Chapter Five
Layton
I never meant to go to the game, even though being the professional I am meant that I should really learn more about the sport. I’d decided early on that after the ups and downs of the first two days, I should just go home and chill out.
Then I got a text from David; my brother had this incredible way with words. “Mom said she’d call you tonight.”
Great. A call from my mom would arrive at precisely eight p.m.; she was nothing if not a creature of habit. Why did we need to talk again so soon? We’d only spoken the night before, and I’d listened to her reel off the news about each of my siblings, their wives, and the assorted grandchildren. Had I done something wrong? I couldn’t imagine what it had been. Last time she’d got pissed at me was when I’d announced I wasn’t moving home, time before that it had been because I hadn’t told her I was gay as soon as I knew.
Like that would have been an easy conversation. If I recall right, it was an announcement I made in between David telling us that his wife, Cindy, was pregnant again, and Louise starting a round-table fight about condoms.
When I’d blurted out what I wanted to say to my family at the scarred kitchen table, I remember the smack upside my head from Mom. She said she’d known—as had all of my siblings, come to think of it—but then she proceeded to question me about why I’d made it into such a big thing.
Well, fuck. Announcing I was gay had been a big thing that I’d angsted over for months.
Which brought Adler Lockhart and his scary presence into my head, and that was another reason I wanted to avoid the game. That man shook me, and I don’t mean just because of the fact that he was a big guy, a jock, and he intimidated me. No, this was more than that.
He’d slumped a little coming into the room—trying to make himself look smaller, I thought.
And then he’d demanded that I acknowledge how hard it had been for him to admit he was gay, and what could I say?
My family was far from judgmental, moving from shock to riding my ass about fashion and condoms every time we talked thereafter. In my heart I’d known they wouldn’t care, not about who I chose to sleep with, or fall in love with, but they would worry about the challenges I faced. That was just the way my family worked.
I reassured them that I would get my degree and I could look after myself. David stared at me like I’d grown a second head, and Zach nudged him, and I’d tensed; I remember that.
“You don’t need a degree, or to leave. You know you can always work with me,” David mumbled. “Electrician, it’s a good trade.”
“Or with me—plumbing, family business,” Zach added.
“I’ll be okay.”
I had my entire college life mapped out, worked three jobs, saved every penny, had a scholarship to NYU, and I knew what I wanted to do when I finished. I wanted to have a career I could shape myself, get a good apartment, a boyfriend, live a different life to my siblings, who’d all settled in the same town they’d been born in.
And I wanted to escape the shame I felt looking at my siblings, knowing what they knew about me, what they’d seen, how they’d helped to patch up the wounds scraped into my soul.
“You’ll be alone, though,” Zach said, but he couldn’t quite meet my gaze, and I knew why. They all thought I was too damaged to ever get over what had happened. But what nobody in my family realized was that it didn’t matter whether I got over it—I would live my life and wouldn’t let fear stop me.
And I really wanted out of this town, with the nightmares that chased me around every corner. People here knew about me, and I hated it. I craved the anonymity of a big city. Craved it like it was heroin and I was an addict.
Mom summed up the feeling at the table. “We’re always here for you,” she murmured, and somehow in that simple sentence she made everything right in the world. Until she started to nag about dangers and not telling her and, yeah, it deteriorated after that, back to Mom thinking I should move back home after college and that cities weren’t safe.
I didn’t argue with them, but I disagreed. The city was open and secure and I could be myself. I could get a boyfriend, and drink fancy coffees, and wear a suit, and be the first person in my family to go to college and get a degree.
Again, Adler was there in my thoughts.
He didn’t have that luxury, nor did Ten, and I needed to know more about the toxic environment in hockey that potentially judged a man on the sort of relationship he wanted. Seemed to me from some of the conversations I’d had that it was a problem bigger than “hating on the gays,” as Dieter had so colorfully put it. That had been after I’d suggested that any shade of sexual innuendo was a bad one. He’d looked really uncomfortable, then brightened as he quickly apologized for the 69 on his jersey again.
Head meet desk.
So I hadn’t gone home as planned, and I was watching the game, mostly to avoid having to talk to my mom. I had a pass to sit in the press box, or at least perch on the edge of a chair in the corner and not take up much space. Management had assigned Jane to give me some insight on the game, and I made notes. Copious amounts of scribbles that I hoped would make sense when I looked at them later.
“Each game has three periods,” she began, and I couldn’t help asking questions about that, a mess of whys and whens that ended with her all confused over what to explain first.
“Sorry,” I apologized when she stopped talking and frowned.
Her frown eased, “No, don’t be. It’s difficult to get a handle on things if you’ve never watched a game before. I get it.”
“Is that what you were like?” I asked, hoping I would have a friend in ignorance.
“Me? No, my dad and granddad were both players, and my dad is a coach, so I was brought up in a hockey family.”
I looked down at my notes, “So, PK and PP are something different?”
She explained something that sounded like a math equation, and I dutifully wrote it all down.
“Some penalties are two minutes,” she said, “some five, some have both, or more, sometimes the player will…” She stopped and shook her head. “Tell you what, let’s watch the game and just experience it for real.”
I nodded, because my head was spinning, and while I waited for her to get drinks I ordered Hockey for Dummies from Amazon, paying extra for next day delivery. Maybe the rules that guided this game were the reason for the hyper-masculinity I’d sensed in the day’s short meetings. I knew hockey players fought; maybe the perception was that if you were gay you weren’t able to fight? Should I start with the concept that players accepted and perpetuated stereotypes as normal?
I thought about Adler. Damn man had got into my thoughts again. He was a stereotypical bad guy, or at least how I perceived a bad guy, even though there was a softness in his eyes. He’d worked hard to become what he needed to be. In doing that, he’d had to hide the real him, the same as Ten. I made some extra notes about other sports to research. Arvy had mentioned in his meeting that one of the slurs he’d heard was a hockey player being called a figure skater. I assumed the implication there was that figure skating wasn’t hard or something, or maybe it was too flamboyant. I made a note of that to follow up on. Maybe the guys on the team needed a bonding day with a figure skater to see that it was hard work, which I assumed it was.
When Jane got back with two coffees and her trademark smile, there were skaters on the ice, but they weren’t doing anything dramatic. They were lining up, mostly—well, five of them from each team, the rest of the guys on separate benches. The Railers were in a dusky blue, and the visiting team in orange. The national anthem played over the sound system, and I considered what the guys on the team—the Norwegians, Germans, Russians, and more than a couple of Canadians—thought of the national anthem being the American one. Did that cause any friction? Was that a core issue as well?
Jeez, my mind was racing.
“The skaters out there now are what they call the first line,” Jane explained. “Three forwards, two defense, and obviously the goalie.”
“Stan.”
“Yep.”
I mentally fist-pumped that I had at least one name right. “And is Ten on the ice to start?”
“No, he’s our second line center, with Lockhart and Lehmann on his wings—he’ll be on when they change.”
Something shifted inside me at the mention of Adler’s name. Stupid.
The clock on the Jumbotron showed 20:00, and then the puck dropped and I didn’t have a second to make any more notes. The changes were all over the place, men jumping the boards in a rhythm that made no sense to me at first, the numbers on their jerseys a blur as the puck moved up and down the ice.
Well, I say it moved. I couldn’t actually see it. In fact it took an entire two periods before I realized I was trying to track the wrong thing and needed to look at the bigger picture. The Railers scored twice in that second period, but the Flyers scored one, so going into the last period it was like the entire crowd of supporters in blue were on their feet every time the Railers had the puck.
Ten was fast. He hadn’t scored a goal, but he’d got an assist, which was a good thing, apparently. But boy, he skated rings around the other team, and I couldn’t help but think the speed, skill, and absolute confidence were sexy.
And there was Adler, coming over the boards and… wait, there was confusion. Hadn’t Ten been out just finishing a power play or something? Ten had the puck, he passed to Adler, there was some fancy moving about, and then the entire stadium erupted as Adler shot the puck into the net.
The goal horn sounded, the East River Arena in chaos, and I didn’t even think about it—I was on my feet next to Jane and cheering for the Railers.
For Adler.
Damn man.
I watched him hug Ten and the others on the ice, then fist-bump his teammates. The mood in the arena changed, the fans chanting for Stan over and over, like everyone could feel a win.
The last few minutes passed in a blur of fighting and tired men, and no more goals.
We’d won. The Railers all lined up and did these cool head-bumps with Stan, and then they all skated off the ice, the crowd still cheering.
“This way,” Jane said, and took my elbow to guide me out of the press room, down convoluted corridors, ending up outside the locker rooms. “This is media availability,” she explained, and ushered me in.
Right into the start of what looked like a porn movie.
Okay, so no one was naked, in fact a lot of the players wore thin shirts, and some were still in full uniform. But Adler wasn’t. He was bare-chested and back down to those skinny shorts already. And he was being interviewed.
I was shoved forward, I guess so I could experience the post-game interview, but that put me way too close to Adler, who caught my eye and held my gaze as he answered a question about a shorthanded goal, whatever that was. Something passed between us, an acknowledgment of sorts, and I watched as he blinked, my chest tight. I didn’t understand what had just happened. Maybe it was just a way of me saying that I believed what he’d told me and that I would hold his secrets.
“Talk us through the goal,” one woman asked, thrusting a microphone in front of him and waggling it under his nose. He was hemmed in, ten people around him, all with microphones or recording devices, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to handle that. He began talking about the technical side of the goal, and there was nodding in the small group, and some congratulations. He held up a puck, and a couple of them took photos. He was slick with sweat, a towel around his neck, and he looked so relaxed and happy.
“How did you feel about the goal?” someone asked.
He looked at me again as he answered the last question. “Awesome,” he said.
I couldn’t help it, I smiled at him, his joy and excitement infectious, and he grinned back. Someone shoved me from behind, not deliberately, but I tensed, and the smile dropped from my face.
I turned and walked away.
But not before I’d seen the flash of some weird expression on Adler’s face. Concern, maybe?
Last thing I needed was someone worrying about my hang-ups, and anyway, by the time I was back in the small office space with my notebook, I was absolutely fine. I pulled out a fresh notebook and began transcribing the scribbled notes into order. I headed everything accordingly—observations, outcomes, conclusions, and an area for possible research. Figure Skater. Endemic gender bias. And something else I needed to add, but I couldn’t make it out in my notes.
When I realized what I’d written, I deliberately closed the rough notes and slid the book into my drawer.
Adler Lockhart, 62, second line, summer-sky eyes.
* * * * *
By the time I left the office, it seemed like East River just held staff and some players. The parking garage that was assigned to staff was half full, and all I really wanted was to get into my car and go home. I spotted Adler before he saw me; he was standing by a gorgeous silver sports car, one of many down here. Actually, you could tell which cars belonged to players; they were shiny and low and sported logos like Porsche or Ferrari, either that or they were huge SUV monstrosities. .
I braced myself to talk to Adler, but when I got nearer I saw he was talking to someone, and I took a detour to get to my car. The conversation they were having seemed deep, and the other person, a dark-skinned man sporting a Railers jersey, had his hands crossed over his chest and appeared to be listening to Adler intently.
Was he Adler’s boyfriend? They were standing very close to each other, and when Adler pulled the guy in for a hug, I guessed I was right. Then I glanced around the parking area. What if someone walked out and saw them? I thought Adler wanted to keep his secret.
They climbed into the car, and I stood in the shadows near my own car until they left. Jumping into my car, I drove home, and resolved to mention to Adler that secrets didn’t stay hidden if you went around hugging your boyfriend in plain view.
I certainly didn’t think about the look we’d exchanged or the unidentifiable thing that had loosened in my chest.
Not at all.