20. Wes

Wes

Call me crazy, but all the way to Nashville I worry about Jamie.

Even as the taxi from the airport pulls up in front of the stadium, I just keep picturing things that could go wrong. Maybe Jess’s plane will get grounded during her layover in Denver. Maybe Jamie will get dizzy and hit his head and end up lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood…

Damn it. I need to stop letting my imagination run away with me. I’m not usually a worrier. But my spidey sense is uncomfortable, and I can’t figure out why. It’s probably just the shock of seeing him so sick in the hospital. Maybe I’m not over it yet.

I type Jess’s flight information into the airline’s app once more and find that she landed safely hours ago.

Unless she missed her connection, and her phone is dead…

The security guard opens my door, and I pay the cab driver and flash my ID for the guard.

He looks up quickly, his bushy eyebrows lifting. “You’re the guy on the news.”

Unfortunately. “Where can I find the visitors’ dressing room?” I ask him.

He shakes off his surprise and opens the door. “Down this hall. You’ll see signs on your left.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

“Good luck out there,” he says as I start down the hall.

“Uh, thanks.” The new paranoid me actually spends a minute wondering what he meant by that. Do I need extra luck today? Or is it the same thing he says to every player who walks through the door?

Shit. I hope our practice will be sweaty and grueling. I need to get out of my fucking head.

It’s not so hard to find the dressing room, because I can hear my teammates’ voices as I approach the door.

“So, season ticket-holders are selling their seats on the cheap?” Eriksson’s voice asks.

“Not cheap,” Forsberg answers him. “But those seats never turn over. There’s guys waiting a decade for a season ticket. But the next few games are for sale by the hundreds of seats.”

I stop walking so fast that my duffel bag bumps me in the ass.

“But so what, right? It’s not like we’re gonna play in an empty stadium on Monday.”

“Nah,” Forsberg agrees. “Frank Donovan said the club is buying all of ’em up at the face price and donating them to some, like, LGSQ group.”

“You mean LGBT?”

“I dunno. I’m pretty sure there was a Q in there.”

“Ryan?”

I whirl around and spot Frank coming down the hall behind me, another man at his side. “Hey,” I say quickly, giving him an awkward wave. Is there any chance he didn’t see me standing here outside the door listening?

“Ryan, is everything okay?”

Nope—no chance he didn’t notice. “Of course. Never better.”

“Great.”

The other guy steps forward to offer his hand. I shake it, wondering if I’m supposed to know who he is. “I’m Dennis Haymaker.”

Oh. My father’s college buddy. “Sports Illustrated, right?” I ask, though I’m certain he’s the reporter I’ve been ducking since July.

“Yeah…” He clears his throat. “How is your partner doing?”

“Better.” It still weirds me out to talk about Jamie in public. I’ll get used to it, but it might take a while.

“Good,” he says. “You know, your dad stopped taking my calls all of a sudden.”

I laugh before I can think better of it. “Uh-huh. Lemme guess—he stopped returning them about three days ago?”

Dennis smiles tentatively. “About then, yeah.”

“Shocker.” I chuckle. “I wouldn’t hold your breath to have those calls returned. He’s too busy scratching my name out of the family bible.”

“This is not on the record,” Frank Donovan stammers. I know he wants me to stop talking. But for the first time, this guy is someone I might want to talk to. That would really be sticking it to the old man—I could give my Big Gay Interview to his college buddy. If I’m lucky, it will make the alumni magazine at Dad’s alma mater.

“Well…” Dennis looks grave. “I’m still looking forward to writing about your rookie year.”

I can’t help but snort. “I’ll bet.”

“Hey now—I’ve been waiting for your story for eight months. It’s still a rookie season story.”

“Is it?” I stare him down.

“Of course it is.”

“So we wouldn’t be talking about my sexuality?” I say this with a straight face somehow.

“Well…” he hedges. “I’m not going to write some piece of clickbait. But your background was always going to be part of the story. Your college team. Your upbringing.”

The man is smart. He already knows that I’d like to stick it to Dad. “Fine. We have a string of home games coming up. If Jamie is feeling better, I’ll make time for us to sit down.”

He almost keeps the glee off his face. But not quite. “I’m looking forward to it,” he says, thrusting out his hand to shake again.

“We’ll call you,” Frank tells him, and he gets a shake, too.

The guy makes himself scarce then, before I can change my mind.

“So,” Frank says.

“So.”

“Any problems? Anything you need to know about the media coverage?”

“To be honest, I haven’t read much of it. Too busy.”

He nods slowly. “Okay. I’ll have my team compile some clips of the highlights, if you’d like to be kept up to date.”

“What if I don’t?” I sound like a smartass, but I’m dead serious.

He shrugs. “Your call.”

“Hey—what’s with people selling their tickets? I heard murmurs.”

“Ah.” He shifts his weight. That’s his tell, I’ve learned. If I faced him over a poker table, I’d bet heavily whenever he did that. “That’s just noise. Nothing will come of it.”

“How many season-ticket holders bailed?”

“Not enough to matter. Just a few loud mouths with nothing else to yap about. Next week it’ll be old news. We’re trying to buy up any tickets for sale—I put an 800 number on the website and everything. Haven’t gotten many nibbles. The tickets go too fast on Craigslist.”

Huh. I don’t know whether to believe him or not. “Okay.”

“That all?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll let you know if you’ll be part of the post-game conference tonight. We’ll see how the game goes.”

That sounds a little ominous, but I’m not gonna ask.

He steps around me and opens the dressing room door. I follow him inside, and when I do, my team calls out various casual greetings. “How’s Jamie?” someone asks.

“Good,” I say for the second time in five minutes. “His sister is coming to stay with him for a couple days.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah,” I agree, feeling guilty. I should be there in Toronto myself. But instead I’m here in this unfamiliar room, trying to figure out where they’re putting me.

“Over here,” Hewitt calls out. He points at a bench, and then I spot my practice jersey hanging there.

“Thanks.” I start stripping out of my clothes. Our ice time begins in mere minutes.

“We’re gonna run PK drills,” he says, sitting down beside me. His skates are on and he’s ready to go.

“Okay,” I answer, my mind only half on this conversation with our team enforcer. “Why penalty drills?”

“Gonna rack up some minutes if these guys go after you.”

My heart sinks all the way to the goddamn floor. “Why do you think they’ll go after me?” Apart from the obvious. “I mean—won’t that backfire?” Now that I think about it, I’ll bet the refs are having a pretty high-level meeting today. Strategies to handle teams who want to smear the queer.

“They might not,” Hewitt says quickly. “I just want to be ready. I plan on taking as many minutes in the sin bin as needed, man. We’re not gonna let those assholes get away with anything.”

Shit!This is exactly what I was hoping to avoid. If I’d come out over the summer, it would have cycled out of the news before I was put in a position to make my team change their game to defend me.

“Look,” I say quietly. “I appreciate it. I really do. But don’t jump the first guy who calls me a faggot. There’s no point in making this into a gong show if we can avoid it. Keep it reined in at first. Let’s just see what happens.”

Hewitt nods slowly. Then he thumps me on the back and stands up. “Okay, rookie. I won’t go all Hulk on ’em right away.”

I skatehard during our abbreviated practice. But when we’re sent to the hotel to rest, I can’t sleep. A call to Jamie goes unanswered, probably because he’s sleeping.

That’s good, right?

Everything feels just a little off, though. I’m still worried about Jamie. And I have rarely been so keyed up for a game as I am for this one.

After a restless few hours it’s back to the rink and the bustle of getting ready for the game. We’re the visiting team, so we get some heckling when we’re introduced at game time. I never pay attention to that shit, but tonight I can’t screen it out. Are the boos louder than usual? Is my team going to regret me?

The game starts off normally, but my teammates are visibly tense, and I know it’s because of me. When my line takes a faceoff, I’m shoulder to shoulder with a guy named Chukas. My eyes never leave the puck as he says, “So you’re the faggot, huh? You gonna sport some wood if I pin you against the boards?”

“Only if you kiss me first,” I return. Then the puck drops, and it’s on. When I’m playing hockey, I shut off all my doubts. I have to. The game requires every bit of my concentration. I love that about hockey. It feels hella good to drop out of my own life for a couple of hours and see only the bodies in motion on a bright white sheet of ice.

By the end of the first period it’s clear that this game is neither rougher nor friendlier than any other matchup. Just the same big-league brawl that it always is. By the third period, my team stops looking so clenched up.

It’s too little, too late, though, because we only tie the game, when we really could have done better. But for once in my life I’m counting that as a win. There won’t be any bruising newspaper headlines about my game tomorrow.

A week ago I scored a hat trick. Tonight I’m scraping by without making the national news. My standards? Consider ’em lowered.

I get back to the locker room dripping with sweat and relieved that the NHL has survived a game with its first out player. I drop my pads and grab my phone even before I hit the showers. It’s almost ten and I want to call Jamie before he goes to sleep. I dial him, hoping I’m not waking him up. He answers immediately. “Do we have dogs?”

“What, baby? I didn’t catch that.”

“Dogs. Chiweilers. We don’t have one of those, right?”

A chill climbs up my sweaty back. “Uh, we don’t have dogs, no.” Is he joking with me?

“I want a puppy,” Jamie says. His voice is hoarse. “Always wanted one. My parents said six kids was enough animals in the house.”

My brain is playing catch up with this conversation. “Do you have a fever, babe?”

“I dunno. Hot in here, though.”

“Where are you?” Because I’m about ten seconds from calling 911.

“In bed. Where are you? Shouldn’t you be here?”

The chill breaks everywhere across my skin. “I’m in Nashville,” I say carefully. “For a game. Where is Jess, babe? She’s supposed to be there with you.”

“Uh…” he says with a sigh. “Haven’t seen her lately.”

Then he starts coughing, and the sound is awful. Deep and wet. I just stand there with the phone pinned to my sweating face, listening to him struggle for breath. I’ve never felt so helpless in my entire life. “Jamie,” I say finally when there’s a break. “Are you…”

He hacks again.

Frank Donovan is trying to get my attention now. He’s pointing at his watch, and then the showers. He must want me at his post-game press conference.

I wave him off, or I try to. But he camps out in front of me. So I ignore him. “Jamie,” I plead when he stops coughing again. “I love you, but I have to hang up and call Jess. Has she heard that cough?”

“Dunno,” he mumbles. “Sleepy now.”

“Okay,” I say, my mind reeling. What am I going to do? “Sleep well if you can. But if your sister needs you to go to the emergency room, you’re gonna go, okay?”

“Nah,” he whispers. “Night.” The line goes dead.

“FUCK!” I shout.

“What’s the problem?” Frank asks.

I’m too freaked out to answer him. I dial Jess and listen to it ring. When her voicemail eventually picks up, I disconnect and try again. Nothing. “Hey, Eriksson?” I call.

“Yeah?” He’s toweling off in front of his locker.

“I need a favor. Try to raise Blake on your cell. It’s an emergency. I need him in my apartment.”

Eriksson doesn’t ask questions. He jams a hand in his suit coat pocket and pulls out his phone.

I redial Jess. Where the hell is she? On the fourth try, she answers. “Wes?”

“Where are you?” I demand.

“At your house!” She sounds oddly breathless.

“Really? Because I just spoke to Jamie and he’s delirious. He thinks we have something called a Chiweiler. And his cough sounds like a death rattle.” I shudder just saying it. “Where’s Blake?”

“Uh, Blake? I’m not sure.”

But in the background I hear sudden strains of “Who Let The Dogs Out,” which is Blake’s ringtone. “Hey. Is that him?”

“He just walked in.” Now she sounds flustered.

“Okay, listen. Jamie needs help. He said he was in bed. Get Blake to break the door if it’s locked. You might have to take him to an emergency room.”

“Oh my God,” she gasps. “I’ll call you back in ten.”

“Is everything okay?” Frank asks when I’ve hung up.

“No, it fucking isn’t. You know any doctors?”

“Doctors?” He gazes at the ceiling, considering the question. “We retired a team doctor about three years ago. He lives in Rosedale. Why?”

“There’s something wrong with Jamie. He has a fever and this awful cough. Fuck. I should never have left town.”

Frank’s face sags. “Sounds like pneumonia. Maybe he’s come down with a secondary infection. He should go to emergency.”

“I KNOW!” I holler, and everyone in the room—including a few reporters—turns to stare at me. “I know,” I say more quietly. “Get me this doctor’s phone number. I need help.”