31. Jamie 

Jamie

On MondayI walk into the rink at nine a.m. sharp. The familiar smell of ice and sweat hits me immediately, and I feel it right in my gut. This job means a lot to me. If I lose it, I know I’ll get over the disappointment. It won’t ruin me.

But it will really suck.

On the subway I rehearsed my eating-crow speech, and I’m ready to face the music. So I march right over to Bill Braddock’s messy office and tap on the doorframe.

When he glances up from his desk, he first looks surprised, and then he smiles.

The tightness in my chest eases just a millimeter or two. “Got a second?”

“For you? Of course. Shut the door, Coach.”

My brain is working overtime to decode those short sentences. He’s still calling me “Coach,” so that’s good. But as the door clicks shut I wonder if I’ll still have that title when I open it again.

“You look better,” he says when I sit down in the visitor’s chair.

“I feel better,” I say immediately. “Finally got all the drugs out of my system. Got some exercise. Things are looking up.” This is all true, but I probably sound like I’m overselling it.

“Have you been to the doctor for a medical release yet?”

I shake my head. “Just flew in last night and coming to see you was at the top of my list. But I’ll take the first appointment they can give me.”

“Good.” He picks up a puck—the only kind of paperweight a coach ever has on his desk—and twirls it in his fingers. “I apologize again for not listening when you told me your co-coach used hurtful language.”

My first impulse is to say, “No big deal, sir.” But I’ve given this some more thought, and now I’m kind of pissed at myself for letting it go before.

“I’m ready to file that report,” I say instead. “I’d like to make my complaint official.” Even though I don’t feel personally targeted by Danton’s language, it’s my job to stop another coach from saying “faggot” every third word. Even if pointing a finger makes me uncomfortable. “We’re trying to raise admirable young men, and they shouldn’t hear an authority figure making slurs.”

Braddock nods vigorously. “That is absolutely true. I have to print out a new form for you, though. Instead of filing a complaint, you may choose to file a letter in support of another complaint.”

I search my mind, trying to recollect what he might be talking about, but I come up empty. The only complaint I know about is the one against me. “What do you mean?”

He grins. “Someone already filed a complaint against Danton’s language, and it’s going to the disciplinary committee on the same day as the complaint against you.”

My spine tingles. “Who filed it?”

“Your team. Every last player. They got wind of Danton’s complaint—you know this place, it’s a gossip mill—and they got all riled up. They stormed my office after practice and demanded to argue on your behalf. So I acquainted them with our disciplinary system and they channeled their displeasure into a proper complaint.”

For the first time in ten days I actually feel a little lightheaded. “Seriously?”

He raises his right hand. “God’s honest truth. Their complaint is eight pages long, detailing instance after instance of inappropriate, homophobic language. And a few racial slurs, too. I drank a very large glass of scotch after reading it. I had no idea things were so bad.”

I had to lock my jaw together to avoid saying “I told you so.”

“So…” He clears his throat. “Please submit an accounting of your own experience, and it will be added to the file. The committee takes all complaints seriously.”

“Including the one against me,” I add.

“Right. But I’m sure the committee will acknowledge your spotless employment record with us and with your former position at the Elites camp. And then there’s the matter of the complaints against Danton, and your temporary ill health. They may be inclined to give you a warning only. They can do that on a first offense.”

The words “first offense” make me feel squirrelly inside. Those words aren’t supposed to apply to me. Ever.

Bill makes a pup-tent out of his hands and studies me. “I had something I wanted to run by you. A suggestion I might make to the committee when they consider how to resolve the complaint against you.”

“What is it?” If he knows a magic trick for getting me out of trouble, I’m all ears.

“We’ve never done any diversity training with our staff, and I want to start. In exchange for closing out the complaint against you with merely a letter in your file, what would you think about speaking to the staff about your experiences?”

“My…experiences?”

“With homophobia. You could talk to the staff about what it’s like to be a gay man in sports. Tell them your story. The cure to fighting prejudice is finding common ground, right? I want my staff to understand your unique perspective, because it’s probably not as unique as they think. You could do some good just by sharing your experience with the subject.

My head fills immediately with objections. I’m not technically a gay man. I’m bisexual. I don’t have a lifelong experience of homophobia. I’ve been out of the closet for a few weeks, total. I’m not an expert.

And, even if I was, I hate sharing personal shit at work.

But I’m here to save my job. A job I love. So I do what I promised myself I’d do. “I’d be happy to speak to the staff,” I tell Bill.

He smiles. “Wonderful. So I’ll circle back on this after the disciplinary meeting next week. In the meantime, please get that doctor’s note. Your team needs you, especially since we’ve suspended Mr. Danton pending his disciplinary action.”

I sit up straighter in my chair. “Who’s coaching the team?”

“Gilles is a little busy covering both his and your teams with Frazier’s help. But don’t panic. They need you, but they can stay afloat another week until this passes.”

He shakes my hand, and I’m out the door before I realize how confident he sounded about my reinstatement. That warms me. As I tread down the slushy sidewalk, it’s only nine-thirty. Wes is probably at his rink, but not on the ice yet. So I try his cell phone.

“Hey!” he says, answering on the first ring. “How’d it go?”

“Not bad. I think I might squeak by.” I tell him about the report my players filed.

“Jesus. That’s incredible!”

“Right? Love those kids. There’s one hitch, though. Bill wants me to volunteer to talk to the staff about my experiences with homophobia. You know—because I’m such an expert.” I laugh just picturing it. “It’s going to be the shortest meeting ever.”

“You want help?”

I almost say no out of sheer habit. There’s that h-word again. But I stop myself just in time. “What do you mean?” I ask instead.

“I could talk to them about what it was like being a gay hockey player when nobody knew. I spent my freshman year of college shitting bricks over what they might do to me if they knew. If it helps you and your boss, I’d show up and tell that story.”

My pace falters and I stop walking. “Really?” I picture Wes walking into that conference room and the looks on all their faces when Toronto’s most successful rookie in a decade steps through the doorway.

“Sure. Why not? Frank Donovan is gonna make me give that speech to the club at some point. This can be my warm-up.”

“Wow. Okay. Yeah. I’ll make you dinner every night for a week if you get me off this hook.”

“Canning,” he says, his voice going deep and slow. “How about I pick my own reward?”

“That, uh, works for me, too.”

He laughs. “Love you. I gotta hit the ice now. Late lunch later?” He has to play the Sharks tonight—a home game. And apparently I’m drinking umbrella drinks with the WAGS in a box somewhere.

But first, lunch with my man. “Absolutely. See you at home.”

After we hang up I walk to the subway feeling so much relief and wondering which of Wes’s favorites I should make for lunch.