17. Wes

Wes

After wolfingdown the sandwich Blake brought, I spend the rest of the night in Jamie’s room, sitting in a plastic chair. I sleep in fifteen minute increments, my head dangling onto my chest. It’s more exhausting than just pulling an all-nighter. Live and learn.

Then morning arrives with a startle. There’s too much light everywhere, and when my vision focuses I’m staring at Frank Donovan, who’s poked his head into Jamie’s room.

I stagger out of my chair and move toward the hallway, so he won’t wake up Jamie.

“What time is it?” I ask, sounding incoherent even to my own ears.

“Seven-thirty.”

Shaking my head briskly, I try to crawl out from under my own exhaustion. “Working early today?” He’s standing in front of me in a suit and tie, his shoes shined. His hair combed. We are a study in contrasts.

Frank chuckles. “Turned off my phone at two-thirty in the morning. Turned it back on again at six to find a hundred and fifty missed calls. Every sports news outlet in the world wants to talk to you.”

“Too bad they’re not going to,” I say firmly.

Frank chews on his lip. “Look, I know you’re in a tough spot. But it’s not enough for the team to issue supportive press releases. My office is doing all it can to say that everything is business as usual with regard to you. But the fans need to see you on the ice with your teammates. That’s the only way the public can be sure we mean it. It’s that or an interview on Matt Lauer’s sofa, sitting beside your coach.”

A bark of laughter escapes me. “Hal doesn’t want that.”

“Hal will do whatever the team needs him to. As will you.” This last bit is said in an ominous voice.

“Or what?” I ask crankily. “You’ll fire me? The gay guy? That’s gonna look bad.”

Frank taps his foot impatiently. “Don’t be that way, Ryan. I’m busting my ass to shut down the swirl of media bullshit. I’m on your side. So put your goddamn skates on this morning and make that job easier.”

“When’s practice today?” I ask. My wheels are turning.

“Eleven.”

I glance over my shoulder at Jamie. When the nurse checked his vitals a couple hours ago, his temperature was down to ninety-nine and a half. Finally. “Okay, I’ll skate in practice today. But I’m not going to Tampa tonight. If they let him out of the hospital tomorrow, he can’t be home alone. We don’t have family here.”

Frank thinks it over. “Fine. It’s a deal. But you’d better call in some backup to come and stay with him. You’ve got Nashville up next. The team won’t let you miss games unless there’s a dire family crisis.”

I want to pound something whenever he says that. This is a dire family crisis. The direst.

“...and the fans need to see that your position on the team is secure. If you stay away, it looks like we’re trying to get rid of you. You show up and skate, the story fades faster.”

Well now he was singing a tune I could dance to. “All right. I’ll figure something out for Nashville,” I tell him, just so he’ll shut up. “And I’ll be there at eleven today.”

He lifts his chin toward Jamie’s room. “Say goodbye now. I’ll drop you off at home so you can sleep for a couple of hours. We need you looking peppy.”

Pushy much?I stare him down for a second. But damn it, I’m trapped here at the hospital without my car. “Hang on.”

Jamie is awake when I walk back into the room. “Are you okay with me leaving for a couple hours?” I sit on the available few inches of mattress next to his hip. “Does anything hurt?”

He swallows roughly, as if his throat is on fire. “Go. It will be fine.”

“You need water?” I look around for the cup with the straw.

“Go,” he says more forcefully. “Just…”

“What?” I plant both hands on the bed and look down into his handsome face.

“Just come back later,” he says with a smile. “Maybe they’ll let me go home.”

I lean down and kiss his forehead. Then I pick up my duffel off the floor and go before I can change my mind.

I sleeplike the dead for two hours at home. Then I shower before heading over to the rink. I’m a little late, but I like it that way. Less time for chatter in the locker room. I’m too tired to hear whatever bullshit my teammates might be saying about me today.

That’s something I can’t even think about right now. If they’re busy trying to assign me to a separate changing area or some bullshit I don’t even want to know.

When I walk into the dressing room, all conversation comes to a halt.

Whatever. I don’t give a fuck. I toss my gym bag onto the bench and remove my coat. You could hear a pin drop. I hang up my coat and then kick off my boots.

“Wesley, you asshole,” Eriksson says. “Aren’t you going to tell us?”

“Tell you what?” I growl. My sex life is none of their goddamn business.

“How is he? Jesus Christ. The TV news makes it sound like your boyfriend might be getting last rites.”

My fingers falter on the buttons of my bright green checked shirt. “W-what?”

Our backup goalie Tomilson speaks up wryly. “I think what Mr. Sensitive is trying to ask is, is your partner okay?”

It’s hard to keep my jaw hinged. First off, Tomilson and I have barely exchanged ten words since I joined the team. The veteran keeps to himself, and with two Stanley Cups under his belt I guess he’s earned the right not to show up for media events, because I’ve never seen him at a press conference or party. Blake told me he spends all his off-time with his wife and kids.

Hearing him refer to Jamie as my “partner”, and without a shred of judgment, unease or disgust in his voice, brings a sting to my eyelids. Fucking hell. If I start crying in the locker room in front of my teammates, nobody will ever let me forget it.

I clear my throat of the massive lump lodged there. “He’s doing better. Fever’s down, and I think they’re going to release him today.” My voice sounds hoarse as I add, “The flu kicked his ass. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“At least it wasn’t that dangerous strain,” Tomilson says. “Coach said it was just a regular flu. So that’s something, right?”

I nod. Silence hangs over the room again, and I tense on instinct, waiting for more questions. This feels too…easy. Why aren’t they hammering me for details about my personal life or demanding to know why I didn’t tell them I was gay?

The thing is, though? My college teammates had eventually taken my sexuality in stride. I’d thought it was too easy back then too, and as I stand here waiting for my current team to judge me, I realize what a cynical bastard I’ve become. Maybe there’s more tolerance in this world than I thought. Is that possible? Are my homophobic parents the exception to a rule that’s slowly evolving?

A few more seconds of silence tick by, and then Eriksson pipes up again. “It was the shirt, huh?”

I blink in confusion, and he gestures to the green button-down I have on.

“I knew it. Made you gay,” he says gleefully.

“Matt,” one of our teammates chides, but it’s too late, other guys are already snickering, and hell, so am I.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” I grumble. “This shirt is the da bomb dot com. No, dot edu—because it’s damn near enlightening.”

Forsberg snorts. “It’s blinding me, that’s what it is.” He ambles over and smacks me on the ass. “Gear up already. Coach ain’t gonna go easy on you just ’cause your boyfriend’s got the flu. I was late for practice once because mi’lady was sick, and the old bastard made me do a hundred pushups—in full gear. And skates. You know how fucking hard that is?”

“Your lady? I didn’t know you had a girlfriend—” But he’s already disappeared into the chute, which leaves Eriksson to answer for him.

“He doesn’t.” Eriksson grins. “Milady is his dog’s name.”

Okay then. I guess Forsberg has a dog named Milady. Which is just another reminder of how little an effort I’ve made to get to know the men I skate with every day.

The lump in my throat is back. I gulp it down and quickly change for practice.

Only a handfulof press is allowed into the rink this morning, reporters and journalists who were no doubt handpicked by Frank and his team of publicists. The franchise doesn’t typically grant the media access to practices right before game days, but Frank is making an exception today. People need to see me on the ice with my teammates, so that’s exactly what we give them.

I’m painfully aware of the cameras that follow me around like the beam of a laser pointer. Every move I make is documented and photographed, and I can practically see the captions below the images.

When Coach snaps at me for missing an easy shot: Tensions Rise—Hal Harvey and Ryan Wesley battle it out at practice!

When Eriksson chest bumps me after I give him a sweet assist: Matt Eriksson shows support for gay teammate! Or if we’re talking tabloids, I guess the headline would be: Matt Eriksson and Ryan Wesley—gay lovers??

When I wave and smile at one of the reporters (after a pointed look from Frank): Proud to be gay! Ryan Wesley embraces media attention!

I hate my life right now. I really do. The only saving grace is that the man I love is no longer lying “unresponsive” on some hospital bed. Jamie is getting better. I was so terrified I might lose him, and knowing that he’s going to be all right is the silver lining I cling to during this sideshow of a practice.

After Coach blows the whistle to dismiss us, I can’t get off the ice fast enough. That gets me another glare from Frank, but he can go fuck himself. I told him I wasn’t chatting up the press, and I meant it.

In the locker room, I change out of my gear as fast as I changed into it. When I hear a flurry of activity in the hallway, my stomach drops. Great. I guess Frank is giving the media free access to the facility today. Unfortunately, there’s only one way out of the locker room—and it’s through the door that probably has a wall of reporters standing behind it.

Tomilson flashes me a sympathetic look as I warily creep toward the door.

“Just smile and wave,” Eriksson suggests.

“Give ’em the Queen Elizabeth wave,” Luko says helpfully. He then proceeds to do the slow, stilted hand flutter that every member of British royalty has perfected, and everyone bursts out laughing.

“Did you just call me a queen?” I quip.

Luko’s smile slides off his face. “N-no! I…”

“No, man. I’m teasing. Swear to God.” Shit. I never got a chance to figure out what I wanted to say to these guys. “I don’t get offended too easily. And—just for the record—none of you uglies is my type. Except for maybe Eriksson. But I don’t want to be his rebound lay.”

Eriksson snorts and I make my exit, stepping out the door just in time to hear Coach Harvey deliver a statement that nearly makes my eyes bug out.

“If being queer means skating like Ryan Wesley, I’m going to have to encourage the rest of my players to give it a whirl.”

The hallway breaks out in grins and chuckles, which immediately turn into shouts when the press notices me in the doorway.

“Ryan! Do you have a message for any gay athletes who are too afraid to come out?”

“How does it feel to be the first openly gay player in the NHL?”

“When did you first know you were gay?”

“Do you have a response to Coach Harvey’s statement?”

I was prepared to utter the words “no comment” today until they lost all meaning, but after just hearing my coach voice his support for me (albeit in a colorful way), I can’t stop from addressing the last question.

“Hal Harvey is the best coach I’ve ever skated for,” I say gruffly. “I hope to continue making him proud for seasons to come.”

The reporters fire another explosion of questions, but I’ve said everything I wanted to say, so I duck my head and push through the swarm, letting their eager voices bounce off my back. There are clusters of journalists and media vans stationed in the parking lot, but I ignore them too and hurriedly unlock my SUV. Thank God for tinted windows. I’m sure the cameras caught me lunging into the front seat, but hopefully nobody can see me scrubbing both hands over my face and releasing a tortured groan.

I’m zooming out of the lot a minute later, and my Bluetooth kicks in as a call comes through. Frank’s name flashes on the dash.

I hit the Ignore button on the steering wheel. When the phone rings again, I nearly rip the steering wheel off its frame. For fuck’s sake. Can’t he give me even a second’s peace?

Wait, it’s not Frank. I relax when I see Cindy Canning’s name, and this time I waste no time picking up.

“Hey, sweetie,” she greets me, the warmth in her voice doing more to heat the car than the hot air blasting from the vents. “I just spoke to Jamie. He says they won’t be releasing him today. He didn’t want to call you in case you were still at practice.”

Disappointment crashes into me. I was really hoping they’d let him out today. But at least this means Frank can’t persuade me to leave for Tampa tonight. As long as Jamie’s in the hospital, the only place I’ll be traveling is to his bedside.

“I just left practice. Heading to the hospital now.”

“Jamie said you’re going to miss your game tomorrow?” She sounds concerned.

“Yeah. And the game after that, and maybe the one after.” To hell with Frank and his “family emergency” bullshit. This is a family emergency.

“Ryan—”

“I’m not stepping on a single plane until Jamie is one hundred percent better,” I say firmly.

Her tone is equally stern. “Ryan.”

“Mom,” I mimic, before my voice softens. “I’m all he has here. There’s no one else who can stay with him while I’m away, and I refuse to let him stay in the condo alone, at least not until I know he’s fully recovered.”

Cindy sighs. “All right. Let’s just wait until he’s discharged from the hospital before we make any rash decisions.”

I flick the right turn signal toward the highway ramp. It’s still early enough in the day that the traffic on the Gardiner won’t be too bad. “I’ll call you when I have a better idea of when they’ll let him go home,” I tell Jamie’s mom.

“Thanks, sweetie. When you see Jamie, tell him he has a new niece. Lilac was born about an hour ago, nine pounds, two ounces.”

“Wow. Congratulations, Grandma! But...Lilac?”

“Tammy had some drugs in her system.”

“Ah. Oh, and Cindy? Thank you for what you said yesterday.”

“What did I say?” she says blankly.

“The mantra you taught me,” I remind her. “It’s going to be okay. I said it about three million times last night, and it really did make me feel better.”

A snort of laughter pops out of my car speakers. “Oh that? I just made that shit up on the fly because you needed it, sweetie.”

I can’t fight a hysterical laugh. And did Jamie’s mom really just say shit? That woman never curses. “Well, it worked. I think you saved me from having a nervous breakdown.”

“I’m glad I did. Now get off the phone and concentrate on driving. Take care of our boy, and I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

I disconnect the call and thank my lucky stars that Cindy and the rest of the Canning clan are part of my life. Then I drive to the hospital to take care of our boy.