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“Sequins,” Sam says.
“Sequins?” Eric echoes, trying not to sound dismayed.
“Sequins,” Scot confirms.
They’re discussing Scot’s figure skating competition coming up in a month. It’s going to be his first one, and he’s excited but definitely nervous. He’s been taking lessons at the rink he used to play hockey in for almost seven months now.
According to his coach, being competition ready at this point is ahead of schedule. Eric can’t believe it. Seven months of just practice? He never would’ve made it through hockey if he had to go seven months without a game.
But Scot already knew some of the twirls and jumps and whatever else. He’s spent the last two months honing in on his routine. Eric was excited to be done with this music until Scot’s coach, Anastasia, mentioned competition season. To Eric’s horror, it turns out Scot does the same routine with the same music for months.
And now they’re telling him Scot’s going to be wearing sequins.
Realistically, Eric should’ve known this. He’s seen figure skaters around the rink his whole life. He’s seen them at the Olympics. He’s flipped past their competitions on TV to get to hockey games. But seeing other figure skaters in tights and sequins is different than seeing Scot in tights and sequins.
Not that he isn’t used to Scot in sequins. Well, that thought puts things in perspective. Eric’s getting worked up over sequins for no reason. Scot would wear sequins every day if he had enough shirts covered in them.
“Okay,” Eric says. “Sequins.”
Scot looks relieved and Sam looks happy, so Eric passed that test. That’s how a lot of life has felt since they decided Scot was staying. A test of how well Eric can stop being an asshole and embrace Scot as he is. He’s been doing an okay job, if he does say so himself. It helps that he really does love Scot as he is.
Eric thought he didn’t want to be a dad right up until it looked like his dad days were coming to a screeching halt. Looking at Scot, distressed and disappointed over how little Billy cared about him, Eric couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t let Scot live like that. He couldn’t let Scot get carted off to a new country with only Billy to keep him safe and happy.
So now that’s his job. Keeping Scot safe and happy. The safe part’s not very hard; Scot’s kind of a nerd. His best friend’s the damn safety captain, for God’s sake. But keeping Scot happy means giving him his makeup, not hiding when he twirls in public, and handling sequins.
Scot doesn’t really notice or care much about this part, but Eric’s also not hiding from Sam in public. That’s making Sam happy. And Eric. He likes walking down the street with his arm around Sam. He likes Sam reaching over to brush a hand through Eric’s hair when they’re getting a beer. He likes people seeing them together, even if he does brace for impact every time.
Two weeks before the competition, Scot and his teammates are doing a dry run for their families. Eric drops Scot off at the rink bright and early for a short practice and then heads home to Sam. They’ll come back for the competition part.
Sam’s cleaning up the remnants of Scot’s competition day breakfast, which was French toast, orange juice, jam that for some reason he called compote, and sausage links. In Eric’s opinion, it was a bit heavy before the kid’s going to go skate around all morning, but Scot was not asking for criticism.
“Hope he doesn’t puke all this back up,” Eric says.
Sam shrugs. “Part of the dry run, I guess,” he points out. “Better he does it now and knows to go easy the day of the actual competition.”
“Huh,” Eric says. “I guess this dry run thing is a good idea.”
“It’s almost like a skating coach knows what she’s doing,” Sam says, shooting Eric a teasing smirk. Eric distracts him from the sticky plates for five whole minutes before his need to clean takes over again. That’s a record when they’re standing in the same room as the mess.
They get back to the rink early, because Eric keeps thinking about being a kid, looking into the bleachers during intermission and seeing nobody out there cheering for him. Joan came when she could, but she had her own life. Eric doesn't blame her for that, but he always got a lump in his throat when he realized he was alone. He learned to stop looking after a while. He can’t let that happen to Scot. He’s not going to miss a second of Scot’s competitions, even the dry run.
They’re not the first parents there, though they’re far from the last. Eric recognizes some of the other parents from his turn at picking up Scot from the rink. It looks like the parents that beat them are the moms doing their daughters’ hair.
“Hey, Scot’s dads are here!” Trisha, Lindsey’s mom, calls out when Sam and Eric get closer. Eric holds back a wince. It’s so loud.
“Oh,” Sam says under his breath.
“Ha,” Eric crows triumphantly. “You got uncomfortable before me this time.”
“Did I get uncomfortable before you or did I just say it before you?” Sam asks.
“It doesn’t matter, Sam,” Eric says regally, ignoring Sam’s point because he’s right. “I win.”
“Okay,” Sam says condescendingly. “You win.”
Scot’s already sequined up and skating slow laps to stay warm. He looks up and Sam and Eric both wave until he spots them. Eric wishes he could bottle the feeling of watching the recognition and smile cross Scot’s face once he sees them. That’s worth all the sequins in the world.
They have to sit through a lot of routines before it’s Scot’s turn. He seems to be going last. During one routine, the little six-year-old girl runs into the boards, bounces off, and keeps going. “They should switch her to hockey,” Eric whispers to Sam.
After she falls on her next jump, Sam whispers back, “Yeah, maybe so.” Eric swallows a laugh and elbows him.
Finally, it’s Scot’s turn, and it becomes clear why his coach put him last. Scot’s the best one here by far. Eric can’t help but smirk when he realizes that. He sits up straighter, smugger than he has any right to be. Julie taught him to skate. Eric may have helped him a little, but their three months of hockey doesn’t translate to this.
He’s still smug, though.
“Big jump coming up,” Jimmy’s mom murmurs behind them.
“Come on, Scot!” Elsie yells out.
Sam jumps. “This is a yelling thing?”
“Guess so,” Eric says. He obligingly yells, “Here we go, Scot!”
Scot lands the jump, whatever it’s called, cleanly and everybody cheers. He finishes the routine with a flourishing bow that makes Eric snort. It certainly shows his personality. He bows again, demurely this time in reaction to the cheers.
“Scot, that was great!” Sam praises on the way home.
“Thanks,” Scot says. He has glittery eyeshadow smeared across half his face. “But some of my swizzles were sloppy.”
Eric doesn’t know what the hell a swizzle is. “Hey, you’ll get there.”
Since Julie taught Scot herself and wasn’t a trained coach, he learned some bad habits that are proving hard to break. Not bad enough to stop him from getting in the air, but apparently he can lose points from the judges. Eric can’t stand subjective points like that. A goal is a goal whether it was ugly or not.
Scot just sighs and looks out the window. When they get home, he gets in the shower right away. Eric thinks it might take more than one scrub to wash off all that glitter. It’s too bad he doesn’t know anything about skating or he could work with Scot to help him.
That idle thought stops Eric in his tracks. When Scot was playing hockey, Eric practiced with him at home. He could support Scot that way. But now with figure skating he can’t help. Except the thing is, he hasn’t even tried.
Eric loves hockey. He’s lived and breathed hockey his entire life. He learned by doing, but he did learn, because he loved it. He didn’t know broadcasting, but when Greg offered him the job, Eric studied up. And he’s ashamed to be hit by the realization that if Scot liked some other sport, basketball or baseball or, hell, racquetball, Eric would do the same thing. He’d watch film. He’d ask around. He’d learn.
“Sam,” Eric says, walking into their bedroom with a sinking stomach. “Sam, I haven’t been supportive.”
“Huh?” Sam asks, one arm in and one arm out of his shirt. Eric starts pulling the shirt off to be helpful and Sam snorts and says, “No, Eric, on.”
“Oh,” Eric says. It was a natural inclination to take Sam’s shirt off. Eric shakes his head. He can’t get off track here. “I haven’t been supportive of Scot.”
“What are you talking about?” Sam asks, surprised. He turns around, brow furrowed. “Eric, you’ve been doing so much better.”
“Doing better isn’t doing good,” Eric protests. “I haven’t learned anything about figure skating.”
Sam raises his eyebrows. Immediately, Eric can tell Sam agrees with him. He knew Eric could’ve been doing more but wasn’t pushing him. He didn’t bring it up because he probably knew Eric would get defensive. “Well—” Sam starts.
“I haven’t, Sam!” Eric cuts him off. “Here I was patting myself on the back for being okay with the sequins but I was still—I wasn’t—because if it was racquetball, I’d learn racquetball.”
Sam stares at him for a second. He blinks. “Oh,” he says, nodding. “You’re saying if Scot played a sport you saw as more manly you’d have been learning the rules to help him get better, but since you’re still afraid of sequins and spins, you didn’t learn about figure skating.”
“God, I need you to follow me around and translate everything I say,” Eric says. “But seriously. I don’t know what a...what a sizzler is—”
“Swizzle,” Sam corrects.
“—or the loops or whatever,” Eric says. He puts his hands on his hips. “How do you know it?”
“I read Scot’s skill checklist from his coach and looked up the moves,” Sam says. “I still wouldn’t say I know any of them,” he quibbles. “And I can’t tell if he’s doing them right or not unless he falls. I just know the terms. Mostly.” He shrugs. “I’m good at terminology, Eric.”
“I’m not,” Eric despairs. “I’m not good at—this is all precision, and—and gracefulness or whatever. This isn’t my wheelhouse.”
“Okay,” Sam says. He shrugs again. “So what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m going to learn,” Eric says right away.
That’s what Scot deserves. He went too long thinking they didn’t care about him, thinking he had no one left in his corner. Eric has to prove him wrong there. It’s more than just handing him his makeup and calling it a day. He has to show up.
Sam smiles at him and pulls him in for a kiss. “That’s what I thought,” he says approvingly. He squeezes the back of Eric’s neck lightly. “You’re very supportive, Eric.”
“I’m trying, Sam,” Eric says.
“I know,” Sam says. “Do you want to see the website I looked at?”
Scot spends the afternoon running around with his friends. Sam spends the afternoon reading a book and steam-cleaning the couch, because apparently that’s a thing that a person can do. Eric spends the afternoon reading about figure skating.
Eric slumps over his desk on Monday, head swimming with figure skating words he can’t define. He knows an axel’s a jump but he doesn’t know what kind. He sighs and closes the internet window he was using to read some more.
He doesn’t learn by reading things. He learned to play hockey by playing hockey. He studied broadcasting, but he didn’t actually learn until he started doing it. He’s never going to learn about figure skating like this. But what’s he going to do, take lessons? Do they teach lessons to grown men?
Movement past his window makes him look up. It’s Monica, one of the other sports anchors. Specifically, the figure skating anchor. The retired figure skater.
Eric sits up, a plan coming together. He whistles on his way to Greg’s office. This is going to be great. He can learn without looking like a creep, and he’ll get paid while he does it. Win-win all around. He knocks on Greg’s cracked door and waits for Greg to invite him in.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey, Eric, what’s up?” Greg asks, leaning back in his chair.
“We’re looking for new segments, right?” Eric asks. “I mean, hockey season hasn’t actually started yet.”
Greg tips his head and shrugs. “Yeah, I wouldn’t say no.”
“Well, see, I was thinking,” Eric starts.
“Dying to hear where this goes,” Greg says, raising his eyebrows.
“What if I did a little skating lesson thing with a figure skater?” Eric asks. “Wouldn’t that be funny? You think people would like that?”
Greg blinks at him a few times. “You would want to do that?”
“Sure!” Eric says, wincing at how shrill his voice sounds. He clears his throat and continues in a normal tone. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I think it’d be—and, um, Monica? She does the figure skating commentating and she was on the national team, right?”
“Right,” Greg confirms. He squints at Eric and Eric tries not to look guilty. Is this something to feel guilty over? He’s technically taking advantage of his job for personal reasons. Is that wrong? “You know, Eric, this actually sounds like a great idea,” Greg says. Eric lets out a whoosh of a breath, unsure if he’s feeling relieved or more apprehensive. “People love seeing hockey players trying to do spins and jumps.”
“Right,” Eric says. The whole point of this is to be on camera. And let people see him. While he spins and twirls. He swallows hard. Somehow he didn’t think of that, the central point of his job.
Greg either hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care that Eric’s having a small panic attack. “I’ll talk to Monica and set it up,” he says. “Great idea, man.”
“Thanks,” Eric manages to say, throat dry. He’s jumping into the deep end of supporting Scot, apparently. Going from letting Scot twirl right into some twirls of his own. Oh, God. He has to go sit at his desk with his head down for a few minutes until he’s not in danger of hyperventilating.
It’s fine. He’s already a good skater, so he’s not going to look too stupid. The twirling and the dancing part...well, like Greg said, people love watching dumb, oafish hockey players trying that. He might not be good at it, but that’s fine.
He’s worried it won’t be fine. He’s worried people will say things. Things about Eric being Erica, things about him being better suited to figure skating than hockey, things about how everyone always knew. They’re going to put him in tights and Eric will never be able to step foot in a hockey dressing room again.
No, he scolds himself. He’s spinning out, to use a figure skating term. Or something. He’s definitely heard Scot say that. He thinks. God, now he’s freaking out about not paying enough attention to Scot. He needs to focus on one shortcoming at a time.
No, he scolds himself again. Not listening to Scot when he talks, fine, that’s a shortcoming. People calling him Erica? No. Or at least the reason for people calling him Erica. It’s not a shortcoming. It’s the reason he has Sam. And Scot.
That thought loosens the knot in his throat enough that he can breathe again. Hockey players already call him Erica. This isn’t going to make things any worse. And it’ll show Scot Eric doesn’t think figure skating makes him a sissy.
Eric nods decisively to himself. Panic attack over. He’s back on track.
By the end of the day, Greg must have sorted it out with Monica and had Nula schedule it, because she comes bursting into Eric’s office, already laughing. Eric rolls his eyes and shoots a rubber band at her before she can say anything. But he’s a gentleman, so he aims it over her left shoulder.
“Friday the 25th,” Nula says, not even flinching at the rubber band sailing past her ear. “Your day is booked at the rink.”
Eric knows exactly what day that is. More accurately, what weekend. “That’s the day before Scot’s competition.”
“Perfect timing,” Nula says. She snorts. “Figure skating with Monica. Oh, God, I am so going to be there to watch.”
“It’ll be fine,” Eric says breezily. “I already know how to skate.” He pauses, because that’s true but not entirely correct. “In hockey skates. But it’s fine. Ice is ice, skating is skating. I’ll pick it up fast.”
“Can you film yourself when you tell Sam?” Nula requests.
“Goodbye, Nula,” Eric says. He doesn’t take a briefcase home during the off-season because he has no tape to review, and it’s too hot outside to wear a coat, so he can’t grab anything to make a dramatic exit. He has to settle for marching past her, but that’s fine, too. He’s sure her laughter is unrelated.
Scot’s at practice when Eric gets home. Sam gets home an hour later and they start making dinner. In another hour, Eric will go get Scot. He rides the bus from school to the rink, but one of them always picks him up after practice.
Eric remembers heaving his bag onto the bus with tired, shaky legs, stomach grumbling and muscles aching through the whole ride home. There’s no reason they can’t drive Scot home and keep him from feeling that.
“I pitched something to Greg and he liked it,” Eric tells Sam, shooting for nonchalant. It’s only a big deal if he makes it one, right? He’s cool. It’s all fine.
“Really?” Sam asks. “Wow, that’s great. What is it?”
“I’m doing a segment with Monica—she’s one of our analysts for figure skating—and she’s going to teach me,” Eric says. “Figure skating. That’s what she’s teaching me.”
“Why?” Sam asks.
“Because she used to be on the national team,” Eric says. “I guess we could ask one of the current skaters, but I’m sure they’re busy with their training and—”
“No, Eric, I mean why are you doing this?” Sam asks. The knowing look on his face tells Eric he knows why. “Is this about Scot?”
Eric doesn’t know why this feels embarrassing, but he can’t meet Sam’s eyes. He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
Sam reaches over and runs his fingers through Eric’s hair. “I think it’s great,” he says softly. “I’m glad you want to show him you care.”
“I can’t read things and get it, Sam,” Eric mumbles. “I’m not smart enough.”
“Yes, you are,” Sam says. “But it’s fine if you learn by doing. A lot of people do.” He kisses Eric and laughs lightly. “This is really going to show Scot your support.”
“That’s the plan,” Eric says. “He can’t think I think figure skating’s for sissies if I do it, too.”
Sam gives Eric a squeeze. “I don’t think he thinks that.” His eyes go shrewd. “Unless you’re trying to convince yourself.”
“Sam...” Eric sighs and looks away. He hadn’t articulated the thought to himself, but he can’t deny it now that Sam’s voiced it. Part of Eric still thinks figure skating is embarrassing and...well, gay. Maybe if he forces himself to do it, he’ll stop thinking that, and then he’ll be as supportive as Scot deserves.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Sam says. Eric looks back at him, surprised, and he huffs. “I mean, as long as you don’t tell Scot. And you’re working on it, anyway.”
“I think, um...” Eric swallows hard. “Sam, I think I—see, with hockey—I just think how I—I might have some, you know, wrong ideas about...uh, okay, everything.” Eric doesn’t know how to phrase it, but he thinks growing up playing hockey might’ve taught him bad ways of looking at the world.
Sam laughs out loud. “You think?” But he leans in and kisses Eric again to ease the sting. “You’re learning.”
“I told Scot we’re all sissies in this house,” Eric says. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way, but...”
“It was a lovely sentiment at the time,” Sam assures him, not quite teasing him. “But I’m glad you’re working on the sissy thing.”
Eric squeezes Sam’s hips. “We could work on the sissy thing right now if we hurry.”
Sam gives him a look. “Now you’re calling me a sissy?”
“Never,” Eric promises. “Even if you did scream like a little girl that time those seagulls—”
“You were screaming too!” Sam cuts him off. He pushes Eric gently toward the stairs and says, “Alright, enough talking out of you. I obviously have to teach you a lesson.”
As far as punishment for saying stupid things goes, this isn’t great. If Eric were one of those dogs in an experiment, he’d learn to say stupid stuff on purpose to get more of this. But he’s not a dog. He’s a man with a brain, most of the time, and he knows Sam will give him more of this when he says smart stuff. And Eric wanted to stop saying stupid things, anyway. Sucks to be a dog, but Eric’s got it made.
“So, Scot, did Eric tell you the big news?” Sam asks while they eat dinner. Eric didn’t tell Scot in the car for fear of some kind of ear-splitting scream Scot does sometimes when he’s excited.
“I didn’t hear any news,” Scot says.
“Yeah, I’m doing a figure skating segment at work,” Eric says.
“Oh, cool,” Scot says. He doesn’t sound all that interested.
“He’s learning to skate,” Sam supplies.
Now Scot looks up from his plate. “Huh?”
“I’m going to try learning to skate,” Eric says. “Figure skate. I’m going to do it on the 25th. So I guess I might be a little banged up for your competition on Saturday.”
Scot’s looking suspiciously between Sam and Eric, like he’s waiting for them to start laughing and tell him this is a big joke. Eric understands why he doesn’t think it’s serious, though he’s not sure why he and Sam would say this as a joke.
“You’re going to figure skate?” Scot asks dubiously.
“Yeah,” Eric says. “Don’t you think that’ll be cool?”
Scot shrugs and nods. “I guess so. Maybe you’ll love figure skating and try a new career.”
Sam laughs so hard he almost chokes on his wine. Eric rolls his eyes, but he’s laughing, too. He’s sure there’s no danger of that happening. If nothing else, no one pursues a new figure skating career on this side of 18.
In the next few weeks, Eric makes sure to show up a bit early to pick Scot up from practice when it’s his turn. He hopes seeing a lesson in progress will teach him a few things. So far, it’s really only teaching him the other parents’ names and how many Russian composers there are.
He and Scot are both worrying over figure skating now. At least Scot doesn’t have to be on film. Well, he’ll be on film because they’re obviously going to record him skating at the competition, but he won’t have to show anyone that film if he doesn’t want to. Eric’s foray into figure skating is going to be broadcast across the country.
He tries not to think about that too much as he heads into the rink with Nula, Monica, and the camera guys. Greg would’ve come, but he had some quarterly meeting with the station owner he couldn’t miss. They do some pleasantries, because Eric and Monica only know each other in passing, and get their mics taken care of.
“Here you go,” Monica says, holding out some padded pants to Eric once they get the cameras rolling. “This is what beginners always wear.”
Eric huffs uncomfortably. “No, I don’t need those,” he says.
Monica raises her eyebrows. “You probably want them. Everybody falls, and the ice is hard.”
“Monica, I’ve been skating almost as long as I’ve been walking,” Eric says, hoping he doesn’t sound condescending. “I was a pro hockey player.”
“Okay,” Monica says, apparently not minding that she sounds condescending. “Have it your way.”
Eric needs to remember this is being broadcast. He can’t look like an asshole. He smiles at her and says, “Well, what else do I need to get ready?”
Monica holds up a tube and Eric’s heart sinks. He knows exactly what that is, thanks to Scot. “Glitter is a really important part of skating,” Monica says, mock serious.
“Glitter?” Eric echoes, working to keep his distress out of his voice. Eric is not a glitter man.
“Yep,” Monica confirms with a wicked smile. "Glitter."
She’s laughing at Eric, expecting him to say no. But, he reminds himself again, people all over are going to see this, and there’s no way in hell Eric’s going to be a jerk about glitter. He doesn’t want anyone to hear that, but he especially doesn’t want Scot to hear it. Scot is a glitter man. Besides, Eric already turned down the padded pants. Those would’ve hurt his ego more than the glitter.
So he takes a steadying breath and says, “Okay, then. Glitter me up.”
Monica looks surprised. Yeah, she thought Eric would have too much of an ego. No siree, no one can say Eric McNally is not game. He is so game. Always ready to tackle anything, that’s Eric. And no, of course he’s not afraid of the comments he’s going to get as an openly gay man getting sprinkled with glitter.
Semi-openly gay man? He’s not entirely sure where the line between openly gay and not openly gay is. He was open to some people as soon as he started dating Sam, but not everyone. So his closet door was...ajar?
He thinks he’s openly gay now. He doesn’t push Sam’s arm away when they walk down the street, he has a picture of Sam and Scot in his office, and they’re listed on Scot’s skating forms as partners. He hasn’t made any kind of public statement, but he’s not running in the opposite direction of Sam and Scot when they’re at the rink. Right now he’s living his life and waiting to see if hockey people notice. As for what he's going to do if or when any hockey people do notice, well, that's a fun thought to keep him awake at night.
There’s no reason to be scared of glitter, he tells himself firmly while Monica dumps a healthy sprinkling in his hair. He shakes like a dog and she shrieks with laughter as glitter flies everywhere. That was probably charming. It’ll be good for the audience.
“Okay,” Monica relents, still grinning. “I think you’re ready for the ice.”
“I’m ready,” Eric promises, relieved. “I love being on the ice.”
She glides onto the ice. Eric jumps on like he always does, ready to hit the ice running, essentially, and is confused when his skate catches on something and he instantly goes crashing to the ice. It’s been a long time since Eric’s fallen like this, completely splayed out without catching himself. He thinks the last time was in that practice when he broke his shoulder and ended his career.
Right. These are figure skates. That something he caught on would be the dreaded toe pick. “Oopsies,” Monica says, laughing at him while she skates literal circles around him. “Watch out for that toe pick, eh?”
Eric did not know Monica well before this. He thought figure skaters were demure and shy, but Monica’s chirping the hell out of him. As he reflects on this, he realizes he should’ve known better. After all, Scot’s a figure skater, and he never lets up on Eric.
Eric steadies himself and takes a few cautious strides, careful to keep his weight on the back of the skate. But that puts him in constant danger of losing his balance. “Jesus,” he breathes. He’s fighting hard not to faceplant on the ice. In his hockey skates, he can skate almost better than he can walk, but right now he feels like a four-year-old again, jerking and sliding all over and falling.
“Okay,” Monica says, watching him start to get his skates under him and take bigger strides. “We’re going to start with swizzles.”
“Oh, I know swizzles,” Eric says. “I mean, I’ve heard of them.”
Monica laughs. “It’s a start,” she says encouragingly.
Eric squints at her. “You teach little kids, don’t you?” Her voice is suspiciously sing-songy.
“Usually kindergartners,” she agrees cheerfully. She claps her hands together and makes her voice all high-pitched like people do for babies. “Ready, Eric?”
Eric huffs and rolls his eyes. “Alright, here we go.”
He only falls a few times. A few times a minute, maybe. Directly onto his ass, on ice that feels harder than he’s used to. Now he knows why she was condescending about the pants. He should’ve worn his hockey pants. But after an hour, he can turn in a way that approximates a spin. It’s not a spin, but someone who doesn’t know better could mistake it for one.
“Let’s take a break,” Monica suggests, voice normal. “You really are doing a great job.”
“Thanks,” Eric says. He’s panting and bruised. They drop the cameras for their break. Monica easily slips off to grab a water bottle. She hasn’t broken a sweat. Eric can’t say the same while he makes his way to the boards.
He takes a swig of water and wipes his brow. He knew figure skating was hard work. He picks Scot up from practice and helps him ice his ankles. But he can’t pretend he didn’t think he’d be better at it.
“Wow,” Nula says.
Eric holds up a hand, wincing at the pain in his elbow when he does. “Don’t,” he warns.
“All I said was wow,” Nula points out defensively. “I was simply commenting on your figure skating ability.” She snorts before adding, “Or lack thereof.”
“Why don’t you lace 'em up and join us?” Eric asks. That makes her laugh outright as she leaves him to go do whatever assistant thing she has to go do. Maybe she’s just getting away from him, because he’s afraid he smells. He didn’t think skating could make him stink without hockey gear.
The camera guys are milling around and Eric looks longingly at their hockey skates. To film real figure skating, camera guys wear figure skates, but apparently Eric’s halting swizzles don’t need that kind of precision.
“Hey, McNally, you trying to get with Monica or something?” one of the camera guys, Brett, asks in an undertone.
Eric fumbles the water bottle and almost does a spit-take. “Am I what?” he asks faintly after he successfully swallows.
“Is that why you’re doing this?” Brett asks. “I think she’s married, man.” He’s giving Eric a look that feels judgmental, like Eric’s some sleazeball going after a married woman who was in preschool for his rookie season.
“I...” Eric blinks a few times, stunned. He thought everyone knew about him. Nula told him everyone already knew. And here Brett’s accusing him of using skating as an in with a woman. Is this irony? He was never great in English class, but he thinks this is irony. “No, I’m—I’m not trying to get with Monica,” Eric says. “I...Brett, I’m...I’ve got my—well, Sam, you know.”
“Who’s Sam?” Brett asks. “Didn’t know you were married.”
“We’re not married,” Eric says on autopilot. He takes a deep breath and pushes out the words. “Brett, I’m gay.”
Brett stares at him. Eric stares back. There’s a point against Eric being openly gay, he figures. But he gives himself the point back because he said the actual word gay. That’s a real pat-on-the-back moment for him.
“Oh,” Brett says, eyes wide. “I didn’t—I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah,” Eric says, unsure how to respond. “Uh, I did know. But I didn’t tell anyone. But now I am. Telling people.”
“Okay,” Brett says. He glances down at Eric’s skates. There's glitter on the laces. “Is that why you’re—”
“Brett,” Eric cuts him off. He doesn’t have anything else to say. He just didn’t want Brett to finish the question. Eric can’t remember ever hearing Brett say anything awful, and he doesn’t want to change that.
Brett flushes. “Right. Yeah. I mean—well, you’re—okay. I didn’t—yeah.”
“Great talk,” Eric mutters.
Is this what it’s going to be like now? He tells people and they get uncomfortable and can’t have a conversation with him? He’s not going to stop telling people, not going back to the closet, not stuffing Sam and Scot back to the shadows, but he didn’t realize how many casual acquaintances would be awkward. He was prepared for hockey players not to like hearing it. He didn’t know his coworkers would be the same.
Brett goes back to the other camera guys. Great, now they’re probably talking about Eric. He takes another deep breath and tries to stay calm, tries to keep his hands from shaking. He doesn’t want that on camera when they go back out.
And he doesn’t want to feel like this. He doesn’t want every conversation to make him feel like he needs to run away. He shouldn’t be so afraid. He loves talking about Sam, actually, and now Scot, too. He’s supposed to be a tough guy, an enforcer, the great fighter everyone remembers him as, not a guy who gets jelly knees whenever he brings up his family to someone new.
He considers running to Nula with his tail between his legs, but he can’t do it. He can’t make himself talk about this right now. Not if he’s going to go back out to the ice and be on camera again. He needs to push it all down and focus.
Eric rolls out his neck while he goes back out to Monica on the ice, conscious of the cameras following him. He pastes on his press smile and says eagerly, “Okay, what’s next? Time to learn a waltz jump?”
Monica laughs, surprised. “Wow,” she says. “I’m impressed you know that.”
Eric’s heart swells a bit as he says, “My son’s a figure skater.” He’s not proud about knowing a figure skating term and getting praised for it. He’s proud that he gets to say my son. He’s proud that he gets to brag about Scot. He spent months saying he wasn’t a parent, didn’t want to be a dad, didn’t want Scot around, and now he’s glad anyone who watches this segment will hear him say my son.
“He is?” Monica asks. “Oh, wow, Eric I didn’t know that.”
Eric nods and pulls out his phone to show her a picture. “This is Scot. He’s a great skater. He already knew some jumps and twirls before he ever took lessons. You should see him move on the ice.” He brightens. “Hey, you can if you want! His first competition’s tomorrow.”
Monica laughs and Eric realizes it’s probably over the top to invite a coworker to Scot’s competition. “I’m glad you’re excited about it,” she says kindly.
Eric thumbs to another picture and his stomach drops while Monica leans in to look. This isn’t just Scot. This is Eric and Scot—and Sam. They’re all on the ice together, and Eric’s got a steadying arm wrapped around Sam’s waist. It would already be too intimate for two friends, but the way Sam’s holding onto Scot’s shoulder and smiling proudly at him belies his relationship to Scot, too.
This is very clearly a family picture. Eric loves this picture for that reason. But springing it on a coworker he hardly knows, directly on the heels of an awkward coming out to another coworker he hardly knows, is making Eric’s heart pick up.
“Um,” Eric says, glancing quickly at Monica. She looks at him, but she’s smiling. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t narrate the picture to the camera, so no one watching the broadcast will know. Eric lets out a breath, muscles relaxing. Okay. That’s okay.
Eric puts his phone away while Monica says, “Okay, are you ready to quit being lazy and get back to work?”
Eric’s so grateful for her he could cry. Figuratively, of course. “You got it, Coach.”
He only falls four times before he gets the waltz jump. He doesn’t know if that’s a lot of falls or not, but it feels like an accomplishment. His stinging tailbone doesn’t agree, but the rest of him does. That was the last part of their skating demonstration, and the end of Eric’s figure skating career.
Monica claps and cheers. “Eric!” she says. “You’ve learned so much in one afternoon!”
He can’t help it; he laughs giddily. “I really wanted to learn some more figure skating stuff for Scot,” he says. “Next time we go skating I can impress him.”
“Yeah, I think you will,” Monica says. “Honestly, you were a better student than I expected. No offense. I heard hockey player and thought you were going to act all tough and too cool for figure skating.”
“Who, me?” Eric says. “Oh, no, I’m—nope, not me. Coachable, that’s me. That’s what they call me, Coachable McNally.”
Monica snorts. “Okay. Well, thanks.”
“No, thank you,” Eric says sincerely. “Really, thanks a lot. You’re a great coach.”
She gives him a hug and they pose for some stills production can use for the website. Eric hobbles off the ice, bruised in more places than he can count at the moment. His legs are screaming at him in a different way from post-hockey soreness. Different muscles used in different ways.
Eric does not make the most dignified exit from the rink once he gets his shoes on, but that’s okay. “You need crutches?” Nula asks.
“I might,” Eric says.
Nula laughs at him. She looks surprised when Brett comes over, and she looks at Eric because she has to notice the way Eric goes tense. Brett looks between Nula and Eric.
“Hi,” Nula says, half-question.
“Uh...” Brett says.
“She knows,” Eric says, suddenly realizing what Brett’s reticence must be about. “She knows I’m—she’s known all along.” It’s Nula’s turn to look between Brett and Eric, confusion and apprehension on her face.
“Okay, right,” Brett says, embarrassed. “I’m sorry about earlier, man. I didn’t mean to be—I was just surprised. I mean, you’re a hockey player. I didn’t know hockey players could be...” He shrugs.
“Yeah,” Eric says. He thinks maybe he should be offended that Brett’s surprised a hockey player could be gay, but that would be hypocritical. Eric was pretty damn surprised about that himself when he realized what was going on with his dreams at night during puberty.
“Oh,” Nula says quietly.
“I don’t have a problem with it,” Brett assures him. “You don’t have to worry about me, okay?”
“Okay,” Eric says, surprised. Maybe his doom and gloom was premature. “Uh, thanks.” Should he be thanking Brett? That should be the default, so it shouldn’t warrant thanks. But it’s not the default, especially not in Eric’s world, and he’d rather have this fumbling, embarrassed show of support than the disdain he was expecting.
Brett goes back to packing up the equipment. Nula walks slowly beside Eric as he staggers out to the parking lot. “That was interesting,” Nula says.
“He didn’t know,” Eric says. “You said everyone knew about me. He didn’t know.”
“It’s an expression,” Nula says. “Sorry. Is this my bad?”
“No,” Eric admits. “It’s no one’s bad. I was...” He shrugs. “Brett thought I was hitting on Monica.”
Nula bursts out a laugh and slaps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she says again, still chortling. “Oh, God, that’s funny.”
“Well, I’m glad you had such a funny day,” Eric says dryly.
“Me, too!” she says, twinkling her fingers at him in a cheeky wave as she gets in her car.
Eric gets in his car, not sure how he’s going to get out when he gets home. He catches sight of his face in the rearview and lets out a surprised noise. There’s a bruise blooming on his cheek. He doesn’t remember hitting his face, but he was flopping all over the ice. It could’ve been his own hand hitting his face.
Eric gets home before Sam or Scot. He limps his way into the house and gets through the familiar ice and shower routine he knows from hockey. He has a blister on his left heel that’s going to make his own skates painful for about a week.
Scot’s practice is short today, a light day because of the competition tomorrow, so Sam’s going to pick him up on his way home from work. That means Eric needs to tackle dinner. Nothing too heavy that’s going to make Scot feel sick. Eric goes for lean protein and light seasoning in case Scot gets pre-game pukes. Eric did sometimes. Garlic is never fun the second time.
Sam and Scot get home and both pull up short at the sight of Eric. “Your face,” Sam says, holding onto Eric’s chin and examining the bruise.
“I actually don’t know how that happened,” Eric says. He cuts his eyes over to Scot, letting Sam keep his hands on Eric’s face. “You’ve never come home bruised up like this.”
“Nope, I haven’t,” Scot agrees. “Did you get in a fight? Wrong skating, Eric.”
Sam laughs and backs off. Eric rolls his eyes. “No, Scot, I did not get in a fight. Except with the toe pick.”
Scot laughs. “You didn’t follow my advice.”
“I tried,” Eric promises. “I’m going to leave figure skating to you from now on.”
Scot laughs again. “That’s probably best,” he says.
“I got a waltz jump by the end,” Eric says, not sure if he can brag about it. He wants to brag. It was hard, but he prevailed.
“Wow, great job,” Scot says. “That’s the building block for other jumps, you know. It’s really important to learn.”
Scot is absolutely not trying to be condescending. He’s a good kid, a nice kid, and he’s being supportive. But somehow, his praise is coming off condescending anyway. Maybe it’s the fact that Eric knows Scot’s been able to do a waltz jump since he was about six years old.
Instead of voicing any of this, he says, “Thanks, Scot. How about some dinner?”
Scot’s skate music is the soundtrack to their dinner and he spends most of the meal with his eyes closed. He’s visualizing, apparently. Eric can’t complain, because he’s been pushing visualization on Scot since his hockey days.
Sam gives Eric a dirty look at one point, because he also remembers Eric pushing visualization on Scot. But whatever. If this helps Scot feel ready for his competition tomorrow, they’ll deal with it.
They all call it an early night since they’re facing an early morning. “Try to sleep, okay, Scot?” Sam says. “Don’t think about tomorrow.”
It’s not advice Scot has much control over, but Sam knows that. He’s trying to be soothing. Eric squeezes Scot’s shoulder. “It’s going to be great, bud.”
Scot marches up the stairs to his bedroom grimly. Eric highly doubts he’s going to get much sleep. “Well,” Sam sighs after him.
Eric shrugs. “It’s his first competition,” he says. “He’ll get used to it.” He winces when he puts weight on his leg wrong and feels his sore muscles. Sam notices and raises his eyebrows while they get into their bedroom.
“So how’d it go today with the skating?” Sam asks. “Really.”
“I was not cut out for figure skating,” Eric groans. “Everything hurts.”
“Did you hurt your shoulder?” Sam asks worriedly.
“No, Sam, my shoulder’s fine.” Eric shakes his head sadly. “My ass is not.”
“Didn’t they give you those pants with the padding?” Sam’s very clearly fighting a smile. “Oh, I bet they offered and you wouldn’t wear them because you said you wouldn’t need them, huh?”
Eric clicks his tongue instead of admitting to that and Sam laughs out loud because he knows he’s right. “Sam,” Eric whines. “I’m really hurting here.”
“Okay, I’m sorry,” Sam says. He leans in and presses a featherlight kiss to Eric’s bruised cheek. “Was it fun?”
Eric thinks that over. “Yeah,” he decides. “But, oh, Sam, one of the camera guys, Brett, he’s been doing the camera for the show the whole time I’ve been doing it, and he thought I was doing this to try to get with Monica.”
“Get with her for what?” Sam asks, pulling down the comforter. Apparently the idea of Eric trying to impress a woman is so outlandish to him it doesn’t even cross his mind. He does a double take when he realizes what Eric’s saying. “Oh, God, what? He thought you wanted to date her?”
“I think he meant more like sleep with her,” Eric says.
“I sure hope Monica didn’t think that,” Sam mutters. He glances at Eric. “What’d you tell Brett?”
“I told him I wasn’t trying to get with Monica because I have Sam and I’m gay.”
Sam’s jaw drops. “No, you didn’t. You did? You said that?”
“I said that,” Eric confirms. “And I know Monica didn’t think that, because I showed her a picture of you and Scot.”
Sam’s eyes go wide. “Seriously?”
Eric nods, a little embarrassed. “I got excited telling her about Scot and his figure skating,” he admits. “And I showed her a picture and it was—we were all in it. You and me and Scot. At the rink. The cameras didn’t see, but Monica did.”
“Did she say anything?” Sam asks cautiously.
Eric shakes his head. “No, she was cool. And Brett got kind of weird at first, but then he, uh, he apologized to me. For being weird. And he said he doesn’t have a problem.”
Sam rounds the bed and kisses him. “And how do you feel about that?”
Eric takes stock of himself. He feels good about it. He’s not scared. He believes Brett that it won’t be a problem, and he saw Monica smile at the picture. “I’m happy,” Eric says softly. “I like showing you guys off.”
“Sounds like I need to take care of your bruised ass, huh?” Sam asks. His voice is teasing, but his eyes are so soft Eric’s throat gets tight.
“Are you going to kiss that better, too?” Eric asks, wrapping his arms around Sam.
Sam laughs and goes for Eric’s zipper. “Well, if that’s what you need.” He’s still smiling and brushes his hand through Eric’s hair. He pulls his hand away and frowns, wiping his hand on Eric’s sleeve. “Why is there glitter in your hair?”
Eric shakes his head and peels Sam’s shirt off. “No, Sam, no more questions.”
Sam snorts, but he obliges. He takes very good care of Eric indeed.
“Maybe competition isn’t for me,” Scot announces when they’re two blocks away from the rink. “Just keep driving. Maybe I should try hockey again.”
“I think the hockey ship has sailed, Scot,” Eric says ruefully.
“You’d rather have guys check you into the boards than go to your competition?” Sam asks.
Scot sighs. “No.”
“It’s okay to be nervous, Scot,” Sam assures him. “Everyone else is going to be nervous, too.”
“Yeah, I still got nervous before every game when I was playing,” Eric says.
“Really?” Scot asks.
“Of course,” Eric says. “It’s adrenaline. You need it, but it makes your legs all shaky.”
Scot nods and looks down at his legs. “Yeah, they’re shaky. My stomach hurts.”
“It’ll be okay when you get on the ice,” Eric says.
“And hey,” Sam says. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe competition isn’t for you. That’s okay, too. But you can’t say that until you’ve tried, right?”
Scot sighs again. “Yeah, you’re right.”
He seems better when they get to the rink. He swallows hard before they part, his path down to the dressing room and benches and theirs up to the stands. Part of Eric wants to call it. Scot doesn’t want to do this, he’s too nervous, he’s not happy, all that. He’s had enough discomfort in his short life; he doesn’t need more.
But Eric knows that wouldn’t be doing Scot any favors. They can’t yank him away from anything hard without letting him find his own balance. He’s a tough kid, despite the sparkles. He can handle this. If he hates the competition and never wants to do it again, they’ll talk about it, but he has to try.
“Good luck,” Sam says encouragingly.
“You got this, Scot,” Eric adds.
“We’ll be right up there,” Sam adds. “If you get nervous, you can look up and find us.”
Eric’s embarrassed at how emotional that’s making him. His dad was obsessed with Eric making it to the NHL, but he hardly bothered to go to any of Eric’s games. He put all the pressure on Eric but never gave him any support. They’re not doing that to Scot.
“We’ll be watching,” Eric agrees.
“Okay,” Scot says. Does he sound relieved? Eric can’t tell if he actually does or if Eric just hopes he does. But Scot waves and goes down to the dressing room.
“Hey,” Sam murmurs, squeezing Eric’s elbow. “He’ll be fine.”
“Yeah,” Eric says. His legs are still sore from skating yesterday, but he refuses to lean on Sam to get up the bleachers. There may come a day when he can’t get up the rink bleachers on his own, but today is not that day.
“Hi guys,” Trisha says. She’s sort of the unofficial team parent, since she’s on daughter number three on this team. Eric doesn’t know if other parents turned to her or if she made herself that role, but she handles a lot of the scheduling and planning.
“Hi, Trisha,” Eric says. “Is Anastasia already here?”
“Yeah, she’s checking the kids in down by the dressing room,” Trisha says. “How’s Scot?”
“Nervous,” Sam says.
“Yeah, they all get like that the first time,” Trisha says. She blows out a frustrated breath as she spots Lindsey on the ice. “How is her braid crooked?” She doesn’t seem to need an answer, which is good because Eric can’t tell there’s anything wrong with the braid in question, and she grabs a spray bottle and a comb before she rushes down the steps.
“Sheesh,” Eric says.
“Glad Scot does his own hair,” Sam agrees.
It’s a long day. No one in this competition has to do two routines, since they’re not at that level yet, but there are a lot of kids here. Eric’s back is killing him. He and Sam take turns getting up for bathroom breaks so Scot never has to look up and see them both gone.
And Scot does look up. He looks up during warmups, and Sam and Eric wave at him. He looks up while he’s sitting on the bench waiting, and Sam and Eric wave at him. Eric doesn’t want to miss a single time Scot looks up. He needs reassurance and comfort, and they’re giving it him.
Mildred, Nula, George Jr., Joan, and Hank show up later in the afternoon. Joan and Hank even brought Joey, Carla, and Ryan with them. They knew Scot wouldn’t be skating until later, so there was no reason for everyone else to sit through the whole day. Eric would wish he didn’t have to sit through the whole day if not for the support aspect.
“Who’d you lose a fight with?” Joan asks, raising her eyebrows at Eric’s face.
“The ice,” he says. “Fell down while I was trying to figure skate.”
“You were figure skating?” Ryan asks.
“It was for work,” Eric says defensively. But then he decides that’s not the answer he wants to go with. “And, hey, nothing wrong with figure skating, Ryan. Takes a lot of hard work.”
Ryan opens his mouth but glances around and shuts it. Even he knows better than to say something stupid when the whole crowd of people is against him. Eric’s glad. It proves he does have a brain in there behind all that anger and rudeness.
“How’s Scot feeling?” Nula asks.
“He’s nervous,” Sam says.
“Did you tell him you used to puke before games?” Joan asks.
“Ew,” Hank says.
“Did you say puke?” Carla asks.
“No, no, you’re fine,” Sam says quickly.
“Scot!” Joey bellows. “Scot, up here!” Eric plugs the ear closest to Joey. But his yelling worked; Scot looks up and waves at everyone, smiling.
“Oh, look how adorable he looks,” Mildred says. “This seems much more his style than hockey.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Ryan mutters. Eric gives him a look and he rolls his eyes.
“Isn’t it hard to get into a sport where the judging is so subjective?” George Jr. asks. “I’ve heard there’s a lot of corruption with judges.”
“They’re under 13,” Sam says dryly. “I don’t think the judges care that much.”
Finally, it’s Scot’s turn to skate, and suddenly the bottom drops out of Eric’s stomach as he watches Scot take the ice. “I’m going to puke now,” Eric whispers.
He’s more nervous to sit here and watch than he’s been for any hockey game he’s ever played. He had no idea it would feel like this. His own pre-game jitters are one thing. But he has no control over what happens right now. He has to sit here and watch Scot and all he can do is hope for the best.
“He’ll be fine,” Sam says, but he’s clutching Eric’s arm so tightly Eric thinks he’s going to have bruises later. Not like he’ll be able to see them amidst all his skating bruises.
“Go, Scot!” Joan yells.
“You’re the best, Scot!” Joey adds. Nula’s filming, since Sam and Eric weren’t sure they’d stay quiet. Luckily, she and the camera are at the other end of the row from Joey.
Just before Scot takes his position to wait for his music, he looks up. Eric’s heart is in his throat. They all wave and cheer for him. “Alright, Scot, here we go!” Eric calls while Sam whistles. Eric can see Scot take a deep breath and settle in.
It’s the longest two and a half minutes of Eric’s life. He’s still not a judge. He can’t really tell if Scot over-rotated his jumps or under-rotated his spins. He’ll work on learning more, he vows. He’ll watch more tape. He’ll grill Monica. He’ll leave work early and watch Scot’s practices. But Scot looks good to Eric. He’s graceful. He’s smiling while he skates. That has to be a good sign.
And both Sam and Eric know when the big jump is coming in Scot’s routine. They take a breath together and hold it, squeezing each other’s arms. Scot stumbles a little on his landing but doesn’t fall. Eric hisses.
“No,” Sam groans. “Oh, no, he’s going to be so disappointed.”
“He didn’t fall,” Eric points out. “It’s okay, Sam, he didn’t fall. That’s a big jump.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Joan murmurs.
“I think it still looked good,” Mildred says.
The stumble costs Scot. He finishes the competition in fourth place. No medal. “Fourth place is still good,” Sam says. “Especially for his first competition.”
“Fourth place might be worse than anything lower,” Eric says. “He was so close.”
They make their way out of the bleachers to find Scot. Everyone else is going to wait for them in the parking lot to escape the madhouse of the rink. Sam’s got the flowers they bought for Scot. Other skaters have flowers, too, and Eric knows Scot would’ve liked them even if he was the only one. Scot’s got his skates off and his street clothes on when they find him, his bag on his shoulder.
“Hey, Scot,” Eric says.
“You did great,” Sam says.
“I didn’t win,” Scot says, downcast. “I didn’t medal at all. I’m sorry.”
“Scot, you have nothing to be sorry for,” Sam says.
They both look at Eric and his heart sinks. God, Scot’s apologizing to him. He thinks Eric’s going to be mad that he didn’t win. He thinks Eric’s such a win-at-all-costs maniac that he’s going to lecture Scot, act like not making the podium means he’s a failure. Eric’s chest aches, remembering the way his dad scoffed disgustedly when Eric came home from a game without scoring.
“Scot,” Eric says, voice coming out wispy because he’s so mad at himself for ever making Scot believe this. He thought he did okay during hockey, after the whole fiasco with Joey, but he must not have done as well as he thought. He clears his throat. “Scot,” he says, stronger. “Did you do your best?” Scot nods. “Did you have a good time?” Scot nods again. “Are you proud of what you did?”
“Yeah,” Scot says, a slow smile starting on his face.
Eric nods. “Okay,” he says. “Then that’s all we need, right? You’re not always going to win. But as long as you had a good time and you’re proud of yourself, that’s what counts. I’m—I’m proud of you, Scot.”
Scot ducks his head shyly. “Thanks.”
Sam’s smiling, too, a smile that means Eric did something very right and Sam’s proud of him. That’s never a bad thing. “Oh, and, uh, were you a good—I mean, you weren’t a sore loser, right?” Eric asks. He can’t imagine Scot being nasty to any of the other skaters, but it seems like a responsible thing to ask.
“Of course not,” Scot says, offended.
“Yeah, we know,” Sam says. He takes Scot’s bag from him and hands him the flowers.
“What do we think, ice cream with everyone before we go home?” Eric asks. “Your adoring fans are waiting for you in the parking lot.”
“Definitely ice cream,” Sam says. “That okay with you, Scot?” He’s laughing as he says it, because it’ll be a cold day in hell before Scot turns down ice cream.
“I think I’m proud of myself enough for ice cream,” Scot says, nodding seriously and making Sam and Eric laugh again. Eric slings one arm around Sam and one around Scot, and he doesn’t look around once to see who’s watching.
“Eric, hurry up!” Sam calls. “It’s starting soon.”
“How about you guys watch it and I stay in here?” Eric suggests from the kitchen.
“Don’t be a chicken, Eric!” Scot hollers.
Eric scoffs and rolls his eyes, but he can’t fight it. He simply cannot abide being called a chicken. That’s probably something he should fix before he turns 40. He sighs and grabs the bowl of popcorn before leaving the safety of a room with no TV.
His figure skating segment is airing. Right now, potentially millions of people are sitting down to watch him make a complete fool of himself.
Probably not millions. Their ratings are never that good outside of NHL playoffs. But still. A lot of people are going to watch this. Joan wanted to come over and watch with them, but Sam was kind enough to make up a reason she couldn’t. Eric gets to maintain a shred of dignity for a little while longer.
Eric watches the whole thing through his fingers, slumped into Sam’s side. “This is humiliating,” he mumbles, watching himself trip over the toe pick for what feels like the hundredth time.
“No wonder you were so bruised up,” Sam says.
“Thank you for your support, Samuel.”
The editors left in the part where Eric showed Monica the picture of Scot. Eric can feel himself blushing as his onscreen counterpart says my son. He hasn’t called Scot his son in front of Scot. What if Scot doesn’t like it?
Eric chances a peek over at Scot on the other couch. He’s smiling, at least. He looks over at Eric and his smile grows. Eric doesn’t fight the answering grin that takes over his face. Scot doesn’t seem to mind. Sam leans into Eric, smiling too, and Eric’s glad he did something right, no matter what else happens.
Sam cheers when Eric lands his waltz jump, so Eric internally retracts his sarcasm over Sam’s support. Unfortunately, the editing team undercuts Eric’s big triumph by closing it out with a blooper reel of sorts, a non-stop run of Eric falling.
“Ah, come on,” Eric says disappointedly. They could’ve let him go out on a high note. Though he can’t deny it’s funny.
“Wow,” Scot says as it cuts back to the studio. “Good thing you stuck to hockey.”
Sam’s cracking up. Eric huffs. “Well, thanks for that.”
“Eric?” Scot says. “Are you embarrassed?”
Eric swallows hard. Sam stops laughing and squeezes Eric’s knee. “No, Scot, I’m not embarrassed," Eric says. “I mean, I'm kind of embarrassed because I wasn’t good at it,” he amends with an eyeroll. “But I wasn’t embarrassed to try it out.”
“You wore glitter,” Scot says. He giggles. “It was all over you.”
“Yeah, it’s still on him,” Sam complains good-naturedly. Eric doesn’t think that’s true. There is still glitter in the house, but there has been for almost a year now thanks to Scot. Eric is telling himself any glitter he’s still seeing is Scot’s.
“It’s hard work,” Eric says. “It takes a lot of toughness.” He thinks for a second about how this is coming across. “And it’s fun,” he adds.
That’s important too. If he hadn’t had fun playing hockey as a kid, he wouldn’t have kept going. No one can go far without a real love of the sport. And Scot doesn’t need to become an elite figure skater, anyway. It’s enough if it’s just fun, just something he enjoys.
Eric still has some growing to do with his mindset. But he’s trying.
“Hey, Eric,” Greg says at work on Monday. “We got the numbers back. The response to that skating segment has been crazy.”
“Crazy good?” Eric checks. Crazy can mean a lot of things. Greg didn’t specify.
“No, crazy bad,” Greg says flatly.
“What?” Eric yelps.
“Eric,” Nula sighs. “It’s a joke.”
“Oh, right,” Eric says. Forgive him for being concerned about his work. He might’ve thought twice about this job if he knew there’d be so much supposed comedy involved at his expense.
“How do you feel about bobsled?” Greg asks. “People really liked your attitude. We could make this a series.”
“Oh, boy,” Eric says. “Um, I think this is one of those things where I’m supposed to check with Sam first.” He’s blushing while he says it, but he does say it. Figure skating is one thing, but he has a feeling Sam’s going to have an opinion about Eric hurtling down an ice slide in a little toy car.
Or maybe Eric’s hoping Sam will have an opinion that will get him out of it.
Nula snorts. “Sam’s going to ask if he can be there when you do it.”
She may have a point, but Eric still thinks it’s best if he talks to Sam first. That’s a thing couples are supposed to do, and he doesn’t have to lie about why he needs time to make his decision. He can come right out and say it’s something he has to discuss with Sam. Maybe he’s going overboard telling everyone that’s what he’s doing because of the novelty.
Scot’s not home when Eric gets home, but Sam is. “You’re home early,” Eric says, surprised.
“Our whole building lost power,” Sam says. “Technically I’m working from home.”
Eric laughs, because Sam’s in sweats and a T-shirt and has his feet up and a book open in his lap. “Very hard at work,” Eric teases, dropping onto the couch beside Sam. He’s happy to see Sam set his book aside right away. Eric likes being more interesting than whatever book Sam’s chosen.
“You know, I saw some of the comments on your figure skating segment,” Sam says. “If you wanted to try women, you seem to have gotten yourself quite the following.”
Eric huffs and rolls his eyes. He pulls Sam in. “Hmm, I guess I should’ve made a statement that I’m taken.”
Sam’s grinning at him. “Actually, I think that would’ve made them want you more. A lot of the comments are gushing over how sweet you were talking about your son and his figure skating.” Sam leans in and kisses him slowly. “They love that you’re so supportive. And secure in your masculinity.”
Eric groans and laughs at the irony there, hiding his face in Sam’s shoulder. “Sam, I’m trying.”
Sam’s still smiling, but he’s not laughing. “I told you,” he reminds Eric softly. “You’re doing a great job.” He kisses Eric again. “The internet women aren’t the only ones who want you more.”
“Oh, is that so?” Eric breathes, kissing Sam back with a gusto.
“Mm, seeing all those women wanting to throw themselves at you makes me kind of self-satisfied,” Sam admits. “Because you’re all mine.”
Eric laughs again, giddy at those words even six years into this. “All yours, Sam,” he promises, letting his hands wander. So many clothes between them. What a tragedy.
“I’m glad you’re learning more about figure skating,” Sam says. “I always love when you’re learning new things. You get so focused.”
“Really?” Eric asks. He tips his head. “I never thought about it.” He would’ve tried learning new things more if he’d known Sam thought it was sexy.
“I like watching you read,” Sam says. It’s possible he’s being pointed, but Eric’s going to ignore it.
“I’ve been learning some legal words, too, Sam,” Eric says.
Sam snorts. “You have, huh?”
“Yeah,” Eric says. “I need to be supportive of you, too.”
Sam’s giving him one of those big grins that means he’s being charming. Score. “So what have you learned?”
“I learned assumption of risk,” Eric says. “And I learned release of liability.”
Sam’s laughing so hard he’s leaning on Eric. “Oh, boy.”
“And I have another contract for you to look at,” Eric says. “I mean, if you want to. If you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind,” Sam promises, holding onto Eric. Eric thinks Sam should be the one on TV, with that megawatt smile. Though he doesn’t smile that big all the time. It’s Eric’s turn to feel very self-satisfied, because he’s the one who gets to see that big smile on Sam’s face.
“It’s about me learning bobsled,” Eric says. “Bobsled? Bobsleigh? Are they different things?” He shrugs. “Guess I’ll find out.”
“Ah, that’s where you learned assumption of risk and release of liability,” Sam says.
“I told them I had to ask you,” Eric says. “Because it’s so dangerous, you know.” He gives Sam a pleading look. “Please say no.”
Sam’s laughing again. “Eric, if you want to chicken out, don’t use me as an excuse.”
“I could die, Sam!” Eric says indignantly. “And you won’t get to sue them because we’ll sign the contract.”
Sam rubs his arms comfortingly. “Don’t worry, I’ll still sue them,” he promises. “I’ll find a reason and get a really big payout. You won’t die in vain.”
Eric shakes his head, laughing with him. “As long as you and Scot get to take a nice vacation.”
“We’ll take a picture of you with us,” Sam says. He squeezes Eric tighter and says wonderingly, “Did you really tell them you had to ask me?”
Eric doesn’t have to question why Sam would be incredulous about that. A year ago, Eric wouldn’t let Sam come to his office at all. The only person at work who knew Sam existed was Nula. Eric saying he not only mentioned Sam but did so in a blatantly relationship kind of way is one of the most surprising things he could tell Sam.
Eric nods, cheeks heating up. “Yeah, I did,” he says, feeling almost shy over it. “I figured if I’m going to risk my life here, I better make sure everyone knows about you first.”
Sam nudges his nose along Eric’s, smiling too big for a real kiss. “Well, now I might not want you to assume the risk.”
“Assume some risk with you,” Eric says nonsensically, pushing Sam back against the couch. Sam goes willingly, laughing, and they take advantage of the few hours they have before Scot needs a ride home. This, Eric thinks, is all he needs. Sam in his arms, Scot on his way home, no hiding, everything as it should be. Bruises and all.