7. Wes

Wes

At the benefitI’m miserable.

I’m no stranger to parties, but I hate this kind—a bunch of people in penguin suits trying to impress each other. At least the food was good and the liquor is tasty, even if the pour is on the stingy side. My glass is empty again so I look around. There are always multiple bars set up at events like this. The trick is to zero in on the underutilized one, where the lines are shorter. There’s a long line at the bar near the door, so I scan the room and find what I’m looking for in a corner.

Five minutes later I’m sipping a single malt and wandering back to my teammates. Even when they’re out of sight, you can still hear them. I can track Eriksson’s chortles and Blake’s guffaws.

I’m avoiding Blake because I’m irritated at him. Maybe that’s juvenile, but my goal for the night is just to get through it. I already heard him say something about hitting the bar after our forced appearance here is over. That’s out of the question. Once the speeches are made, I’m slipping out the back.

“Hey, Wesley.” Eriksson greets me with a hard thump on the back. “You having fun?”

To lie or not to lie? That is the question. I’m pretty fucking sick of the lies I tell all week long. “Not particularly. This isn’t my scene.”

Eriksson’s eyes widen. “The single man doesn’t care for a room full of rich women in skimpy dresses? I used to clean up at events like this. Seven years ago I took home a pair of twins who tag-teamed me all night.” His smile is drunken. “Those were the days.”

My teammate looks pretty banged up, and it’s only ten. His eyes are red, and he looks exhausted. “You okay?” I blurt out. He’s looked like hell all week, honestly. I don’t know why I’m just realizing that now.

“Course I’m okay. Except my wife told me this morning she wants a divorce, and then she took the kids to her sister’s place. I missed another counseling session, apparently. So she’s throwing in the towel.”

Jesus Christ. “I’m so sorry, man. Maybe she just needs a night to think things through.” Is that what you say to a guy whose life is falling apart? I don’t have a clue.

Eriksson shrugs. “This lifestyle. It isn’t easy, you know? But enough of my bullshit. What do you have against parties?”

“Not all parties,” I say quickly. “This kind of thing just gives me flashbacks to my childhood. My mother spends all her time planning shit like this. See these flowers?” I point at one of the ostentatious centerpieces. There are millions of them, and since it’s February in Canada, they would have been flown in from the tropics. From the ceiling hang swarms of fake butterflies, each one suspended on some kind of invisible fishing line. “Someone spent a big chunk of change decorating this place. Because the rich people who spent four grand a head to come here tonight expect to be dazzled. I’ve always wondered why we can’t all just stay home and write a check in our underwear. More of it goes to the actual charity. Boom. Fundraising problem solved.”

Eriksson tips his head back and laughs. “You cynical bastard. I fucking love you. But you’re here already, so stop making that face like the tie is choking you.”

I give the tie one more tug, because that fucker is choking me. “What is this benefit for, anyway?” I’d missed that crucial bit of information. And since these parties always look the same, there aren’t any clues in the decor. Unless the party is meant to benefit florists and faux butterflies.

“Psoriasis research,” Eriksson says. “Apparently it’s a real scourge.”

“What?” I snort. “The skin condition?” I scan the crowd again, but the only skin I see is on nubile young women with backless dresses. The research must be working great.

“Heads up,” Eriksson tips his head toward a group of gorgeous girls moving toward us through the crowd. “You’re single, and I might be. Might as well admire the models. It’s for a good cause, right?”

After a nice slug of my whiskey I paste on a smile. But then I realize that I actually know one of these girls. “Kristine! What the hell are you doing here?” I knew her in college—she used to date my friend Cassel’s brother. I haven’t seen her in three years—not since she broke up with Robbie.

She gives me a big grin. “When I saw your team on the program, I wondered if you’d be here. Little Ryan, the famous rookie forward. Why can’t I say that with a straight face?”

I grab her and give her a hug, and my hands meet skin everywhere. Her shiny bronze-colored dress is so skimpy she’s practically naked. “Good to see you, Krissi. How you been? You’re back in Toronto?” I’d forgotten she was Canadian. She’d been in Boston when I used to visit the Cassel family on college breaks.

“In the first place, I’m not Kristine. I’m Kai.”

“What? Who’s Kai?”

“I am, dumbass.” She gives my ass a pinch. “Kristine wasn’t fashionable enough for my agency. They changed my name.”

Right—modeling. I’d forgotten she was making a go of that. “You let them change your name? That sounds extreme.” Says the man who hides his sexuality to play in the NHL. Okay, so a name change isn’t that weird. “Kai is kinda butch. I like it.”

She laughs. “Come dance with me. Let’s liven this place up.”

“Sure,” I say immediately. Talking to Kristine/Kai has put me in a better mood. It reminds me of simpler times, when she and Robbie and Cassel and I would look for trouble in the stodgy Boston bars. I wish we were there again instead of here, but you can’t have everything. And dancing with an old friend makes the swing music the six-piece band is playing more interesting to me than it was a few minutes ago.

I take her hand and lead her to the dance floor.

JAMIE

I’m folding some laundry on the sofa, half-watching a basketball game and poking at my phone. None of these things is very interesting.

The movie I wanted to see has one last showing, forty minutes from now. If I’m going to see it, I have to decide in the next five minutes.

Will Wes be pissed if I go alone? Probably not. Not much, anyway. And if it’s great I can stream it again with him when it’s released for home video.

I fold two more T-shirts and try to decide. The movie ticket doesn’t cost much, but then there’s popcorn and overpriced soda. And two subway rides. It’s not free, and I try to save any spare dollars for nights out with Wes. The rent I insist on paying is almost more than I can afford, so I’m broke a lot of the time.

Also, it’s cold out there. Toronto has winter winds that just slice right through you. Living on the West Coast my whole life, I never really understood just how brutal a winter could be. Maybe that sounds like a lame reason to stay home, but the wind chill factor doesn’t tip the scales in the movie’s favor.

If Wes were here I’d go in a heartbeat, though. Weather be damned.

Still dawdling, I tap on Instagram. And—this is trippy—Wes is in the first picture I see. The shot is on the team’s account. Someone from the publicity staff is busy taking photos at the party. In the picture, Wes is smiling at a really hot young woman in a copper-colored dress. Their arms are wrapped around one another. The caption says, “Rookie forward Ryan Wesley dancing with model Kai James at #PartyForPsoriasis.”

Wes is swing-dancing with a model, while I sit here literally folding his underwear.

That’s it. That’s the shove I need to get off the couch and go out.

Twenty minutes later, I’m getting off at the Dundas stop on the Yonge line. The frigid wind slaps my face when I emerge onto the street from the subway station. I hurriedly slip into my gloves and lift my hood, but my entire face is half-frozen by the time I make it to the theater.

When I try to buy a ticket at the box office, the acne-ridden kid at the counter delivers the bad news. “I’m sorry, but that showing has been cancelled.”

“But it was listed on the theater website,” I balk.

“I know, but Morph-Bots opened this weekend and every show has been sold out since last Friday. We haven’t sold a ticket to The Long Pass in days, so the theater manager decided to use the auditorium for an extra Morph-Bots showing.” He awkwardly rubs his pimple-covered chin. “Would you like a ticket for Morph-Bots?”

If he says the words Morph-Bots one more time, I’m going to lose my ever loving shit.

“—there’re a few seats left. All in the front row, but…” He shrugs sheepishly, as if realizing he’s not making a good case for this stupid robot movie.

“Naah, it’s all right. Thanks anyway.”

I shove my hands in my jacket pockets and amble away from the ticket counter. Crap. Now what? I came all the way here, but there aren’t any other movies I’m interested in seeing.

With a heavy feeling in my chest, I leave the theater. I’ve just stepped outside into the cold when my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a text from Wes. My heart squeezes as I read it.

Wish you were here.

Does he? Or is he relieved that I’m not, because it means not having to answer any uncomfortable questions from his teammates and fans?

Fuck. That’s not fair. I’m an ass for even thinking that, but these days it’s getting harder and harder to keep this up. I wasn’t raised to hide who I am. My parents encouraged all six of us kids to be proud of our identities, to follow our hearts and do what makes us happy and to hell with what anyone else thinks. All my siblings have taken that advice to heart.

Tammy married her high school sweetheart at eighteen, turning down a scholarship to an East Coast school in favor of community college, because her husband Mark and the Canning clan were the most important things to her.

Joe was brave enough to be the first Canning to file for a divorce, even though he’d admitted to me how embarrassed he was about it, and how it made him feel like a failure.

Jess churns through both boyfriends and careers like she’s trying to set a Guinness Book record. But we don’t judge her. Not much, anyway.

And me? For twenty-two years I dated only women, until life decided to throw me a curveball. I fell in love with another man and I embraced that. Being bisexual isn’t a walk in the park. Trust me—I learned the hard way last summer that not everyone in this world is as open-minded and supportive as my family. But I chose happiness over other people’s skewed opinions and cruel judgments. I chose Wes.

But now I have to hide that choice. I have to pretend that Ryan Wesley isn’t my soulmate. I have to look at goddamn Instagram pictures of him dancing with hot chicks and pretend I’m not jealous.

Wish I was there too,I text back. Because it’s true. I wish it was me at that charity benefit with him tonight.

“Canning?”

I spin around in surprise, instinctively tucking my phone into my pocket just in case Wes’s name is visible on the display. Which pisses me off even more, because there I go hiding again.

Coby Frazier, one of the assistant coaches on my major juniors team, walks up to me with a warm smile. He’s tailed by Bryan Gilles, an associate coach for one of my boss’s other teams. Gilles is a quiet French-Canadian with a full beard and a love for plaid—the parka he’s wearing tonight is actually plaid-patterned and the tails of the shirt under his coat? Also plaid.

“So you do exist outside the arena,” Frazier teases. He slaps my shoulder in greeting. So does Gilles, who nods at me. “You got a hot date?”

I shake my head. “My date canceled at the last minute. And then I was going to catch the movie anyway, but apparently it’s not playing here anymore.”

“You should watch Morph-Bots,” Frazier urges. “We just got out of the seven o’clock show. It was fucking awesome. I can’t believe the shit they’re doing with CGI these days.”

I shrug. “I’m not into the whole robots fighting other robots craze. Always end up falling asleep.”

Frazier grins. “How about cold beers and hot girls? You into that? Gilles and me are heading to the bar—come with us, eh?”

Since I moved to Toronto and started my new coaching job, my colleagues have showered me with invitations. Come out for beers, man. Let’s grab some grub. Come over for a barbecue this week, the wife would love to have ya.

I’ve turned down most of the invites, because if I can’t bring Wes, what’s the point? Besides, it’s a lot easier to hide the fact that you like dick if you keep everyone around you at a distance.

Tonight, I don’t say no, because beers with the boys sounds like a great distraction. It’s either that or go back to my empty condo and stalk Wes on Instagram all night.

“Sure, I’m down,” I tell the guys.

My phone buzzes in my pocket before I even finish my sentence. This time I ignore it, and follow Frazier and Gilles down the sidewalk toward the bar.