2. Benny

TWO

BENNY

Ten Hours Earlier

My head throbs like a few marching bands are having the time of their life inside it even before I open my eyes.

Then I remember, and they open wide as I sit up.

I'm on my bed, I realize, as I close them tightly again.

How did I get to my bed?

Who . . .

The memory of Norman smiling tenderly at me as he helped me into my bed has me groaning and flopping back down onto my back.

Fuck .

That was embarrassing. And not the way I want the man I love to see me. Ever.

It's the first time I've gotten that drunk in my life, so of course Norman has never seen me like that. He's known me for three years, since he was traded to Vegas from St. Louis, and being only twenty-two, I didn't really start to drink until last year .

So that makes sense . . .

He and I are like two peas in a pod. Have been since the second I introduced myself to him when he first entered the Pirates' locker room. It wasn't love at first sight, not at all.

It was a slow, helpless, inevitable fall.

One sided, I know all too well.

Unrequited love sucks .

It's to be expected too, when you fall for your straight best friend.

Apparently, that's something every gay man knows... somehow. No one told me how absolutely dehumanizing it is. How small it can make you feel.

I scoff at that, making my head throb harder. Small doesn't cut it.

I finally said the words yesterday. Those two little words I'd only ever told Norman—quietly, scared beyond belief that he was gonna turn against me when I did.

I'm gay .

Drunker than ever before, I had the strength and courage to say the words loud and proud to every person I'm close to in Vegas, and it went better than I could've ever imagined.

I knew it'd be fine, I really did.

Jules, our captain, Bear, our goalie, and Milkman, a center forward even younger than me but already a powerhouse on the ice, have all come out as queer in the last few years.

Yes, I knew it'd be fine, but seeing them all celebrate my queerness, well, I think there are very few people who get to experience that kind of support, that joy. Sadly.

I'm a lucky son of a bitch, that's for sure.

And the headache seems less important now. Because life's really not so bad, even if I do suffer from the most cliché of afflictions a gay man can have.

I'd like to think it's my own stupidity, but honestly, I don't know how anyone can stop themselves from falling for someone they spend so much time with. When that person is attractive, and nice, and kind, and funny.

Yeah, Norman Wenz, a.k.a. Bates is the whole package, and I haven't been able to reason with myself that he's not for me. I know he isn't, but he's so perfect.

Perfect friend, perfect teammate, perfect roommate on roadies.

My phone's alarm blares again, making me realize that's why I woke up in the first place. I reach to the nightstand and shut it off. The alarm is... oh shit . I scramble up and run naked to the bathroom. I'm supposed to be at Gab's place for the celebration there in five damn minutes. I'm going to be so late.

Not really the end of the world, since it's a casual sort of celebration, but I just know everyone's gonna be like "ooh, the rookie's late." I tolerate that they still call me rookie, even five seasons into my career in the NHL, because I know it comes from a place of care. I know they all feel like I need to be protected. Stupid baby face.

But sometimes it's just fucking tiring that everyone I'm close to thinks I'm not capable of taking care of myself.

Of course I can.

Yeah, clearly, I can, a snarky voice in the back of my head says when I slip on the shower tile and almost fall on my ass.

Ugh, whatever.

As predicted, I walk through Gab's house and into her backyard almost an hour late. I don't think anyone notices though, which is what I need. I go right to the coolers and dump in all the beers I brought and grab one that's already cold for myself—maybe the headache will go away if I just get drunk again?

I start to scan the place, looking for Norman, when Gab hollers to get everyone's attention. "Everyone listen!" she hollers from her perch on the couch. She's looking over her garden in frustration and stands before shouting again. "Listen, please. Everyone listen."

The grave look on her face isn't usual at all, and I guess everyone else notices too since they're all shushing each other.

"Today is a celebration of course, but it's also a sad day for me, because our GM, Fred Thompson, is retiring for good today. So you will all listen to his speech, and thank him for putting you where you are, you get me?"

"Yes, Gab," I shout, along with everyone else and she smiles, satisfied. Though not as satisfied as she normally looks when we all bow down to her superiority.

"Well, that's one way to start the speech." Fred sighs and runs a hand through his thinning hair. My throat feels suddenly tight. The man drafted me, hell he drafted or traded everyone here. Gab's right to say we owe him our careers.

"It's truly been an honor watching this team over the years," he says without looking up. "Especially the last few years." He turns back to look briefly at Gab. She nods, with tears already streaming down her face. "Please know that even though I do need to retire and travel and do all the things my wife wants..." He smiles ruefully. "I'll miss you, and you won't be able to get rid of me that easily. I'll stop by from time to time to see how well you're doing without me." I chuckle softly and wipe away a tear like I see a handful of others doing too—still no Norman in sight, though. "But I'm definitely not leaving you in the lurch." Fred looks up and finally smiles fully. "I convinced my prodigy to come back."

"Only because Gab promised me she'd make me president in a few years." A deep voice comes from the sliding doors to the indoor lounge area. I swivel around to see—damn, that's the South Carolina GM, I think. Barlow... That's his last name I think. Yeah, he used to work here, I forgot about that. They won the Cup one year ago, took it from us the bastards, so yeah. Fred's definitely not leaving us in the lurch.

When Jake walks all the way to Fred, who's standing under the sun's glare, everyone who's also not in the shade gasps as they recognize him.

I see Jules shake his head with a smile, and Bear lets out a "hell yeah," but otherwise everyone stays silent because Fred speaks again.

"Yeah, yeah, you and your ambition needed more than simply being the general manager of a multiple Stanley Cup winning team." Fred rolls his eyes and shakes Jake's hand.

"Hell yeah, I do. Especially since my team took the Cup from you last year." The smirk that's on his face doesn't fade as Fred grumbles.

"Oh, so you don't want the job anymore?" Gab asks, walking to them.

"Of course I do," he says loudly and puts his hands up. He looks honestly alarmed, and I realize he must've left to work in South Carolina before Gab bought the Pirates, so he has no clue Gab's just pulling his leg. I cover my mouth with a hand to keep the snicker in, while Gab stares him down for half a minute and his eyes only get wider. Eventually, she bursts out laughing and so do we all.

Fred claps Jake on the shoulder. "You've got a lot to learn, boy."

Boy is a stretch—well, not compared to Fred who's well into his seventies now—but Jake has to be about forty-five I'd say, more than two decades older than most of the players. His face relaxes at Fred's words and he even chuckles after a few seconds.

"You got me there," he tells Gab.

"I'll keep you on your toes, Jake Barlow." Ah, so that's his name . She winks at him, then tilts up her head. "Go, meet everyone, I'll get you a drink. Beer okay?"

"Yeah, thanks." Once more his eyes open wide. I don't blame him. Gab is... well, there's no one in the world like Gab.

I walk over to where Milkman and Spiderman are and get to meet our new GM with them. He seems nice enough. Clearly cocky, but I don't mind that. He's handsome for a guy his age. He's no Sterling of course, but then again, there's only one of those around.

I trust his hockey judgment, though. He took a team that had never won the Cup and made them champions in less than ten years—that's hard as hell to do. And they almost took the Cup again this season, but we beat them in game seven.

So . . .

My eyes shift over to the sliding doors leading inside the house and my breath stalls. Not only because of Norman, though he does make my heart stop from time to time, but because there's a woman in his arms—and Jesus she has to be a supermodel or an actress, she's that beautiful. She's smiling up at him and he's looking at her too. Then she?—

I have to close my eyes, tightly. I can't fucking see that. Can't see anyone look at Norman like they love him. Cup his cheek—that's all she was gonna do, nothing else. But it was enough to tell me everything I need to know. They're together.

Why hasn't he told me anything about her? When did he meet her? How long have they been dating?

I'm sure tomorrow I'll have the strength to ask all those questions, to hear the man I love tell me about the woman he's falling for, but not right now.

Not today.

Without giving anyone else a chance to say hi or to question me, I walk fast to the side of the house and take that path to the driveway.

I need to get out of here.

I drive right back to my apartment and as soon as I park the car, I know being alone at home is the last thing I need. No, what I need is people, music, alcohol.

Yes.

All that. And thank God I live in a place where you can get all those things anytime, any day.

Still, the team just won the Stanley Cup and we had our winning parade yesterday. I don't want anyone recognizing me, so I search in the backseat and in my trunk for something... and find a gray Kawartha Lakes cap. Perfect. No one here probably knows where the Kawartha Lakes are. Or that it's my hometown.

So, hoping that's all I need to cruise along the Strip unrecognized, I take the stairs up to my lobby and walk the two blocks to the closest resort. I make a beeline to the first bar and park my ass there.

I get a mojito first, and then another one. Then a couple of Long Island iced tea's. And that's how I pass the whole afternoon, until the bartender asks for my keys and I tell her I don't have a car. I ask about a club, and she tells me about a few at other resorts. She tells me the new one here is a gay club, and I shrug and nod at her.

I know there's a whole thing about people expecting gay men to look differently than me, but right now, with so much fucking alcohol coursing through my veins, I couldn't care less. Wryly, she tells me that maybe stopping by the twenty-four-hour casino restaurant might be a good idea, and I nod.

I get a huge bowl of spaghetti that tastes better than anything I've ever put in my mouth before—though that might be the alcohol talking—and feel a lot more sober when I'm done.

That just won't do, so I go to the elevators, ride up, and show my face without the cap to the bouncer so he'll let me in without waiting in line—perks of the job.

I'm relieved when he recognizes me and pleased when he asks for an autograph. At that moment I can't think about staying anonymous anymore, so I sign the cap and give it to him. He lets me in and points me out to another bartender— seems I found my type of people for this mood I'm in—this one a beautiful surfer-looking dude who winks at me when I stop in front of him. Though it has no effect whatsoever on me, I wink back and ask for a shot of tequila.

I chug it, pay with my phone, and then... it happens.

"Into You" by Ariana Grande starts playing, and damn, I just need to dance.

The hard beat reverberates through my whole body, and it feels perfect combined with the alcohol which is once again fueling my resolve to not think about real life.

I move my hips to the beat, throw my head back and close my eyes. I raise my arms in the middle of the full dance floor and just let go.

Norman can have the wife, the white picket fence, the two-point-five kids, and a hundred fucking golden retrievers for all I care. Right now, that's not real.

Right now, I'm free.

And suddenly, I'm not.

Suddenly, two very strong arms wrap around me from behind, and then there are hips pressed against my ass, and then I'm dancing with a stranger who's feeling me up.

A stranger who wants me. Who more than likely isn't straight.

A stranger who I actually have a shot with.

I keep my eyes closed, not wanting to ruin the fantasy in which this stranger is even better looking than Norman. Where he has pretty brown eyes instead of green ones, where he's a little taller than me instead of an inch shorter.

Yeah, this is what I need.