32. Jamie

Jamie

A week later, the jury finds me not guilty.

Fine, I’m being melodramatic. There was no jury, only a committee. And no verdict, just an “official decision” that stated my actions toward Danton may have been both provoked and exacerbated by the medication I’d been taking. My personnel file now includes a warning, but no other disciplinary action was taken, much to my relief. Even though Wes spent this whole week telling me not to worry, I was still imagining all the worst-case scenarios, and I’m glad I can finally breathe again.

There’s a spring to my step as I enter the arena on Monday afternoon, inhaling the crisp air and feeling the welcoming chill on my face. The kids are already on the ice doing their warm-up skate. Danton is nowhere in sight. When I checked in with Bill this morning, he told me that Danton is still on leave until his complaint is settled. I didn’t ask why my “case” was resolved first. I’m just grateful it was.

The players catch sight of me as I approach the boards. Several of the boys wave, a few call out, “Welcome back, Coach Canning!” but only one whizzes in my direction. It’s Dunlop, who shoves his helmet off as he skates to a stop.

“Coach!” His cheeks are red from exertion. Or maybe joy. I like to think it’s the latter.

“Dunlop.” I greet him with a big smile and a clap on the shoulder. Then I let go of him immediately. I’m probably going to pay a little too much attention to the way the team interacts with me for a little while. Wes says there’s one in every crowd who can’t get past his sexuality, and that’s just the way it is. “I missed you guys,” I tell Dunlop.

“Missed you, too.” He sounds awkward, and his face goes redder. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Like a million bucks,” I assure him. “But here’s a tip for you—never get pneumonia.”

He snickers. “I’ll try to remember that.”

I hop over the wall and skate around in a few quick circles. Fuck, it’s so good to be back on the ice. I cock my head for Dunlop to follow me, and we glide toward the net. My goalie sets his helmet on top of it, still grinning a goofy grin.

“Did you see our record?” he asks me.

“Damn—” I hastily correct myself. “Darn right I did. A four-game winning streak, huh? You guys are rocking it. You’re rocking it.”

He averts his gaze, but not before I see the flash of pleasure in his eyes. “Two shut-outs,” he says shyly. “And I only let in one goal at the last game.”

“I know. I’m proud of you.” Despite my genuine happiness that the team is back on track, I can’t fight that niggle of insecurity. I mean, you didn’t see them winning four consecutive games when I was around. “It looks like Coach Gilles showed you some new tricks,” I say lightly.

Dunlop wrinkles his forehead. “He did?”

“I watched a few of the games. Your confidence has skyrocketed since I left.” Now I’m feeling awkward. Damn it, why am I laying my own insecurities at this poor kid’s feet?

He gives me another funny look. “You think I’m doing better because you left? That’s nuts, Coach. You know what happened when you got sick?”

It’s my turn to wrinkle my forehead.

“We were all really worried,” he mumbles, staring down at his skates. “And I was like, crap, I gotta get my shit together because Coach Canning does not need one more thing to worry about. You know, us losing all the time.” He flushes again. “I thought if we were winning, maybe you’d get better faster.”

I have a hard time keeping my jaw closed. This kid stepped up his game because he didn’t want me to worry that the team was losing? I’m embarrassed to feel my eyes stinging, so I give a manly cough and say, “Well, whatever it is you’re doing, keep at it. You’re playing like a champ.”

A whistle blows. Gilles is at the blue line, barking instructions at some of our forwards. When he catches my eye, he smiles and nods for me to join him.

I skate over, and the kids he was working with all go silent.

Shit. Is this going to be weird? Dunlop welcomed me back easily, but what if the others don’t?

I cough to clear the gravel from my throat, then call the rest of the team over. Everyone is staring at me. Waiting expectantly. I clap my hands together. Then I hesitate.

"So," I start awkwardly. "You have another tournament coming up, so we have to put in some work. But before we get started, does anyone, uh, have any questions for me?"

There’s a long silence.

Finally, Barrie raises his hand, and I hold my breath as I wait for his question.

“Will Ryan Wesley come to one of our games?"

I blink in surprise. Okay. Well, I wasn’t expecting that. And when I scan the kids’ faces, I don’t see horror or disgust. Only curiosity. I can work with that. Except I wonder…if I was marrying some random dude off the street, would they have more trouble with this? Maybe I’m not supposed to worry about that. In fact, I’ll take their support any way I can get it.

“I’m not sure,” I answer. “I’ll look at our game schedule and his game schedule and see if it works out. But I know Wes would be happy to come if his schedule allows it.”

All of their faces light up.

“Anything else?” I prompt. When no one speaks up, I clap my hands again. “All right, then let’s get to work.” And just like that, their expressions turn serious, fixed on me as they wait for me to start the practice.

Damn, it’s good to be back.

Practice letsout at six-thirty. As I head into the locker room to change, I text Wes to find out if he’s already outside. He’s picking me up this evening because we’re having dinner with his teammates, which is why I brought an extra set of clothes to the rink today. Instead of the jeans and hoodie I walked in with, I put on a blue button-down, a navy blazer and khakis.

My getup draws the attention of Gilles, who’s changing into—what else?—a plaid shirt. “You going to a country club or something?” he cracks.

“Dinner with my—” I stop abruptly. I’d been about to say “my roommate”, but I guess that’s a habit I need to break, huh? Wes and I are no longer hiding. “With my boyfriend,” I finish. I suppose I could’ve said fiancé, but I haven’t told my coworkers about the engagement yet, and it’s not really a bomb I want to drop on my first day back.

Gilles takes on a rueful expression. “You must have thought we were idiots taking you to that bar. Flirting with those girls…” He sighs, looking so embarrassed that I can’t help but grin.

“Hey, you didn’t know that I live with a guy.”

That gets me the arch of an eyebrow. “No, we didn’t know. Someone didn’t tell us.”

“It wasn’t something I was able to advertise,” I admit. “Wes...his career...we needed to keep the relationship under wraps.”

Gilles nods. “I get that. But I still felt like an ass.”

Hell. That was never my intention. “I’m sorry about that. It was kind of a shitty situation. But it’s out now. We’re out.” I shift my weight awkwardly. “And I know there are some people who can’t accept, or understand, my relationship with—”

“I’m not one of them,” he interrupts.

I falter. “No?”

“Naw. My sister has a girlfriend.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. My parents are in PFLAG and everything.”

“Cool,” I say, although I’m not exactly sure what that means. I’m, like, the worst queer dude ever. Somebody pass me the manual. “Well, thanks for telling me. The thing is, I’d like to go out to the bar again with you guys. I didn’t really like saying no so much, but it’s been a weird year.”

“Fine.” He grins. “But only if you play darts on my team, ’cause Frazier isn’t as good as he thinks.”

I shake my head. “I was really focused on the bullseye that night because it kept that chick’s hands off my ass.”

He laughs. “We saw your, uh… We saw Ryan Wesley at the bar, right? I didn’t invent that ’cause I was drunk?”

The memory makes me flinch.

“He was there. That was plenty awkward.”

“Right. Well, next time, we’ll just invite him.”

“Good idea.”

My phone buzzes in my hand.

I’m in the parking lot,Wes texts.

Be right out,I text back.

Another message pops up. It says:

My dick is so hard right now.

I smother a snicker, and the choked sound makes Gilles chuckle. “Have fun at dinner,” he calls before leaving the locker room.

I type back, How hard is it?

Will I get arrested if I take a dick pic in the car right now?

My laughter spills over. Absolutely, I reply. You can’t go to jail tonight. We’ve got dinner plans.

I slip my feet into a pair of dress shoes, shove my other clothes in my locker, and head outside to the parking lot, where Wes’s SUV waits for me. The ground is a bit slushy, so I’m careful not to slosh around and ruin my shoes, but I’m happy to see that the snow is finally starting to melt. Apparently it’s bad luck to celebrate, though. Last night Blake had warned me that there’s always a blizzard or two in March. Sometimes even in April and May. Blake calls it “winter’s fuck you.”

Wes greets me with a sexy smile as I slide into the passenger seat. I lean in to kiss him, then glance at his crotch. “Liar,” I chide. “You don’t even have a semi.”

He rubs his groin and licks his lips. “I can change that. Give me a second.”

I snort. “Where are we headed, anyway?”

He pulls away from the curb, and I enjoy the view of his strong hands on the steering wheel. I wonder if he knows I have a fetish for his hands?

“Some Michelin-rated place Forsberg likes. I’m sure it’ll be awesome. And they won’t let us pay, so you kind of have to order the most expensive thing on the menu. That’s what these chuckleheads do.”

“Good to know.”

The team is taking us out for dinner for Wes’s birthday. They usually do the birthday thing on the road, but this time the whole team took an evening away from their families just so I could go, too.

When Wes pulls up in front of the restaurant, a uniformed valet takes the keys and calls him “sir”.

Indeed, when we walk inside I see it’s easily one of the swankiest places I’ve been in Toronto. The hostess walks us through an elegant bar and down a set of stairs. We’re in an honest-to-god wine cellar, with row upon row of triangular “shelves” built across the stone-clad walls to hold wine bottles. In the center of the cellar there’s a glassed-in private room with a table set for two dozen men I don’t really know. And most of them are already there, sipping the first cocktail of the evening.

“Heyyy!” several voices shout at once as we approach. It occurs to me that whoever picked this spot is a (wealthy) genius. A hockey team meal can be pretty loud. So why not hold it in a sound-proof chamber in the nicest basement in Toronto?

I’m in the lead, so I enter the room first, but then pause to let Wes catch up. He’s right behind me, his hand on my shoulder blade. “Evening, ladies,” he says to the room. “Where do you want us?”

“Put ’er there!” Blake yells, pointing at two seats together in the middle of the long table. “Let the games begin.”

We sit down, and a waiter in a suit that’s nicer than any of mine sweeps in to take our drink orders. I consider ordering something fruity just to fuck with people, but then I’d actually have to drink it. So I order a Griffon Ale instead.

“I’ll have a Manhattan. Make it on the dry side. No fruit.”

“Really?” Wes never orders a mixed drink.

My fiancé shrugs. “It’s my dad’s drink, and when I walk into a place like this, I always think of him.” Wes leans back in his chair and sniffs the air. “You smell that? Old leather and money.”

Eriksson chuckles. “Have I met your father?”

“Nope.” Wes shakes out his napkin. “And you never will. I only heard from him three or four times a year before my Big Gay Interview. Now he’s out of my hair for good.”

There’s a slightly shocked silence.

“And your mom?” Blake asks.

“She wouldn’t dare step out of line. Her loss.” He claps his hands together. “What’s good here?”

We order vast quantities of rich food. I choose a steak, along with more than half the table. Blake orders the rack of lamb, and I can’t help but be surprised. “You know that’s a sheep, right?”

He looks at me like I have an IQ of fifty. “Dude. The best defense is a great offense.”

Right.

A slew of appetizers arrive. Someone ordered three of everything for the table. We talk about how the playoffs are shaping up while devouring a mountain of shrimp cocktail, an ocean’s worth of oysters on the half shell and a whole lot of tuna tartare.

It’s good living. It really is.

WES

The alcohol has just begunto do its work on me when Hewitt gets up and tosses his napkin on his chair. “Excuse me for a moment, boys.” He leaves the room. The men’s must be upstairs. They can’t possibly have one down here.

I forget he’s gone until he returns a few minutes later. And I do a giant double-take.

He’s wearing my shirt—the bright green checked one that I bought in Vancouver.

“That’s…where’d you get that?” I sputter. I actually look down at my chest just to double-check that I’ve still got mine.

Hewitt shrugs. “I told you my wife liked to shop. She musta seen yours and liked it.”

Now, I could swear he wasn’t wearing that earlier. But the whole team is here, so maybe I just didn’t notice. I take another sip of my Manhattan and feel the burn as the alcohol goes down my throat. My gaze travels around the room, taking in the players’ faces lit up by candlelight and the excellent food and drink. The thing is, my dad would love this dinner. He really would. And if he weren’t such an asshole, he could probably be here right now.

His loss, as I said before. And it really is.

The sommelier enters with four different bottles of red under his arm. “Nobody chose a white, is that right?” he asks.

“Fuck no,” I say too loudly. But it’s my party. “Even your local homosexual needs a hearty red with his steak.”

The wine guy looks taken aback, but my teammates all laugh like they’re going to piss themselves.

Eriksson raises his hand. “But I ordered the fish.”

“That’s your own fault,” someone says, and then Eriksson is pelted with wadded-up cocktail napkins.

Just another night with Toronto’s finest.

Eriksson stands up. “I’ll go order something from the bar, then.” He strides out of the room.

Jamie is talking defensive strategy with Lemming, and I sure don’t want to interrupt the conversation. Maybe Lemming can get over his discomfort with the gay thing so long as he’s speaking to another D-man. So I take the empty beer bottle out of Jamie’s hand and trade it for a glass of red.

“Okay, I’ll get a husband too if they put drinks in your hand,” Forsberg quips.

“And that’s exactly why he’s marrying me,” I say with an obnoxious wink.

Midsentence, Jamie reaches over to give my head a playful shove and then finishes his thought about the neutral zone trap.

“So,” Hewitt asks, looking smashing in my shirt. “How do two dudes get married, anyway? Like…who walks down the aisle?”

Jamie and I exchange a freaked-out glance. Because we haven’t had this conversation. This will all be left to Jess. “Uh,” I say. “Canning? Thoughts?”

He gives a shrug. “Who needs an aisle? I think we’ll just have a judge or something, and do this on my parents’ deck. And then we’re going to eat a whole lot of ribs. My mom is a genius with the smoker.”

Hewitt’s eyes open slightly wider. I can almost see the lightbulb go off over his head. “So, if it’s men getting married, the food is better than at an ordinary wedding.”

“And the beer,” someone adds.

“There still has to be cake,” Blake argues. “I think it’s not legal without cake. I read that somewhere.”

That’s when Eriksson returns to the room. Without a drink. But he’s wearing—wait for it—the shirt. The bright green “gay” shirt.

“Fuuuuuuuck,” I say slowly. I poke Jamie to get his attention. “Babe, do you see this shit? I’m being pranked.”

He turns his handsome face. Eriksson is standing at the end of the table flexing like a bodybuilder directing traffic.

“Oh my fucking God!” Jamie cackles. “I need a picture.” He pulls out his phone. “Get over there. All three of you.”

Jamie gets his picture. But a few minutes later Blake slips out of the room and returns wearing the shirt in size twenty or whatever that beast wears. And it dawns on me that my teammates dropped a couple hundred plus express shipping—each—to pull this off. Is it stupid that I’m really touched by this madness?

Hell. I’m turning into a sap.

“Blake,” I croak. “How the hell did you pull this off?”

He takes a slug of wine. “Used my key. Searched your apartment so I could figure out who makes the damn thing. Took me a half hour to find it because I had to dig. Dude—you should learn to unpack your suitcase.”

Jamie punches me on the biceps. “See?”

“…got the brand and started Googling. Piece of cake, really.”

Forsberg stands up. “I’m next. Gotta take a leak, anyway.” He bolts out of the room, returning a few minutes later wearing green.

And Christ—when you get a bunch of these shirts together in one small room? It’s a little loud, this color. But only under this restaurant lighting.

One by one, even after the main courses arrive, every single player leaves the room, returning in The Shirt. I keep drinking, getting happier and sloppier with every sip of wine.

They even got one for Jamie. He’s the last to leave and return wearing citrusy green and a big smile. “Now we need the picture,” he says. “I’ve asked the waiter to take it.”

And that’s how Canning and I came to have a big framed photo on our living room wall featuring the entire Toronto team dressed in very loud gingham. I swear the color rendered a little bolder in print than it looks in real life, because this photo is kind of blinding. But Jamie snickers whenever I suggest that.

But there we are, two dozen grins stained red from the wine, waving at the camera like idiots. Blake is in the back row, his napkin tied around his head like a bandana. I have a hand on Jamie’s shoulder right in the center of the shot. His smile is just as relaxed and genuine as the day I met him.

And I look…centered. It’s not a word I’ve ever used to describe myself before. But everything I ever wanted is in that photo—the man of my dreams, and my teammates. I’ve left my smug smile behind in favor of one that’s so shiny I hardly recognize myself.

But it’s me up there for sure. It’s us. And it’s perfect.

T h e

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