3. Paul

I wasn't quitesure what to say when I nervously glanced up from my phone to see Dee, Laura, and a slip of a young man piling out of Dee's Mercedes.

To be honest, I may have stared openly for several long minutes as they crossed the lobby of the hotel. Dee's eyes were on me as they neared, my mind spinning madly to gain traction in the mire now filling my skull. This could not possibly be the escort Dee hired. This man was…well, brash and loud in appearance, not at all the GQ model in designer clothes I was expecting. Yes, he was cute in a club boy sort of way, tiny and thin, with big hazel eyes lined with green liner. Not my usual type, but he surely would turn heads in any gay dance hall. His dog was wearing a matching sarong of yellow and green with a tiny hat tied to its head. The dog was wearing people clothes and looked to be rather pleased with itself.

I was sorely confused. Had they missed my date's plane somehow and found this extravagant man in the airport bar and brought him back with them? For some reason, that wasn't clear to me at the moment.

"Are you Paul?" the pink-haired man asked as he rushed at me, tiny flip-flops flapping, one brightly manicured hand holding a yellow hat and the other clasping a little dog with tan curly fur. "You are! I hope you don't mind that I looked you up online. I bet tons of people Google you all the time. Go hockey! I'm Roth and this is Amadeus. This lobby is amazing! Is this real marble? Did you know that marble is not what they make marbles from? Oh my gosh! Speaking of marbles, this old man with one sandal gave me a pink marble and told me it would bring me good luck because I needed it. I'd just been fired. Long story for a later time, but that marble was in my hand when I got the email from Elite! I know, right?! I have it in my purse. It's glass and very sparkly. Is that a fountain?!"

Off he ran, his lime green flip-flops slapping the floor, his sarong clinging to his lean hips, to inspect the fountain in the corner. I turned a gimlet eye to my PA who, it appeared, was not the least bit worried about this massive mix-up.

"His hair is pink," I managed to say as people moved through the expansive lobby, checking in and out or going to the lounge to listen to the piano player.

"Okay, before you start to freak out," Dee opened with, and I grimaced. That was not how I liked to hear her start a sentence. The last time that she had told me not to freak out, she had ordered me a fish tank and filled it with bright yellow tropical fish for companionship. I'd not wanted the fish or the tank, but there it sat in my living room, bubbling away, and yes, she had been right that pets helped us through hard times. And yes, I had grown to love the fish, naming all seven of them silly little names like Sunflower, Lemon, Goldenrod, Bumblebee…

"His hair is pink, and he's in a sarong. I'm not sure that really says understated professional man," I whispered as my sight flicked over to Roth, dipping his dog's toes into the fountain as he giggled merrily.

"Yes, and so? Are you getting shady about a man wearing whatever kind of clothing suits him, Mr. Queer Athlete of the Year?" She crossed her arms over her breasts, one eyebrow cocked, and waited for me to stumble through what seemed to be some really antiquated gender norms lodged in my frontal lobe.

"No, of course not. That man can sashay around in full drag and that would be fine with me," I replied as two players from western teams arrived with their two fashion model blonde wives. We nodded at each other as they struggled with luggage carts. "Do not look at me like that. It's not that I don't think his outfit is cute because it is, and the one on the dog is too, but the dog is wearing matching clothes. And his hair is pink. That's not exactly the type of companion I had envisioned."

"Maybe you need someone you hadn't envisioned in your life," she fired back just as Roth returned with his pooch.

"This place is amazing! That fountain was dedicated to a woman named Hesperilla. Doesn't that make you think of sarsaparilla? Do you think we could get snacks before we go to bed? Amadeus is feeling a little peckish. Oh, are those friends of yours, Paul? Right, they are! Okay, so do you want me to be an aloof date or a clingy date?"

I wasn't sure this firecracker in a sarong in a matching bralette with a color-coordinated fuzzy pup could be aloof if his life depended on it.

"Uhm," I stammered.

"Okay, clingy date. Got it!" He slithered into my side, slipping a thin arm around my waist as he leaned his cheek to my biceps. The top of his head barely reached my shoulder. "Hello there! Oh my goodness, look at your tans! Where do you girls go to get such color? I always just peel and burn. I'm Roth Morrison and I'm here with Paul. I know it's like a dream come true to be here with him for such an auspicious event. Go hockey!"

Roth held out a tiny hand to shake with the foursome eyeing him as if they had never seen such a sight. Probably they never had. Men in sarongs with a jazzy tropical bandeau toting panting pooches in coordinated dog-sized outfits weren't seen all that often in NHL arenas.

"Hey, Paul," Mike Rourke said as he gently released Roth's hand to pump mine. "Good to see you here. This is my wife, Mandy. You remember Steve York? This is his wife, Carmel."

"Sure, hard to forget a guy who drove you face first into the boards every night in a best of seven series," I said with a grin that was close to being disturbing.

Roth's pink head spun from the conversation with Mike and Steve's wives to gape at me. "They pushed your face into a board?! That's awful. What bullies! Did you get splinters?"

We all stared at Roth. Dee and Laura snickered behind their hands, rather astutely given my tight jaw, whisked Roth off to find snacks and get checked in. Floundering to save the moment, I asked my associates if they'd like to go get a drink. God knew I needed one.

They accepted, and I hustled them toward the lounge while my PA and her wife who, I had thought, was too level-headed to let Dee run amok like this—were going to get a stern talking to—fussed over Roth and Amadeus at the front desk.

We moved into the lounge, a pleasant place filled with ambient lighting, sectional couches in cool shades of blue, peach, and white, and a singer parked at the keys of a white piano. The bar was filled with quite a few hockey players, many nodding or lifting a cocktail to us as we made our way to an empty peach sofa to sprawl out. My eyes kept darting to the doors of the lounge, wondering what on earth had taken over the mind of my personal assistant. What the hell had she been thinking asking the matching service for such a person so vastly different from me? Dee knew my type. She knew I was happiest when I was conforming to what was expected of me from the world. Out queer athletes had to be above reproach when dating. Straight players tended to get a pass. Not just on dating, but in general. They didn't have to prove they were masculine enough to be in the league on the daily.

Maybe that's why you're so set on only going out with other jocks when, deep down, you really kind of dig effervescent little men with teensy hat-wearing dogs.

I snorted at myself. Everyone at the table glanced at me. "I just thought of a funny thing that recently happened," I lied like a rug.

"Did it involve your boyfriend?" Steve's wife, Mandy, asked as a server hustled over to take our drink orders. "I bet it did! He's just too adorable and so perky."

"I loved that sarong and top outfit of his. And it matched his dog's! I would die for a combo like that for me and my toy poodle Blanche," Carmel gushed, leaning forward to chat around her spouse with Mandy.

"He's not my boyfriend," I hurried to say. The women stopped talking about dog and owner outfits to gape at me as if I'd personally slighted them somehow. Maybe it was the quickness of my reply. "I mean, we're not quite up to that stage of our relationship just yet."

"Oh, sure, well, I understand," Mandy said with a placating smile that she directed at her husband. "You hockey players are always so slow to give up that wheeling chicks lifestyle."

"Paul doesn't wheel chicks," Steve corrected with a wink for me. I appreciated the help, I guess. "He wheels dudes. Which is totally cool. I mean, if you're with another dude, they're not going to sit there and talk about buying hats for a poodle, am I right?" The joke fell incredibly flat. Like a concrete-filled balloon. "Not that I don't think Blanche would look amazing in a hat and matching skimpy top like Roth was wearing. You'd look great in a skimpy top, honey. Better than Blanche!"

"You do need to stop talking now, darling," Mandy said with a smile that was not in the least friendly. Steve pressed his lips together and sat back to stare at the piano man. She turned her now pleasant gaze back to me as she thumbed some bright yellow hair from her face. "I'm sure the two of you will get there soon. The way he gazed up at you as if you were his special moon pie was everything!"

Carmel nodded vigorously and I, wisely I thought, did my best to steer any future conversations into safer waters. After one bourbon, I rose, excusing myself on the grounds of being tired, and made to leave.

"When you see Roth, ask him where he got that sweet little sarong outfit, will you?" Carmel and Mandy asked while I dug into my pocket for a twenty to cover my cocktail and part of the tip.

"Of course." I grinned at the ladies, shook the guys' hands, and then exited stage left.

With a purpose I made my way to the fifth floor, which was where our rooms were, and stalked past mine and the one that Roth was staying in. I rapped on Dee's door, even though it was well past midnight now. When the door cracked open, my PA was not pleased. Her hair was covered in a checkered sleeping cap and her face was coated with some sort of green, lumpy facial mask.

"We need to talk," I barked and cringed as my angry voice rolled down the corridor.

"Can we do this tomorrow morning? I'm getting ready for bed." She opened the door to show me her pink pajama outfit.

"No, we cannot do this in the morning," I replied with just as much aggravation but far less volume.

"Just let him in, Dee, so I can get some sleep," Laura called from behind Dee, the room dark aside from the light from the bathroom. Now I felt bad.

"Fine, come in," Dee huffed, holding the door open so I could enter. "Into the bathroom. Laura is trying to meditate before she goes to bed and you've already ruined her peaceful place."

"Sorry," I whispered and got a grunt from the darkened sleeping area. I slunk into the bath, most of my indignation sputtering out. "I didn't know she meditated before bed." Dee closed the door, then went to the sink and turned on the taps. She shot me a look over her shoulder. I cleared my throat. "I know this seems kind of bullish, but I need to know what the hell you were thinking!" She let me simmer in my juices while she washed off her mask and applied some sort of greasy looking cream to her soft, dark cheeks. The woman knew that my fury tended to be more of a flash as opposed to a raging inferno. Which was why I had won the Lady Byng trophy three times in my career. They didn't hand that out to hotheads. They gave that award to players who were considered great sportsmen and behaved in a gentlemanly manner. That was me. Paul Rocha, all around boring but nice guy.

"Okay, so what I was thinking was that you needed a kick in the ass," she finally said as she dabbed at the water on her chin. "And not in a beat-you-up way, but in a lifestyle way. You've spent the last twenty years playing it safe, hiding any trace of personality by being the perfect gay man in every situation and I get that, I really do, but you're not being true to you. You date men who are what you think the world wants to see you with. But that's not the kind of man that you really desire."

"And how would you know what I desire in men?" I asked, folding my arms over my chest.

"I've been your friend for two eons, Paul. I see what kind of men turn your head and it's not most of the jocks you force yourself to go out with. You're scared to date the men that you really like because of your father, for starters. Then there's this wild notion you have that as a queer man in sports, you have to dance to some stupid rules about keeping a distance from effeminate men in case they taint your macho image."

Ouch. That really hurt.

"Bullshit. That is not why I date other jocks. I prefer them for many reasons. They understand traveling is important, and they get that working out is a daily regime that keeps a body and mind sharp. They grasp the importance of eating well and getting enough sleep. And they know not to make a scene in public. Hockey players do not create splashes, especially gay ones who have worked incredibly hard to be minimally accepted by the fans."

"Uh-huh. Nowhere in that well-rehearsed reply was one word about being hot for the men you date." She lowered the creamy hand towel from her chin. "Which is why you're never truly happy with any of the men you've been with since the day you came out in college."

A stinging retort was right on the tip of my tongue when something my father had said to me the day that I'd come out to him flared up like acid reflux. Only this burning agony was in my soul and not my esophagus.

It's bad enough that you're gay, Paul, but I pray you're not one of those flouncy perfumed tulips that parade around in lipstick where the world can see them. At least try to be a little manly when you're in the public eye. And for all that is holy, do not let the press see you with a pansy boy. I love you, Son, but I cannot abide a flaming fag for a child or an in-law.

Good God that had been locked down tight. I'd not thought of that moment for ages. No, I'd not allowed myself to think about his words that day. I'd just been so grateful to have some of his miserly love still that I chiseled his demands into my heart. Always the obedient boy little Paul was. Dad always bragged about how well I listened to his orders and what a dutiful son I was.

I'd vowed then to never be anything but manly—whatever the hell that even meant—in everything that I did so that my father wouldn't be ashamed. Oh my God, what the hell had I done to myself all those years? What had I done to the men I dated? Had Marshall felt that disconnect? Oh Christ, what the fuck had I done to my life? Here I'd been thinking I was so brave by coming out, but I'd not really been courageous at all…

The impact of that memory was so powerful it winded me. My ass found the edge of the bathtub as I worked on trying to pull enough air into my lungs not to pass out. Dee hurried the few steps to me, dropping down to one knee to kneel on the wet bathmat still lying on the cool tile floor.

"Paul, honey, are you okay?" she softly asked, rubbing my shoulder as I blinked back a near lifetime of tears. "Paul, you look pale. Are you sick?"

"No," I croaked, jerking my head upward. "Yes, I am sick. I think…I need to think."

"I'm sorry for snapping at you," she whispered, her dark eyes dewy now.

I gave her a weak smile and then hugged her to me. She held me tight, the aroma of her soap and that green eucalyptus mask tickling my nose.

"No, don't be. You shook something loose. Something ugly that had burrowed into my soul like a grub. Now it's time to squash that nasty slug somehow." I wasn't sure that I could break down and cry here in her arms. Surely not. But I could reassure her I was fine, which I did. I took my leave to return to my room, shakily locked the door, and wept in private.

After the brief but exhausting crying spell, I blew my nose, grabbed a small bottle of white wine from the fridge in my suite, and went out to look down on the pool, glistening so temptingly a few floors down. No one was in the water as it was closed overnight. The sound of the beach could be heard if one listened closely. The air was sticky and humid. Closing the sliding door to keep the cool air in, I popped the cork on my wine and took a long pull. Yuck. I was not a big wine fan at all. Talk about sour grapes. I sat on a nicely padded wicker chair, legs out in front of me, shoes still on, and contemplated my life as I nursed that bottle of wine.

When the sun began to tint the sky a peachy pink, I'd come to several realizations.

One: Wine that sat on your tongue for longer than five minutes tasted even worse than fresh wine on your tongue.

Two: My father had belittled me way back then, and I'd taken it instead of firing back.

Three: I'd let Dad's dislike of me influence my behavior for years just so I could cling to the meager scraps of attention he handed out like peanuts to hungry park squirrels.

Four: I was done begging for peanuts. Dad may have won the previous hundred battles, but I was going to win the war. I was mixing metaphors, but we'd chalk that up to exhaustion. Reexamining your whole life was tiring.

Five: I was scared shitless.

Six: I did like the look of feminine men. A lot.

Seven: Roth was incredibly sexy.

Eight: I was scared shitless.

Yes, that was two realizations that were the same, but that fear was pretty large. Thankfully, the wine bottle and the night were not. A fresh day was here. One that was going to shine brightly on a new Paul Rocha. First thing on my agenda after a run was to ask Roth to breakfast. And then I would lead him proudly into the dining room—in front of all those big, straight hockey players—on my arm.

Maybe that was second. First thing I had to do was find some mouthwash…