he’ll book a new flight back to Hartford. It’ll probably be expensive, but what’s the point of making a professional athlete’s salary if you don’t spend it when you need to. His dad will be furious that he’s skipping out on their last practice sessions, but maybe the point of being an adult is not letting your parents make you miserable.
Saturday, September 21, 2019
Ezra is tossing a few last odds and ends – spare phone charger, spare sunglasses, third luckiest shirt – into his suitcase when he notices André leaning against the doorframe.
“All packed?” Ezra asks, grimacing at the ring of unpacked detritus circling his current spot on the floor. It’s not even a quarter of the stuff he’s going to have to pack up if he stays in New York, once he finds a place to live there.
“Yeah.” André pauses. “We should drive your Prius up tomorrow.”
“Okay, sure.” Ezra shrugs. “Is something wrong with Greta?” They usually take André’s SUV to training camp because so few of the guys bring cars to camp that it makes sense to have space to carpool.
“Greta’s fine,” André says, rolling his eyes at Ezra’s name for his car. “But it’ll be easier if you don’t have to come back for your car in a month.”
“Oh,” Ezra says. He temporarily forgot to worry about their likely team assignments this year, in an organization that recently traded their backup goalie, but doesn’t lack offensive depth. They haven’t discussed it yet. It felt like too much to bring up over the phone, and in the two days since André got here, well, they’ve been talking a lot about Ezra’s parents and one depressing topic is plenty enough.
“Hey, come on, it’s fine,” André says when Ezra freezes up. “Are you freaking out about this because you’re actually freaked out or because you’re worried about me freaking out?”
“I’m not freaking out,” Ezra says, and André raises an eyebrow. “A bit of both, I guess,” he concedes.
“Well, you don’t need to worry about me.” André crosses the room to sit on Ezra’s bed.
“It’s just…” Ezra doesn’t know how to finish that thought.
“I’m more than alright with another year here,” André assures him. “I mean, of course I’d rather be playing in the big leagues, but who wouldn’t? That’s a part of life when you play on a farm team.”
Ezra winces, but André continues, “Seriously though, I’m not jealous. We’re going to have a great year here in Hartford. Yaks called me a few days ago and said the coaches are thinking about giving me an A this year.”
“That’s awesome!” Ezra says, sitting back on his heels to look up at André. “You’ll make a great alternate captain.”
“Yeah?” André smiles tentatively. “It’s not final yet.”
“They’d be crazy not to give you the A,” Ezra replies. “You’re basically doing the job already. Come on, you’ve been talking me out of my own head for the last two days.”
“That’s because we’re friends, not because of anything captainish,” André says. “You’d do the same for me.”
Ezra would. And he knows André came back to their apartment a few days early instead of making a half-day stop before driving to New York because they’re friends. And he doesn’t imagine André would let any of their teammates fall asleep in his bed after a long conversation, but – “You’re good at it.”
Ezra cuts André off before he can protest. ”No, don’t argue. You know you’re better at this kind of stuff than I am. And you do it with everyone. Not like changing your flights or anything, but how many times did you stay after practice with the rookies last year? Or when the defense was falling apart and we were on that losing streak, I’m pretty sure you got lunch or drinks with basically all of the d-men. Or at least talked to them.”
André’s cheeks are flushed the slightest bit pink. “That’s because they asked me.”
“There’s a reason they asked you,” Ezra says, smiling. “You’re really patient and understanding and the whole team trusts you. You’re going to be the best alternate captain.” Ezra sits down next to André and wraps an arm around his shoulders.
“Thanks.” André’s cheeks are definitely pink now. “You’re going to be a great NHL goalie.”
Ezra lets himself sag against André’s side. “Hopefully.”
“You know you’re staying up this year,” André says. “Seriously, who else would be the backup?”
“Yeah, I know. But what if,” Ezra pauses and André squeezes an arm around his waist, waits him out. ‘What if I get up there and I’m not any good?”
“Remember the Calder playoffs?” André asks.
“Yeah,” Ezra replies.
“How many shutouts did you get?”
“Four,” Ezra says, and André practically beams at him. “That wasn’t the NHL, though.”
André’s expression shifts to something thoughtful. “Okay, here’s how I see it,” he says. “You were probably the best goalie in the AHL last season and you’ve already played a few games with the Rangers, so you’re at least as ready as anyone else who’s moving up this season.”
Ezra nods against André’s shoulder.
“Besides, you’re going to be backing Lavoie up,” André says.” You’re not going to have the pressure of starting, and it’s Lavoie. He’s going to make sure you have a good season.”
Ezra nods again because André’s right. Lavoie had been enthusiastically supportive when Ezra was up with the Rangers last season, more than he had expected from a franchise goaltender. And maybe he should have expected that, because everyone who played with Lavoie seemed to think the world of him, both as a goalie, and as a teammate.
“And absolute worst case scenario, which, by the way, is not going to happen, you end up back here with us for one more season, and you break into the NHL next year,” André says.
“Hey, that wouldn’t be the worst,” Ezra says, elbowing André in the side. “You guys are the best.”
“You know what I mean,” André says, tickling Ezra’s ribs in retaliation.
Ezra grabs André’s wrist, then freezes. “Oh god, I’m going to be backing Philippe Lavoie up. Like probably full time.”
André looks alarmed for a moment before he starts laughing. “I don’t remember,” he chokes out. “Was he your first crush or your second?”
“Second,” Ezra says through gritted teeth, and it’s his turn to flush.
“This is great,” André says. “Come on, I’d be over the moon if I got to play with Stacy Martin. You’re not still into him, are you?”
“Ew, no,” Ezra says. “And he’s married, anyways.”
“Open marriages and threesomes exist,” André says.
Ezra scowls at him.
“I’m not saying you should go for it, just stating some facts,” André says, then sobers. “Is it going to make things awkward for you?”
“Not awkward really,” Ezra decides. “It’s embarrassing, though.”
“Why? You’re hardly the first person to have a crush on Lavoie,” André says. “I doubt you’re even the only guy on the team who’s ever had a crush on him.”
“Well, when you put it like that, he is pretty irresistible, isn’t he?” Ezra asks, waggling his eyebrows.
“Personally, I’ve never seen his eyebrows do that, so you’re still my favorite goalie,” André says, laughing again.
Ezra brushes his teeth and does a final check of his luggage before crawling into bed, when he notices André hovering in his doorway again.
“Come here,” Ezra says, scooting over to the far edge of the bed and patting the space beside him.
“You don’t mind?”
“When have I ever minded? Come over here.”
André slides under the comforter that Ezra is holding up. “I’m really happy for you, but I’m going to miss you like hell,” he says.
“I’m going to miss you so much, too,” Ezra says, spooning up behind him.
Sunday, September 22, 2019
Gabriel mentally growls when someone knocks on his door. He’s comfortable where he is, stretched out on the bed, half dozing as he screws around on his phone. Even as his views on five star hotel rooms have become distinctly more tepid, he’s remained a fan of their beds.
He considers ignoring whoever it is, pretending like he’s napping, which has the advantage of being sort of true. He’s not quite sure how things work on the Rangers, though, and while he can’t imagine why the team leadership would be at the hotel housing the prospects and trades, ignoring them would make a lousy first impression. He rolls to the edge of the bed and stands up.
When he opens the door, of course it’s not one of the vets. It’s a wide-eyed kid wearing way too much hair gel who looks all of sixteen. Gabriel vaguely recognizes him from the two days he spent watching the draft. He thinks the Rangers picked him up in the second or third round, but he doesn’t remember his name.
“Hi,” the kid says. “Are you Gabriel Cartwright?”
“Yeah,” Gabriel says.
“I’m Casey Auston. I’m so excited to be playing with you. I’m from Evanston, so I’ve been to a few Hawks games and you and Ilya were some of my favorite players and I’m sorry you got traded because trades always suck, but I’m really glad I get to play with you.” Casey stops and visibly takes a breath. “Sorry. I told myself I’d be cool, but this is kind of like meeting a celebrity.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Casey. You should tell Ilya you’re a fan. He’ll appreciate hearing it.” Gabriel figures he can redirect the fanboying.
“He will?” Casey asks, and Gabriel nods. “I’ll definitely tell him. Also, a bunch of us are going out for dinner – do you want to join us?”
Gabriel wonders if Casey always talks in such a rush, or if he really is starstruck over Gabriel. It should probably be flattering, but he feels annoyed by the unsolicited, and frankly undeserved fawning. And he is not in the mood for dinner with his new teammates, especially not a gaggle of excited teenagers. “I was going to do room service tonight,” he says.
Casey looks ready to beg, and really, the best thing Gabriel can do is spare them both the embarrassment. “And I promised my sister I’d Skype with her, but maybe some other time.”
“No worries,” Casey says, smiling again. “I’ll see you at camp tomorrow.”
Gabriel nods and lets the door swing closed.
He sighs, slumping against the door frame, letting his shoulders sag, then tipping his head back to look at the water stain on the otherwise pristine ceiling. The stain looks like a bird of prey if he stares long enough and he thinks he should feel less ambivalent towards it than he does. He mentally calculates the time in California, before remembering it’s a Sunday and Amber doesn’t keep much of a schedule on weekends. He pulls up Skype because he may have talked to her last weekend, but she’s his twin and there have been times since they left home when they’ve talked every day. They’ve always talked to each other when they’re too pissy to talk to anyone else.
Amber lets him talk about his flight and his last week of training for a few minutes before she asks what he thinks of his new team.
“They’re fine,” he says. “I haven’t really met anyone yet.”
“You are going to give them a chance, right?” she asks. “Please don’t preemptively hate them because the Hawks were assholes.”
“I don’t hate anyone,” he replies. “I just haven’t had a chance to talk to them.”
“Alright,” she holds her hands up, “but you do have to work with these guys, and work is a lot better if you like your coworkers. You should at least try being friends with them. Maybe you’ll even be able to trust some of them eventually.” Amber knows all about the difference between working with friends and working with misogynistic assholes, but he doesn’t think her experience really applies here.
“They’re still professional athletes,” he reasons. “The homophobia’s part of the culture, so I’m not going to be able to trust them.”
Amber looks like she wants to say something, but Gabriel continues, “I’ll be more careful this time, and I’m sure I’ll be able to hang out with the team. I can have fun playing hockey without being best friends with everyone. Who knows, I’ll probably enjoy it more, given how the whole friend thing worked out last time.”
Amber smiles, and it’s a small, sad thing. Gabriel feels guilty for worrying her, but they’ve always been honest with each other about how they’re doing. He doesn’t want to dwell on how unenthused he is about his new team, so he summons up an answering smile, hopes it looks less fragile than Amber’s, and asks about her work.
Nearly an hour has passed and Amber is in the middle of recounting a successful test drive she took in an autonomous car, when someone else knocks on the door. He would be tempted again to ignore the knock if it wasn’t obvious Amber had heard it too.
“I should get that,” he says reluctantly. She rolls her eyes and he answers the door.
He recognizes one of the guys in the hallway as the goalie who’s probably going to be their backup this year. Ezra Pateras, Gabriel thinks. He looks even ganglier in person than he does on game tape. The other guy doesn’t look familiar and Gabriel assumes he’s an AHL vet.
“Hi, I’m André and this is Ezra,” the second guy says. “Gabriel, right?”
“That’s me.” Gabriel nods.
“A few of us are going out for drinks,” Ezra says.
“There’s a sports bar a few blocks from here,” André adds. “It’s pretty low-key and it’ll be quiet since it’s Sunday.”
“Do you want to come?” Ezra asks.
Gabriel does not. He’ll have to get to know his new teammates at camp, and told Amber he’d give them a chance to prove they’re better than his old teammates, but he doesn’t have to do it on his own time. “Sorry,” he gestures to the laptop sitting open on the desk. “I’m talking to my sister. Maybe some other time.”
“Oh, sorry to interrupt,” André says.
“Sorry,” Ezra says loudly, waving at the laptop with a sheepish grin. “What’s your sister’s name?” he asks Gabriel.
“Amber,” Gabriel says.
“Sorry, Amber,” Ezra calls across the room.
“It’s alright,” Amber yells back from the laptop screen. “It’s nice to meet Gabriel’s new team.”
“It’s nice to meet you too,” André says. “Both of you. And we’ll let you get back to your call.”
“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Gabriel says, pulling the door shut after Ezra and André head back down the hall.
“You could have gone out with them,” Amber chides. “I wouldn’t mind.” She doesn’t say that he should have gone, but he knows she’s thinking it.
“I know,” he says. “I’m tired, though. And camp starts tomorrow.”
“Sleepy tired?” she asks. “Should I let you get some rest?”
He doesn’t think he could sleep yet, and he’d rather not be alone with his thoughts. “Not yet,” he says. “Do you want to tell me about the rest of the test drive?”
“Of course.”