11. Jamie

Jamie

When Friday comes, Wes leaves for a game in New York, and, frankly, I’m relieved again. I hate myself for feeling this way, but I’ve had a bitch of a time pasting on a happy face this week. I’m not having success with that now either, because my team’s scrimmage today is a total disaster.

While Wes’s team had won both of their home games this week, mine is on a four-game losing streak since our tourney in Montreal. Morale is low. The boys are angry and frustrated, and it’s showing in their game play.

I blow the whistle for the third time in ten minutes, skating toward the two red-faced teenagers who are exchanging not-so-pleasant words in the faceoff. “Cool it,” I snap when one of them hurls a rather nasty insult about his teammate’s mother.

Barrie doesn’t even look repentant. “He started it.”

Taylor protests. “Bullshit!”

They break out in another round of heated bickering, and it takes a few seconds for me to figure out what they’re bitching about. Apparently Barrie had accused Taylor of being the reason we lost our last game, since Taylor is the one who drew a completely unnecessary penalty that resulted in the other team scoring on the power play. Taylor refused to accept the blame (and why should he? It takes a lot more than one player’s error to lose a game) and started chirping that Barrie’s single mom is a cougar.

It’s obvious my players are not handling our recent losses very well.

“Enough!” I slice my hand through the air, silencing the two teens. I glare at Barrie. “Throwing blame around is not going to un-lose us those games.” I glare at Taylor. “And talking trash about someone’s mother is not going to make you any friends.”

The boys’ expressions darken sullenly.

I blow my whistle again, making them both jump. “One-minute penalties for unsportsmanlike behavior. Sin bin—both of you.”

As they skate off toward their respective penalty boxes, I notice the unhappy expressions of their teammates. I get it. I hate losing, too. But I’m a twenty-three-year-old ex-college hockey player with plenty of losses under his belt and a thick skin that formed as a result. These are sixteen-year-olds who have always excelled in the sport, always been the best players on whatever middle school or junior high teams they were recruited from. Now they’re in the major juniors competing with guys who are as good if not better than they are, and they’re not used to no longer being the best.

“Je-sus fuckin’ Christ,” Danton mutters to me an hour later, as we trudge into the coaches’ locker room. “These little faggots are spoiled rotten—”

“Don’t use slurs,” I interject. But it’s like yelling into the wind. His rant doesn’t break stride.

“—that’s why they keep losing,” he goes on. “They have no discipline, no work ethic. They think the wins are just gonna be handed to them on a silver platter.”

Frowning, I sink onto the bench and unlace my skates. “That’s not true. They’ve worked their asses off for years to reach this point. Most of these kids learned to skate before they learned to walk.”

He makes a derisive sound. “Exactly. They were hockey wonder kids, showered with praise by their parents, teachers, coaches. They think they’re the best because everyone tells them they’re the best.”

They are the best, I want to argue. These kids have more talent in their pinkie fingers than most players only dream of having, including ones currently playing in the NHL. They just need to hone that talent, build on the skills that already come naturally to them and learn how to get even better.

But there’s no point in arguing with Danton. The man is a decent player, but I’m starting to think that his ignorance is a disease without a cure. Frazier told me the other night that Danton grew up in a “hick town up north” (Frazier’s words, not mine), where prejudice and ignorance are pretty much passed down from generation to generation. I wasn’t surprised to hear it.

I hurriedly shove my skates in my locker and slip into my boots and winter coat. The less time I spend with Danton, the better. Though it bums me out that I can’t bring myself to like the man, seeing as how he’s the one I work most closely with.

When I step out of the arena five minutes later, I’m disheartened to find that it’s still snowing. I woke up this morning to a blizzard raging outside my window. As a result, practice was postponed three hours until the city’s snowplows could take care of the mountains of snow that had dumped onto the streets overnight. I ended up driving Wes’s Honda Pilot to work because I didn’t want to deal with the long walk to and from the subway in such shitty conditions.

I trudge through the snowy parking lot and slide into the big black SUV, instantly switching on the butt warmers and blasting the heat. White flakes fall steadily beyond the windshield, and I wonder if the weather is this bad in New York. Wes texted earlier to say they’d landed safely, but with the snow falling harder than it had this morning, I’m suddenly worried he might not make it back tonight. Or maybe I’m just relieved again. If Wes is snowed in, that means another night of not having to pretend things haven’t gone to the shitter between us.

I swallow a groan and pull out of the parking lot, but I’m only five minutes into the slow drive home when my phone rings. Since my Bluetooth is paired with the SUV, I can see on the car’s dash screen that my sister is calling. All I have to do is click a button to answer, leaving my hands free to steer the car through the foot of snow on the road.

“Hey,” I greet Jess. “What’s up?”

Instead of hello, she says, “Mom’s worried about you. She thinks aliens descended on Toronto and turned you into a pod person.”

“Gleep glorp,” I say monotonously.

My sister’s laughter echoes in the car. “I said aliens, not robots. I’m pretty sure extraterrestrials have a more advanced language than gleep glorp.” She pauses. “Seriously, though. Are you okay over there in Siberia, Jamester?”

“I’m fine. I have no idea why Mom’s worried—I spoke to her on the phone last night.”

“That’s why she’s worried. She said you didn’t sound like your usual self.”

Not for the first time, I curse my mother for knowing me so damn well. She’d called while Wes and I were watching Banshee—on opposite ends of the couch. It had been another tension-filled night for us, but I thought I’d sounded pretty chipper on the phone.

“Tell her there’s no reason to worry. Everything is okay here. I promise.”

Unfortunately, Jess knows me as well as Mom does. Of all my siblings, she’s the one who’s closest in age to me, and the two of us have always been close.

“You’re lying.” Suspicion sharpens her voice. “What aren’t you telling me?” There’s a sudden gasp. “Oh no. Please don’t tell me you and Wes broke up.”

Pain shoots through my heart. Just the thought fills me with panic. “No,” I say quickly. “Of course not.”

She sounds relieved. “Okay. Thank God. You had me worried now.”

“Wes and I are fine,” I assure her.

Another pause, then, “You’re lying again.” She curses softly. “Are you guys having problems?”

Frustration has my fingers tightening over the steering wheel. “We’re fine,” I repeat, grinding out each word.

“James.” Her tone is firm.

“Jessica.” My tone is firmer.

“I swear to God, if you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’m siccing Mom on you. And Dad. Actually, no—I’m calling Tammy.”

“Aw shit, don’t do that.” The threat is enough to loosen my lips, because as much as I love our older sister, Tammy is even worse than Mom when it comes to me. When I was born, twelve-year-old Tammy had informed everyone in the family that I was her baby. She would carry me around like I was her doll and fuss over me like a mother hen. As I got older, she eased up a bit, but she’s still ridiculously overprotective of me, and the first person to come to my rescue whenever I’m in trouble. Or when she thinks I’m in trouble.

“I’m waiting…”

Jess’s stern voice brings another silent groan. I take a breath, then offer the fewest amount of details possible. “Wes and I are in a weird place right now.”

“Cryptic, much? I mean, define weird. And by place, are we talking literal place? Are you at an S&M club right now? Did you join the circus?”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, Jessica, we joined the circus. Wes trains seals and I ride the bears. We bunk with the bearded lady and the guy who swallows swords.”

“Is that a gay euphemism? Swallowing swords?” She laughs at her own stupid joke before going serious again. “Are you guys fighting?”

“Not really.”

I reach an intersection and slowly pump the brakes until the SUV skids to a stop. Up ahead, I notice an ominous line of cars and a whole lot of red taillights. Shit, is there an accident up there? I’ve been driving for ten minutes and I’m barely half a mile away from the arena. At this rate, I’ll never get home.

“Damn it, Jamie. Will you please stop with this vague bullshit and talk to me like an adult?”

I press my lips together, but it doesn’t stop the confession from flying out. “It’s fucking hard, okay? He’s not fucking home half the time, and when he is home, all we do is hide. We hide in our condo, we hide from the press, we just fucking hide. And I’m sick of it, all right?”

Her breath hitches. “Oh. Okay, wow. Those were a lot of F-bombs. Um.” Jess softens her tone. “How long have you been unhappy?”

The question catches me off guard. “I’m...not unhappy.” No, that’s not true. I am unhappy. I…I just miss my boyfriend, damn it. “I’m frustrated.”

“But you knew going into this that you were going to keep the relationship on the DL,” Jess points out. “You and Wes agreed you weren’t coming out until the season ends.”

“If we even do.” The most cynical part of me keeps getting stuck on that. What if Wes decides he’s not ready to tell the world he’s gay? What if he sits me down and begs me to keep quiet for another year? Or for the entire duration of his pro career? Or forever?

“Wait, has Wesley changed his mind?” my sister demands. “Or did the team ask him to keep pretending he’s straight?”

“I don’t think so. Wes said the PR department already has a statement prepared for when the news breaks. And I have no idea if he changed his mind. We’re not communicating too well lately,” I admit.

“Then start communicating.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“It’s as easy as you make it.” She goes quiet for a beat. “Jamie, you’re the most open, honest person I know. Well, you and Scottie. Joe and Brady?” She names our two other brothers. “They act like talking about their feelings is an admission of weakness or something. But you and Scott are like this huge inspiration for me—proof that not all men are tight-lipped jerks. Actually, Wes is pretty open too. I think that’s why you guys are so good together. You never, ever shy away from difficult conversations. You always find a way to work through shit.”

She’s right. Wes and I have known each other since we were kids. The only time we’ve ever had trouble talking to one another was when Wes disappeared from my life for three years after we hooked up at hockey camp. I forgave him for that, though. I understood why he shut me out—he’d felt guilty about possibly taking advantage of me, and he’d been confused about his own sexuality. At the time, it was something he’d needed to work through on his own.

But this distance between us…it’s something we need to work through together. And ignoring the issue isn’t going to achieve that. Jess is absolutely right—Wes and I don’t usually avoid difficult conversations. But this time we are avoiding it, and that’s only making things worse.

“I should talk to Wes,” I say with a sigh.

“No shit, Sherlock. Now thank me for my supreme wisdom and ask me how I’m doing.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Thank you, oh wise one. And how are you doing?”

“Good and bad. I think my jewelry design business is a bust.”

I’m tempted to toss out a no shit, Sherlock of my own, but I bite my tongue, because I know Jess is sensitive about her career. Or her lack of career, rather. My sister, God bless her, is the most indecisive person I’ve ever met. She’s twenty-five and has had more jobs than I can count. She’s also enrolled in and dropped out of half a dozen college programs, and created about a dozen Etsy shops that went nowhere.

“Didn’t Mom and Dad lend you money for all those jewelry-making supplies?” I say warily.

“Yup,” she answers glumly. “Don’t tell them about this, okay? Mom is already stressed out about Tammy’s delivery, so I don’t want to upset her any more than she already is right now.”

My entire body tenses. “Why is she worried about Tammy’s delivery? Did the doctor say we should worry?” Our older sister is pregnant again and due to give birth next month. Her first delivery had gone smoothly, so I haven’t given much thought to this one. I figured it would be the same as the first.

“No, I think it’s just general nerves,” Jess assures me. “This baby’s a lot bigger than Ty was. I think Mom is scared Tammy will need a C-section. But seriously, you don’t need to worry. Tammy’s doing great. She’s bigger than a house, but totally glowing and all that jazz. Anyway, the jewelry thing was my bad news. Do you want to hear the good news?”

“Hit me.”

She offers a dramatic pause, then announces, “I’m going to become a party planner!”

Of course she is. I sigh and say, “Sounds fun.”

“You could sound a little happier,” she huffs. “I finally know what I want to do with my life!”

Sort of like how she knew she wanted to be a chef. And a bank teller. And a jewelry designer. But I keep my mouth shut, because in the Canning family, we support each other no matter what. “Then I’m very happy for you,” I say in a sincere voice.

Jess chatters on about her new venture during the entire drive back to the condo, but I have to cut her off when I reach the underground parking lot because there’s no service down here. We agree to chat on the weekend, and then I ride the elevator up to the apartment and shrug out of layers upon layers of winter clothing.

I shower and make myself some dinner as I wait for Wes’s game to start, and then I plant myself on the couch with a plate of risotto and grilled chicken. I’m going to spend the evening cheering for my man. And when he gets home tonight, I’m going to take Jess’s advice and talk to Wes about what I’m feeling.

That can’t be so hard, right?

How hard is it?my traitorous brain echoes. And I smile as I take the next bite.