Five

FIVE

REN

There's a last-minute change in the lineup for the game against San Jose. No explanation is offered for why Felton isn't here. He's not just been changed out of the game, but he's not serving as backup on the bench either.

We lose against San Jose. Then when Felton isn't on the plane home the next morning, I'm seriously starting to worry. He wasn't hurt, was he? Did he get into an accident after we arrived in San Jose?

Just as I'm trying to work out what happened and whether I should actually be concerned, I hear Dasan say, "Oh no."

I twist in my seat to look at him. He's staring at his phone, his mouth wide open in disbelief.

"What is it?" Willits asks, leaning over his shoulder.

The plane is quiet now except for the normal plane noises. So we're all watching him. I'm not the only one who noticed Felton simply disappeared.

Dasan looks up, meeting Willits' eyes. "He didn't really…"

"You going to share with the rest of us?" Marion asks.

Dasan shakes his head.

"No need," Nason says. "I found it." It isn't long before the rest of us get to see what Dasan did since Nason forwards everyone the link.

WINNIPEG AVALANCHE'S FELTON BADCOCK SUSPENDED FOR PORN ACCOUNT

My eyes widen. Holy fuck. I can't stop myself from opening the link. At first, the images, which are mostly blurred out, don't prove shit. The man in the porn account is masked. A black leather mask that has cutouts for his eyes, nose, and mouth. It covers his entire face, right down to his neck.

I'll admit that the tattoos between pictures of Felton (face showing) and masked supposed-Felton look incriminating. I might have scoffed at first because, come on, it's a damn star. If we put a poll out to survey how many people had star tattoos in Winnipeg alone, it'd be astronomical. Fuck, even I have one on my back.

From what I can tell, they don't manage to produce an image of this porn star with his face showing. But the article states Felton has been suspended for the next four games while management discusses the offense.

I shake my head. It sounds ludicrous.

"They literally have zero proof that's Felton," Dasan says.

"True," someone else answers. "However, all the Benny Bop accounts are now closed or deleted entirely. The timing seems a little… coincidental, no?"

I sit back in my seat, frowning. Can I imagine Felton as a porn star? He's always single, so I suppose he could be. But why would he jeopardize his career for this? He could have all the sex he wanted without making it public and risk getting fired.

It seems so… just…

"Stupid," Denny mutters, shaking his head.

"I don't think it's him," Willits says.

"He literally has that exact same tattoo," Nason counters.

"So?" Willits challenges, shifting in his seat to glare at Nason.

Nason raises his hands. "I'm not accusing him of anything. I really don't care if he has a porn channel or not. I'm just saying that some of these pictures literally line up exactly."

Willits doesn't answer. I think he's hell-bent on defending Felton, but even he can't deny that. No one can.

"What's irritating is that they don't have more than the tattoos to go on from what I can tell," Marion says. "And yet he's suspended, anyway."

"Maybe he confessed it was him?" Nason asks.

The plane is plunged into silence as we think about that. Do I think he'd do that? Would he confess it was him when they seriously only have circumstantial evidence? People are so concerned with public image and other people's opinions, so I suppose it makes sense, right?

Especially public figures.

But what's Felton hurting?

I suppose that question could have been asked about the Max Latham scandal. So what if he had a kink that people find disgusting and wrong? He's not forcing it on everyone else.

Would it have been different if they weren't gay? What if they were straight and had been on a St. Andrew's Cross or had a porn channel? Would it have been such a big deal then?

I'm still thinking about this over the next couple days. We win against Dallas on the second in a shootout. It's still running through my mind when I walk into conditioning the next day with my headphones in for leg day.

Is it Felton's sexuality that makes this such a big deal? Last summer, Isak Lokkin retired to create porn instead. There was a lot to be said about it, but it was brushed over. Because he retired first? Or because he's straight?

Would there be a huge headline if athletes were shown to be subscribed to these accounts? I'm partially contemplating the theory when Dasan and Willits walk in. Something about the way they're talking has me reaching for my phone and turning the music off so I can hear them.

"…this morning. He's freaking out," Dasan says. "I've never heard him like this before."

Willits shakes his head. "I brought him something to eat last night. I'm not sure he's eating."

"How'd he look?"

"Awful. Like someone died."

I press my lips together and work through another rep as I listen to them talk about Felton with concern in their voices. They're worried. They don't know what to do.

Eventually, they change topics. I leave my music off for the rest of the time I'm there as I contemplate Felton's situation. It's not my business. We're friendly but are we friends?

After I go through the shower, I sigh because I already know where I'm heading after this. And it's not home. Thinking about what Willits said, I stop by the store and grab a few meals. Then I show up on Felton's doorstep.

With a bag in hand, I ring the bell and wait. There's no noise inside. No movement or lights. Glancing back at the driveway, I'm mostly convinced that he's home since his truck is here, so I ring the doorbell again.

This time, the door opens. He's… not good. I'm not even sure he sees me. Felton doesn't move as he stares at me, as if seeing nothing but air and waiting for someone to manifest.

"Hi," I say, keeping my voice quiet. For some reason, I feel like he's going to startle easily right now. "I brought you some food."

Felton doesn't so much as blink. He just turns around and walks back inside. Since he doesn't shut the door, I peek inside after him. Minutes pass and he doesn't return. With a frown, I follow him inside, shutting the door quietly.

I've been to his house before. Once. But it was for a team gathering outside, and I never stepped foot inside. So I step inside, shutting the door behind me, and slip out of my shoes then slowly make my way in, peeking into doors and around corners until I come across him pacing in the living room.

I kind of felt like the place would be a disaster, but it's neat and tidy. There's a chorus of bells and chimes that offer a tranquil backdrop to what is definitely not a comforting scene right now.

This man is a fucking disaster. He's in nothing but gym shorts and, while under normal circumstances I wouldn't be looking at him anywhere, my gaze seeks out the tattoo. His shorts are low enough on his hips that I can just make out the top of it.

I suppose that it is kind of damning.

Remaining just inside the door, I watch as he paces. His hair is short enough that it only barely looks like a mess. But he's normally clean shaven and right now, he has several days' growth on his face.

He doesn't speak, just walks around staring at nothing. Absently. I can almost see the stress radiating from his body in waves. His shoulders are tense, but he's sagging as if he's carrying the world on his shoulders.

Setting the bag of food down, I step further into the room and sit on the couch. "Felton."

He stops abruptly and blinks several times. His eyes don't meet mine even as he looks in my direction.

"Come here and sit down," I say.

Felton sways, but he joins me on his couch. He smells like soap. Now that he's close, I can see how red and raw part of his chest is. As if he's been trying to scrub away this moment.

"Let's talk."

He licks his lips. "The accounts are deleted," he mutters gruffly. As if he hasn't used his voice in days. "They're going to let me play again."

"That's good news, right?" I ask.

He nods, his eyes closing.

"Then why are you still freaking out? It's over, right?"

Felton flinches and turns his face away. It's apparently not over.

I'm not good about comforting someone I'm close with, never mind someone I'm only friendly with, so I'm not entirely sure what he needs. The quiet chimes I heard when I entered the room pick up for one loud minute, filling the room with a cryptic melody. I glance up, scanning the room for their source before it dies down to a quiet ambiance.

"I'm on probation," Felton explains. "I can't go back to the arena until the seventh, after the fourth game I'm suspended from."

The way he's talking makes me feel like he's giving a report. I'm not sure what to do with this information. It's good news, isn't it?

"They're not going to dock my pay, but I need to live as if I'm a saint for the duration of my contract. I don't think they're going to renew it."

"That's their loss," I say. "It's the team's loss and a mistake."

He shrugs.

His eyes never meet mine as he talks. My gaze scans down his body and I find his hands fidgeting in his lap, playing with the hem of his shorts. This close, I can't see the tattoo. It's completely covered.

"When did you eat last?" I ask, trying a different approach.

His eyes close and he doesn't respond. Maybe he doesn't know.

"I brought some food and I'm starving. Eat something with me?"

This time, his eyes flicker to mine. Briefly. Just barely meeting my eyes. He gives me a subtle nod.

"Show me where your kitchen is?"

Felton gets up and I follow him once I grab the bag again. He stands in the doorway, so I gently push him inside and to a stool at the counter.

"You okay if I make us something to eat?"

He nods.

I head to the fridge, expecting to find it empty, but it's fully stocked. "You go shopping recently?" I ask.

"It gets delivered on preset dates," he answers. His voice sounds so defeated.

Grabbing the juice, I poke my way through the cabinets before I find the glasses and pour him something to drink. His lips lift in an attempt to smile, but it doesn't climb very high.

After emptying the bags, I shove some of it into the fridge and then turn on his oven. While I wouldn't normally make myself comfortable in someone else's space like this, it's clear that Felton likely hasn't eaten much in days, and the vegetables are on their way out. With that in mind, I throw together a salad and set it in front of him.

Felton stares at it absently.

"Eat, Felton," I direct.

He sighs and does as I tell him. By the time he's finished the salad, I push a plate in front of him with the contents I'd brought for lunch and tell him to eat again. Taking my seat next to him, I eat with him.

We're silent. I watch him as I eat. He's rhythmic, following instructions but not tasting it at all. His mind isn't here. He's not seeing the spot he's staring at.

When we're finished, I clean the dishes and the counters. Finished, I look at Felton. He's watching me this time. The helpless, desperately sad look he's giving me makes my chest feel tight. I don't know what to do with this.

"Want to talk about this?" I ask.

Felton scratches his head, swallows, and nods.

"Here? Or want to go back into the living room?"

His eyes move around the space, as if just now recognizing where we are. "Yes," he answers in a whisper.

I follow him in and we take seats on the couch. Before I can ask him anything further, his phone rings. Felton flinches almost violently. I can see him curl in on himself as he reaches for it where it sits on the coffee table. He looks sick as he answers it.