Lennon might be going back to Chicago. Yet another sucky thing about losing last night, although, that’s not the worst of it. The worst is that I thought I was getting somewhere. This year wasn’t my first playoffs, but it’s the first year I imagined winning it and holding that cup over my head and believed it was a possibility. Recently the fantasy also included me coming out and telling the world that being gay doesn’t affect playing hockey. Idealistic, maybe, and complete bullshit that I need to win the Stanley Cup before feeling worthy, but that’s how it is.

Lennon’s relaxed face sleeping next to me gives me the kind of optimism I want to hold onto—something I never really had with Ash.

I don’t know if I can endure another season just hoping to make it to the Cup game, and the thought of making it all that way and losing again … that’d make it two years. Two years where I’d have to continue to live like this. Three if we don’t make it the next year. Four after that.

It’s as if I can hear Lennon’s voice in my head: Hey, look at that, the hockey player can do math.

My point is, it’s a lot to put the fate of your life in the hands of a hockey game outcome.

Not that I can really complain about my life. I’m on a multimillion-dollar contract that has two years left. I have future security with the money I’ve already made. Yet, for the first time ever, I want what Ma and Dad have been spouting for years.

Hockey has always been enough for me until now.

I want to take to the ice as an openly gay player. Win some games, go home exhausted, tired, sometimes bruised, and with any hope, I’d be met by a gorgeous guy—who, at the moment admittedly looks a hell of a lot like Lennon in my head—welcoming me home with a kiss … and okay, maybe a blowjob, but I don’t think I should put that on my official list of goals or anything.

I’ve put my life on hold for six years playing hockey, lost someone I truly loved and cared about, but it’s the guy next to me who gives me the courage to want to do this. And not by promising me a future or telling me I have to, but by simply understanding where I’m coming from and accepting that I need to do this in my own time. With my parents, with Ash, it has always felt like they can’t give me support until I’m out. Like I’m living my life the wrong way. Lennon … he may want to protect himself from me hurting him, but he gives me his support anyway. He’s technically in sports too, so he understands in a way the others don’t.

I never knew empathy could turn me on, but there you go.

The smell of bacon comes from my kitchen, and I know Ma’s been up since mom o’clock cooking me a consolation breakfast for losing our chance at the Cup last night.

She used to do the same thing when I was in the juniors and I’d lose the championship.

If my nose is accurate, there’s only a few minutes until the food will be ready, and I’ll have to pull myself away from Lennon. We’re not even touching, but his presence is warmer than the blanket we share, and being next to him feels like waking up on a lazy winter day, cozied under heat with no reason to get out of bed all day.

I don’t want that feeling to go away, but I know it will as soon as we get up.

There’s a knock on the door and a high-pitched singing voice. “Can’t sleep the day away.”

I groan. “I’m twelve years old again.”

Lennon chuckles but doesn’t open his eyes.

“We’re depressed in here,” I call out to Ma. “We lost.”

“You lost,” Lennon mumbles. “My team’s still in it.”

I gasp. “Who’s your team?”

“Chicago. Duh.”

“Where’s the loyalty? You were born in New York.”

Lennon smiles through a yawn as he rolls onto his side to face me. “I predict it now. Chicago versus Boston for the Cup.”

“No way. Chicago has to beat Vegas, and they’ve dominated all season.”

“How much do you want to wager?”

“Totally wanna say blowjob, but I’m guessing that’s not allowed.”

Lennon climbs out of bed, finding his clothes on the floor. “I was thinking like a hundred bucks.”

“Whoa, don’t break the bank there.”

He dresses and looks for the rest of his things, not giving me eye contact as he says, “Like you said that night of the benefit, I’m a starving artist and can’t afford to feed myself. A hundred bucks is a hundred bucks.”

“What’s a hundred bucks?” Ma’s voice comes from the now open doorway.

“Invasion of privacy, Ma. You can’t come barging in here—”

She throws up her hands. “I gave you plenty of warning, and besides, I heard you talking in here. What’s a hundred bucks? And did I hear something about starving? Food’s on the table.”

“My boyfriend thinks it’s gonna be Chicago and Boston in the finals.”

“No way,” Ma says. “Vegas and New Jersey.”

“Vegas and Boston,” I say.

“San Jose and Detroit!” Ollie’s dad calls out.

“I’ll take that bet,” Ma calls back.

“Did he miss both of them get knocked out last round?” Lennon asks.

“He only ever follows my games,” I say. “He’d rather be watching football.”

“I understand that,” Lennon says.

I flip him the bird but glance at my mother as I do. “Can, ah, I get some privacy to find my clothes, Ma?”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before, but fine. Hurry up before breakfast gets cold.”

Ma closes the door behind her, and Lennon stares over at me.

“When are you going to tell them the truth about me?” he whispers.

I shrug. “At our engagement party?”

Lennon shakes his head. “Don’t even.”

“Fine. The announcement of the birth of our first child.”

He’s still unimpressed.

“I’ll tell them when they need to know. Right now, they think I’m happy, and I’m fine with letting them think that.”

“The longer you leave it, the harder it’ll be. I’m okay with doing this for you, but I still think you should tell them.”

As I finish getting dressed, Lennon’s phone rings. I leave him to it and go out into my dining room and take a seat opposite my dad at the table. Ma’s already piled up the plates, and the empty seat next to me has a stack of food in front of it. No way in hell will Lennon eat all of that. Ma’s used to feeding athletes with insane metabolisms. Even Max, who’s the least sporty of us, is still ripped thanks to the twins giving him free personal training.

Lennon’s low murmurs drift through the apartment.

“Now that your season’s over, you’ll be able to make it home for Grandma’s eightieth,” Ma says.

I shovel food in my mouth. “I’ll probably come home for the off-season anyway.”

When I look up, Lennon’s standing in the doorway to my room, staring at his phone in his hand.

“What’s up?”

His gaze flits between me and his phone again, and he bites his bottom lip. “Looks like I’ll be joining you in Boston.” He lifts his phone. “That was work.”

He’s still following the playoffs? I try to hide my excitement, but I’m sure the wide smile on my face gives it away.

“Great. You two can stay with us,” Ma says, “and Clark can meet the rest of the fam at Grandma’s birthday party.”

Lennon’s eyes widen, and so do mine. He lifts his head and mouths “Tell them.”

All I can do is shake my head. “Thanks, Ma, but I think Clark’s work will put him up in a hotel.”

His shoulders slump. I can only assume from relief of dodging having to stay with my family.

“Thanks for the offer, Mrs. Strömberg, but I’m all set.”

“Well, you at least have to come meet everyone. The entire family will be excited to meet Ollie’s boyfriend. Trying to get any information out of him about you is like pulling teeth.”

I silently beg Lennon to do this one thing for me. It’s a big ask, and I know this is unfair to him. If he says no, I won’t push, but it’ll be one day. Just one. With my entire family.

Shit, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

He can either read my mind or sense my desperation because he smiles at my mother. “I wouldn’t miss it.”