Page 47 of The Last Guy On Earth
His head jerks with a nod of agreement. So I give him what’s intended to be a friendly wave, and I leave his room.
The sound of the door closing behind me is the sound of relief.
TWENTY-TWO
Jethro
After Clay leaves,I get into bed, his words echoing through my exhausted brain.I would have given you everything. I always thought you were worth it. When I was young and dumb, nobody ever said things like that to me.
Hell—nobody says them now. I don’t even know what to do with words like that. So it takes me a long time to sleep. And when my alarm goes off the next morning, I wake up feeling groggy and unsettled.
The vault where I keep all my thoughts about Clay has been kicked wide open again. And now it seems like the contents of the vault aren’t exactly what I remembered. Maybe it’s not just a repository for good times and porn. There’s some weightier stuff in there, too.
After dozing on the team bus, I follow my cheerful teammates to the airport lounge and listen to them chirp at Hudson Newgate as we wait to board the jet. Apparently, Newgate’s picked up some new Instagram followers.
“Four hundredthousand?” Stoney says, scrolling through his phone. “That’s, like, every gay dude in America. Some of these guys really work out, too. Huh. Nice deltoids on this guy.”
“Don’t forget the bi dudes,” Wheeler says, elbowing him. “That’s bi-erasure.”
“I mean, who knew there were so many gay Canadians?” Stoney wonders aloud.
“Also, bi Canadians,” Volkov chirps. “Do not erase them.”
“Yo, it’s not just dudes,” Wheeler adds. “Plenty of women fans, too. Whoa, she’s hot,” he says, grabbing Stoney’s phone. “Maybe you could introduce me to this one.” He shows the screen to Newgate.
“Sure, I’ll hop right on that,” Newgate says. “Now get your asses on the damn jet, or we’re never getting off the ground.”
I follow them onboard, and take a seat near the front, alone. When Clay boards a moment later, I watch him greet Harley the flight attendant with a friendly smile. And I recognize the smile that Harley gives him back, like he’s just won the lottery.
Clay has always had that effect on people. Even a scrap of his golden attention lifts your day to a higher plane. It’s not just me who thinks so. He’s magnetic. It’s no accident that he’s the youngest head coach in the league.
That’s what makes our conversation last night so shocking, really. I always knew Clay was special. Everyone does. I just honestly never believed he could see me the same way. And I don’t really know why he would. He was always out of my league, even when we played for the same league.
I would have given you everything.I always thought you were worth it.
If only it were true. And now I’m staring as he makes the turn into the aisle and files toward me. He glances down, giving me a friendly nod before heading toward the back of the aircraft.
So I guess that’s where we are now—at the friendly nod stage. And I guess I can work with that.
He moves on, and I try to relax, even if our history has me churned up inside. I don’t enjoy thinking about my twenty-twoyear old self.Hockey doesn’t work that way, I’d said with the arrogance of a young punk speaking for an entire sport.
It makes me cringe.
The flight attendants make their announcements, and then the jet taxis down the runway and takes off. When my efforts to sleep fail, I scroll news coverage from our recent games.
It makes for some wild reading. There’s some chatter about the Trenton on Trenton fight. But every news organization that covers sports, plus a few extras, declare the Brooklyn game a success. “A Bright New Era in Sports,” shouts one headline. “Victory on Ice: Hudson Newgate Defies Odds and Critics in Emotional Game,” shouts another.
“Queer Hockey Player Comes Out and Nobody Dies,” declares a prominent blogger. Obviously, it’s supposed to be tongue in cheek, but that joke would’ve hit too close to home when I was young. Slurs, threats, and fear were the norm when it came to queer men in sports.
Nobody wanted to have an honest conversation about it. Least of all me.
I tuck my phone away and close my eyes. Somewhere on this plane, Clay is probably reading the same news articles.
When I think of his red eyes at the stadium, something goes a little wrong in my gut. Fifteen years is a long-ass time to wait to start being yourself.
Beside me, Volkov is tucked against the window, snoring like a freight train. I sink a little more deeply into my seat and try to relax. I’m just dozing off when someone taps me on the shoulder.
I open my eyes to find Coach Murphy standing over me. “Sorry to interrupt you,” he says, not looking all that sorry. “Can you come back to the office for a bit?”
