37. 37

37

Ant Decker

The season is winding down. We have one game left to play and it’s a little bittersweet because we’ve played out of our socks since Robbie came back from his concussion. We’ve broken records and made headlines. If we’d gotten our heads out of our asses earlier in the season, and if Robbie hadn’t been out for two weeks, there’s no doubt we’d be in with a real shot at the Stanley Cup this year. As it turns out, we narrowly missed qualifying.

I’m pretending to be super bummed about it, but the truth is, for the first time in my entire career, I’m glad we aren’t playing.

Don’t tell Robbie because his ego can’t handle it, but this year, for the first time, the idea of having a long off-season appeals to me.

Whenever we talk about the playoffs, he gives me a steely look and says, “Next year, baby. Next year, I’ll get that cup for you. ”

Maybe it’s because of how well I know him now, or maybe it’s because he has a proven track record of making the shit he wants happen around him when he looks like that, but either way, when he says it, I believe him.

The world is still a dumpster fire, of course, and there are a lot of assholes around if you look for them, but overall, things have been better since we let the team in on our secret. Obviously, not everyone is one hundred percent cool with it. Most of them are, but I’ve seen a look or two. Picked up a vibe here and there.

It is what it is.

It hasn’t bothered me as much as I thought it would. Robbie says it’s none of our business what people think of us, and I don’t know, maybe he’s right. He says we should focus on the fact that a ton of guys have come through for us repeatedly since we told them about us, and that’s true.

Luddy has been a solid brick wall. Impenetrable as he stands guard over us, and Pejic hasn’t missed a single opportunity to deliver the official comment on our relationship. He does it with gusto, and his “Get a life, dickhead” is usually accompanied by a double dose of the middle finger.

My favorite is the way Bodie deals with the situation. Though he’d dearly love to be a badass like Pejic, he isn’t. That’s not how he’s made. Whenever he’s asked about us, he replies with a spluttery, “Get a life, p-please.”

It’s the p-please that gets me. It gets Robbie too. We laugh our asses off every time it happens.

It’s been a wild ride to get here, and no one’s been more surprised by what’s happened to my life this season than I am.

I stand by my point—I don’t think anyone owes anyone else an explanation about their sexuality. I truly believe that. I still do. I feel it deeply, and it annoys me that people haven’t stopped writing and speculating about our relationship. It’s just that I’m at Robbie’s house now, on one of the new sofas, and he’s asleep on my chest. Right now, my annoyance feels more like a distant, fictional construct than something based in reality.

He was tired before he passed out, so he’s sleeping deeply. So deeply that every time he breathes out, he makes this tiny pfft as the air enters or leaves him. His head is heavy. He’s cut off the circulation to my left arm. My fingers are fizzing, half numb, half tingling.

I know I should move him, but I don’t because, in a few minutes, he’ll stir, and when he does, I’m going to lean down and kiss his cheek. I know that when I do that, he'll smile in his sleep.

I know this because he did it the last time I kissed him .

And the time before that.

Until he moves, I’m going to lie here, buried under him, and think about what he said the day he told me we loved each other. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. All the time, actually. I’ve been thinking about it on repeat, night and day.

I think of his beautiful face, so pretty and defiant and sweet, and how he looked when he told me that all he wants is to hold my hand and not have to pull away because someone might see us.

The more I think about it, the more I realize how much I want that too. I want it a lot. It’s not much to ask, and it’s new for me to want things like this, but I want it.

I want his hand in mine.

I want it so much that I’ve started suspecting I want it more than my right to privacy. More than I want to stand on my principles. More than I want people to remember my stats.

I want it because as much as the world still is what it is, I’m different now.

I know what matters more than public opinion, more than bigots, more than hockey, more than anything. It’s the soft pfft-pfft of the air entering and leaving the man I love. It’s the fact that he’s here. That fact that he’s real. That he’s mine, and I’m his.

The entire arena is on its feet. There’s a sea of faces around us. A blur of flesh-colored tones. Mouths are open, hands in the air. People are screaming. Stamping their feet. The applause is thunderous, a steady rumble shaking the foundation we skate on.

They’ve played our goal song so many times I’ve almost lost count.

I’ve seen Robbie on fire before, sure, but holy shit, never like this. We came out here tonight knowing a win won’t do anything for us. We haven’t qualified for the cup and there’s nothing anyone can do about that. What’s done is done, but it’s hard not to feel defeated. A lot of us did before we came out. There was a somber, quiet mood in the locker room before the game.

Not Robbie.

And I know why. For better or worse, I’ve been added to the McGuire family group chat, and let’s just say it explains a lot about why Robbie is the way he is.

Dr. McGuire: Good luck, boys! Remember, the main thing is to have fun.

Mr. McGuire: Play like no one’s watching.

Dr. McGuire: But please rethink the cage helmets.

Robbie: No, Mom.

Dr. McGuire: Why not, sweetie? They were catching on…

Beth: Mom, stop talking about cage helmets.

Beth: Good luck, Robbie and Ant. Call me if anyone’s a dick to you, I’ll come kick their asses.

Beth: FYI, if you let anyone hurt Bodie, I’ll come kick YOUR asses.

Mr. McGuire: Beth, please stop saying ass. Ant’s new to the group.

They’re all here tonight. Stacey’s here too. She’s sitting with the McGuires, and I can’t wait to hear her take on them after the game. I fully expect her to be in a deep state of shock by the time I see her.

There are only a few minutes left before the clock runs down and the season is officially over. I’m on the bench catching my breath, downing a Gatorade, and thinking about the mockery Robbie's been making of the other team’s defense. He’s infectious to watch. I can’t take my eyes off him. I’ve spent so much time trying not to look that it’s a relief to give in and let myself do it. I don’t take my eyes off him. I don’t try not to smile either. Nor do I make any effort to tamp down the look of love in my eyes.

He’s already on the ice when I go over the board. He’s tired, but he’s not lagging because he’s Robbie McGuire, and he’s built differently. He’s laughing with pure joy. Because he’s happy. Because he loves life and hockey.

Bodie has the puck and flicks it to me. He hits it so fast and so hard there’s a dull clunk as it connects with my stick. The clock is ticking, and there’s a sense of urgency in all of us. A rush. A resolve. We want the same thing. The same thing we always want.

One more goal.

I pass to Luddy. It’s a good pass. Solid and fast. He gets around the first player, but the next one checks him. Robbie’s there to snatch it up. He wasn’t a second ago, but because he’s magic, he’s there now. He slams into their wing and wins the puck. He controls it and makes it look easy. Tapping it left and right as he flies toward the goal. I chase him with everything I have.

A defenseman approaches him. Their center is close too. My gut clenches as I wait for the inevitable crunch. It doesn’t come. Robbie wrists the puck to me and comes to a stop, sending ice spraying. The player attacking him crashes into the board from his own momentum.

I pass the puck back to Robbie and he bats it to me. We do it because we can. Because it’s fun. Because these days, when one of us scores, the other does too.

I happen to put the puck in the net this time, knowing full well that next time, it’ll be Robbie who does it.

It’s an easy win, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t taste sweet. The crowd is euphoric. Baying. Roaring. And who can blame them? It’s not all that often you get to see your team win by six goals on home ground.

As always, the ice is quickly flooded with players when the final buzzer sounds. There are hands and fists offered to me. Taps on my helmet and slaps on the back. I work my way through the team, aware of Robbie the entire time. He’s on my left. A few paces behind me. A smoking hot presence that heats my skin .

I turn to him and smile. He smiles too, but he quickly drops his gaze and looks away. I skate over to him and sling an arm around his shoulders. He hums and leans into me for a second, then he’s gone.

He’s sticking with our protocol. Not putting a foot wrong.

The thing is, there’s not a goddamn thing wrong with what he is to me or I am to him, so I reach out and take his arm firmly, pulling him toward me and resting my helmet against his.

Camera flashes pop and players near us slow down.

There are thousands of eyes on us as I lift my hand to my mouth and rip open my glove with my teeth, pulling it off and dropping it onto the ice. I take Robbie’s hand in mine, taking my sweet time to loosen his glove and slide it off his beautiful hand. A warm hand, veiny and strong. A hand that wields a hockey stick like it’s an extension of him. A hand made to fit in mine.

He’s standing stock still, eyes wide and hopeful as the world around us goes quiet.

I keep my head tilted toward him, close, because I swear to God, I can’t stand any space between us for one second more, and then I take his hand in mine and lace our fingers tightly together .

His mouth drops open, lips peeling back. “Are you sure?”

I lift his hand to my lips, stamping a long, gentle kiss right where his thumb and forefinger meet, and say, “I’ve never been this sure, or proud, of anything.”