15. Wes

Wes

The photo hitsthe Internet six hours after I walk into Jamie’s room.

TMZ leaks it first—how do those fuckers always out-scoop everyone??—and after that, it makes its rounds on various hockey websites, celebrity blogs, gossip rags and newspapers that really ought to have better things to report on. Two prominent papers actually feature it on their homepage, where the photo’s thumbnail sits higher on the page than an article about the capture of a terrorist.

I guess the sight of me, Ryan Wesley, kissing the lips of another man, is a national emergency. And at the moment, there’s nothing I can do to put out that fire.

Did I mention I’m in quarantine, too?

Yep, the moment I ditched my protective gear, I signed my own prison sentence. Dr. Rigel had marched into the room in his quarantine suit with the angry nurse at his side. He informed me that since I had potentially exposed myself to what might be a dangerous strain of flu, I would be unable to leave the isolation unit until Jamie’s test results came back. Then his pissed-off nurse took some blood from me and sent it to get tested, too.

Do I have any regrets? Not a chance. I wasn’t planning on leaving Jamie’s side anyway. At least this way, nobody can kick me out when visiting hours are over. And now that some asshole has outed us without our permission, I can’t deny it’s nice having an excuse to hide from the rest of the world.

I don’t know who snapped the picture, but hoo-boy, they’d struck gold with the intimate moment they’d stolen from us. Me, sitting at Jamie’s bedside, pressing my lips tight to his. It was right after he’d regained consciousness, and I’d been so overcome with joy and relief to see those beautiful brown eyes peering up at me that I’d forgotten we were in a glass box with the shades open.

He slept for another hour after that, while I held his hand. Maybe it sounds dumb, but I’d never felt more useful to anyone in my life. If he woke up confused, I wanted him to know he wasn’t alone. In spite of the shit swirling through my life right now, I felt calmer than I had in weeks. Because for once I knew I was doing the right thing just when it needed doing.

And when he woke up for real, he was confused. “Where are we?” he said, startling me.

“In a hospital, babe. You’re sick. You probably have the flu, but they’ll tell us after the test comes back.”

“Okay,” he said, squeezing my hand. But the more he woke up, the more agitated he became. And when he realized what an odd hospital room this was, it wasn’t long before he caught on to the fact that I’d been exposed, too. And now he won’t let it go.

“You shouldn’t have taken your mask off,” Jamie croaks at me. “You’re insane, Wes. You shouldn’t be here.”

It’s not the first time he’s questioned my sanity since he woke up, and now I’m questioning his sanity, because where the hell else would I be? Standing on the other side of the glass watching the man I love suffer?

“You’re gonna catch this stupid sheep flu,” he mumbles.

“First off, we don’t know if you even have the sheep flu,” I point out. I’m sitting in a chair next to his bed but leaning toward him, my ungloved hand stroking his cheek. His skin is still burning up, which worries me. It’s been six hours on that IV, at least. Shouldn’t his fever be going down? “Rigel seemed to think it was unlikely, remember? Second, if you do have it, chances are I already do too, because I had my tongue down your throat the other night. Third, I should be here. Take a look at this torture chamber, babe.” I wave around at the oppressive space. “I’d never let you suffer in here all alone.”

He laughs weakly.

Jesus. I’m so relieved he’s awake. My first glance of him lying in that bed, so still… It scared the crap out of me.

“Coach Hal is going to shit a brick.” He sighs. “What if you miss practice tomorrow morning? And you have a game in Tampa on Thursday night. You can’t afford to get sick, Wes.”

I stare at him in disbelief.

Jamie falters. “What?”

“Do you really think I’m going to practice tomorrow when you’re in the hospital?”

“I might be discharged by then.”

“With all the precautions these fuckers are taking? Yeah, right. They’ll keep you here at least a couple days for observation.” My tone sharpens. “I won’t be on that plane to Tampa, I hope you realize that. I’m not leaving your side until I know you’re out of the woods.”

“I was never in the woods,” he protests.

My jaw falls open. “You passed out at work! You have a hundred-and-three-degree fever! Your skin looks like a boiled lobster and yet you’re shaking like a leaf, you’re so cold. You’re too weak to lift your head!”

Jamie insists, “I’m fine,” and I’m tempted to slug him in the face. I don’t, though, because he’s the one lying in this hospital bed, so I guess I’m the one who needs to act like the adult.

“You’re not fine,” I say sternly. “You’re sick.” Possibly with a dangerous strain of sheep poison or whatever the hell it is, but I refuse to let myself believe he might actually have it. Thanks to Blake’s worrisome obsession with sheep, I know that at least sixteen people have died of this flu. And all I’m going to say is—Jamie will not be number seventeen. I’d sell my soul to the devil before I let anything happen to this guy. He’s my entire life.

We stop talking when we hear a loud beep. The door latch releases, and the nurse (who now officially hates me) stiffly enters the room. She’s decked out in her hazmat suit and facemask. I can’t see her mouth, but her eyes tell me she’s frowning.

“Mr. Wesley. Please follow me,” she orders, and I’m concerned by the note of unhappiness in her voice. Oh God. Are Jamie’s results back? Does she want to talk to me in private so she can confirm that the sheep got to Jamie?

My heartbeat triples as I stumble off the chair. Jamie looks as worried as I feel, but he doesn’t protest as I follow Nurse Death into the secondary room. Once the door closes behind us, she holds out a cell phone. My cellphone, which she confiscated an hour ago after she caught me sending a text message to the Canning clan.

Apparently electronics are a no-no in quarantine. Truthfully, I’m glad she took the phone away, because it was lighting up like a fireworks display after the photograph was released. Jamie had still been asleep at that point. Yup, he has no idea that as of an hour ago, a shit storm has been brewing outside our glass cage, and I have no intention of telling him. Not yet, anyway.

My sole priority is to help him get better. If he finds out that our relationship is now being discussed and dissected by thousands of people—hell, probably millions of people? Who knows what it’ll do to his already fragile system. I can’t take that risk.

“We’ve been fielding an exorbitant number of calls this past hour,” she says flatly. “At least two dozen of them have come from a Frank Donovan. He insists on speaking to you, and frankly, my colleagues and I are getting tired of being yelled at. So we’re making an exception for you, Mr. Wesley. You can use your cell phone, but only in this room and only briefly. Now please call Mr. Donovan back before I give in to the urge to look into the cost of a contract killer.”

I snicker. Okay. Maybe Nurse Death isn’t all bad.

I wait until she leaves the room before pulling up Frank’s number, but I hesitate before hitting send. Fuck me. I’m not prepared to deal with any of this right now. I had a plan, damn it. Finish out my rookie year, and then come out. The story would have been controlled by Frank and myself. Presented to the media the way we wanted it to be presented.

But some greedy, nosy, inconsiderate asshole took matters into his own hands. Or…her hands, maybe? I suddenly think of Nurse Death. What if it was her?

Then again, it could be any of the nurses I’d seen beyond the glass today. Or the techs delivering test results. The doctors popping in and out of the unit. The family members visiting their quarantined love ones.

Anybody could have snapped that picture. Trying to finger the culprit is like playing a nonsensical version of Clue. Nurse Death…in the Isolation Unit…with the Camera!

And does it really matter at this point? What’s done is done, and now it’s time for damage control.

“Ryan, about goddamn time!” Frank’s frazzled voice booms in my ear. “Why aren’t you answering your cell phone?”

“The nurses took it away,” I tell him. “Not allowed to have phones in the hospital.”

“Total myth. Studies have shown the effects of cell phones on medical equipment to be minimal.”

Is this really something we should be debating right now? “Frank,” I say, veering him back to issues of actual importance. “What kind of backlash are we looking at here?”

“Still too early to tell. Most of the media outlets are hopping on the rainbow train—”

I clench my jaw.

“—waving their gay pride flags and commending you for your bravery in coming out.”

“I didn’t come out,” I mutter. “Someone else did it for me.”

“Well, you’re out now,” he says dismissively. “And now we need to make sure we spin it the right way. The franchise is going to release the statement I prepared after we drafted you. I wanted to give you the head’s up about that—it’ll go out within the hour.”

Frank had sent me a copy of the statement a while ago. It featured a lot of politically correct language, as I recall. The team is—and always has been—supportive of our players and the rich diversity they bring to the sport of hockey… Blah blah blah. We are proud to call Ryan Wesley a member of the team.

“We’ll give the vultures the night to peck and gnaw at it,” Frank says in a cynical voice. “And then tomorrow morning, you’ll give a press conference and—”

“What?” I interrupt. “No way.”

“Ryan—”

“I agreed to a written statement,” I remind him. “A short follow-up to whatever statement you give to the media. I did not agree to be on camera.” The thought of standing in front of a room full of reporters talking about my sex life and answering questions that nobody has the right to ask me brings bile to my throat.

“That was before pictures of you making out with your gay lover showed up all over the Internet,” Frank replies. He doesn’t sound angry or disgusted, just matter-of-fact. “They’re going to expect more than a two-line press release, Ryan.”

“I don’t give a shit what they expect!” Frustration claws at my chest. I want to hurl my phone into the wall, watch it shatter to pieces, and then stomp on them for good measure. I feel…violated. And that only intensifies the bolts of indignation whipping up and down my spine. These people have no right to shine a spotlight on me just because I like to fuck men. It’s none of their goddamn business.

“Ryan.” Frank pauses. “All right. Clearly we should table this discussion until your, uh, partner is discharged from the hospital. For now, I’ll release the statement on the team’s behalf. Once we gauge the response to it, we’ll figure out our next move.”

“Fine.”

“Should we be concerned about your test results?”

I blank for a second. “My test results?”

“The flu,” he says impatiently. “The coaching staff is concerned. You’re scheduled to play Tampa in two days.”

I draw a breath. “I won’t be on the ice on Thursday, Frank. If you want, I will personally phone Coach to let him know, but this is non-negotiable. I’m dealing with a family emergency here.”

“Your contract states—”

“I don’t care what it states,” I retort. “I will not be on that flight.” I don’t give him the chance to object. “I have to go now. The nurses are giving me the evil eye.” They’re not, but Frank doesn’t know that. “I’ll call you back once Jamie’s test results are in.”

My hands are shaking as I hang up the phone. I wasn’t prepared for this. Any of it. And even though I’m desperate to get back to Jamie, I force myself to scroll through my text messages, just in case the Cannings have tried to get in touch

And shit, they have. Every single one of them.

Cindy: Patrick and I need an update, sweetie (even though we know everything will be okay, will be okay, will be okay!)

Jess: Why won’t those hospital assholes let me call you???

Joe: How’s my brother?

Scott: How’s Jamester?

Brady: Is J OK??

There’s even a message from Tammy, who’s dealing with her own hospital situation at the moment: Call the moment u get the test results. Ask main switchboard for my room. Ext. 3365.

Rather than answer each one individually, I send a group text to the whole Canning clan:

Still waiting for lab results. J is awake and cranky. Fever still high but docs are working on lowering it. Won’t let me use my phone in here. I’ll msg back when I can.

I skim the rest of my unread messages, which are mostly from Blake. There’s also one from Eriksson, but I don’t click on it because I’m too scared to know what it says. I’m not sure I’m ready to face my teammates’ reactions to the “news.” I scroll down further and freeze when I see my dad’s name. This time I click.

Dad: You’re a fool.

My heart clenches painfully. I’m pissed at myself for allowing those three words to get to me, but…fuck, they hurt.

I’m about to shut off the phone when my Twitter app catches my attention. It says I have 4622 new notifications. Sweet Jesus.

Despite my better judgment, I give in to morbid curiosity and open the app to see what the Twittersphere thinks about this latest development. Ha. #RyanWesley is trending on Twitter. And I got ten thousand new followers since the photo was released. I click on my notification feed and discover that most of the tweets are surprisingly positive.

@hockeychix96: OMG! Your BF is SO hot!

@T-DotFan: Good 4 u, dude!

@Kyle_Gilliam309: Ur an inspiration to us all, Wesley.

On and on it goes. OMGs, cyber hugs and high-fives, people telling me what an inspiration I am to the gay community. Sprinkled among those are tweets of denial, disgust, and disbelief.

@BearsFourEvr: Dicks are for chicks, fag.

@Jenn_sinders: Please say ur not gay!

And in a conversation about fifty tweets long, two female fans decide to tag my username as they conduct a thorough examination of the “proof” of my sexual orientation. They even blow up and crop certain parts of the picture to state their case.

@HeyyythereDelilah: Srsly, that’s *not* RW. Look at the eyes. RW’s eyes aren’t that close together.

My eyes are close together?

@BustyBritt69: It’s totally RW! I’d recognize that sexy mouth anywhere.

@HeyyythereDelilah: devil’s advocate. Let’s say it’s RW. Doesn’t mean it’s RW’s *boyfriend*. Could b his brother.

@BustyBritt69: Who kisses their brother on the MOUTH?

@HeyyythereDelilah: I did once. But I was drunk. Thought he was someone else.

@BustyBritt69: Ewwwww! TMI!

Sighing, I close the app and shut off my phone. Nurse Death didn’t say she needed it back, so I tuck it into my pocket, then return to the main room, where Jamie’s suspicious gaze greets me.

“What was that about?”

I shrug. “She let me use the phone so I could call your parents back.”

“Are they freaking out?”

“Nope. Like me, they know there’s nothing to worry about.” I settle back in my chair and reach for his hand. “You’re going to be fine, babe. Those tests are going to come back negative. Just watch.”

He nods, but his expression remains uneasy. “You sure everything’s okay?” he presses.

I bend and brush my lips over his alarmingly hot cheek. “Everything is just fine,” I lie.