Four

FOUR

FELTON

The puck comes whizzing at me, and I end up in a split as I reach for it. The satisfying thwack as it slams into my glove has me almost grinning.

L.A. is a lot less hostile than our game against Anaheim two days ago. They get denied their shot and turn around to return to center ice for the puck drop. There aren't any tantrums or hits with their sticks.

The ref takes the puck from my glove as the players shift. I'm still on my knees, so I scootch some of the snow dust into a gouge within my crease and then rub my pad over it to smooth it out. I need it roughed up, but those deeper slits can trip you up. As I remodel the ice under me, I watch as the teams switch out and line back up to get ready.

Eventually, I stand and ready myself in front of the goal. I should have taken a sip of water while there was this pause. Meh. I'm fine. Next time.

We've been stuck at 4-3 since the second half of the second period. There's six minutes left in the game now. A lot can happen in that time but I'm feeling confident. We're playing well, cohesively. Right on, tonight.

The puck drops and Emmons grabs it. He's a selfish player, but he tosses it away when Willits and Ren block him in. My friend Noah Kain has the puck as he digs his blades in and heads for me. I grin, even though he's not looking at me as I wiggle back and forth a bit.

Just outside my crease, he passes it to Hector Atlas, who is much more aerodynamic now. Atlas makes a shot that skims off my gloves. I dive and throw my stick behind me. The momentum of the puck has it bouncing off my stick and dropping to the ground just to my right.

Putting my head down, I scramble to cover it with my body and the whistle blows. Looking up, I find Noah rolling his eyes as he moves away, a smirk on his pretty lips. I grin again and pull myself up. Good news—no new gouges in my ice. They really irritate me.

Scooping up the puck in my glove, I get to my feet and set it on the top of the net as I push my helmet back and reach for the bottle. As I'm squirting the liquid into my mouth, a ref pulls the puck from my net.

"Nice save," he says and skates off.

I like that ref. I think his name is Fallon. He's neutral and pretty unbiased as far as refs go. At least, in my opinion. He's also kind and offers nice words as he grabs the puck from me. I wonder if he does that to other goalies too.

The last time I played a game where Fallon was the ref, he literally jumped on top of the goalie net for a better view of the scuffle within the crease, making damn sure he would make the correct call and could see if that puck crossed the red line. It was at the other end of the arena, but I was impressed all the same.

He's a good guy. Well, he appears to be a good guy. What do I really know, though? It's not like I've ever seen or spoken to him off the ice. Would I even recognize him without his helmet and stripes?

Then again, he is a ref. That's already several points against him as far as fans and teams are concerned. I'm not even sure coaches appreciate the refs.

I get it. It's their job to call penalties. The thing is, only about half of them are worth calling and the other half are shit. Then there's an entire half that they don't call at all that should be called. Yes, that's three halves, but I stand by what I said. And there are some refs that absolutely have to play favorites.

When that happens, there are a lot of unnecessary calls because I think the other ref and linesmen try to make up for their obvious stupidity.

The puck goes back into play, but it barely comes down here for the rest of the game. We don't pull off another score, but our team keeps it in L.A.'s zone. When the buzzer signals the end of the game, I straighten up and push my helmet back on my head.

It's so hot in here. Gah! I'm sweating.

I take a drink of my water as I head for the chute. Noah catches up, wrapping an arm around my big goalie pads. He grins.

"You lose hot stuff," I say, smirking.

He rolls his eyes. "Whatever, Cock Sucker. We on for dinner?"

"Can we do breakfast instead? I kind of want to sit in the hot tub for the rest of the night. That split I did needs attention."

Noah laughs. "Yeah, sure. Mind if Hector and Egon join us? Maybe Lix?"

"You going to bully me with your whole posse, Kain?"

"Your ego is so big, it needs four of us to fight against it. Especially when your team wins," he counters. I laugh. "Actually, Lix would like to catch up. I'm trying to drag Egon out more and Hector has his first Gays Can Play event coming up, and he's a bit nervous, so I thought introducing him to the crew bit by bit as we play them will help ease his nerves a little."

"Ah. You've got a lot of gay boys in L.A., Kain. What's in the water?"

"Sparkles," he says, grinning.

"Nah, I'm cool with that. What's his first event?"

Noah shrugs. "Something at one of the colleges, I think. He's the only L.A. rep going, so I think that adds to his nerves."

I take another drink. "Hang on. I haven't even seen that he's, like, made an official announcement or some shit. Why are they making him do this?"

"Actually, I think this is his announcement. He doesn't want to make one, so he's decided to just let PR slowly introduce him into the Gays Can Play events. So far, it's been good. It's not like he and Toby are a secret thing. They go out and stuff. He's just never made it, like, public knowledge, and he shuts down any attempt at answering questions concerning his sexuality."

"I admire that. That wouldn't have worked back when I came out in college sports. Everyone had something to say, ask or tell me." I shrugged. "But I've grown thicker skin because of it, so in hindsight, I'm not complaining… But man, at the time." I shake my head.

"Tell me about it. High school was fucking rough. Anyway, we'll see you tomorrow. Hotel restaurant?"

I nod. "I think we get on the bus at eleven, so let's do eight if you can get your sore asses there early."

Noah shoves me, laughing. "See you tomorrow."

When he skates off, I'm one of the last from Winnipeg left on the ice, so I hobble my way down the chute. In the locker room, the team is chatting. The vibes are all positive and happy, which is always helpful for my mood. What I take for another round of ‘congratulations' and ‘good game's is passed around when I get in.

Then I go about my business of peeling off the layers, showering, and dressing. Because I was loitering on the ice with Noah, I'm one of the last out and boarding the bus. I must have missed Coach's talk, which is fine. There's nothing important in most after game talks. Just some praise and critique. Sometimes encouragement.

We get back to the hotel, and I do just what I claimed I was going to do. I change into my swim trunks and head for the hot tub. There are usually a couple of us in the hot tub after a game if the hotel has one, and it's rare these days that they don't.

The next morning, I catch up with Noah, Lix, and his two additional buddies before we board the bus for the airport. Once on the plane, travel time is just over an hour to San Jose, where we have a game tomorrow.

I'm just dropping onto my bed when my phone rings. It's unusual that I get a call from anyone other than my father, so I immediately tense up. For a moment, I debate ignoring the call entirely. If there's any time I don't want to deal with my father, it's when I'm preparing for a game tomorrow.

However, I reach for my cell and relax when it's not my father's name. However, it's Coach, which is unusual.

"Hello?" I answer.

"Hello, Felton. Are you settled in your room?"

"Yes, Coach."

"Good. I need you to come down to the conference room on the second floor, the Howard Room."

"Okay," I answer, my heart racing. "Now?"

"Yes."

"Okay," I repeat, my entire body going cold. "I'll be right there."

"Very well," Coach says and ends the call.

"Relax," I murmur as I get to my feet. "I just had a good game. I'm having a good start to the season."

Still, something heavy forms in my chest, making it hard to breathe. There's no reason to be worried. None at all.

Taking a breath to steady myself, I stand in front of the food and shake myself out while repeating that my game has been good. I'm doing well. There's nothing to worry about.

I'm alone in the hall and alone in the elevator. The second floor looks deserted. It feels ominous as I walk the silent halls to find the Howard Room.

It's a small conference room in the business center of the hotel. I knock and Coach immediately answers. Opening the door, I'm once again trying to calm my anxiety. PR is here, Coach Shively and our assistant coach, and two guys that I should know their names, but I don't. They're wearing suits. On a travel day.

This can't be good.

"Hi," I say as I shut the door behind me.

"Have a seat, Felton," Coach tells me.

I really, really don't want to. Trying to stifle the shiver, I pull out the chair and sit. Dropping my hands into my lap so they can't see me fidget, I stare at them. No one is smiling.

"You played well last night," Coach says and I nod. "Your performance on the ice isn't why we're calling you in."

"Oh," I say, only slightly pacified. "That's good. I think."

PR's face is pinched. It's not good.

"Do you know who Benny Bop is?" one of the guys in a suit asks.

I don't have to look in a mirror to know that the color just drained from my face. All the blood leaves my head, making my vision spotty and me sway. No words come out of my mouth as I stare at him.

Oh god. Oh no.

Dread feels like a lead ball in my stomach, giving me a bad taste in my mouth.

"I told you there's no evidence that they're the same person," Coach says, sighing.

"I think Felton's expression says that they are," the man argues.

I look at Coach desperately. I need guidance. What do I say? What do I do? Oh fuck, I may vomit right now.

"You do understand, Mr. Badcock, that this kind of conduct is violating your contract, don't you?" the second man declares.

"No!" I insist, shoulders tensing. The room feels too hot and simultaneously far too cold. I shiver. "Please, don't fire me. I'm a good goalie."

"You're an excellent goalie," the first man agrees. "However, you have broken the terms of your contract."

"If that's you," Coach offers. "Since this Benny Bop never shows his face, there's no solid proof."

"Yet there is," second man says, holding up his tablet on a picture that's mostly blurred out, fortunately, except for the tattoo that's burned into my skin. I stare, horrified.

"Unless you've seen Felton undressed," Coach says, glaring at this man.

The man is prepared, though. While giving Coach a bitter, nasty look, he swipes the screen and there I am over last summer. A picture that I fucking posted of our yacht cruise with my hockey buddies. I'm in low riding swim trunks.

Without even looking, this man places his fingers on the screen and somehow manages to zoom in right on my tattoo that's stupidly visible in the photo.

Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

I look at Coach again, feeling like I'm wildly free-falling. What do I do? What do I say? What's going to happen right now?

"Yes, similar tattoos," Coach says. "Might I point out, again , that there's nothing special about a star tattoo nor where it's located. This Benny Bop's face is not shown in any of his online content. There is no solid tie to Felton."

Silence fills the room. It feels like there's a standoff between Coach Shively and this man. I'm not sure if he believes it's me or not, but he's fighting like he does.

I'm going to let him down. He'll be just another person added to the list of those disappointed in me.

"You cannot cancel his contract without solid evidence and a generic tattoo isn't it," Coach insists. "You can't so much as suspend him. Fact of the matter is, you're wasting our time without actual visual or verbal evidence that Felton is the man behind those accounts."

The charge between them feels volatile. There's a part of me that wants to shout that it is me, but I have a feeling that maybe Coach does know that and he's fighting it, anyway. But why? Because I'm a good goalie?

Whoever the guy is clicks his tablet off. "You and I both know it's a matter of time now before they're linked without argument. I'm pushing for cancellation."

"You do that, Edward," Coach drawls.

He and the other man whose name I don't know leave the room, shutting the door with a snap behind them. I flinch at the sound, staring at the door for several seconds as I try to catch my breath.

"Felton," Coach says and my head whips around. "Take a breath."

I try. I really do.

"You need to delete those accounts," PR tells me. "Now."

I nod and try to fumble out my phone, but my hands are shaking too badly to do so. Coach reaches across the table and grips my wrist. I close my eyes and let his calm seep into me.

"I'm not going to ask why you did this," he murmurs. "I can't promise that I can keep your contract. But if you delete your accounts right now, I'll continue to fight to keep you on this team. All right?"

I nod.

"Look at me, Felton." I look up but can barely see him. I might be shaking. "Take a breath. Concentrate on breathing for a minute."

He doesn't tell me it's going to be okay. I think we both know it's not.