I rise and move away. “We should put a sign on the other beach too.”
Cal’s dark eyes follow me, but he’s quiet as we walk to the other beach.
He’s right. How did all my longing to be hired by a good NHL team turn to this? All my joy when the Blizzards picked me?
I never planned to let them down.
“Coach Holberg’s son is gay,” Cal says.
“Yes. We’re probably the most gay-friendly team because of that. Coach has zero tolerance for bullying.” Bile invades my throat.
Because I’m the bully.
I’m the bad guy.
I’m the guy the other teammates whisper about. The one they hope they won’t see when they’re alone. The one they don’t want to try to make conversation with.
But what can I tell Cal? That I was mean, because they seemed too happy? When did I make it my job to shut down people’s happiness? Isn’t that the definition of bad behavior?
I did so time and again.
But when I told Dmitri I didn’t want to see him with all his junk out, it wasn’t because of his newfound identification as bisexual. It was because he had the habit of being naked for too long, and I just... I just didn’t like it.
I didn’t want my eyes to accidentally bounce toward him, to accidentally linger on the more interesting parts of his body, as if I needed to know anything about his body except that he was strong and capable and that I could depend upon him when we shared a line.
I stopped going to Finn’s parties sometime after he married Noah, because their happiness was so palpable it caused an ache in my heart—an ache I couldn’t explain and didn’t know how to remove.
Finn is rich, and not merely from hockey. His cousin Cameron is a fucking billionaire in Silicon Valley. Finn probably considers himself modest because he only makes eight figures a year, but if his dad isn’t technically a billionaire, he’s verging close. In another seven years, his money will double or something.
Of course, Finn can be whatever he wants to be. He could retire tomorrow and spend the rest of his life donating his fortune to others and he wouldn’t get bored.
Because the real answer for why I acted the way I did is because I was jealous.
Because I wanted what they had. Because I’d realized I’d made a sacrifice at some point in my career I hadn’t realized I’d made.
And it’s fine. I like women. I do. It’s not a lie.
But it’s sometimes painful how much I also like men. It’s hard to pretend I don’t. And it’s easier for me to make them hate me. It’s safer. If they scatter when they see me, that’s fine.
Because then I can hate them back, and I don’t have to question whether I’m living the happy life I claim to be. Because if I were living a happy life, wouldn’t I be truer to my desires?
But I can’t explain this to Cal. I can barely explain it to myself.
My whole life has been spent trying to get into the NHL. Since I was a toddler, clutching my tiny mini-sized hockey stick, that’s been my dream.
Whenever anyone asked my class at school what we wanted to be, I always knew the answer. It never wavered.
I always knew no subject at school, no matter how interesting, could ever be as fulfilling or lucrative as hockey. I had an in, because Dad and Gramps could, and would, talk about their careers.
They’d never made it to the NHL, but they’d come close, and they were determined I wouldn’t repeat any bad choices they made. My life was hockey.
And now I’m living the culmination of all my dreams, all my family’s dreams, and I feel like I’m fracturing apart.
What will happen if the Blizzards decide to remove me? Will some other team take me instead? But the world is filled withyounger, hungrier athletes who don’t have a reputation for not being a team player. Why would someone pick me? I never made it to the first line. I’m a reliable player, but not great. I’m a right winger, like Finn, but I’m smaller and normally I’m passing the puck to the forwards.
I’ve made a mess of my life. We exit the jungle, and I stare at the beach. It’s as stunning and idyllic as the other beach, and just as devoid of any sign of a boat or ship.
The sky opens and rain slams downward.
