27. Theo

Theo

As we often did before practice, we sat down as a team to review film. The training facility had a small theater where we'd all sit and watch clips of other teams as well as ourselves on the big screen. Today, we were prepping to play against Dallas, and they were killing it this season. Some teams were mediocre but backstopped by spectacular goalies, so we'd focus mostly on how to get around the netminder. Others had killer defense in front of so-so goalies; get far enough past the blueliners to get a shot on goal, and there was a good chance the puck would go in. Going up against those teams, we strategized every imaginable way to get around the D. And of course there were the teams with top-scoring offensive players who could probably find the back of the net from the damn locker room. Seriously, some of those guys were magic with the puck.

Sometimes a team came along that shouldn't have been as good as they were. Somehow, the roster of players no one would bother picking for a fantasy team came together as a force to be reckoned with. The goalie made just enough stops to keep the score in their team's favor. The defense kept just enough players away to lessen the opportunities to get past the goalie. The offense generated just enough scoring chances to put a few goals on the board. Combined, they put up a winning record and steadily mowed through the league, plodding past future hall-of-famers and Cup contenders on their way to a wild card spot.

That was Dallas this season. Reasonably good goalies, pretty solid defensemen, and middle-tier offense. Looking at all the players' individual stats, they really shouldn't have been a difficult team to beat, but they were coming into Seattle on a nine-game point streak.

So, we pored over footage of their power play, their penalty kill, their starting and backup goalies, faceoffs—everything. We wouldn't need to dial anything up dramatically to beat them, just exploit their many weaknesses and keep them from capitalizing on ours. My line in particular did a lot of stretch passes, and Dallas was very good at intercepting those, so we'd need to be cautious about that. Protect the puck as much as possible and be extra mindful of where opposing players were when we passed.

"They love takeaways," Coach said. "Let's not make it easy for them."

Easy enough. Their starting goalie was weak on his blocker side and was especially vulnerable to top shelf shots. He was smaller than a lot of netminders, and if he thought a shot was coming in low, he'd drop down to make the stop… but then he couldn't always get up fast enough to block the puck coming in high.

"Fake him low," Nelson, the offensive coach, told us. "Then go right over his shoulder. Ideally on the blocker side—he's fast with his glove."

Easy enough. In the front row, Condit and Sorenson shared a fist bump and a quiet laugh; if I had to guess, they were plotting to send dozens of shots over this goalie's shoulders, or they were making a bet to see if someone could five-hole him. Either way, the result would be goals from our top offensive line.

We were just finishing up discussing the weaknesses of Dallas's forwards when the door side opened, which wasn't unusual. Some of the coaches came and went while we were doing this, and sometimes the brass would sit in.

It was unusual for the equipment managers to join us, though.

I got my typical little thrill at the sight of Christian walking into the room, but it quickly died away when I saw his expression. All four of the equipment managers wore confusion on their faces, exchanging glances and shrugging. Was Dallas notorious for damaging our equipment somehow? Weird.

Coach didn't seem to understand either. He eyed the equipment staff, but only missed a beat or two in what he was saying to the centers about faceoffs.

Just as Coach was wrapping up that little spiel, Jack strode in, and my hackles went up.

Christian also fidgeted, eyeing his father uneasily. He very pointedly didn't look at me, so I tried to avoid looking his way despite my curiosity. And my rising panic.

Oh, fuck. No. Please tell me he isn't about to…

Jack stood in front of the room by the now-darkened screen. "I'm going to let everyone get to practice, but first, we have an issue that has been brought to my attention, and that we need to address as a team." He scanned the gathered players and equipment managers. "The Seattle Rainiers expect a lot out of those who wear our logo, whether on the ice or behind the bench. And no team of mine is going to tolerate those who disrespect all of us by behaving inappropriately."

Confused murmurs rippled through the group.

I caught Christian's eye, and the uneasiness in his expression had shifted to fear, which sent a rock into the pit of my stomach. Was this about…

No. No way. It couldn't be about us. We were just being paranoid because that was a byproduct of sneaking around under his asshole dad's nose. Especially after he'd caught on to us recently.

So what was going on?

"I'm going to show you boys a video." He plugged a flash drive into the projector and took the remote from Coach. "Then we're going to have a conversation as a team about how this kind of behavior should be dealt with, and why it needs to be prevented going forward."

Before I could ponder what in the ever-loving hell that meant, he clicked the remote. The projector lit up again.

A video started of sharp, black-and-white CCTV footage. I instantly recognized it as the bay where the Zambonis were parked when they weren't in use.

My blood turned cold. There were cameras in there now. Fuuuck.

And then Christian walked into the frame. He paced a little. Rubbed the back of his neck. Leaned against the Zamboni.

In the auditorium, Christian said, "Dad. I don't think this is—"

"Quiet," Jack snapped.

They exchanged a few hissed words, but the video kept going behind them. On the screen, Christian stood straighter, looking at something off-camera, and I covered my face and exhaled, but I still felt it when I appeared on-camera. Probably because of the confused murmur rippling through my teammates.

Though I really, really didn't want to, I lowered my hand and looked at the screen, and the whole team and I—along with the equipment managers and coaching staff—watched myself stride right up to Christian, push him up against the Zamboni, and kiss him.

Fuck me, but that had been one of the hottest moments of my life. Even as acid burned in my stomach and shame burned on my face, I could still feel that rush of much more pleasant heat as we'd given in after too damn long.

Here in the room, Christian opened his mouth to speak, probably to try to explain what happened, but he wasn't fast enough.

"Are you kidding me?" Condit roared to his feet. "Are you fucking serious right now?"

I gulped. Christian cringed and avoided everyone's eyes. I tried to melt lower in my seat, hoping it would open up and swallow me whole.

Jack paused the video, freezing that image of Christian and me locking lips against the Zamboni. "As you can see, we have—"

"That's messed up," Sorenson said, disgust dripping off every word.

"No shit," Abrahamsson agreed.

"What in the hell?" Yanni chimed in. "If this is the shit the Seattle Rainiers do, then I'm out of here. Fuck this club. Jesus." Other voices agreed, talking one over the other about how this was not what they signed up for, it wasn't cool, and either something changed immediately or they were demanding trades.

Oh, God. I covered my face as the shame burned hotter. We knew we'd been caught. And I'd kind of known the team would hate us for it. Still, it hurt that they were this pissed about it. They'd skipped right over wanting me sent back to the minors or having Christian fired, and they went straight to getting themselves traded out of here. Fuck. I'd known we were playing with fire, but was it really that bad, the two of us being together? Had we really ruined the whole fucking team?

"We let this guy in the locker room with us," Wilcox said, "and this is the shit he does?"

I squeezed my eyes shut. I couldn't even look at Christian, never mind my coaches or teammates. This was a disaster.

"Coach, I am not joking." Condit's voice boomed over everyone else's. "Tell the owners they can either find a new GM, or they can find a new captain."

More loud agreement.

Wait. Did he say…

A new…

What?

I cautiously lifted my gaze. Across the room, Christian looked as mystified as I felt, and the stunned expression on his father's face was almost funny.

"This is an invasion of privacy," Sorenson declared furiously. "What the actual fuck?"

"You just outed your own son?" Abrahamsson scoffed.

"What… I…" Jack shook his head, then squared his shoulders. "I didn't out him. You all know they're both gay."

"Yeah, we do," Condit growled. "And we also know you have a problem with that because you're worse at hiding it than they are at hiding that they're together." He narrowed his eyes. "What gives you the right to out them as—"

"This is inappropriate behavior for two men working for—"

"Inappropriate behavior is you filming them and showing it to all of us," Condit threw back with more fury than I'd ever heard from him. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Instantly, Jack was shouting at him, probably threatening him, but I couldn't hear it over the roar of our teammates backing up our captain, who was right in Jack's face. They had Condit's back, and they…

They had ours? Christian's and mine?

As I scanned the room, everyone was visibly livid—either glaring in anger and horror at our GM or joining Condit in reading him the riot act. They were angry… on our behalf. Defending us. Threatening to leave Seattle over this.

My throat tightened and my eyes stung. I was humiliated and terrified, but also… God, the only time I could remember feeling anything like this was at a youth tourney when I was fourteen. A kid had caught on that I was queer, and he'd been giving me all kinds of shit for it… right up until the U16 and U18 kids stepped in and shut him the hell down. People had told me a gay kid wouldn't go far in sports, that the other boys wouldn't put up with it, but there were those high school boys stepping in and telling that asshole his homophobia wasn't acceptable. They'd even gone to the organizers and ended up getting him booted from the tournament. That was the safest I'd ever felt in this sport. The most protected and accepted.

Right up until today. Until this moment in the practice rink's theater—the PHL call-up in this room full of NAPH players who were miles above me—listening to the entire team not just rallying around me and Christian, but threatening to mutiny over it.

The room had reached a deafening level when Coach blew his whistle.

Everyone instantly fell silent. A few of my teammates dropped back into their seats. The tension thrumming in the air? Ooh, shit.

Slowly, Coach turned to one of the other coaches. "Text Bruce. We need a sit-down immediately." Then he pointed sharply at the door and growled to Jack, "You too. Wait for me in conference room four."

Jack blinked. Then he straightened. "I don't think you quite understand the chain of command here, Coach Baldwin."

"And I don't think you quite understand how far out of line you've just stepped, Jack," Coach gritted out. "Because if one of these players walks, you won't have to worry about firing me. I'll be walking right out the door behind them."

All around me, my teammates broke into cheers and applause that rivaled the hometown crowd after a goal. Jack stared at Coach. At us. At the room full of people he'd clearly expected to be on his side.

My heart was thundering with more emotions than I could name. I was still in shock over the video. I'd also been bracing for the team to turn on me and Christian. This? I had not expected this. Definitely not from the whole fucking team.

Through the chaos, I found Christian. He stared back at me, wide-eyed with "is this really happening?" written all over his face. I suspected I was telegraphing the same thing because… holy hell, was this really happening?

Jack apparently caught on that he was woefully outnumbered and no one was taking his side, because he stormed out of the room. Coach said something I didn't catch to Condit, and then he strode out, the rest of the coaching staff on his heels.

The doors shut behind them. For long seconds, silence hung in the air, everyone exchanging glances and every pair of eyes noticeably flicking toward me and Christian.

Condit looked at each of us. "Uh. So… how long has this been going on?"

My throat was too tight and my stomach too volatile to even try to speak.

Christian glanced at me, then muffled a cough as he shifted his weight. His voice came out more timid than I'd ever heard it. "Since… um…" He nodded toward me. "A little while after he got here."

Condit exhaled sharply and cuffed Sorenson upside the head. "See? I fucking told you."

"Oh, whatever." Sorenson smacked his arm. "You were just guessing."

I couldn't help laughing, which made the tension in me snap. Good thing I was sitting down, or I'd have probably melted to the floor in a relieved heap. From the way Christian wavered, and the way Marty steadied him, I wasn't the only one.

When he'd recovered a little, Christian ran a shaky hand through his hair and exhaled. "Why am I not surprised you guys figured it out?" He gestured at Marty. "Even he didn't know."

"Pfft." Condit crossed the room and clapped Christian's shoulder. "You should know by now—you can't hide anything from us."

Christian smirked up at him. "I didn't realize you guys were that observant."

"We're not," Sorenson said. "You're just not subtle."

Christian's smirk fell as color rose in his cheeks. I groaned and covered my face.

Beside me, Rusanov howled with laughter, and he slapped my back. To my other side, Grekov was chuckling, but he sounded more relieved than anything. I wondered if anyone besides him and me knew why.

After a moment, Christian cleared his throat. "Look, I appreciate all this. Honestly. I'm sure Theo does too."

Some heads turned toward me, and I nodded. "Yeah. Absolutely."

He went on, "But you don't have to ask for trades or—"

"Yeah, we do," Sorenson said firmly. "It's fucked up that he did that to you." He glanced at me. "Both of you. But the fact that he'd do it to anyone?" He shook his head emphatically. "Absolutely the fuck not. I'm not playing for someone who would invade anyone's privacy and out them like that. Straight or gay. I don't give a shit. You just don't do that."

Nods and murmurs of agreement all around.

I cleared my throat and timidly said, "But are you guys okay with, uh…" I gestured at myself and Christian.

"Of course." Condit shrugged. "Man, if we had an issue with it, we'd have pulled you guys aside privately and said something. But everyone knows about it and I haven't heard anyone say anything negative."

My face burned as my teammates nodded their agreement.

"This isn't about just you two," the captain said. "What you guys are doing isn't affecting us. That shit?" He pointed at the door. "I'm not putting up with it. No way."

"No kidding." Wilcox nodded sharply. "I've got a gay nephew who's almost old enough for the draft, and over my dead body is he playing in a league where that bullshit's acceptable. No fucking way."

"My little brother is gay and playing in the PHL," Yanni said. "Like hell am I staying on a team that treats people like him this way."

Other players agreed with them. Loudly. In no uncertain terms, this team was way more incensed about Jack outing us than they were over me and Christian being together. They didn't ask if we were serious or if this was just a fuck buddy situation; they quite clearly didn't care.

After a few minutes of the team vocally letting us know where they stood, Condit cleared his throat. "All right, look. The people in suits will deal with Jack, but we're still a team, and we've still got a game to win. So how about we go over some of these clips again and get our focus back so we can practice?"

Everyone groaned with theatrical exasperation and sat back down.

Christian laughed. "Do you boys need us for this part?"

"Nah, man." Condit waved toward the door. "Go iron our jockstraps or whatever."

Laughter rippled through the room. Christian flipped him off. "So, starch your jockstrap? Got it!" Then he darted out of the room.

Wilcox barked a laugh. "He's gonna do it, Condit. You know he will!"

Condit stared ruefully at the door, then sighed as if to say, oh, fuck my life. "Can we just look at this film so I can go hide my jock from him?"

We did go over the clips again, but it probably wasn't the most professional film review we'd ever done. Still, it pulled everyone's focus back to the task at hand, and it reminded us all of the things we'd need to concentrate on during practice and at the game. When we were finished, Condit dismissed us, and everyone headed to the locker room to gear up.

On the way, Sorenson fell into step beside me. "You gonna be all right today, kid?"

"I think so, yeah." I slid my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie. "I, uh… I didn't expect you guys to all go to bat for us like that, though."

"Nah." He put an arm around my shoulders. "We're a team. Don't matter if you're a one-game call-up or a regular part of the roster. You're a Rainier, and we've got you."

I had to work to swallow. "I appreciate it." Right then and there, I vowed to work as hard as humanly possible to make this roster for good next season. The men in that room—the men who'd been furious for me and Christian—were the men I wanted to play beside. I glanced up at Sorenson. "Out of curiosity, when did you think this started?"

Sorenson chuckled. "Last season, when the two of you were eye-fucking at the bar."

My jaw dropped. "You… You knew about that?"

He laughed, rolling his eyes, and he clapped my shoulder. "My dude, I'm as dumb as they come and not observant at all unless there's a puck involved. You two were not subtle."

My cheeks were on fire.

He just laughed some more and shoved me ahead into the locker room.

God, I loved this team.