Thirty-Five

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ATTY

Three months later

Our season startedout a bit rocky. We went right into six straight losses. I asked Toby if he wanted to change his playoffs prediction. He said no.

I relayed this to the team for our seventh game. I'm not sure if that started a fire under everyone's ass or what, but we turned the tides and won the next seven games.

Toby made the mistake of saying, "See? You'll make the playoffs," when I came home from that seventh win. We subsequently lost the following five.

Hockey players can be very superstitious. Toby knows this. When our friends came over for dinner, down and irritated, he told everyone, "Stop moping. This changes nothing. You're going to the playoffs whether you like it or not, so get your heads out of your asses already."

Our win/loss pattern has been a rollercoaster since. We're on game twenty-five with an 11-10 record. Obviously, we need a much better standing than that to even qualify for playoffs, never mind stand a chance.

Toby has since refused to talk about our team specifically in front of any of us. He'll happily tell us everything we need to know about other teams, but he never discusses the Golden Tides with anyone other than Ajo. When that happens, no one else is allowed within hearing range.

We're playing the Dallas Bulldogs, but neither team is in their normal colors. Our jerseys are black today and instead of gold accents, we have purple. The Bulldogs are in white jerseys with purple. It's cancer week, so at the end of every game, our jerseys are auctioned off. Sunday's were pink. Then we had orange. Today is purple and on Saturday we'll have teal.

Honestly, though the orange was blinding and distracting, I'm kind of enjoying the different jerseys. There's something special about them all the way around. It's nice to see.

I glance down at my stick. I asked Coach if I could use colored tape on my handle. The league has rules about tape and while I don't mind paying the fine if I feel the desire to use something other than black or white, I didn't want to upset my coach.

I kept white on the bottom, but my handle is pink, purple, and blue. My colors. Curling my hand around them, I smile to myself. Not everyone will understand, but when Coach Ajo looked at it and gave me a nod and a smile, I knew some people would. I'm not allowed to modify my jersey, but I am allowed to modify my stick to an extent.

While I didn't make a big stink about ‘coming out' in the spotlight, once the season began and the world finally had to accept that this new face and hairstyle were me, more pictures started to surface. Pictures of me and Toby. Some could be passed off as guys hanging out, but more and more could not.

Between my agent and L.A.'s PR department, we decided I wasn't going to make any kind of public statement at all. Instead, I'd carry on with my life and address it should the need arise.

But I'm not quite as silent on the matter of sexuality as I could be. Two weeks ago was my first official shoved into the ‘Gays Can Play' group for a college appearance. I've also joined two advocacy groups for bisexual people and have been posting my involvement and partnership online in my social media posts.

It's an announcement of sorts, and the only one I'm willing to give. One of the best parts about this is when I get to answer a press question asking about my sexuality with, "Does anyone have any questions worth answering?" or some variation.

My unwillingness to talk directly to anyone has been a fun twist on the whole thing. Of course, I talked to the kids at the college I was pushed to go to. By pushed, I mean that management asked if I'd be willing. After talking to Egon, Noah, and Lix, I decided it was a good atmosphere for me to finally speak out.

I've also had an interview with SCORE magazine. I swear, they hit up everyone who comes out. It's kind of cool.

"Ready?" Hugo asks.

Glancing over my shoulder, I find him bouncing on his blades as we wait in the chute to be let out. It's the beginning of the third period. We're on the board, 3-0. Odds are in our favor, but it's easy to get ahead of ourselves and become arrogant and sloppy.

"Keep the momentum," Coach Ajo tells us. "Our defensive line is off the charts, and Winny's making some awesome saves. Give him a little kiss on your way by. Great team effort. Go."

By ‘a little kiss,' Coach Ajo actually means that we just touch our stick to his. A little kiss. To give him our positive energy and support.

Winslow grins as we do, looking rather pleased with himself. He told us after the first time Coach Ajo instructed us to do this, it really felt like he was gifted some of our energy. He said he couldn't explain it, but there was a very surreal feeling of breathing in something deep and strong.

We now do this without prompting, though sometimes Coach will tell us to give him a little more before a new period.

Also, we don't talk about the offensive side during a game. It feels like a jinx every time we do. We know that our offense is doing well tonight. There's literally no reason to call attention to it.

More than not, we play a lot of keep away during this period. Yes, we try for another goal any chance we get, but more than that, we want to keep the puck from ours. Our first strategy is always to make Winslow our last line of defense. Our goal is to keep the puck from getting to him at all.

After a minute or more, I raise my stick and head for the bench. Courtney climbs over in my place, and I plop my ass next to Hugo. He's twisted in his seat, with a grin on his face. Seriously, it could be anything.

Pulling one of the water bottles, I tip my head back and spray some into my mouth as I turn to see what he's looking at.

"Have you ever watched the mascot?" he asks.

It takes me a minute to find said mascot. This is a home game. What is the mascot for the Golden Tides? Why, a seal. Yeah, don't ask. I can't explain it.

Currently, Surry the Seal is standing behind the box with a cowbell in his hands, working up the crowd. He's also shaking his tailed ass at the glass right in front of where Hugo is sitting.

"Seal tails do it for you, huh?" I ask and turn back to the game.

He laughs. It's such an authentic, carefree sound. There's something so sweet and innocent about him that I just want to protect. I sigh as I watch Noah speed down the ice toward Dallas' net. I slap Hugo's arm, gripping his glove as I lean forward. Hugo spins around as Noah flings the puck.

It misses the net by a lot, but when he meets the puck on the other side, I realize it was entirely intentional. Especially since the goalie barely had time to change positions between his posts. Noah shoots high and the puck barely skims the top of the goalie's shoulder pad and sinks in the net.

We cheer as Noah stands straight, grinning into the stands. Lix is out there somewhere, so I'm guessing Noah's looking in his direction. Our teammates on the ice circle Noah, hugging him and patting his helmet. He skates by the box after, tapping our gloves with his stick before retaking his spot around center ice.

4-0. I glance up at the time. We have eight minutes left. Just eight.

Eight is a long time in hockey. They can totally come back from this. The key is getting yourself into a positive mentality, without getting arrogant. As Coach Ajo says, keep up the momentum.

Hugo heads onto the ice when Delaney comes off. I follow thirty-eight seconds later when Lowell nearly falls over the low wall as he climbs back in. He's laughing breathlessly, so I assume that was an accident.

We continue our game of keep away, but Dallas is pushing hard now to get on the board. Losing sucks. Losing by a shutout sucks hard. And not in a good way.

We're fighting in front of our goal with Hugo in front of Winslow, nearly on top of him. I'm always impressed and surprised when a puck not only makes it through Hugo, but Winslow manages to catch it too. Hugo's so close that I imagine it's hard for Winslow to move.

One of Dallas' players tries to push his way in. Hugo blocks and when the guy attempts to bulldoze through Hugo, Hugo uses his bulk to shove the guy backwards. His feet come out from under him and the player goes down. The whistle blows as one of Dallas' guys slams into Hugo and they end up sliding into the net.

Winslow magically manages to get out of the way. For a man made twice his normal size by the amount of pads he has on, he surprisingly slips through some very small places. He hovers off to the side as the refs get involved and Hugo is pushed toward the penalty box.

I look at Coach. His arms are crossed and he's frowning severely at the referee. When the call comes, Hugo is penalized two minutes for roughing. We curse at the power play given to Dallas because it's shit.

Silently, I also curse the fucking ref. I swear, this one specifically tries to swing the games how he wants them. He's one of the few I remember their names—Fallon fucking Stillwater.

A glance at the clock has me nearly sputtering as I catch the screen. There's a man in the stands wearing a referee shirt and a long-coned hat on his head that reads ‘dunce.' Still trying to hold my laughter, I glide to the right and wait for the puck drop.

The rest of the period is harsh. More stupid penalties are called along with a single good one. I'm pretty sure the fucking refs are trying to give Dallas the chance to get on the board. But while power plays give the opposite team the advantage in bodies, we also kind of kick ass at defending against them.

It's like we were able to be in two places at once. We know how to split ourselves between one and one-fifth of another position. There was a day when we spent an hour going over our ability to defend power plays and we watched tape in silence, kind of awed.

There was no discussion about that, though. Nope. You don't jinx a good thing by talking about it.

Hugo comes back with ninety seconds on the clock. The man is many things, but the thing I praise him for the most is knowing his own mental state. He skates to the bench immediately and sits out the rest of the game while glaring at Fallon. I can imagine him muttering, "I hate that guy," as he sits there and scowls.

We win. The lights and the crowd go wild. Our team gathers together into a group and enjoy a low-key celebration on the ice before respectfully breaking apart. While the game is done, the league has asked the team to remain on the ice during the auctioning of the jerseys and we can hand them to the audience member who won.

It's a silent auction, thankfully. A venue this size and this loud while trying to command a real auction would be a fucking nightmare.

While we'd all like to head into the back, undress, get out of our gear, and shower, we really appreciate our fans. Well, I know most of us do. It's because of them we're able to play. They're always so weepy and grinning when they make their way down to collect the jerseys, so I don't mind at all.

I lean on the goal beside Winslow and stare into the crowd, trying to find Toby. I know he's there somewhere, but I rarely actually spot him. Which is probably a good thing since I'd likely stare at him far too much during a game than would be good for my performance.

Obviously I'm not paying the least bit of attention because the crowd suddenly hushes and I look up to find Toby walking across the ice. Well, he's shuffling across the ice.

"What did I just miss?" I ask as I stare.

"He's—"

Hugo's voice cutting off has me turning toward him, only to find that Winslow has his hand clamped over Hugo's face. He grins and shrugs. Hugo's eyes are wide and excited.

"Go," Noah says, and shoves me out of our group. I slide a little before moving toward my boyfriend.

Toby gives me a wink and a smirk and yep, I have no idea what the fuck is happening right now.