11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Cody

Am I excited to go on a state hop for the next week with the team doing nothing but playing hockey? Obviously. An entire week of away games, flying the private team jet, and being with the guys 24/7. Three states in one week. Texas, California, and… Utah . Am I looking forward to going back to Utah, my home state, a place that carries a mix of so many memories and emotions? Definitely not. I feel it the moment the bus, taking us from the airport in Salt Lake City to Taylorsville, passes the familiar Welcome to Utah, Life Elevated sign. I can’t tell if I feel like puking, crying, or laughing hysterically—shit, maybe everything all at once. Images of my father’s smile blending with Danny’s carefree laughter merge with memories of that day when they disappeared from my life in a cloud of dust and broken promises.

Buckhammer is snoring next to me, his head leaning against the window, his mouth slightly agape, a half-empty bag of cheese Doritos in his lap, stinking up the bus. Across the aisle, Nowak is bobbing his head, AirPods in his ears, tapping away at the seat in front of him energetically. I’ve been spending most of the trip on my phone, looking at local charities in Aurora. Back in Phoenix, I did volunteer work through a local Big Brother organization. You’d be surprised how many kids have no way of getting to or from organized sports because their parents aren’t able to bring them, or they can’t afford transportation. So the Big Brothers of Phoenix had a program where you could sign up to help kids get to and from sports. I volunteered to get Jordie, an eight-year-old boy, to and from hockey practice twice a week. His mom had good intentions but was working odd hours to make ends meet as a single mom. I stayed through practice and often took him out for burgers or pizza afterward if his mom got home late. I miss him. He was a good kid, reminding me of myself in many ways, never really asking for much, just a little of my time. Which I was more than happy to give. I want to do something similar in Aurora. I want to actually make a difference to some kid instead of just making a monthly donation. There’s nothing wrong with that, but I’m in a position where I’m able to do more, so why not? After all, they say the happiest people are those doing volunteer work. So if I can be someone to some kid who maybe dreams of becoming a pro hockey player too one day, then it’s time well spent.

“Cut it the fuck out, bro,” Riley suddenly explodes, getting up from his seat, throwing Nowak a warning glare. “I told you already, dumbass. Stop tapping my seat. I’m visualizing.” Riley crosses his beefy arms in front of his chest and Nowak swallows, offering him a toothy grin.

“Sorry, Canada,” he says, batting his eyelashes, voice sugary sweet, his thick accent seeping through every syllable. Luke, who’s sitting next to Riley, pulls at his hoodie, trying to drag him back into his seat. “It’s just… the Kid just dropped a new album, man,” Nowak shrugs apologetically while continuing to bob his head.

“The Kid?” Riley sits back down, eyes still on Nowak, a quiet warning lingering in them.

“Yeah, man. The Kid Laroi.”

“Never heard of him,” Riley cuts him off as he leans his head back against his seat, closing his eyes. Luke smirks, catching my curious gaze across the aisle, before sending a wink my way. And there it is again. That small annoying flutter that’s been lingering in my chest ever since we watched Love, Simon three nights ago. Not only is my roomie easy to get along with and super nice, but as it turns out, he’s also big-time into queer movies. Yes, you heard me. Movies as in plural. For the past couple of nights after practice, we’ve blown through Netflix’s selection of queer movies and since we’ll be sharing a room on our road trip, we’ve already agreed to start Heartstopper after our first game tonight against the Taylorsville Tigers . I’ve already watched it a few times, but who cares? A repeat won’t make Nick any less sweet to look at and sitting next to Luke in the dark, chuckling and joking under his fluffy blanket, has fast become one of my favorite pastimes.

The way he took care of me the other night was something I’ve never had before. I’ve never shared this part of myself with any other teammate, but something in Luke’s eyes told me I could let my guard down. That I could be honest with him. And I was right. It feels unbelievably good not carrying that weight around alone anymore. But it’s more than that. When he blabbered away about how cute Simon looked when he blushed, my eyes weren’t on the screen but instead, glued to Luke’s pink lips. I’m almost sure that he’s into guys, too. What if he is?

Shit, if I’m not careful, I’m going to break my number one rule: Never ever get involved with a guy you don’t know with 100% certainty is ace. Been there, done that, and have the emotional scars to prove it.

I can still recall Leo’s famous last words when I broke up with him in a Starbucks three months into our relationship .

‘I just thought that maybe you could eventually do it for me?’ The hopeful glimmer in his eyes didn’t escape me as he reached for my hand across the table. ‘I mean, we kiss and touch and cuddle… What’s so bad about sex?’ Linking my fingers through his, I tried to hold it together, the pumpkin spice latte threatening to make a U-turn in my stomach.

‘There’s nothing bad about sex, Leo. Nothing at all. I just don’t wanna have it,’ I rasped, pushing back the taste of bile rising in my throat. ‘I told you that from the beginning. There won’t ever be a time where I’ll wanna have sex.’ Leo looked at me like I’d just confessed to killing Bambi’s mother, his huge brown eyes spilling over with tears.

‘But what if we try? Maybe you’ll like it with me?’ he whispered, wiping furiously at his cheeks. ‘You love me, right?’ I just shook my head, squeezing his fingers.

How could I explain something that went against everything that our culture promoted every single minute of every single day on any platform or media? Sex . It was all about sex. And as much as I’d tried to have it in the past, hating myself every single time, I could no longer be that guy. Someone who closed off his feelings and acted like a fucking robot. The one who tried. I had enough reasons to feel bad about myself; having sex would no longer be one of them. And as much as I loved Leo—because I really did—I didn’t want to try . Not even for him.

“… your key cards and do not—I repeat—do not fucking lose them!” Coach’s voice drones over the loudspeaker, causing Buckhammer to nearly catapult out of his seat, cheese Doritos scattering everywhere. Blinking a few times, wiping a dollop of drool from the corner of his mouth, he yawns loudly, stretching his arms above his head.

“Are we here yet?” the huge Texan groans, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes. The bus has just turned down the long drive toward a large resort-style hotel where we’ll be staying for our game against the Tigers tonight. The lions against the tigers. The last couple of times that the team has played them, we’ve lost by a goal. By one goddamn goal. Today is the day of reckoning as far as everyone’s concerned, and without anyone saying it explicitly, I know all eyes are on me. Luckily, my knee hasn’t been bothering me since that one night when Luke took care of me, so fingers crossed it was just a small bump on the way.

Before the game, we warm up with a round of soccer. A lot of teams do it. It isn’t only a great way to let off some pre-game steam and settle any nerves. No, there are actually a lot of benefits to doing a warm-up with soccer. The quick changes and focused coordination help warm up your muscles and get your heart rate up, which increases blood flow to your muscles and can help prevent injuries during the game itself.

Our left wing, Persson, has found a large area across from our locker room that looks like it’s used partly for storage of random furniture and hockey equipment and as an occasional meeting area. He blew into the locker room a few minutes ago, a wicked smile on his face, spinning a soccer ball on his index finger.

“Let’s go, fuckers,” he cackled, throwing the ball at Crane, who growled back at him. It took me a few seconds to detach myself from our away uniform, the white jersey with navy-blue and teal stripes on the sleeves hanging from my spot in the locker room. Mitchell on the back in teal, a bright number 8 below my name. Damn, I still have to pinch myself sometimes and the surrealism of my life still blows my mind daily. Then Luke bumped my shoulder, a crooked smile playing at the corner of his mouth, an eager glimmer in his eyes.

“You comin’?” He nodded in the direction of the guys who were piling out of the locker room in their gym shorts. Some were bare chested, others in tees or hoodies. In a daze, I nodded at him, quickly pulling a white tee over my head.

We play around in a circle, just different warm-up moves, trying to steal the ball from each other. Whenever Nowak gets the ball, he goofs around like a circus clown doing all sorts of random tricks. Riley growls at him each time, “Don’t hog the ball, fucker,” or “No wonder your bed is empty every night if that’s your best move.”

“Just so you know, it isn’t.” Nowak smirks back, grabbing his junk and doing a frantic wiggle move. “You jealous, Riley?” He makes a kissy face.

“The fuck I am,” Riley spits. “Now pass the damn ball!” I don’t know what the deal is with our center and right-wing, but there isn’t a day that goes by where they aren’t at each other’s throats. It never turns ugly; no, it isn’t anything like that. It’s just this constant banter back and forth, often with crude innuendos referring to getting laid or lack thereof.

When Luke gets the ball, he starts doing Around the World, the other players counting out loud, some of them cheering Antoine, Antoine, Antoine. I have zero clue what they’re on about. As far as I know, Luke’s last name is Carrington, but perhaps his middle name is Antoine. I don’t know him that well yet, but it seems to be a thing with the guys. With a focused frown between his dark brows and the tip of his tongue peeking from the left corner of his mouth, Luke continues to circle the ball around his right foot. 35, 36, 37.

On autopilot, my gaze zeroes in on his thick thighs, the muscles flexing with every circular movement of his foot. His brown locks fall into his forehead, his nose scrunched in a cute frown. 41, 42, 43. His arms hover away from his upper body, keeping his balance, his fists clenching and unclenching as he concentrates on not dropping the ball. He has sturdy hands. I noticed that the other night when he held out the Tylenol to me. Mine are slender, with long slim fingers. As I take him in, I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to hold his hand, my fingers tangled through his, squeezing them gently, my thumb brushing across his knuckles.

I love holding hands. It’s one of my favorite things to do. I used to hold Leo’s hand whenever I could get away with it. Sometimes I had both of my hands wrapped around one of his as we walked through the nearby park or sat at our preferred corner table at the local coffee shop. I miss it. It’s not Leo I miss, though. Not anymore. But I miss the togetherness. Holding hands. Kissing someone who means something to me. Cuddling up with someone next to me on the couch, waving my fingers through soft strands of hair, burying my face against someone’s neck, breathing them in. Knowing they’re mine.

There are many ways of being ace. Hell, there are as many ways as there are ace people. It’s up to you to define how far you want to go with another person. For me, it has always been about intimacy. The sensations. I love the closeness and the touching. The exploring of the other person’s face. Mapping out their features with my fingers and my mouth. After I decided not to have sex anymore, I never went further than kissing, touching, and cuddling. For me, those are the natural limits of my sexuality. I don’t feel that sexual arousal when I’m physical with another person. I rarely feel it on my own either. It has nothing to do with an aversion to sex. I understand why other people want to have it, but for me, it’s something I’ve realized I don’t need or want.

That’s why I got the tattoo; a permanent reminder to myself that I’m okay the way I am. That I don’t need to conform. Change. Being ace is not something missing, and I can be a whole person without sex in my life. And maybe someday, I’ll meet someone who understands that. Who accepts it and perhaps feels the same way.

“100!” The guys yell in unison, Riley flying over to Luke, picking him up, sprinting around the room with him over his shoulder. Kennedy picks up the ball and makes a few moves before passing it to Nowak, who kicks the ball directly at the ceiling, hitting a halogen lamp. With a loud crash, the lamp goes flying to the floor, a few sparks flying.

“For fuck’s sake,” Badura yells, kicking after Nowak, who dodges him by the skin of his teeth.

“Shit,” Buckhammer grins. “You killed another one.” He brushes a hand through his hair as he looks at Nowak with what appears to be admiration. “What’s your body count, dude?” Nowak, who’s retreated behind me to avoid the wrath of Badura, counts quietly on his fingers, a smug smile playing on his lips.

“Four,” he pants. “No, wait. There was that one in Atlanta, too. Five,” he glowers.

“Yeah, well, let’s wrap it up, guys,” Caps claps his hands together. Pointing a finger at Nowak, he raises a brow in warning. “You find someone to get this mess cleaned up.” Nowak nods as he creeps out from behind me. Luke comes jogging toward me as he presses his lips against an emblem on his tee across the left side of his chest, murmuring something against the fabric. I now recognize that his shirt looks like a team jersey, with red-and-white stripes running down his torso and the shoulders all red.

“Hey man,” he stops in front of me. “You okay?” He tilts his head, his eyes coasting across my face. “You didn’t get hit by any shrapnel?” he chuckles.

“Nah, I’m all in one piece,” I smile. Licking my bottom lip, my gaze zeroes in on what’s definitely a team emblem on his chest. “What’s with the tee?” I nod at his chest.

“Oh, this?” Luke pulls at the fabric, his entire face lighting up, cheeks flushed from exertion. “It’s my lucky charm,” he smirks, rubbing across the emblem. “It’s Antoine,” he whispers, a dreamy look in his chocolate eyes.

“Antoine?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, eyes hooded. “Antoine Griezmann. The French soccer player. He plays for the national team, but this is his club jersey. Atlético Madrid. It’s a Spanish team.”

“Is it the same one that’s around your neck?” I blurt before even realizing what I’m saying. Luke just laughs, pulling the chain from behind his jersey and holding out the small locket between us.

“Nah, that’s just my man Hermes,” he says, as though everyone knows who that is. I make a note to myself to look up this Hermes dude later.

“Yeah, I don’t know anything about soccer,” I shrug apologetically.

“Neither does Carrington,” Riley booms, coming up next to us and ruffling Luke’s hair fondly. “He only knows about this French dude.”

“Shut up,” Luke mutters. “I know about soccer…”

“Right.” Riley nods solemnly before his face explodes into a huge grin. Turning to me, he leans in, whisper-yelling, “It’s his celebrity crush.”

“Jesus, dude,” Luke groans. “He’s not my crush. I just… I like the way he plays. He’s a great athlete.”

“You like the way he plays ball , right, Carrington?” Crane smirks.

“Shut the fuck up, Crane,” Riley spits. I’ve noticed a couple of times how protective the Canadian is of Luke. He can give him as much shit as he wants, but if anyone else comes at Luke, he goes into full-on mama-bear mode.

“Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it.” Crane shoots daggers at Riley. “We all have celebrity crushes.” As if on cue, the rest of the guys start name-dropping, rolling their eyes in pretend ecstasy. Names of famous actresses or models. A few female athletes, too. Once the guys settle down and start moving toward the locker room, Luke turns to me, a curious frown between his brows.

“So, what about you, Mitchell? Who’s your celebrity crush?” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, his eyes a smoldering shade of brown.

“Uhm, I don’t know,” I mumble, rubbing at my neck. I so do know.

“C’mon, you gotta have someone,” Persson bumps my shoulder. He screamed Eva Mendez from the top of his lungs a few minutes earlier while humping Caps’ right thigh, resulting in a punch to his chin.

“Uhm…” I look around the group of guys, their eyes fixated on me like it’s some sort of rite of passage to name your celebrity crush. We’ve reached the entrance to the locker room, but everyone seems to wait for my two cents before entering. Biting my bottom lip, I ponder for a moment but decide to be frank. No one seemed too bothered about the fact that Luke’s celebrity crush is a guy. Swallowing, I say, “Troye Sivan.”

Most of the guys look oblivious, a few nodding in vague recognition. He’s still a fairly unknown name in the US, though he’s becoming an icon pretty fast in the queer community.

“Who the fuck is Troye Sivan?” Nowak opens the doors to the locker room and the other guys start piling in after him.

“He’s an Australian singer,” Kennedy replies before looking at me. “Right, Mitchell?” There’s no judgment in his eyes, his face forthcoming as always, his piercing blue eyes blinking at me.

“Yeah,” I mumble as I head for my spot. “Yeah, he is.”

“Isn’t he gay?” Crane yells from the other end of the room, looking down at his phone. “He looks fucking gay. Shit, he looks like a fucking girl,” he smirks at me, holding up his phone, a picture of Troye wearing a tight corset and high heels.

“So, what if he’s gay?” Luke throws back at him. “What’s it to you, Crane?” His eyes are glowing as he engages in what seems to be a staring contest with his fellow D-man until Crane eventually shrugs, looking down.

“Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with being gay,” he rubs at his neck. “I was just sayin’. Jeez, relax, dude.”

Eventually, Luke relaxes his shoulders and heads for his cubby. The guys focus on getting ready, and an air of pre-game concentration settles in the room. Nowak, who’s to my right, sits down next to me while I’m getting my gear ready. After putting on my base layer and pads, I unwrap my jersey and pants, the smooth fabric cool against my fingers, the navy and teal stripes standing out on the sleeves of our white away jersey. Trailing my fingers along the roaring mountain lion on the front, I briefly close my eyes, trying to steady my heartbeat. Pre-game butterflies flutter around like crazy in my stomach, but overall, I feel good about tonight. I know the Tigers’ game. What I need to look out for. Who I need to watch. And my knee’s good. I rub across it absentmindedly, thanking my lucky stars, before I reach for my skates.

Nowak is dressed now too, browsing through his phone, AirPods in his ears, bobbing his head up and down. I put my phone away in my bag as soon as we got here. The last thing I need is my mom in my head before our first away game. She has probably posted a gazillion selfies by now in our away jersey. Yeah, I don’t need that.

I swipe at the fabric over my left hip and across my tattoo. Closing my eyes, I repeat the familiar words three times. I know who I am, and I know where I’m going. I do. I really do. I feel it. With each day playing for the Lions, I feel myself getting closer to the version of me I want to be.

Next to me, Nowak suddenly pushes at my shoulder, holding his phone toward me.

“Holy shit, bro,” he speaks much too loudly, Luke and Riley turning in our direction, looking up from where they’re tying their skates. “He looks just like you, dude,” he grins teasingly. A headshot of a soccer player with longish blond locks, a few days’ worth of stubble, and a shy smile stares back at me. Below the photo in italics, it says Antoine Griezmann. And he does. He looks like me. An older version, but still. In another life, we could’ve been siblings. Warmth floods my chest, my mouth going dry as my gaze connects with Luke’s across the room. His eyes flicker nervously, a crimson blush spreading across his cheeks and further down his neck where it disappears behind the bright white neckline of his jersey.

Riley looks between Luke and me a couple of times, the quiet in the locker room deafening. Then he seems to catch on, his gaze softening as he looks at his friend. Tipping his chin toward Virtanen, who sits on the other side of Nowak, he shouts, “Yo, Finland. You never said anything. Who’s your celebrity crush?”

Virtanen looks up from his phone, a broad, toothy smile spreading across his face. Rubbing at his prominent chin, Virtanen’s eyes search the room until they land on our other goalie. Tapping his fist twice against his heart, a wet sheen to his eyes, the Finn booms across the room, “Buckhammer!”

The room erupts in hoots and hollering, some of the guys making kissy faces and pretending to swoon, right until Coach enters, telling everyone to, “Shut your traps and listen up.” Silence settles in the room as Coach sums up our tactics for the game. I realize that I’m still holding Nowak’s phone in my hand, an unknown French soccer player smiling back at me. ‘ He looks just like you ,’ Nowak’s words echo in my head until I push them away and focus on Coach’s voice, shutting everything else out. Well, almost everything else. Because as Coach drones on and on, I feel a pair of brown eyes burning into me.

Luke’s eyes.