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When James was sixteen, his brother came out.
It wasn’t a surprise, at least not to James or anyone else in their immediate family. His parents took it well, more vocally supportive than James had expected they would be. They took all of them to the pride parade downtown that summer. James wore a button saying ‘I <3 my gay brother’, and Ethan whined, the whole time, for James to take it off. But James needed the button. Otherwise he was was just there, at a pride parade, for no reason. And sure, he could explain, but what if someone recognized him, what if someone saw him there, without context, and assumed.
He wasn’t that famous, at that point, but he wasn’t far off it either, not in the Twin Cities, at least. Local scouts all knew his name. And not just the scouts, suddenly - once he was in the NTDP, things started moving quickly. Faster than James could keep up with, to be honest. That year, things started moving very quickly, and they haven’t stopped since.
Ethan still goes to that parade every summer, and Chelsea goes sometimes, with Ethan or with friends, but for James, that one time was enough. It wasn’t a place for him. All he felt, that entire day, was trapped. Trapped by the crowds, by the heat, by the noise — music and cheers and bass thudding through the ground beneath him and into his body and so many people touching, sweaty skin and baked asphalt and the sun beating down like a curse upon his head.
When he got home that day he stripped out of his sweaty clothing, and he crawled under the covers, and he didn’t leave bed until the next day. He told his parents that the heat must have gotten to him, and they believed him. They had no reason to think otherwise.
He still has that button somewhere, he thinks. Buried among the rest of the stuff he left behind, that his parents safeguard like one day they’ll be asked for it by the Hockey Hall of Fame. Like anyone would care about old report cards — all As, except for art, which should never have been a requirement, and Spanish, which he can’t remember a word of now, beyond the basics. Plastic trophies painted gold, growing larger and less cheap as the years went on, the tournaments got bigger. A North Stars jersey he’s long since grown out of, scribbled on with Sharpie. It was the first place he put his hockey signature. He was so sure he’d end up there one day, and that he could tell that story, ‘I already knew I was going to be a North Star, so it felt right’, a little embarrassed at his boldness, signing a jersey that wasn’t his, not yet, but mostly proud.
Now here he is in Hartford, and he wishes his parents would let him throw the damn thing out.
*
Chase hasn’t said anything to him in three days. Well, that’s not entirely true. Chase hasn’t said anything that isn’t directly hockey related for three days. ‘Pass back’, sure. ‘I’m open’, fine. ‘Sonny’, a nickname James has never liked, but he’ll take over Jamie any time, if it’s coming from Chase.
Still, James is wary. Some people just need to be told that they’re doing something wrong, or hurtful, and they never do it again — there’s no maliciousness in them, just simple ignorance, obliviousness. But James doesn’t think Chase is one of those people. He thinks Chase is the kind of person who, when told not to do something, decides to double down. And the fact he isn’t doing that right now, it doesn’t mean he won’t. All it means is that James has a reprieve. And he appreciates it, but he doesn’t let himself get used to it.
Their homestand ends, and James pulls his suitcase out from the closet, already packed. Preparing for road trips was the worst part of his job until he bought doubles of everything, kept all the things he needed packed and ready. Now it’s still the worst part of his job, but at least he doesn’t have to worry about forgetting a toothbrush, a charger, something small but essential.
He scans the packing list on his phone, does an inventory. Adds some healthy snacks, because sometimes it’s harder to find them than it should be, and it’s always best to avoid the temptation of the mini-bar or the vending machine late at night. James can only resist Pringles until the clock hits midnight, it feels like: after that he’s shuffling down the hall, self-restraint gone, wallet in hand.
He looks at the weather report for Pennsylvania, then Michigan, and packs a windbreaker. Sends a text to Finn making sure he and Logan have made arrangements with the dog walker. They haven’t forgotten yet, but James still thinks it’s best to check.
don’t worry about cheezit, Finn replies. pack a jacket it’s gunna be windy
I already did. James replies, and Finn sends him a smiley in return.
*
After Ethan came out, it was like James unlocked a set of magic words. All the jokes he hated, the the ones he could never bring himself to laugh at, not even to pretend to — all he had to say was ‘my brother’s gay’, and they’d stop. There might be a mumbled apology, or an awkward laugh, or a defensive ‘I was just joking’, but soon enough the jokes stopped, at least in front of him.
Eventually people would say it for him: watch it, James’ brother is gay. And then nobody said anything in front of him anymore. He knew they were still probably saying it when he wasn’t around, but he didn’t care, not really, as long as he didn’t have to hear it.
And no one called him too sensitive, no one asked why he even cared, no one assumed. His brother was gay, so of course he didn’t want to hear that shit. Of course they kept their mouths shut in front of him.
James doesn’t like to lie, but not everything has to be about the truth.
It’s been awhile since he’s needed to say it. When James was young, ‘that’s so gay’ was still the default insult, ‘no homo’ said after compliments the way you’d say ‘bless you’ if someone sneezed, the same knee-jerk superstitious nonsense. It’s different now. James doesn’t know if people have truly gotten that much better about it, that quickly, or if it’s just gotten so covert he doesn’t pick up on it. He supposes the result’s the same either way: he doesn’t have to hear it.
Or he didn’t until Chase came, twisted everything up around him. And now maybe it’s time to dust it off. James recites it like he used to, waiting for the next time Chase says something like that again. Because he will. The contrition, feigned or genuine, will be forgotten, and he won’t be able to help himself.
Chase will make another juvenile stick in ass joke, or another over the top come on, carefully deniable — a joke if responded to, but not if James calls him out on it. Schrödinger’s homophobia. And then James will say ‘my brother’s gay’, the same way he used to.
Chase will probably pretend he doesn’t know how Ethan being gay is relevant to the situation — that seems more likely than defensive or apologetic, though he can see awkward joking or laughter as well — and then maybe he’ll stop. Probably not, at least not right away, but all James has to do is repeat it, and eventually people will be saying it for him. That’s when even the most stubborn give up; some people don’t care if jokes hurt, might even consider that a bonus, but nobody likes telling jokes that don’t get a laugh.
James holds the words there, the roof of his mouth, thinks it to himself over and over, so that it’ll be ready for him no matter how flustered he is in the moment. He’s reminded of high school, though it wasn’t so bad there — everyone knew Ethan was gay, everyone knew Ethan was his brother. James didn’t really need to say anything about it. In the halls James and Ethan didn’t acknowledge one another, but everybody knew well enough not to mention it in front of James. It was after high school that was harder, when James couldn’t just leave things unsaid.
James feels better, having a plan. Not good, but better. He always does when he knows what to do. His mom used to joke that he couldn’t have playtime without an itinerary made for him first, start and end time, activity plan, scheduled breaks with a set menu.
He got lucky with hockey, he knows, with this. Sure, he’s in thirty cities a year, but in every city he drinks orange juice with breakfast, in every city he sleeps in a white sheeted bed, in every city he stands at center ice and bows his head and adjusts his countdown to the game based on how fast the anthem singer takes the notes. Canadian teams used to throw a wrench in the works with O Canada, but he’s got it pegged now too.
Sometimes he takes a ceremonial faceoff, wins it at home, loses it if they’re away, shakes a veteran’s hand, or a first responder, or a player who’s hit a milestone, or retired. Sometimes things drag out, James stuck on the bench watching another team’s moment. But eventually the puck drops and then he knows exactly what to do.
And after the game there’s the hotel, or a flight, or drinks then the hotel, or flight then hotel. It’s not always the same, but the options are limited, and he knows them in advance, barring the occasional storm changing their travel plans.
In every city there’s a Starbucks no more than a block or two from the hotel. In every city James can get the New York Times, hand Finn the sports section and go straight to the crossword — though he typically doesn’t bother now unless it’s the weekend edition, just does it on his phone. In every city Finn is a seat hog — he doesn’t try to be, he’s just too big to be anything else — and Laszlo finds a new bar for the Whalers to try, though they all blur into one another, novelty no longer novel, not with forty-one games on the road.
He hates preparing for road trips, the run up, but once he’s on the plane, his schedule in someone else’s hands, he’s fine. He even likes it sometimes.
Not right now, though. Not with Chase three rows behind him on the plane, two tables away at breakfast, across the hall from his hotel room. He still hasn’t said anything, who knows how long that’ll last.
He’s isn’t comfortable playing with Chase either, but Chase doesn’t talk to him on the bench, and he’s playing clean, at least compared to what he’s capable of, so right now it’s something James can endure. He doubts it’ll stay that way, but he isn’t helping matters for himself, anticipating when that’ll change, waiting for Chase to get bored of being well-behaved.
Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to be bored of it yet. They have a good game in Detroit, the kind James likes best — a game he has to stay completely dialled into, because the final score is going to come down to which team played the full sixty minutes. Sixty-five, tonight, then a shootout, where Ryan pulls out a move more suited for showing off after practice, a move that, in fact, James has seen him show off after practice with, and instead of making himself and the Whalers look like arrogant chumps, he wins the game with it.
Honestly, he didn’t really want to go out, but Ryan’s so proud of his spinorama — he’s lucky it worked out, or Coach would have reamed him out for showboating and he would have deserved it — and the enthusiasm seems to have spilled over to the team. James knows these sorts of nights are important for team chemistry, especially early in a season, when there are still new faces, cliques being formed or reshaped, rookies adjusting to the show. Finn doesn’t even have to tell him it’s a good idea to come out, just looks proud of him when he squeezes himself into the backseat of an Uber between him and Logan — he can’t breathe, sandwiched between two Schneiders, but it’s still less awkward than sitting up front with the driver.
“Buy me a drink, Cap?” Ryan asks cheerfully before James even sits down, looking proud of himself. James hopes he isn’t getting any ideas about doing it again.
“If you promise to never do it again,” James says. “Then sure.”
“Eh, goalies will expect it now,” Ryan says, and James decides to take that as agreement for his own peace of mind.
Chase is there, but he doesn’t drink with the others, stays at the bar, talking to some guy with a margarita bigger than his head. He cuts out early, which means James doesn’t have to, though he does have to listen to Ryan complaining about Chase promising him drinks all night if he pulled that move off. James is entirely unsurprised to find out that was Chase’s doing: honestly, he should have expected it in the first place.
“Quiet tonight,” Finn says, on the walk back to the hotel. Laszlo’s bar picks don’t have much in common with one another, but they always serve food, and they’re never more than a mile or two from the hotel, except in the cities where they get stranded out in the suburbs somewhere, and then he makes sure they’re a short cab ride at most.
“As opposed to every other night,” James says.
“You didn’t call Beanie a fucking idiot once,” Finn says. “I was impressed.”
“I will if he ever does it again,” James says, and Finn laughs, slings an arm around James’ shoulder, pulling him in for a moment before letting go.
“Quiet tonight,” Finn repeats. “No Chase.”
“No Chase,” James agrees.
“Do you want me to talk to him again?” Finn asks. “Or — Neener’s better at these kinds of things, I can—“
“It’s fine,” James says. “I have it under control.”
“You sure?” Finn asks.
“Not particularly,” James says. Finn laughs, wrapping an arm around James’ shoulder again, and this time he doesn’t let go until they reach the hotel. They walk in companionable silence, and the entire time, James rehearses the words so they’re there when he needs them, keeps them tucked under his tongue.