Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. That’s the sound my panicky brain makes as I check my bank balance and work out how long I can survive while being unemployed.

It’s funny. Until I got the call from Harry, I thought I held all the cards. We’d beaten them to outing Soren, so I thought it was over. Apparently, that makes me “not a team player” or whatever.

In retrospect, I should’ve seen it coming. If Harry’s going to stoop low enough to out someone, he wouldn’t bat an eye at firing someone even if I was pulling in more views than Kevin. The gap between our readership isn’t big enough to argue the better reporter defense.

When I threatened to quit, I had the security of giving at least two weeks’ notice to find something else.

Now … I have nothing and am starting at square one.

And after a quick search online, it’s obvious there’s no jobs. My kind of position is rarely advertised. It’s all about who you know and your connections. So instead of a frivolous job search, I open my email contacts to put some feelers out.

Shit, I’m gonna need a new résumé, get all my past articles together … Crap, what if Harry takes them all down? Is that a thing?

Sporting Health was my first job straight out of college. I don’t know the protocol with this.

I open my folders on my computer where they’re saved, but three years of articles, I have no way of knowing if they’re all there. Sometimes, I’d upload straight to the work cloud.

Before I can really get a hold of one thing, another thought pops up, and before I know it, I have about fifteen tabs open with no real direction.

Welcome to the life of being a reporter.

I slump back on my bed and take a deep breath. The sheets still smell like sex, reminding me I’m gonna have to apologize pretty fucking hard after dismissing Ollie the way I did.

Realistically, though, where can we go from here?

Ollie’s out now. He can date and have a boyfriend. But that boyfriend can’t be me. I’ll never work as a sports journalist again, and it’s all I’ve known.

Then again, aren’t we making our own rules? Soren coming out, Ollie standing behind him … this is uncharted territory, and we could pave the way for gay men in sports, which has been my goal ever since becoming a journalist.

I grab my phone and send off a text.

Me: Soren still with you?

Damon: Yeah, why?

Me: I have an idea for a story …

Within seconds, my phone vibrates with Damon’s name flashing on the screen.

“Hey,” I say into the phone.

“What’s the story?” Damon asks. “Soren’s here on speaker.”

“I want to do Soren’s coming out story.”

I’m met with silence.

“Hear me out. You guys know people will be pushing for this, but I’m the only reporter who’ll do it fairly without trying to use gimmicks and without stereotyping.”

“Uh,” Soren says, his voice hesitant. “I don’t really want to do a favor to the magazine that was going to out me.”

“Oh, right. Probably should’ve led with they fired me, and I’d be shopping this around to other magazines. I have a contact at Sports Illustrated after writing that article about Damon about a year ago.”

“They fired you?” Damon asks.

“Yep.”

“I’ll do it,” Soren says.

“Really? I didn’t think it’d be that easy. Do you need to ask your agent?”

“His soon-to-be agent is right here, and he approves,” Damon says.

Soren’s chuckle comes through the phone. “Lennon, how long have you known Ollie’s gay?”

“About eight months.”

“The fact he only just came out means I can trust you.”

“Umm, I should say upfront I don’t have any money to give you. Other places would offer you compensation.”

“Dude,” Damon says, “you’d sold him already. Don’t back down.”

Soren laughs again. “I’d rather have the story I want out there instead of more money I don’t need.”

The stress over my career eases with the promise of Soren’s story, but my work is far from done.

And now with some semblance of a plan, my head breaks out of reporter mode and back into boyfriend mode.

Oh, fuck. I need to grovel.

As if sensing my readiness, there’s a knock on the door, and Ollie steps through.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

Tension in his shoulders relaxes.

“I’m really sorry.”

Ollie smiles. “It’s okay.”

“No, I was a dick.”

“You were scared.”

“Doesn’t mean I should’ve said all the shit I did. I freaked out. I don’t regret standing by you yesterday. Not at all.”

As Ollie approaches the bed, I close my laptop and shove it on my nightstand. He climbs on top of me and lowers his head to kiss my mouth.

“Is this your way of forgiving me?” I ask against his lips.

“If our fight has proved anything, it’s that I don’t want you to walk away. I want to find a way to make us work.”

“I want that too.”

Ollie kisses me the same way he did back in the cold corridors of the Dragons’ stadium when he was convincing me that we can be together.

My tongue sweeps into Ollie’s mouth, and his whole body relaxes on top of me. We make out a little but don’t make a move to go any further. I can’t help being self-conscious about getting it on in a house full of people again.

When we finally come up for air, I land soft kisses along his jaw and neck before rolling him off me so we’re side by side.

“Did you come up with a job solution?” He braces himself, almost like he’s expecting to be yelled at again.

I run a hand down his arm. “I thought of going to the game tomorrow anyway and writing about the first NHL game with an openly gay player on the ice and then trying to shop it around. But there’ll be a million other articles published on the exact same thing, so I asked Soren if I could interview him instead.”

“Soren …” Ollie says. “Is there a reason you asked him and not me?”

I hesitate. “Honestly? It didn’t cross my mind.”

Ollie tenses under my hands.

“But not because I don’t want to,” I rush on. “Hell no. It’s more an ethical problem. We’re sleeping together. The article would be biased.”

“You’ve already proved you can be brutal if you need to be. I must be a sloppy kisser for you to have written those articles about me back then.”

A small laugh escapes. “You’re a really sloppy kisser. Like, I think you might need to practice.” I bring my finger up to tap my lips.

“Just for that, I think I’m gonna hold out.”

I lean in, bringing my mouth so close to his. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

Ollie groans and whispers, “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Okay, no, I don’t. But everyone else will when they find out you’re the thing coming between me and Soren. The media is totally pushing for Sorenberg.”

“Sorenberg? That’s terrible.”

Ollie laughs. “That doesn’t make you mad? Me being ’shipped with Soren?”

“About a stupid celebrity couple name? No. If anything, I’m glad Kevin didn’t figure us out and thrust me into the spotlight.”

He pulls back. “You don’t want people to know we’re … uh, together or whatever? Even if you’re not going to write the article about me?”

“I don’t want other publications to see tabloid opportunities if I’m with an athlete.”

“Makes sense.”

But fuck, I hate the hurt in his eyes. “Is … is that okay?”

Ollie nods. “Just major role reversal here. We were worried about my career and my secret, and now you’re in the exact same position, and I’m the one thinking it sucks.”

“If it comes out, it comes out. It’s not like I want to hide it, but if Soren’s providing a good distraction, I’m okay with that.”

“So, what now?” Ollie asks and moves in closer.

“I have the best idea.” I roll Ollie onto his back and climb on top of him.

He tries to kiss me, but I pull away and reach for my laptop.

“I look for a job.”

Ollie slumps back on the pillows. “I hate you again, Blue.”

As soon as Soren and I get approval to do the article, I follow him around like a puppy for the rest of the playoffs and query publications that’ll most likely pick the story.

Offers pour in, but there’s only one I’m interested in. That’s how I’ve ended up here, sitting at Sports Illustrated headquarters in New York. I’m so nervous I’m fairly certain I’d have pit stains in my shirt, so I make a mental note not to take off my jacket, even if it’s ninety degrees in here. Every time I shift in my seat, the leather beneath my ass squeaks, so I try to sit as still as possible as Greg Follett makes my lifelong dream come true.

He leans back in his seat. “We’ve been wanting to do a spotlight on gay athletes in sports, and that article you wrote for us last year about Damon King was a great start. The fact you already have Soren on board has us all excited.”

“I’ve also spoken to Matt Jackson about a possible article on him too.” Sure, it was a passing comment, but he did offer.

Greg’s face lights up. “This could work. We could maybe feature one athlete per month over a few months. Matt Jackson and Ollie Strömberg are clients of King, right? Maybe we could use that connection to get Strömberg too.”

The tips of my ears burn. “Umm, well, I’m sure I could get Ollie too. Uh … as long as you’d be okay with there being a conflict of interest when it comes to me.”

He cocks his head.

“He’s, uh, he’s my boyfriend.”

Greg’s lips quirk. “Impressive.”

I frown. “What is?” Is this guy seriously judging me right now on my ability to get hot guys? I mean, I can totally see his point, but—

“I wouldn’t have guessed that from any of your recent articles about his team. In fact, you were pretty harsh on him in your earlier articles.”

I roll my eyes. “Like I don’t hear that from him enough.”

Greg laughs. “You were harsh but fair. You were right about him getting out from under Boston’s hold.”

“Thank you! That’s what I said.”

He purses his lips. “Can I ask why you haven’t offered up his article?”

“I didn’t want to use our relationship to get ahead.”

“I admire that, but we could really use him. The more gay men in sports are normalized, the more accepting the industry will become.”

“That’s exactly how I feel.” My heart won’t stop pounding because having any magazine tell me they want me to write my dream articles is amazing let alone Sports-freaking-Illustrated.

“Here’s the catch,” Greg says.

Of course. Too good to be true. “Catch?”

“You mentioned in your email you’re looking for permanent work. This would be a maximum of a couple of articles over a few months unless closet doors start flying open at a rapid rate.”

“There are always other, less popular sports with gay athletes. I could approach them too and see if anyone’s interested in being featured. I think as long as the articles are positive and factual and paint the lives of gay and lesbian athletes the same way we would any hetero athlete, others will sign up.”

“We’d definitely be interested in those if these first few articles do well. We promise to pay you well for the articles we do run, but if we’re talking a permanent arrangement here, that’s not something we can offer right now.”

“That’s completely fine,” I say quickly. What they’re offering is more than I ever expected, and it’ll give me time to line something else up.

“But, we do have a separate role that might fit what you’re looking for. It’s covering baseball.”

My eyes widen. “Listening.”

“On the West Coast. Based out of L.A.”

“Oh.” My heart sinks. Taking a job on the West Coast would mean the end of me and Ollie.

My conscious yells at me that it’s a permanent job, and I’m not exactly in a position to be fussy. And it’s Sports Illustrated for fuck’s sake. Ollie would understand. He’s put his career ahead of everything else for six years.

“You need some time to think about it,” Greg says.

“Yeah. Uh, yeah. I’m not sure about relocating right now.”

“I don’t have to tell you the spot won’t be available for long, but you’ve impressed us, and we want to work with you.”

Greg’s right. I can’t turn it down. This is my foot in the door to one of the most reputable sports magazines in the world.

I nod. “I’ll get back to you by tomorrow.”

“Good man.” Greg stands. “Until then, ask that boyfriend of yours if he’s in.”

So many sex jokes ping in my brain, but I remain professional and only grin like an idiot a little bit.

I shake his hand. “Thank you so much for this opportunity.”

When I leave his office, I take out my phone and stare at the text Ava sent me a few hours ago. We had lunch last week, and she mentioned a job available with the team.

Ava: I spoke to the GM, and the media job’s yours if you want it. I know it’s not journalism but it’s still in sports.

The Dragons want me. Sports Illustrated wants me. One keeps me in New York and super close to Ollie. The other is something I’ve wanted my entire adult life but sends me across the other side of the country.

I’ve never had a serious relationship before because I keep moving for my job, but I also never felt what I do for Ollie with any of the other guys I’ve dated. It’s been easy to choose my career over them. It’s not so easy when it comes to Ollie.

He’s … everything.

So, do I follow my head or my heart? My head tells me it’s stupid to turn down a promising job for a guy. My heart tells me to stop being greedy in the career department. Sports Illustrated wants my articles. At least three of them and more if I do a good job. And I can still write freelance.

With any luck, more gay athletes will start coming out now, and they’ll want to work with me too after I do these articles.

Fuck, sometimes I wish I wasn’t so rational, because I can’t shake the feeling of possible regret when I turn down the job and then Ollie and I break up.

What if you don’t break up?

Full job security with a company I’ve been chasing for years or a low-paying media job writing fluff for my boyfriend’s hockey team.

Ugh. I sound like a puck bunny. I gasp. I’m Ollie’s puck bunny! I chuckle at myself, because even though I’m joking, I don’t actually mind the sound of that. Moving to L.A. doesn’t feel right. Leaving Ollie would be like leaving my heart here and only taking a shell of a human with me. I’d be taking my dream job but giving up my ultimate fantasy.

Deep down, I believe Ollie walked away with a piece of my heart that very first night in Boston, but is it enough?

I have no idea what to do.

The buzzing atmosphere around the stadium is because it’s game seven in the last round of the Stanley Cup, but there’s another reason adrenaline’s fueling the nerves in the pit of my stomach.

You don’t say to a guy you’ve been officially dating only a few weeks “I gave up my dream job on the off chance you and I work out. No pressure! Wanna fuck?”

L.A. might have the type of sports reporting I always thought I’d do, but New York has important networking connections like Damon and a series of articles that mean so much more to me than following baseball on the West Coast. Plus, it has Ollie, and that’s the real selling point. The more time I spend with him, the more I know the truth—I’m stupidly in love with him.

It took a shot or two of scotch and a phone call to Noah for me to make up my mind. I decided almost immediately that I didn’t want to take the L.A. job, but I wanted someone else to tell me I was doing the right thing. Noah said if it was him he wouldn’t take it because nothing was worth leaving Matt for, but it was different for me because Ollie and I aren’t in love.

When I’d opened my mouth to protest but quickly shut it, he’d said “I think you have your answer.”

He knew I was about to defend Ollie and me, and he was right.

Now I just need to tell Ollie.

Damon used his agent connections and managed to score eleven seats for tonight’s game all together in the family section, and we’re all here to support Soren, even Tommy, after getting his ass handed to him by New Jersey in the last round.

Two teams had two gay players in the playoffs this year. That’s an achievement in itself, and we’re all here to celebrate it.

If New Jersey can secure the win over Vegas, we’ll win two for two in the gay athlete coming out only to go on to win the whole season of their sport.

Good luck, Soren.

We find our seats, which are situated over three rows, and I’m surprised to find Matt’s teammates sitting there waiting for us. You’d think being a sports reporter, I’d get used to being around athletes, but Marcus Talon isn’t just an athlete. He’s Marcus Talon—a quarterback god. The next Tom Brady.

Ollie does his hovering-by-my-side thing—giving those I want to touch you so badly vibes I still haven’t gotten used to. If I close my eyes, I can imagine him slipping his hand into mine and holding tight.

We still haven’t come out to the world about our relationship, but it’s not like we’re hiding it too hard. And with the news I’m sitting on, it won’t matter who knows about us soon.

We get settled in our seats, but Maddox turns around from his and Damon’s in front. “By the way, we’re going to hit up that new gay bar in the city afterward if anyone’s interested.”

“Oh, thanks, but we can’t,” I say. “We have that thing.”

Ollie frowns. “What thing?”

“That thing where I don’t want to go.”

Everyone laughs.

“I met you in a gay bar,” Noah says, confused.

“Yes, but that was to find a hookup. I no longer need to do that.” My hand reaches for Ollie’s. “Bar means dancing and that’s a whole bucket of nope for me.”

“Hang out with Miller and Talon,” Ollie says. “Don’t think they’re gonna get down in a gay bar.”

Talon and Miller share matching smirks.

“That’s not a challenge you want to set for Talon,” Miller says. “Trust me on that one.”

He doesn’t get a chance to clarify before Jet’s pulling on my arm from beside me.

“You have to come,” he says, almost panicked.

“Uh, why?”

“Just … because. You have to.”

Something in his urgent tone tells me to agree, but I don’t know why yet.

“Umm, okay,” I say. “Apparently, being a friend means doing things you don’t want to, so for you, I’ll go.”

“Yay, you’re learning,” Jet says and throws his arm around my shoulder for a side hug.

Ollie nudges me. “Besides, I’ve never been to one, so you have to do the boyfriendly thing and make sure to keep all the twinks off your man.”

“If they’re groping you on the dance floor, you’re on your own.” That doesn’t stop that stupid warm and fuzzy feeling attacking when he calls himself my man. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.

“Lennon, calm down. Your possessiveness of me is a little extreme.”

“Sorry.” I link my arm with his. “Please don’t dance with anyone else tonight? I can’t take it when guys fawn all over you.” I also throw in some batted eyelashes for good measure.

“That’s better,” he says.

When the game starts, New Jersey doesn’t hold any punches. Literally and figuratively. They’re out for blood and in it to win. They have more to prove than Vegas.

Three fights break out in the first period alone, yet the scoreboard still reads 0 – 0 by the time it ends.

I think all of us are hoping New Jersey takes the Cup. “Maybe if the first NFL team to have a gay player wins the Super Bowl and the first NHL team with one wins the Stanley Cup, more athletes will be willing to come out. Surely, there’s more than Ollie, Soren, and Matt,” I say to no one in particular.

Miller starts choking on his drink, and Coke comes out his nose. Talon playfully pats him on the back with a laugh.

During the break, Ollie leans back in his seat, no longer jumping up every two seconds to yell at the ice.

His arm goes around the back of my chair. “Are you okay? You seem like you’re not really here.”

Damn it. I was hoping he wouldn’t notice.

“It’s hockey, what do you expect?” I try to deflect, because I know he’s right. I’m nervous about telling him I’m staying in New York. Not only that, but I turned down my dream job for him. That’s a lot this soon, right?

God, did I make the right decision?

One look at him, and I know I did, but what if he’s not there yet? Awkward.

He stares at me as if trying to decipher something or work something out, and I’m wondering if it’s written all over my face.

Jet taps me on the shoulder. “Uh, guys.” He points up to the screen where the kiss cam is on. And it’s aimed at me and Ollie.

Fuck.

The game announcer says something about a special request from Caleb Sorensen to make Ollie kiss the nearest boy.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Ollie mutters.

“Umm …” I must look horrified because Ollie’s expression softens.

The crowd, surprisingly, appears encouraging. Well, there’s no booing I can hear, at least. That’s something.

“We don’t have to,” Ollie says. “You’re not ready for everyone to know and—”

I swallow hard and go for it, because I won’t even be working in journalism anymore. Not really. And Sports Illustrated has already said they don’t care if I’m with Ollie. We don’t have to hide.

Our mouths meet, and the arena breaks out into hollers and applause.

It’s probably the most surreal moment of my life.

I wish it was one of those times like in a shitty rom-com movie where the world fades away, and it’s just me and him and love and all that shit, but no. I can’t get past nerdy Lennon kissing a jock in front of sixteen thousand people. And they’re cheering.

Yes, folks, I finally got my shit together. Thanks for the encouragement.

The kiss is brief and PG-rated—I feel only the barest flick of Ollie’s tongue against my lips—and when Ollie pulls away, the kiss cam’s moved on to other people.

Ollie stares at me dumbfounded. “You didn’t have to do that. You’ve probably thrust yourself into the media spotlight.”

“I, umm, have something to tell you.”

“What?”

“I got a job. In New York.” I mumble the next part. “With the Dragons.”

His brow furrows. “Huh?”

As if I had my very own spidey senses, I know everyone in our group is eavesdropping right now.

“Ava wants help in the PR department. She wants someone to write press releases and manage the social media accounts and basically write fluff for the team.”

“But … you’re a journalist. You write stories and articles, not fluff.”

I swallow hard. “Right, but the job’s here.” With you. I fumble over those words and can’t get them out.

“You turned down Sports Illustrated?” Noah asks.

And fuck, I knew there was a reason I should’ve been bothered about them listening in. He’s the only one I’ve told.

Ollie’s face lights up. “Sports Illustrated? You got offered a job with Sports Illustrated? That’s amazing.”

“That job’s in L.A.,” I say.

The excitement from a second ago disappears, and he responds the exact same way I did to the offer. “Oh …”

“I turned it down and accepted the job with Ava.”

Ollie blinks rapidly. “I’m going to ask this very slowly, because I need to know. Did you … I mean, did you turn it down … for me?”

“Fucking duh,” Jet says beside me. “And people say I can be oblivious.”

“Yes?” I don’t mean for it to come out as a question.

“Are you asking me or telling me?” Ollie asks.

“Telling you. I turned it down. For you. So I could stay in New York. For you.”

He doesn’t tear his gaze away but doesn’t say anything either, not even when the next period starts and the players take to the ice once again.

“You … and you … but you …”

I want to laugh, but I’m too scared to. “It’s too much? It’s too much. Never mind. I’ll get a job somewhere else. I don’t have to work for the Dragons.”

“Too much?” Ollie asks, his tone soft. “Are you kidding me? It’s everything. Part of me is telling me I don’t deserve it. I … I lo—” His mouth slams shut. “Are you sure? You didn’t want to compromise my career for you, so why do you get to do it for me?”

“It’s completely different. I’d be miserable in L.A. knowing you were back here.”

“We could make it work, and—”

I shake my head. “No. It’d be too hard. And I’m not really compromising anything. Sports Illustrated still wants me to write freelance for them, and actually, they want me to write your coming out article. And Soren’s. They also want me to do an article on Matt.”

I glance over Ollie’s head at Matt.

“I’m in,” Matt says.

“I thought you said you couldn’t write about me if we were together.”

“The editor I’ll be working with has already said he doesn’t care about that. This way, I still get my dream job—writing about gay athletes for a massive publication—but I get to stay in New York. I can travel for other stories during your off-season. I’ll get the best of both worlds.”

He’s still not convinced. “You won’t resent me for you turning it down?”

I understand where he’s coming from, because I was scared of the exact same thing when he came out, but this was completely my decision.

“Even if Sports Illustrated is my dream job, you’re my actual dream. Giving us a real shot is what I want.”

His eyes widen slightly. Oh, God, I’m freaking him out.

“Unless you don’t want that. In which case I’m joking. Ha-ha, I’m hilarious. Ooh, look, hockey!”

He’s on me in an instant. “Fuck, I love you.”

Ollie’s mouth crashes to mine, and this time, the world does fade around me, because the only thing I can focus on are those three little words I’ve never heard directed at me before.

It’s like I conjured this guy from pure wishing, and I don’t know what I did to deserve him, but I’m not going to question it. All I want is for us to be together.

We’re finally pulled apart when the crowd starts screaming. The lamp on New Jersey’s end flashes, and Soren’s being attacked by his teammates with back slaps and glove bumps.

He might’ve just scored the winning goal of the fucking Stanley Cup. Maybe. Could still go either way, but with the lack of score so far and how hard everyone’s fighting for it, I think it’s going to be a low-scoring game.

When the commotion dies down, I lean in and whisper to Ollie. “I love you too. Just in case that wasn’t clear by my rambling and job sacrificing and all that.”

Ollie stands and grabs my hand. “Sorry, guys, we’re bailing on going out. Tell Soren good game, and—”

Jet gets out of his chair and blocks us off. “You can’t.”

“JJ, what’s going on?” Matt asks, his tone firm.

I tug Ollie back down into his seat, and Jet wrings his hands together.

“Okay, fine, I was going to do this later at the club so we could all celebrate with drinks, but … we did it.”

“We did what?” Noah asks.

“The band got signed, and we’re recording ‘He’s Mine’ and a few other songs, and then we’re going on tour.”

“Noah’s and my song?” Matt asks. “And a tour?”

“National first, but they’re talking about going to Australia for some huge music festival in a few months if we do well.”

I’ve never seen Jet look so nervous. “Why are you freaking out?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No reason. I mean, they want to change a bunch of crap with the band, but so what? Fallout is just a name. It wasn’t even a name I picked. It came with the band. So I shouldn’t care that we’ll be known as Radioactive from now on, right? It doesn’t matter … no big deal.” He breathes deep.

“You’re worried about your artistic control,” Ollie says.

“Does that make me a spoiled shithead?” Jet asks, and I worry for a moment that he might not be ready for a record deal. He’s young, and—

In a split second, the doubt is gone, and in its place is the Jet I’ve seen on stage. Confident and happy.

“Oh, fuck it, it’s just a name. I’ve got a record deal, bitches!”

We all jump up and hug the crap out of him, even though it happens to coincide with Las Vegas sinking the puck.

Everyone around us thinks we’re traitors, but we don’t fucking care. Jet’s gonna be famous.

“Damn,” I say, “I was kind of hoping to keep you as a roommate.” Then I turn to Matt and Noah. “At least until I find a place of my own.”

Noah waves me off. “Stay as long as you want. We’re going back to Chicago in a few weeks, and with Jet leaving, we’ll need someone to look after the place.”

“Really? I mean, I can pay rent. Obviously not as much as it’s worth, but—”

Noah throws his arm around Matt. “Do we look like two people who need more money? Pay us by managing the upkeep, and you’ve got a deal.”

“Leaving,” Jet says as if it’s just sinking in. “Holy shit, I’m leaving.” He pales a little and has to take his seat again.

“You’re gonna rock it,” Ollie says.

“Pun intended,” I add.

After that, none of us can sit still. We’re all buzzing with celebratory energy, even when Vegas sinks another one.

Damn it.

I huff. “Okay, so maybe my theory of the first gay guy in each league winning won’t come true.”

Ollie wraps his arm around me. “I don’t think Soren will hate it so much. I mean, if he loses, fuck yeah, he’ll hate it, but no more than a regular player losing the Cup. He’s already told me making it to the final feels like he doesn’t need to prove anything more.”

“Yeah, I know. Still, would be nice.”

But niceties and wishing don’t always come true, because life isn’t always fair.

When Vegas sinks a third in the third period, Jersey can’t recover. And when the final buzzer sounds, we remain seated in a depressed heap of loserdom. When the team you root for loses, you take it as if the loss is on your shoulders. It’s one of the things I love about sports. Even if you can’t play, you live the wins through your team but also experience the losses.

Tonight is doubly sucky.

“At least Soren can come out with us,” Ollie says. “If they’d won, he’d be out celebrating with the team.”

“Are you sure he won’t want to commiserate with his team instead?” I ask.

“Maybe, but I doubt it. When you lose, you kinda want to be far away from the people who want to point fingers and blame. Do you still have a press pass? Maybe you can go back to the locker rooms and ask him.”

“No sweat.” I stand.

Jet jumps up to let me past. “Can I come?”

“Okay, fine. You can be my assistant if they ask.”

Jet and I break away from the group, but as soon as we’re let into the back corridors, we’re aware we’ve overlooked one very important detail.

“Lennon Hawkins,” other reporters call out. Some I know, but most I don’t. They’re on us before either me or Jet can blink, and they don’t seem to care about leaving their spot outside the locker room as they come after me.

I turn to Jet, who looks as scared as I feel. “Gonna have to get used to this type of attention, rock star.”

“What’s your relationship with Ollie Strömberg?” someone yells.

“How long have you been together?” someone else asks.

All this from one little kiss Ollie was publicly dared to do? Then I realize that our seats were behind the players and right in the press box’s line of sight. We probably had eyes on us the whole game.

Ollie’s and my normal shyness over public affection wasn’t there tonight, and even though I’d hoped this wouldn’t happen, I know I can handle it. My family, on the other hand …

Mom’s gonna kill me. I already know how that conversation will go. I’ll emphasize nothing bad will happen, and she’ll say “You don’t know that!” The argument that I don’t know if I’ll be hit by a bus either is pretty thin by now with how many times I’ve used it. I understand she worries, but she also has to know I’m a grown man and don’t want to hide for the rest of my life because I had bad experiences as a teenager.

Ollie won’t hurt me. I’m certain of it.

“Can you get Soren on your own?” I ask Jet.

“Sure. I mean, I haven’t met him yet, so he’ll think some weird, scrawny dude is asking him out but …” Jet shrugs.

“Thanks. We owe you.” I throw him my press pass and then hightail it out of there and mutter no comment to anyone who catches up to me. I’m outside and meeting up with the others before I can even register I’m referring to Ollie and me as a “we” now.

I see Ollie waiting for me when it does sink in, and I can’t help smiling.

I’m a we person now.

If I wasn’t so damn happy, I’d hate myself.