26. Wes

Wes

When I letFrank Donovan and the reporter talk me into an on-camera interview, I knew it would feel humiliating. But I didn’t count on makeup.

I’m gritting my teeth while a dude named Tripp brushes something across my cheekbones with a sponge, humming to himself while he works.

My father would die a thousand deaths if he could see it. And somehow this cheers me.

When Tripp steps back to admire his work through a pair of black-framed hipster glasses, I ask, “They make everyone wear this, right?”

He snickers. “Yeah, hon. It’s not because you’re the gay guy.”

Get out of my head. I hate it when people read me like that. And it’s only going to get worse, because I’m about to sit down for an intimate chat with a few million TV viewers. Shoot me already.

“Good to know,” I mumble.

Frank walks into the room looking all hyped up. At least someone is cheery about this ridiculousness. “Ready?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say. Because what’s the alternative? I promised Dennis Haymaker I’d do this. My team wants me to. And as a side benefit, I’m sticking it to Dad. Better just get it over with. “We’re done here, right?” I ask Tripp.

“One sec.” He leans in with a giant brush and I close my eyes just in time to be thoroughly dusted with some kind of powder.

“Gross,” I cough out when the assault is over.

“Aw. Big tough hockey player can’t handle a little powder? We don’t want you looking shiny on camera.” He giggles.

“You are having way too much fun,” I grumble.

“True! But I don’t usually have a hottie like you in my chair.” He yanks the black nylon cape off my shoulders. “Up you go. Knock ’em dead, Ryan Wesley.”

“Thanks.” But I’m not looking to knock anyone dead. I just want to get through this hour-long probe of my soul and get on with my life.

Frank leads me to a sound stage which is set up to appear intimate. There are two macho-looking leather chairs angled to split the difference between facing each other and facing the eighty-seven cameras pointed at them. Just outside of the faux room sits a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of broadcasting equipment.

How quaint.

They’ve dressed me in a dark suit jacket and dark-wash jeans. Expensive but boring shirt, open at the neck. I’ll bet someone in PR spent hours trying to figure out how to make me seem masculine and hip and casual and interesting but ordinary all at once. They probably have a computer model for this shit.

Whatever. At least I’m not being strangled by a necktie right now.

“This is your seat,” Frank says, indicating the chair on the left.

I don’t ask how they chose that, either. I just sit.

“Now, remember,” Frank says, rubbing his hands together. “Look at Dennis, or look at the camera. This one.” He points at a camera which is just a few degrees to the right of where my interviewer will sit. “If you gaze around the room, you’ll look shifty. Avoid the upward inflection. Don’t raise your voice at the end of sentences.”

A little of my natural cynicism escapes. “Too queer?”

He rolls his eyes. “No. Too insecure. Which you aren’t. So don’t sound that way.”

“Fine.”

It’s weird being the guy the camera is pointed at. I never asked to represent gay dudes everywhere. And I don’t really feel up to the task. Let’s face it—I lead a pretty self-centered existence focused on winning hockey games and spending as much time with Jamie Canning as possible.

Right now I’m failing at both those things. So this interview comes at a moment when I feel like I have very little to offer anyone.

My self-flagellation is cut short by the appearance of Dennis, who’s dressed like my twin, but with shinier hair and more self-confidence. “Ryan! Good to see you.” He pumps my hand and then sits down. “How are you feeling? Ready to answer a few questions?”

“Sure,” I lie. “I read through your list.”

“Is there anything on there that’s off limits?” he asks, straightening the lapels of his jacket.

“No.” Frank already warned me about the so-called list of questions. Dennis won’t necessarily stick to it. Since this interview is pre-recorded, I can always say, “Nice try, asshole,” and they’ll edit out the question. The contract I signed stipulates that I can strike out any topic that’s not on the list, but it’s up to me or Frank to flag it.

“Great,” Dennis enthuses. “Let’s get started.”

A producer comes forward to talk to us about timing and camera angles. I try to pay attention, but I’m wondering what Jamie is doing right now and whether he’ll watch this interview tonight. Jamie used to be my happy thought. His smile was the thing I pictured whenever I was stressed out.

It still is, I remind myself. I just hope he’s smiling, wherever he is.

Warm lights come on, and Tripp runs in to blot our faces one more time with a crackly piece of tissue paper. He gives my shoulder a squeeze on his way out.

Then the producer says, “Rolling.”

Dennis Haymaker pivots toward the camera. “I’m here tonight with Ryan Wesley, rookie forward for Toronto’s winning team…”

As his introduction rolls on, I feel my face freeze into a self-conscious mask. What kind of dumb idea was this, anyway?

But at least he starts off with softball questions. “How long have you wanted to play hockey?”

“Always,” I say easily. “When I was five my mother had my bedroom redone in the Bruins colors, because I’d taped up action shots all over my walls, and she was sick of fighting it.”

He takes me through the early years, when I played Peewee and Bantam. I haven’t thought about that stuff for years. I tell the story of finishing a tournament game with a broken arm, because this is my interview and I can make myself sound like a tough kid if I want to. I was a tough kid. “I was bummed out to miss the awards ceremony to go to the ER. I wanted to see the trophy after all that.”

Dennis laughs. “Ouch. What did your parents think about your obsession and the danger? Did either of them play hockey?”

Now I have to laugh, too. The idea of my dad sweating over anything but financial transactions is comical. “No sir, they did not.”

“Are they your biggest fans?”

I guess we’re going there now. “Not so much. My parents and I aren’t close.”

“Why is that?”

Here it comes. I give a nervous chuckle. “The truth is we’ve never been close. That time I broke my arm? It wasn’t my folks who took me to the ER.”

Dennis looks genuinely surprised by this plot twist. “Who was it?”

“My father’s driver. A guy by the name of Reggie. See, my dad liked to watch me win hockey games, as long as it didn’t take too much time away from his busy schedule. They sent me to all the away games with a driver. And Reggie was my favorite. I used to look into the stands after we scored and see him cheering. He’d be standing there in his blue blazer, yelling for me. I always thought he liked hockey, but now I have to wonder if my dad slipped him an extra twenty bucks to cheer for me. I had no idea that was a weird way to grow up, though. I was ten. That was just normal to me.”

“So…” It takes Dennis a moment to formulate his next question. “Your dad was too busy to take you to the ER with a broken arm?”

I shrug, because we’re getting off topic. “I don’t know. Maybe Reggie just took me out of common sense. You don’t deliver the boss’s kid home with a broken bone, right? Sounds like a good way to get fired. I didn’t care who took me, anyway. Even at ten I knew you were supposed to man up and not cry in front of the x-ray tech. It didn’t matter to me who was in the waiting room.”

The journalist clears his throat. “What other ways were you expected to man up, Ryan?”

That question was not on the list, of course. But I don’t stop the interview. “Well, Dennis, you’re not supposed to fall in love with your roommate from hockey camp. That was another no-no in the Wesley household. But I’ve never been good at following rules.”

His expression turns dire. As if we’re about to discuss the Iran disarmament. “When did you tell your parents you were gay?”

Man, are these lights hot, or what? I resist the urge to wipe my hand across my forehead, but just barely. “I was nineteen and in college. I was prepared for shouting and cursing or whatever. But they just sort of refused to hear it.”

“What did your father say?”

“Well…” I cleared my throat. “I think he said, ‘your tie is crooked.’ And last summer I told my father that I was living with my boyfriend, and he said, ‘I have a conference call. Gotta jump!’ He just refuses to hear whatever doesn’t work for him.”

“How did that make you feel?”

I almost roll my eyes. “What do you expect me to say? It’s not ideal. But there are guys whose families throw them out on the street, and there are kids who are beaten. So I’m not going to complain.”

“When’s the last time your parents called you on the phone?”

“Um…” I give in and rub the back of my neck. I feel twitchy answering these personal questions, but this is what I signed up for. “I think I heard from them in February. My father wanted to schedule dinner the week my team played Boston. But after my boyfriend got sick and my face was plastered all over the Internet, he rescinded the invitation.”

“I see,” Dennis says, and he tilts a sympathetic face toward camera number two.

Gag me.

“Tell me about your boyfriend. He must be pretty special. You’re taking a lot of flak for being with him.”

I smile, because I like thinking about Jamie. But these questions will be the hardest to answer, because I want to respect Jamie’s privacy. “We became friends at thirteen when we started going to the same hockey camp every summer. He’s a great guy, and a great defensive coach. And he puts up with me, mostly.”

“You weren’t always a couple, though?”

I shake my head vigorously. “It took me a good nine years to tell him how I felt. But it was worth the wait. See…” I catch myself staring off into the studio’s darkness while I try to form my thoughts. Like a good little interviewee, I look Dennis in the eye. “I trust who I am with Jamie. He’s known me since I was a pimply thirteen-year-old when we used to argue about video games. He doesn’t see me as Toronto’s rookie forward. He doesn’t care about my scoring average. I don’t try to impress him.” Except with my ability to deep-throat. But we won’t talk about that on prime time.

“He’s your family,” Dennis suggests. “More than your real family.”

“Absolutely,” I agree.

“Do you think you’ll get married?” Dennis asks with a smile. “Wait—am I putting you on the spot?”

That bastard. He’s poking me in a sore spot just to lock in his ratings. But I stay cool. “Oh, it’s not me you’re putting on the spot. It’s Jamie. I’d marry him in a hot second, and I’m sure he knows it.”

“Have you asked him?”

Dennis is pushing his luck, and he’s well aware of it. I should save face with Jamie and bail out of this line of inquiry. A beat goes by while I consider my options.

In for a penny, in for a pound. “I haven’t asked him. In case you didn’t notice, we’re having a pretty rough year. It would be, like, ‘Hey, babe, I know that ever since you landed in the hospital someone sticks a camera in our faces whenever you leave the house, and the whole world suddenly wants to dissect our sexuality. So wouldn’t you like to put a ring on this?’”

My interviewer chuckles. “So you’re saying the right moment hasn’t come up?”

“It most definitely has not.”

After that, Dennis turns to the subject of hockey and my teammates. And since hockey is the easiest thing to talk about in the world, I finally relax.