Page 81 of Him
Disgust.
Pure, malicious disgust.
Jesus. Nobody has ever looked at me that way before. Like I’m a piece of dog shit they’ve just had the misfortune of stepping on. Like they want to wipe my very existence off the face of the earth.
Beside me, Wes stiffens. He’s just realized we’re being watched.
No, that we’re being judged.
“Do you know that guy?” he says warily.
“No.”
“He looks familiar.”
Does he? I’m too stuck on his expression to know.
“Ignore him,” Wes murmurs, taking a step toward the car.
My breathing is shaky as I follow him. Unless we walk all the way around the gas station to get back to our car—which I’m unbelievably tempted to do right now—we have no choice but to pass the Mercedes. As we near the man in the suit, I find myself bracing myself the way I do on the ice right before a puck flies toward me. I’m in defense mode, ready to protect myself at all costs, even though I know I’m being ridiculous. This man isn’t going attack me. He isn’t going to—
“Fucking faggots,” he mutters under his breath as we walk by.
Those two words are like a blow to the gut. From the corner of my eye I see Wes flinch, but he doesn’t say a word. He keeps walking, and I struggle to match his brisk stride.
“I’m sorry,” he says when we reach the car.
“Nothing to be sorry about, man.” But I can’t deny I’m shaken up. That bubble Wes and I have been living in all summer has just burst. If we somehow managed to keep seeing each other after camp, I might encounter this type of shit all the time.
Unbelievable.
“People are assholes.” His tone is gentle as we get into the car. “Not all of them, but some.”
My hand shakes as I place my slushie in the cup holder. “This happens to you a lot?”
“Not often. But it happens.” He reaches for my hand, and I know he feels it trembling as he laces our fingers together. “It sucks, Canning. Not saying it doesn’t. But you can’t let jerks like that get to you. Fuck ’em, right?”
I tighten my grip on his hand. “Fuck ’em,” I agree.
Still, the drive back to the rink is subdued. We don’t say much as we drop the ice off at the cafeteria. I really wish I could just brush off that bigoted comment—that look—but it stays with me. Gnaws at me. Yet at the same time, I feel a burst of pride for Wes. No, it’s awe, because it takes true strength for him to be so unflinching about his sexuality. His own parents refuse to accept it, and even that doesn’t keep him down.
“Coach Canning, Coach Wesley!” Davies calls when Wes and I arrive outside the rink. “Come meet my dad.”
The front steps are littered with teenagers and their folks, all of whom are eager to meet the coaches who are grooming their kids into champions. Shen is in the middle of an animated conversation with his parents, grinning wildly as he talks about his progress. A few feet away, Killfeather stands alone, his teeth worrying his bottom lip as he looks around.
Wes and I have just reached Davies and his father when a flash of silver catches my peripheral vision.
I shift my head, and my heart drops to the pit of my stomach when the Merc from the gas station suddenly speeds up to the curb. I notice Killfeather take a step forward, looking even more agitated now.
The driver’s door opens.
The bigot gets out of the car and addresses Killfeather in an annoyed voice. “Isn’t there a closer parking lot?”
My goalie visibly gulps. “No. Only the one behind the building.”
“I’ll leave the car here then.”
“It’s a fire lane,” Killfeather protests. “Just park in the lot, Dad. Please.”
