Page 33 of Lucky Sucker

Wren shrugged. “I haven’t made my mind up yet. I need to go through all the colleges taking part and seeing their teams.”

“Well, I should be getting a lot of playtime this season.”

He gasped. “I don’t know if that counts as insider trading.”

It was adorable. “Relax, nobody is going to lock you up,” I told him. “But the team is always mixed around depending on how Coach wants to play.”

Seeing Wren interact with the team was reassuring that these people I’d called friends and teammates for the last couple of years were accepting. I still didn’t know what they were accepting of from me, but they were.

* * *

It was hard not to be distracted by Wren when I was trying to be open and honest with him, and try figure myself out. Two weeks since the news had broken that I was gay, and still the term didn’t feel like it fit me. And searching for the exact way I’d felt on the internet had thrown me a couple of terms that I didn’t know about.

Asexual, graysexual, demisexual, pansexual. I’d never heard those terms before, but the article someone from the college paper had written just labeled me as gay, and it felt like too much work and effort to have them change it now everyone had already read it.

I was in a fake gay relationship, after all.

“Lucky,” Coach called me over, blowing a whistle at me.

Skating over to him, he folded his arms. “Oh shit,” I grumbled to myself.

“Where is your head?” he asked, snapping his fingers. “For the last week now. And it’s not Wren’s fault, he saw it too, that’s why he hasn’t been around for training. I thought having him around would be good for you, and the team, seeing how good their captain is.”

“I’m good,” I said. “I’m just—”

We were in a staring contest for a moment as I searched for words. I’d gone from being an assertive player, dominant on the ice, to having life drained out of me as my mind and soul seemed to be on some other journey.

“You should talk to someone,” he said. “I can’t imagine it’s doing you any good to come in such a high-pressure environment. We’re gonna need your head in this if we’re going to get anywhere this season.”

It was true. “I’ll speak to one of the team doctors, see if they can put me in contact with someone who can help.” Maybe that’s all I’d needed, was someone to suggest it, because suddenly, it made everything seem like it was all going to work out.

* * *

On-campus counseling was offered out to all students. They were located within the humanities building which is where I was already taken my classes, but I’d never ventured into the depths of the building where a colorful hallway led to a waiting room.

A woman I’d seen a handful of times appeared at the door. I was the only person in the waiting room. Doctor Jean Roman. One of the mental health specialists. From making the appointment to sitting in front of her had been a day, something about the sports endowment seemed to make things happen and move faster when you were playing for one of the teams on campus.

“I have a suspicion I know why you’re here,” she said, welcoming me into her office. The walls were lined with bookcases and filled with thick-spined books, family pictures, and trinkets. And as my eyes traveled to the desk, I saw the copy of the Caldwell Chronicle.

“Oh.” I sat in the comfy chair, my arms restless on the arms, immediately my fingers felt the ridges and grooves from where fingers had scratched into it.

“But I won’t make any assumptions,” she said. “Let’s start with how you’re feeling. I can imagine there is an immense amount of pressure on your shoulders.”

“I can deal with that,” I said. “I’m—” my eyes flickered to a close as I tried to surmise my thoughts. It was not easy. “I’m not gay, but I’m not straight, and I’m—I’m dating a guy, but I’m not sure what it is, and I think I might’ve made some mistakes.”

Jean pulled the college paper across her desk and tucked it into a drawer. “Sexuality has been described as fluid in a lot of people. There are many terms.”

I nodded. “I’ve heard a few of them, but I don’t know.”

“Let’s go through them together then,” she said. “What you explained is possibly related to bisexuality, where you are attracted to both men and women, pansexuality is similar, but you’re attracted to a person without the attachment of their gender.

“Yeah, I get those. But—this session is private, right?”

She nodded. “Everything here is strictly confidential.”

“I’ve never felt a really strong sexual urge,” I told her. “Like, I’ve never been someone who thinks, I want to have sex, and because of that, I’m technically still a virgin. But there’s something, something about the guy I’m—dating, and he makes me feel different. And it feels like it was all chance, like I would’ve been happy to exist without that feeling, but now I’ve got it, I don’t understand it.”

She looked me over and hummed, her eyes stayed on me, but they weren’t scalding, they were soft, like she was smoothing out the edges around my body. I felt relieved to have expressed myself, but it was still semi-painful to speak it aloud.