Page 30 of The Last Guy On Earth
“But we just started,” he whines.
“I’m not sure you understand. There’s strawberries and M&M pancakes, and you can go back as many times as you want.”
He finally caves. “But bring your phone,” he says. “What if Mom calls?”
So I bring my phone. I’m mowing down a plate of bacon and frittata when my father passes his phone to me across the table. “Hey, look.”
“Is it Mom?” Toby asks quickly.
My dad shakes his head. “Just a news story about Jethro’s new team.”
“Hmm?” I ask, shoving cheesy eggs into my maw.
“You’re gonna want to see this.” He taps the screen.
When I glance down, I see a studio photograph of Hudson Newgate and the interview the publicist told me about. “Oh, yeah. I heard about this. Newgate used to play for Brooklyn,so they timed this story to come out right before the Brooklyn game.”
“Did they?” My father’s eyes narrow. “Kinda weird, right? Having this guy in your same locker room?”
My appetite takes a sudden dive. I put down my fork and try to figure out what to say. I can feel Toby listening, too. I guess this is what you’d call a teachable moment. “He’s a great player, Dad. None of my business if he has a boyfriend.”
“I suppose,” my father says slowly. “Still weird, though.”
I take a gulp of coffee instead of arguing with him, and it makes me feel cowardly. But I’ve never felt compelled to explain my complicated sexuality to my family or my teammates.
On the other hand, I’ve lived my life in a way that made sure I never had to. That makes me a chickenshit.
Toby looks up from his comic book. “Well, I think Newgate’s cool,” he says. “He’s not just another hockey bro. Now he’s a trailblazer. Because it’s hard to be different.”
For a second, I can only stare at Toby. It’s pretty pathetic that a ten-year-old who’s currently shoving half a pancake into his mouth did a better job explaining this than I did. “You know who else is pretty cool?” I ask. “You.”
He looks startled. “Thanks? Will you play more Ninjammers with me after breakfast?”
I guess I earned that. “Sure I will.”
FOURTEEN
Clay
Christmas Day lastsone hundred years.
The title of Newgate’s article is: “On Winning Games and Coming Out.” I read it approximately one million times, in between pacing around my apartment. The only useful thing I do all day is to order a nice bottle of champagne for Hudson and his partner to be delivered tomorrow on game day.
Tate, our head of publicity, sends a lovely email to the whole organization, where he reminds us that we don’t have to read the comments.Reading their shitposts is not your job. Letting them take up space in your head is not your job.It doesn’t matter what they say about us. We’re a strong organization, and we became an even stronger one today.
It’s great advice. So naturally I ignore it. I read all the damn comments and the ugly tweets, too. Some of them are gross. A few of them are violent. The more inflammatory the comment, the more likely they are to get a like or a share.
I know how algorithms work. The negativity shouldn’t bother me, but it does anyway. I could not be more proud of being the coach of the first out player in the league.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not worried for my players. I need them to feel safe and supported, so they can do their best work.
Pacing around my condo, I try to lay out the worst-case scenario for our upcoming games. A protest rally in front of the stadium. Or an empty arena, with all the fans staying home. Or fistfights in the cheap seats.
A text pings on my phone. It’s from the publicist.
Tate
Stay cool, Coach! It’s under control. There’s a lot of action on StubHub, but seat prices are going up, not down.
