Page 3 of Until He Scores

By morning, Pope was gone.

Thierry, age seventeen...

Pope and me... We started drifting apart. We practically did everything together, until we didn’t, and it was all my fault. Hockey had been what bound us together. Or at least it had, until the end of our freshman year of high school. Pope quit being a goalie and started practicing with the football team.

Once he left our team, we started losing and my parents changed programs, putting me with a team near Knoxville. To say they were a little obsessed with my success was an understatement. They wanted me to win. Always. While they were planning my future, I held onto my friendship with Pope by my fingertips. Unfortunately, the glue that bound us together, hockey, caused our bond to crumble, rotting to the core.

I tried several times to apologize to Pope. But every time I worked up the courage to approach him, I realized nothing I’d have said would change what happened in my basement. I kissed Pope Ellis. Guess I should’ve been happy he never outed me to anyone on the team or at the high school.

Maybe James and Rodney—yeah, I finally learned both their names—were right all those years ago. When I met Pope, I’dbeen a lost puppy looking for an owner, and that night, I wasn’t thinking. Then again, I had the biggest crush on Pope, so making up excuses was stupid. I knew I was gay, and I knew I liked Pope. Kind of figured it out after the first 8U championship we won. God that day was amazing. I still replayed the memory of each save and goal we’d made in the game, including Pope’s first goalie goal.

Few could say they’d donethatat the youth level.

The second the final buzzer sounded, Pope hugged me, and the best feeling in the whole world exploded inside of me. A cataclysmicBoomof sorts. Pope wasn’t just my best friend or the team’s goalie. He was the boy who made me feel warm inside. Happier than I’d ever been on the outside. I never wanted to let him go, but I knew if I didn’t, we’d look weird out there on the ice.

Now, I couldn’t even say two words to him, besides, hey. Or how goes it? We went from having zero secrets between us—because if we were going to be the best goalie/defender combo on the ice, we had to know each other’s darkest thoughts—to not even recognizing my best friend.

Or myself.

I messed things up so bad. I wished I could go back and tell my younger self to not do it. To not kiss Pope.

Perhaps then we’d still be best friends.

Yet, even as I moped about the loss of my greatest friendship, I still went to every football game. I cheered on the team, but most especially for him. Pope. I even introduced myself to the team’s right tackle. I’d been Pope’s right-hand man on the ice, and it seemed it was time for me to pass the torch to Malcolm. Probably looked stupid telling him to keep Pope safe out there. Then again, he’d undoubtedly heard those words several times over the years.

Shutting my locker after changing out of gym clothes, I grabbed my backpack off the bench and headed out. Spring brought track and field and with it, a few months of running to keep up my endurance and stamina during the off season. This summer I was joining the 18U – US Men’s team in hopes of making the final roster for the USA Men’s Olympic Hockey team.

According to Coach, if I did well during the international tournament starting in a few weeks’ time, I was a shoo-in for the Olympics next winter which meant I would tie the record for being the youngest member of the squad. The first person I’d wanted to share the news with was Pope.

For some reason, I never told him.

It was for the best, anyway.

“Hey Pope,” Cherie chirped, running past me toward the boy of my dreams. She was captain of the cheer squad. The quintessential All-American girl. The southern sweetheart with a heart of gold. Blonde, blue-eyed, and sweeter than apple pie. She made my back teeth ache and my stomach churn with jealousy. She was everything I’d never be. A girl for one, and the one person out of the whole school who caught Pope Ellis’ eye.

I hated her so much.

But I was also happy for my ex-best friend.

Still sucked for me, though.

“Hey Thierry,” Lily-Mae said, stepping in front of me, causing me to come to an abrupt halt. “Can I come to one of your games?”

Where Cherie had this gregarious personality all bubbly, giggly, and obnoxious, Lily-Mae was softness personified. Petite and mousy, she had chestnut wavy hair and the biggest brown, doe-eyes I’d ever seen. She didn’t play any sports. Nor was she part of the cheerleaders. Lily-Mae was in the band. According to the football program handed out at the gate at every game, Lily-Mae was the first chair flute player which was pretty cool in my book.

My gaze lingered on Pope and Cherie as Lily-Mae’s question filtered through my brain. “Uh...”

She glanced over her shoulder then back to me. Her doe-eyes filled with a mix of sadness and disappointment as she exhaled. “They’re dating. You know?” Her words were whispered, barely audible over the ruckus commotion of the remaining football players exiting the locker room.

“Yeah,” I replied, the same sadness and disappointment tinging my tone. “I heard.”

“Did you want to date her too?” Again, Lily-Mae glanced over her shoulder as Pope looped his arm around Cherie’s waist, pulling her in close to him.

“Nah,” I said. “Nothing like that.” I tried to put on a good show by giving her a small grin. I’m sure it looked more like a grimace.

“Yeah,” she replied. “It’s okay if you don’t want me at your game.”

I kicked myself for being an asshole. Here Lily-Mae was trying to be a friend when I desperately wanted Pope. Instead of being grateful, I’d acted put-out. Clearing my throat, I forced myself to be happy and gave her the best fake smile I could muster. I had to move on. Because Pope certainly had. “I’d like it if you came.”

---