Chapter Fifteen

April-July

The closer they got to the end of the season, the less meaningful the games became. The Beacons had been mathematically eliminated from the playoffs in the end of March, which Ryan had been expecting. Despite his best efforts, the team just hadn't had it, and they'd been ravaged with injuries the second half of the year. The guys took it about as well as he could have hoped for, and they kept fighting even though technically, they had nothing to fight for except their pride in the logo on the sweater.

"Hey, Coach?" Williams said, after one of the losses. It had been a backbreaker: close enough to a win that it hurt just that much more.

"Yes, Willy?" Ryan said, backtracking just enough so that he wasn't yelling over his shoulder to talk. "What's up?"

"I just want you to know that next year is going to be better."

"Is it?"

"Yeah," Williams said. He had come out of the dressing room to tell Ryan this, and he was still half-undressed in his underlayer and shorts, face shining with sweat.

"You couldn't wait five minutes?" Ryan asked, amused.

"No, I wanted to tell you before I lost the thought. It's just like—we didn't play very well this year. But we're going to come in next year and I'm gonna make sure everyone is working hard. We can move on from 5 on 5 and concentrate on special teams. Losing, it just...it sucks so much, Coach. I fucking hate it so much. I know we'll probably have a top-five draft pick this year, and that's what the team needs, but next year... I just want you to know I'm going to be ready."

"Thanks, Willy," Ryan said, running a hand through his hair. "You know how much I appreciate your contributions to the team. I just want you to try to enjoy your summer a little bit, too, eh? Take a vacation? See your family? Hang out with your friends?"

"I've got the whole summer for that," Williams said, rolling his eyes. "This loss just...for some reason this one really bugs me. And it's not going to be like that next year."

"All right," Ryan agreed. "But, you know, I also want you to take a vacation."

"That an order, Coach?"

"Yes," Ryan said, and held out his fist for their handshake.

He stayed late that night to go over tape with the rest of his staff, although at this point it was a futile effort. It reminded him a little of his first days in Dallas with Murph, when the team had been a disaster waiting to happen every night, but the players had put in a ridiculous effort anyway. Murph had always hated to lose, and he and Ryan had been responsible for a number of rallying locker room speeches even when the older players had basically given up.

Ryan sighed. He wondered what Murph was doing. Whether he was okay.

"You good, Ryan?" Eric asked him, as they were finally ready to pack up for the night and head home.

"You go on without me," Ryan said, after a second. "I have a few things I want to take care of here first."

Eric's eyebrows went up, but he didn't argue. He hesitated and said, "All right. See you tomorrow, then."

They would meet up later, of course, but there was the need, even now, to be careful. By the time Ryan was alone, it was almost one in the morning and he was exhausted, but took the time to neaten up the papers scattered over his desk, wipe the whiteboard clean of his notes and diagrams. His mind was full of jumbled, scattered thoughts that didn't quite connect. Memories of his time in Dallas and memories he was building here. Crashing in Murph's hotel room after a night out with the team and waking up spooned up against Murph's broad back. Waking up in hotel rooms with Eric now. The look in Murph's eye when Ryan had scored the game-winning goal of the Cup-clinching game, the way they'd embraced afterward and it had felt like—

Before he could really think about it, Ryan pulled out his phone and called Murph. He wasn't sure whether Murph would actually pick up. Not only had they not spoken since the disastrous dinner in Back Bay, it was still pretty late. The phone rang a few times but just when Ryan was about to hastily end the call, Murph answered.

"Hey," Ryan said, uneasy.

"Sully."

Ryan listened to him breathing in silence for what had to have been at least a minute, trying to think of what to say. "I didn't really plan this one out very well, huh?"

"You never did," Murph said, and laughed. It was a little strained, but he didn't hang up, so that was a step forward.

"I was thinking about a lot of stuff today. About when we won the Cup the first time. When I hugged you after."

The noise Murph made sounded like someone had punched him in the gut, a sharp and sudden exhale. "Yeah, I...thought about that one a lot too, over the years."

Even now, knowing what he knew about himself, Ryan almost couldn't bring himself to ask. "Were you going to kiss me?"

Murph was silent again. "I was caught up in the moment, you know? It felt like the culmination of everything we'd been working for. And then you scored that beautiful fucking goal and won it for us, and it was just like a fairy tale, like everything was...but then I realized. Where we were. Who we were. I couldn't. It was already too late. And then I just tried to tell myself it was a trick of the light, of the moment. Because what was the point?"

Ryan rubbed his eyes with his hands. "I think... I probably felt the same way. I just never recognized it for what it was. We were both already married. I mean, shit, I got married when I was practically still a kid. I never even thought we could've been anything except—"

"I know," Murph said. He sighed, the noise especially loud in Ryan's ear. "Like I said. I don't blame you for the way things turned out. I didn't realize until it was too late, and then I buried that shit for years until Aronson ripped the Band-Aid off. The way it was back then, how would we even have...? You know?"

"Yeah," Ryan said. "I just...are things ever going to be the same again?"

"The same? I don't see how they can ever be the same . But I've been thinking about it, Sully, and I think that maybe that doesn't have to be a bad thing. You're one of the most important people in my life, and I don't want to lose you. Maybe it's going to be hard, and maybe it's going to be weird, and maybe it'll take time...but I don't want to lose what you are in my life."

Ryan could feel his shoulders adjust, a physical weight off of them. "Yes," he said.

"Maybe it won't be the same. I don't know how long it's going to take. But we can leave the door open?"

"I'd really like that."

"Look, Sully, it's late, and Tara's gonna kill me when I wake her up when I get back to bed. But just keep that in mind. I love you, man. And we're always going to be friends. No matter what. Even if it's weird. And also if Aronson does one damn thing to hurt you, I'll kill him."

"He would never," Ryan said, out loud this time, and knowing with bone-deep certainty that it was true. "And I love you too, brother. Don't be a stranger this time, eh?"

"Yeah, yeah. And you sound like you're still at the Spectrum. Overachieving little freak. Go home, Sully. Get some sleep."

"Yeah, yeah," Ryan echoed, but he was smiling when he hung up.

Eric opened his eyes in a nondescript hotel room in the last week of the season, and realized that Ryan was already awake. The alarm hadn't gone off yet, but it didn't matter. Ryan had probably been up for a while at this rate, thinking so furiously that Eric could almost feel it physically.

"Ry," Eric said.

"Yeah?"

"What's wrong?" Even Eric's voice sounded strange in his own ears, sleepy and content in a way that it almost never had before, especially on the road. Ryan fucking Sullivan. Who would have thought?

"I was just thinking about my contract extension. And your contract extension. And Petey and Heidi's contract extensions. And the negotiations. And the...you know."

"What about it?" Eric asked, rolling over.

The room was still dim enough; the sun hadn't fully risen and only a sliver of light broke through the crack in the blackout curtains. Even in the dark, though, Eric knew Ryan's face by heart now, every familiar line and scar. Eric could see just enough, anyway. Ryan wasn't smiling, which meant—well, whatever it was must have been serious. He didn't smile even when Eric pressed his mouth against Ryan's shoulder.

"Just...we're going to stay, right? But what's that going to look like for us?"

"How do you mean?" Eric asked, his brain still racing to both wake up and catch up.

"Are we just going to keep this secret forever?"

Eric exhaled sharply and lay back against the pillows. "I hadn't thought about it." That wasn't entirely true: he had thought about it, and discarded the possibility. Hadn't even thought Ryan would be interested in telling anyone. His mother knew and that was all that really mattered to Eric.

"Because it's just... I don't know. I was thinking about how it would be nice to be able to move in together. To have a home that's ours. To not have to worry about sneaking around so much on the road, you know?"

"Yes..." Eric said, a little wary.

"It's just that you make me really fucking happy, Eric, and I don't know how it's going to feel if we're only gonna be able to do this halfway until we retire."

"Wow. Wow. You really know how to wake a guy up in the morning, huh?"

"Shut up," Ryan said, and punched him in the bicep, but it was with such a fond tone of voice that Eric couldn't resist rolling over on top of him, trapping Ryan's sturdy little body underneath his own.

"What were you thinking about?" Eric said, pressing a kiss against Ryan's eyelid.

"Stop," Ryan said, exasperated, blinking furiously, and Eric laughed and did it again. "You are such an asshole, Eric, Jesus—"

"I'm being serious, though," Eric said, his mouth at the hinge of Ryan's jaw now, trailing down his neck. "Tell me. What's your ideal future? What were you thinking about?"

"I just thought..." Ryan said, distracted, his whole body shuddering reflexively. " Stop , I can't think when you're doing that."

Eric shifted, caught Ryan's wrists in his hands. Looked down at Ryan pinioned beneath him and thought again how fucking lucky he was. "Okay. Sorry, mon pitchounet. What were you thinking?"

"Do you think it might be nice to be able to tell Petey and Heidi about us? And maybe the team?"

"Wait, you want to move in with me and you want to come out?" Eric said, his brain finally playing catch-up. "Tabarnak, you don't take things at half measures."

"Not completely. Not to everyone. Just in a way that matters. The people who matter to us. And as for living together...your apartment's awful. My apartment's awful. It'd be nice to finally have a home , you know? It feels sometimes like I haven't had one ever, really. And also, you know, it'd be way more efficient. We could carpool to practice together."

"And you want a home with me," Eric said slowly, ignoring that last part.

"Well, yeah." Ryan was blushing, his face an embarrassed, angry red that Eric could see even in the dim light of the hotel room, and it took everything he had not to lean down and kiss him senseless again. "I think I do."

"Okay."

"Okay what?"

"To all of it. Telling Heids and Petey. Getting the apartment. Whatever you want."

"What, really? Just like that? Seriously?"

"Look, Ry," Eric said. He could feel Ryan's pulse under his fingers, hammering nervously under the skin. "I've spent a lot of fucking years in the closet. I've lived with a lot of regrets. Am I maybe kind of terrified about what you're asking for? Hell yes, I am. But I'm more terrified of losing this. Losing you. Letting things go and regretting them later. Maybe it's time to..."

Ryan was looking up at him with a soft, fond expression, didn't struggle to get away even though Eric still had his arms pinned above his head. "To what?"

"Take something for myself. Live the way I'd like to. It's not sudden, Ryan. It's been years in the making. But you know what?"

"Hmm?"

"I don't think I'd have gotten here without you."

Ryan's eyes went wide and for the first time, he did struggle, trying to shift his head up. "Eric, come on, you can't say shit like that to me and not let me kiss you."

And Eric, laughing, gave in.

The end of the season came early, and it wasn't a surprise to anyone, least of all to Ryan. The Beacons had been more than a few points out of the last wildcard spot for quite some time, with the injuries stacking up and the youth still learning the ropes. They weren't last in the league the way some people had expected, and that was enough for him.

Ryan's meeting with Joe Conroy and the management group had gone well, too. They provided an updated version of his contract extension, which he was going to sign once the dust had settled. The negotiations for the staff had gone well, too, and he felt, overall, satisfied about how all of that was going, even if it wasn't news he wanted to discuss with the media. No matter his personal feelings, he was sure at least half of the questions would be about whether he was coming back next season.

The day that they cleaned out the locker rooms and met with management and for exit interviews was the day after their final game, which they had won, in a last-hurrah blowout to the tune of 8-2 against a Calgary team that was playing 11F 7D and limping into the playoffs without two of their stars. It had been good to end on a high note, he couldn't really ask for much more than that.

He spoke with each player individually, to thank them for their work over the season, and to tell them all of the things they had done well and that he would like them to work on for next year.

He spoke to Heidi and Petey after that, too, to tell them that he was going to be signing an extension and that he was planning to negotiate extensions for them as well. He'd also told them about Eric and been surprised by the reaction.

Heidi immediately threw her hands up in the air and said, "Of course."

"What do you mean, of course?" Ryan had asked.

"We had a little bet going," Petey said, with a sly, sideways smile. "I had money on the two of you figuring things out in the particular way you seemed to figure things out. Hughes here said there was no way you weren't anything but a hundred percent straight and oblivious."

Ryan felt himself flush red, and he glared at Eric, who was shaking with silent laughter. "What's so funny? This is your fault, too."

"Heidi was right about you being oblivious, that's for sure," Eric managed.

A little later, as they waited behind the door to the media room, Eric asked, "You ready to go out and face the vultures?"

"They're not so bad," Ryan said, with a straight face, and earned a snort of disdain. They were alone, for the moment, so he smoothed Eric's unruly hair down, said, "Really, you don't even think that."

"Could be worse. Could be Montreal."

"Don't let your mom hear you say that, buddy."

"I'd rather die." He smiled again and reached out to straighten Ryan's tie. "I think at this point you're keeping them waiting, Ry. Go on out there."

And Ryan went out to face the press.

The questions were about what he had expected. A lot of them centered on whether Ryan was planning to sign an extension; he sidestepped those and said that he had been working with the management group to discuss their options for next season and beyond, and that he would leave it at that.

There were questions about individual players' progress, which he was more than happy to answer. Overall, he was thrilled with most of them. Davey Kancheli had, despite his numbers, kept them in games they had no business being in. Cook and Williams had both proved that they were legitimate top-line players, and even if Sinclair was traded in the offseason, there was the possibility of finding another winger for them in the draft. No, he had no complaints.

The more creative questions required thoughtful answers, like what he'd liked about coaching in Boston—how passionate the city was about hockey, being close to home—and what he hadn't liked—how passionate the city was about hockey, being close to home. That one got a ripple of laughter through the crowd of reporters.

Kayla Lawrence asked, "Coach Sullivan, if you don't mind telling me what you've learned this season?"

"What I've learned?" Ryan asked. He looked up. While he'd been answering the questions, Eric must have come around the other side of the hall, and he was standing in the back of the room, behind where all of the reporters were sitting. He looked good, his arms crossed over his chest, beard shadowing his cheek and jaw, dressed in Beacons-branded sweats and quarter-zip. Eric was smiling, and Ryan couldn't believe, for a second, just how stupidly lucky he was.

"Just... I don't know. I've learned that there's a time to kill them with kindness and a time to put your foot down. That standing up for yourself isn't necessarily a bad thing. That meeting people at their level really is the best way of doing things. I've learned a lot more than that. About myself, about my staff, about my players. And what I ultimately learned, is I really, truly believe that we're building something special here. I can't say much more than that until the negotiations are finished, but it's just...everything about this team. About this year. It's been special."

"Thank you, Coach Sullivan," Lawrence said, lowering her recorder.

"We're good?" Ryan asked, glancing around at the other reporters. There was a murmur of assent. "Thank you, everyone. Have a good offseason."

And he took the steps down from the podium two at a time, down to where Eric was waiting for him.

Five Photographs from Eric Aronson's Private Instagram

[Image Description: Posted on April 13. A photograph of Ryan Sullivan, dressed in a comfortable, ratty-looking set of sweats, clearly at ease with whoever is taking the photograph. He is sitting at the kitchen table of his Allston apartment, which has the remnants of a dinner that hasn't been cleared away and wineglasses still half-filled with sparkling wine. He is holding up a signed contract and pen and smiling a big, cheesy smile with only the hint of an eye roll. End ID.]

[Caption Plain Text: fucking finally, buddy . End Plain Text.]

[Image Description: Posted on June 1. A photograph of a large, mostly empty living room. Sun streams through the big windows onto the brick accent wall and the original hardwood floors. There's a non-IKEA brand couch, both newer and better quality than anything either of them owned individually before, a TV stand complete with ridiculously large TV, a coffee table covered in books and a lot of boxes in varying states of being unpacked. End ID.]

[Caption Plain Text: if anyone wants to help us unpack I'll pay you in beer . End Plain Text.]

[Image Description: Posted on June 15. A selfie of Eric Aronson and Ryan Sullivan from the waist up. They are on a beach somewhere, shirtless. The clear blue ocean stretches out behind them. Ryan is smiling, huge and genuine, and Eric is scowling at the camera. Ryan is holding the phone to take the picture, and his other arm is slung over Eric's shoulders, although he has to reach up to do it. End ID.]

[Caption Plain Text: I hate relaxing . End Plain Text.]

[Image Description: Posted on June 25. A photograph of Rosa Aronson and Ryan Sullivan playing chess in her kitchen. The kitchen is warm-looking and cluttered with a variety of cooking implements on every single available counter surface; the walls behind the table are similarly covered in pictures. In the center of the pictures is a new photograph of Rosa, Ryan, and Eric together. Rosa and Ryan are sitting at the kitchen table, which is immaculate, both frowning intently at the chessboard. Rosa is winning. End ID.]

[Caption Plain Text: shut the fuck up . End Plain Text.]

[Video Description: Posted on July 15. A video of Ryan Sullivan and Eric Aronson skating at the Beacons' practice facility. The sun is bright through the big glass windows. They are both in full hockey gear, and it's a full-contact skate. They're both skating hard, and Ryan checks Eric into the boards. The sound of the impact is audible. Eric's laugh sounds very loud in the empty rink. He says, clearly, "You fucking motherfucker ." End ID.]

[Caption Plain Text: good to be home . End Plain Text.]