Page 90 of Two for Holding
“Think about it,” Jax had said.About being happy.Well, the joke was on him because Tom couldn’t think about anything else.
“I was terrified you’d figure out I’m gay,” he blurted out.“I thought that would be what got me sent down if anyone knew.”
For a terrifying moment, Phil didn’t say anything.Tom stared straight ahead, clutching his plate on his lap.The TV now played an ad for antidepressants.A man walked a dog while an endless text of possible side effects scrolled past him.If Tom lost Phil and Jax in one fell swoop, he would probably need to get a dog, or he really would be all alone.
“Oh my God,” Phil said.“Oh my God, Tom.”
“Yeah.”Tom looked down at his cleared plate.He was glad he’d asked Phil to make steak instead of chicken if this would be their last meal together.He should have made fun of Phil’s grill less; he should have let him know how much he appreciated the food if—
Phil took the plate out of his hands gently and set it on the coffee table.Then, he turned to face Tom as best as he could, sitting next to each other on the couch, and hugged him tightly.
One by one, Tom’s muscles unclenched, until he slumped over in Phil’s grip, his arms slack between them, his face buried in Phil’s shoulder.“You don’t hate me?”he asked into Phil’s T-shirt.It smelled of barbecue.
“No,” Phil said emphatically.“Jesus, Tom.”
He held Tom for longer than Tom thought he could get away with for a hug between friends.He couldn’t bring himself to pull away.
When they finally did separate, Tom muttered, “Thank you.”
“Well, that explains why you never had a girl all these years.”
“Yeah.I thought for sure someone would guess eventually.”
“Wildly overestimating the average intelligence of hockey players there, bud.”
Tom laughed, half relief and half genuine amusement.
“No, whatever you’re doing, it works.You’re not someone people look at and think ‘could be gay.’”
“I mean…who is?”
Wincing a little, Phil admitted, “Luca Mazetti, I guess?”
“What?Because he’s pretty, well-dressed, and smart?”
“Yeah, basically.”
“Honestly, I think that’s being European.”
“All the Russians in the league would disagree.”
“Denisov wouldmurderme.”
They both laughed again, mostly at the thought of Russian giant Damir Denisov having to parse out whether or not he was being complimented or insulted.English subtleties were not his strong suit.
“What did you have Howie chirp him with the other night anyway?He went nuts,” Tom asked.
Phil opened his mouth to answer and then paused.“Wait.You changed the subject.What happened with Jax?Was he shitty about…”
Tom forced his attention to the TV.The third period had started.Winnipeg, getting desperate, had taken a stupid penalty and barreled toward a 5–0 score with the Fury on the power play.“No.No, I was the shitty one.”
“Tom?”
An empty Gatorade bottle sat on the table—a yellow one, Tom’s least favorite flavor.He picked it up and toyed with the label.
“I, uh…I don’t think I can talk about this?”
Phil hummed contemplatively.“Spitballing here, but if Jax thought you needed a friend tonight, and he also thought he couldn’t be that friend— Did something happen between you two?As in, romantically?”
