10. Jamie

Jamie

The next morningpasses in a slow grind of tension and frustration.

Wes and I are not doing so great. He knows I’m upset over what happened last night. Running into him at that pub, having to pretend we’re old acquaintances instead of lovers. No, partners.

To make matters worse, Wes’s dad calls the afternoon after our debacle. Since Mr. Wesley never bothers to call, I get tense the moment I hear Wes say, “Hi, Dad. What do you need?”

The man never calls unless he needs something.

“Uh-huh,” is all Wes says after listening for a moment. “I suppose it’s possible.”

This tells me nothing. I scrub down our kitchen sink as if I’m angry at it, wondering when he’ll get off the phone and tell me what’s up. And when he doesn’t do that immediately, I find myself blasting the water in the sink. Then I whistle to myself. I’m making these noises because Roger Wesley doesn’t like it that his son lives with a man. I don’t exist to that asshole, so it’s fun to remind him that I do.

Fun, if pathetic.

But Wes only moves out of range, carrying his phone into our bedroom where he can hear better.

So my childish quest to be acknowledged ends without satisfaction. But hey, I have a very clean sink.

When Wes finally reappears, I’m so cranky that I don’t even ask what the old man wanted, because I’m not sure I can speak calmly.

He sits down at the bar and watches me until I finally give up the charade and throw down the sponge. “What?”

A beat passes before he speaks. I have never felt as raw as I feel right now. I’ve just discovered that falling in love has a dark side. When you’re mad at the love of your life, it’s impossible to feel joy.

“My dad called,” he says finally.

“I got that,” I say, but my tone is kinder than the words.

He nods. “Remember his buddy at Sports Illustrated?”

“Sure. The guy wanted to do an all-access kind of series about your rookie season.”

Wes nods. “Well, now that my rookie season looks fruitful, he’s pretty bummed that I said no. So he’s pressuring dad to pry an exclusive interview out of me.”

“Can’t you just say no?” He had before.

My boyfriend stares at his hands. “This time he’s working both ends of it. He’s leaning on Frank to get him the story.”

Ah. Frank is the PR guy, and Wes never says no to him, because he thinks the whole coming-out thing will go easier if Frank’s on his side. “So...how about this—tell the guy that if he waits until June, you’ll give him a story worth waiting for.”

Wes looks up at me quickly. “I can’t do that. It would be like dangling a mouse in front of a python and asking him not to strike. He’ll just start digging. With that kind of hint, how hard would it be for him to find what he wants, then just break the story without my help?”

Shit. “Okay. That won’t work.”

“You think?” His voice cracks. “Babe, this is all I think about. I’ve been through every possible scenario. It’s not for lack of trying, all right?”

I know he feels cornered. I get it. The problem is that I don’t see why that will just go away come June. I’m worried that he won’t go through with it. That the idea of a media circus will be so abhorrent to him that he won’t be able to bring himself to pull the trigger.

What the hell will I do then? If Wes decides he needs another year of professional hockey under his belt before he comes out, I don’t think I’ll be able to suck it up.

Suddenly our apartment is just too small. “Going for a run,” I announce.

“Right now?” he asks. Usually we spend his pre-game hours together unless I’m away at a game or practice.

“Just for a little while,” I mutter, not looking him in the eye.

After a quick change, I stick earbuds in and leave the apartment. There are treadmills in the “health center” on the roof of our building. I set a machine to a blisteringly fast pace and pound my frustrations into the rubber conveyor belt.

I know you’re supposed to talk this shit out. The problem with that idea is that I know just what Wes will say. He’ll promise me that in June the secrets are over. But now that date seems so arbitrary to me. Why not May? Why not July?

Why ever?

Even though I know Wes is a man of his word, I can’t help but worry. It’s a hard thing I’m asking him to do. I hate being the one who makes him do it, too. If it goes poorly, he might actually resent me.

I will fucking hate that.

A half hour later I’m sweaty but no less miserable. As I head back down to our apartment, I wonder what I’ll say if Wes wants to talk about it.

As it turns out, we don’t talk about it.

Getting off the elevator on our floor, I hear pounding. “Wesley! You crazy beast! Open up!”

Blake Riley is standing in front of our door.

“Hey,” I say, because I’m not smart enough to retreat to the gym for another mile or two until he gives up.

“J-Bomb!” Blake’s expression lights up when he sees me. “I have the most vicious hangover. It’s like a sheep with fangs, gnawing on my head!”

“A...sheep?” What? I nudge him out of the way and open the door to our apartment.

“Dude, you need a shower,” Blake motor-mouths as he follows me inside, heading for the kitchen. “I need two pizzas and a quart of coffee. How’s your team doing, man? What do you like on your pizza?”

“Um…” I don’t know which question to answer first.

“Sausage or mushrooms?”

At least that’s a multiple choice question. “Both?”

“I knew I liked you. Go shower. I’ll make coffee,” the guy says from the center of my own kitchen.

A bathroom door opens from deep inside our apartment. “Babe?” Wes calls.

Fuck!“What do you need, Ryan? And Blake wants to know what you like on pizza!”

Blake looks up from his phone. “Your nickname is Babe? Like that pig in the movie?” He snorts.

“No, moron,” Wes says as he rounds the corner. “Like Babe Ruth.”

“You grumpy, Wesley? Hungover, too? I’m ordering pizza.” He puts the phone to his ear. “Sure I’ll hold. But please hurry, we’re desperate.”

I leave them without another word and take my shower in our en suite bathroom. Blake is too busy talking his ass off to notice. When I come back ten minutes later, he hasn’t moved from the kitchen. Now he’s holding a cup of coffee in one of the mugs my mom made, and it makes me feel stabby to choose one with the Toronto team’s insignia on it instead.

Given the mood I’m in, coffee is probably a poor idea. But I pour it anyway.

It’s no comfort to me that Wes looks at least as miserable as I do.

The pizzas arrive during a Blake Riley monologue about the movie Babe and the model he hooked up with last night and something about sheep being scary. I’m not listening too carefully. While Blake steps into the hallway to pay, Wes reaches across the counter and puts a hand on mine. “How was your run?”

“Okay.” I’m not sure I could spill all the fears in my heart even if Blake wasn’t here. But his presence sure doesn’t help.

Wes sighs, and then Blake is back, and we eat pizza and watch a daytime talk show that only Blake seems interested in.

I make sure to give the death chair a glare as Blake carries his plate over to our coffee table. Wes is not a stupid man. He takes the death chair, dropping onto the ugly upholstery like a man resigned. Then I feel like an ass because he has to play the Oilers in a few short hours, and I hope his whole lower back doesn’t seize up from sitting there.

If they lose tonight, I’m going to feel even guiltier than I already do. Yay.

“You ever come to our games, J-bomb?” Blake asks as I finish off the last of my pizza.

“Sometimes,” I say with my mouth full. “I have to coach a late practice tonight, though.”

“Sweet,” he says, taking my plate from my hands. I do appreciate his clean-up skills, though I’m not sure they entirely make up for his barging in unannounced.

As Blake lumbers off to the kitchen, my phone beeps. I lean forward and see the Facebook notification icon. Normally I wouldn’t care enough to click on it, not unless it’s from someone in my family, but Wes is sulking hard in his chair and I’m sulking hard inside, and I desperately need a distraction before I pick a lover’s quarrel right in front of Blake.

I open the app and find a status update from my college friend Holly. It says she’s in a relationship now, and there are two photos—pixie-sized Holly on the left and a huge mountain of a man on the right. They make such an unlikely couple—physically, anyway—that I can’t fight a snort.

Which of course captures Blake’s attention. He’s finished cleaning up, and now he’s leaning over the back of the couch, peeking at my phone.

“Ooooh,” he says in approval, tapping one blunt fingertip on Holly’s picture to enlarge it. “And who is this sexy little elf creature?”

“Ah, just a friend from college,” I answer. For some absolutely stupid reason, I’m compelled to add, “An ex, I guess.”

Blake’s gaze shoots toward me in surprise. Or rather, confusion. I can’t make heads or tails of his expression. Nor do I miss the tensing of Wes’s broad shoulders in my peripheral vision.

“Holly’s messaging?” Wes sounds nonchalant. I know better.

“Naah,” I say without looking at him. “Status update on Facebook popped up. I guess she has a new boyfriend.”

“Good for her.” Again, the edge in his tone is only noticeable if you know him as well as I do.

One of Wes’s biggest fears when we first got together was that my attraction to women would come between us. I’ve assured him over and over again that he’s the only one I want, but sometimes I wonder if he’ll ever believe me. The thing about Wes, he’s used to disappointment. Hell, I think disappointment isn’t something he fears, but expects—like he’s forever living in a state of when-will-the-other-shoe-drop. When will my parents officially disown me, when will the world find out I’m gay, when will the team drop me, when will Jamie leave me.

Usually I do everything I can to offer him that reassurance he needs, but at the moment, my nerves are too raw. I can’t give him what he needs right now, and so I remain focused on Blake rather than my clearly agitated boyfriend.

“You were tapping this sweet bundle of goodness?” Blake says slowly.

I nod. “It was more of a friends-with-benefits thing.” I get the feeling that he doesn’t believe me. Or that if he does, he can’t make sense of it.

Worry pricks at my insides. I thought Wes and I had been doing a decent job keeping Blake Riley in the dark, but now I’m starting to wonder how successful we’ve actually been.

I finally find the courage to seek out Wes’s eyes, but he doesn’t meet my gaze. His jaw is twitching. And he’s white-knuckling the arms of the death chair. Fuck. Why is everything so hard right now? What if it’s always like this?

“We should head out,” Blake tells Wes.

My boyfriend rises from the chair, still avoiding my gaze. “I’ll grab my gear,” he mutters.

A few minutes later, Wes and Blake leave for pre-game warm-ups, and I’m almost relieved. The tension between Wes and I is unbearable. Of course, now the apartment is as quiet as a tomb. I’m left alone with my pessimistic thoughts.

It’s hard to say which is worse.

The next morningI’m out of the house while Wes is still snoring softly in our bed. I’m not intentionally sneaking out like a thief in the night—well, morning. I have an early staff meeting to get to, and I feel bad waking him up, even if it’s just with a quick goodbye kiss. Or at least that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.

But I don’t have a good excuse for why I pretended to be asleep when he got home from the game last night. Cowardice, maybe? Exhaustion?

I’m sure Wes is as tired of the tension as I am. I know he is. All those years we spent at hockey camp together, we had no problem talking to each other. All we fucking did was talk. About music. About where we grew up. Our thoughts on different brands of deodorant and the Superman/Batman schism and about which presidential nominees had the stupidest names.

And now we’re a couple, and we’ve forgotten how to have a conversation. It’s like we’re two acquaintances making small talk about the weather. Hell, the past couple days, it felt like we were just acquaintances, tiptoeing around each other in our condo, fearful of saying the wrong thing and upsetting the other person. We haven’t even discussed the night at the pub, for Pete’s sake. And sex? Forget it. We haven’t so much as kissed since our angry make-out sesh in the pub bathroom.

I don’t know how to make things better. I love this guy, I really do. But I didn’t anticipate how hard this would be.

I’m still agonizing about it during the coaches’ meeting, and I desperately hope my colleagues don’t notice how distracted I am as our boss, Bill Braddock, drones on about ordering new equipment and the summer clinic the organization will be running. An hour later, the meeting blessedly comes to its conclusion, and I scrape back my chair, eager to get home. It’s a bit ridiculous of me to go back to the condo right now, but practice isn’t for another three hours, and the last thing I feel like doing is hanging around the arena.

“Jamie.” Braddock’s voice stops me before I can dart out the door.

I swallow a sigh, and slowly turn around. “Yeah, Coach?”

“Everything all right?” His tone is light, but there’s concern in his eyes.

“Everything’s great,” I lie.

“You looked a bit distracted this morning.” Shit. I guess someone did notice. Bill’s gaze sharpens. “I know your goalie is struggling, but I wouldn’t want you to take it personally.”

I don’t. It’s just one more thing going sideways in my life. “He’ll pull through,” I tell Bill. “He has the skills, but the kid is just having a rough patch. Every goalie goes through ’em.”

Bill nods thoughtfully. “True. But maybe we need to offer him some more support. I could ask Hessey to spend some time with the kid. Try to help him find his confidence. We don’t just breed champions here. We shape young men and women. Luckily, we have all the resources we need to shower on those who are struggling.”

A zing of panic shoots up my spine. “Give me a couple of weeks with him,” I say more calmly than I feel. I can’t have Bill thinking that my coaching isn’t enough. What the hell am I here for, then? “If Dunlop gets the impression that he’s a problem child, that won’t do a thing for his confidence.”

Braddock rubs a hand over his chin. “If that’s how you want to play it. But your team’s morale is low, so the Dunlop kid’s psyche isn’t the only one that needs massaging. I think a little extra love and attention from the coaching staff might be just the thing they need to pull together.”

My heart sinks into my shoes. I don’t want a more senior coach to solve Dunlop’s problem when I can help him myself. And Braddock is a smart man, but if there’s a coach on our team who needs some extra support, it’s Danton and his big fucking mouth. I can’t believe he doesn’t see that. “I’ll check in with you next week,” I promise.

Bill claps a hand onto my shoulder. “We’ll talk soon. I look forward to it.” Then he leaves me there to stew in my own aggravation.

I feel like all I’ve done these past couple months is lose. Lose patience, lose the ability to talk to my boyfriend, lose that indescribable ease that always existed between me and Wes.

But have we really lost it, or just misplaced it? I agonize about it some more as I hop on the subway and head home. Wes has surely left for his morning skate, and I’m relieved at the timing. Then I’m guilty for feeling relieved. And angry for feeling guilty. And annoyed for feeling angry. My emotions don’t like me today.

The first thing I notice when I enter the living room is the chair. Or lack thereof. The death chair is gone.

My jaw falls open. I stalk toward the brand new chair that is taking the place of the armchair that’s haunted my nightmares for months. Wes must have ordered this yesterday, because I’m now staring at a big, black, cushy contraption that seems to have more knobs and dials than any chair has a right to have.

There’s a post-it note stuck on one of the padded arms. I snatch it up and skim Wes’s familiar chicken-scratch scrawl.

Dude at the store said this one will be better for our backs. Ten different massage settings. We should use it on our balls and see if it doubles as a sex toy. Fingers crossed.

I read the note again. I look at the chair again. I’m torn between laughing and cursing.

My humor fades fast, though, because...damn it, this is classic Wes, thinking a piece of furniture will erase the tension between us.

I crumple the note between my fingers. Wes is fooling himself if he thinks bruised feelings and growing resentment can be smoothed over by a chair.