Page 39 of The Last Guy On Earth
But it’s no use. I keep staring down at my clipboard without really seeing it. In my head, I’m a scared teenager again, terrified to confront my sexuality. Keeping my eyes down in the locker room, wondering who’d kick my ass if they knew about me, hearing homophobic slurs casually tossed around and trying not to flinch.
Then I’m the loneliest guy on my college campus, working hard to charm everyone around me so they won’t see what an anxious mess I am inside.
And then I’m in Busker, New York, slowly falling in love with Jethro Hale and feeling queasy every time I try to picture a future with him. For good reason.
Today the world has changed, at least for Hudson Newgate. Literally thousands of people showed up here tonight to tell him that he’s enough just the way he is. That he can have a life without hiding.
It’s awe inspiring. It’s amazing. It’s… stinging my eyes.
Damn it.
I force some cool air into my lungs, but it’s not enough. I turn around and stride back into the tunnel. It’s blissfully quiet, and I need a minute to myself. Or maybe several minutes. I take a slow, deep breath and exhale through my nose. But I’m actually shaking, and my hands are clenched into fists.
Let yourself feel all the feelings, my sister’s voice repeats in my head.
Easy for her to say, when I’m the one shaking in the tunnel. I bend over and grab my knees, while each breath saws heavily out of my lungs.
After a minute or two, a shadow appears in my peripheral vision. And then a pair of goalie skates clomp into view.
I turn my head to confirm the inevitable. It’s Hale, which just fucking figures. He’s holding a cracked goalie stick.
“Kapski got me with a slap shot,” he says.
I make no reply, because I don’t trust the sound of my voice right now. Hale’s the last person I want to talk to. So I don’t. I stay where I am, my gaze on my shoes.
“C-Coach,” he says, catching himself before using my actual name. “Uh, you okay? You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine,” I grunt.Please go away.
“But…” He hesitates. “Look, maybe I should go grab Coach Murph?—”
“No!” I snarl, straightening up. “Jesus Christ! Just fuck off, already! Go get a stick, or go the fuck back to Detroit. Now is not the time. If I needed your help, I’d ask for it.”
He throws his hands up as if in self-defense. “Christ almighty, I thought maybe you were having a heart attack. Just trying to be helpful,Coach.”
Then he stomps off, and I lean against the wall, my heart pounding.Get a grip, Powers. Get a fucking grip.
EIGHTEEN
Jethro
With no help from me,the Cougars beat Brooklyn in a close matchup.
Clay—who reappears behind the bench before anyone mentions his absence—coaches the game with great enthusiasm.
His eyes are suspiciously red. I keep sneaking looks at him, trying to understand what the hell is going on with him. As best I can tell, everything should be going great. He’s coaching a winning team—one of the most-loved teams in hockey if the deafening crowd is anything to go by. And he just helped one of his players do what had once seemed impossible—to come out in a major-league sport in the classiest possible way.
The thing about Clay Powers, though, is that what you see is not always what you get. That lead vault where I keep my memories of him is seriously cracked by now, so it’s not a stretch for me to picture him at twenty-four, building team morale one cheese plate at a time.
Even then, he was anxious. Those headaches. And the way he paced our small apartment trying to figure out what could be done to turn our donkey of a team into a stallion.
Coach Powers might have matured by fifteen years, but it’s just dawning on me that the nervous kid I knew is still in there somewhere. Still anxious about his choices. Still trying to get everything exactly right.
He’s managed it tonight. That’s for damn sure. As he coaches his team to a third-period victory, I watch and wonder why he was so upset before the game.
The fascination only goes in one direction. Somehow, Clay avoids looking at me for the entire game. Nobody else does, either. When the final buzzer sounds, the players’ joy is palpable.
Clay is ebullient, patting backs and high-fiving players. His smile is wide, but his face is red with emotion, and his eyes are shiny. I have the strongest urge to push my way into the knot of people around him and grab him into a big, hockey hug.
