Page 91 of Poetry On Ice

Ant’s face changes before my eyes. There’s something new there. Something I haven’t seen before: resignation. No, not resignation. Something else. Something better.

Acceptance.

He raises a broad shoulder at me, asking the question I’ve hoped he’ll ask for a while.

I nod and whisper, “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

As soon as everyone is in the locker room, Ant clears his throat. When that doesn’t garner immediate attention, he yells, “Yo!” at the top of his voice, and that does it.

The entire room falls silent and all eyes are fixed on the two of us. I’m standing at Ant’s side, suddenly acutely aware that approximately forty eyes are blinking at us. Iwould be lying if I said I’m not nervous. I am. Of course I am. These guys are my team. My brothers. I don’t give two shits about the rest of the world, but I do care what the people in this room think of us.

As it turns out, I don’t need to be nervous, and Ant doesn’t need to launch himself into the speech I know he’s spent night after night lying awake, mentally preparing. The second we have everyone’s attention, whoops and wolf whistles screech through the air, backs are slapped, and money exchanges hands as we look on in puzzled amazement.

I take a second to work it out. We both do.

“The fuck?” mutters Ant when it hits him.

Bets.

These fuckers have been running bets on us. They’ve been onto us for God knows how long.

“Thank you. Thank you,” trills Pejic as he collects fat stacks of cash from the players around him. He cocks his head cheerfully at Ant and me and says, “I’ve been shipping the two of you since the day you stopped punching each other.”

“It was the thirteen to three game for me,” says Katz, nodding sagely. “No fucking way you have chemistry like that on the ice and not off it.”

“I’m a little slow,” admits Luddy, “so it wasn’t until the concussion for me. Seriously, Ant. Are you okay, baby? During a game? With cameras all over? D’you know how many times I’ve had to tell reporters that baby is Robbie’s team nickname?”

“Baby would be a great team nickname for Robbie,” pipes Bodie.

The entire locker room erupts into fits of laughter, and some wise-ass takes it upon themselves to play our goal song, but instead of playing the ‘it’s raining goals’ version, they go with the original lyrics.

When the raucous laughter finally dies down, Ant says, “We won’t be making a public statement about this because, well, I fucking hate that shit. But we’d appreciate it if you’re asked about us, you stick to the comment coined and delivered with aplomb by the man we all call Captain, and that is: ‘Get a life, dickhead.’”

When the chortles die down, people turn their attention to getting changed and showered. Coach taps my shoulder and says, “Decker. McGuire. Can I have a word?”

Watching Coach march down the hallway ten paces ahead as we walk from the locker room to his office gives me a stark sense of déjà vu. Ant feels it too, he must, because he looks over at me, scowls exaggeratedly, andmouths, “Not a word, Princess,” before cracking the biggest smile I’ve seen on him yet.

When I roll my eyes, he reaches behind me and gives me one of those little two-finger jabs right on my asshole.

I launch ungracefully into the air and bite back a squawk as I land. I slap him away a couple of times, and when that fails to deter him, I accept defeat and join in, getting a few perfectly aimed pokes of my own in before we get to the office.

“So,” says Coach, closing the door and taking a seat. For the first time, he motions for us to take a seat too. “I guess this is happening, huh?”

“Yes, Coach,” we say in near unison.

“Okay. Good. Well, first of all, I want to let you know I have your back. I’m a lifelong ally of the LGBTQ+ community, and this matters to me. It’s important, and I want you to feel safe, so I’ll make goddamn sure the whole management team has your back as well. I’m not expecting any problems from the team, but if you run into any, my door is open. Just tell me what you need, and I’ll ensure you have it.”

“Thanks, Coach,” I say, turning my head to search Ant’s face when his voice doesn’t join mine. He’s looking straight ahead, his cheeks pink and lips pressed tightly together. He swallows hard and nods once. It’s one ofthose nods accompanied by a soft, breathy expulsion of breath. The type of breath that rushes out when you let go of something you’ve been holding in since you were a kid.

“That said,” continues Coach, “as coach of this team, it’d be remiss of me not to plan for the potential implications of this relationship as we move forward. I think it’s important we have an open dialogue about it. Things are obviously good between the two of you now, but you’re our star players. The reality is there will be serious repercussions for the Vipers if things don’t work out between you two. What do we do if things go sour between you?”

“It won’t,” says Ant.

Coach smiles in a way that makes me think he might be a romantic at heart. “Well, see, the thing is, Ant, this is new. You’re happy and things are perfect now, but we need to have a plan in place for if that changes.”

“It won’t,” says Ant again.

“You can’t know that, son.”

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