Page 82 of The Last Guy On Earth
“Go ahead,” I say quietly. If he didn’t write it down, then it’s sensitive, and everyone in this room knows to treat it that way.
“Pierre is making me nervous,” the trainer says, playing with his watch band. “He’s jittery. Red eyes and the sniffles. I just…got a bad feeling.”
Which means coke, probably.
I glance around the table at the other uneasy faces. Sadly, illegal drugs are all too common in pro hockey, and Pierre is a twenty-three-year-old hothead who likes his substances.
“Any proof?” Murph asks.
The trainer shakes his head.
“We could do a random drug test,” the doctor says. “Force the conversation.”
“Oof,” Murphy mutters. “Maybeafterwe clinch our playoffs spot?”
I kick Murphy’s foot under the table. “That kind of thinking won’t solve any problems. How about asking Kapski to casuallycheck in with him? If it comes across as friendly concern and not judgment, there’s a chance he’d open up to his captain.”
“Yeah, okay,” Kevin says. “That could work. I’ll talk to Kapski.”
“I’ll ask Pierre for a chat,” Doc Baker says. “See how he’s feeling.”
“Good. We’ll all keep an eye on him,” I add.
The trainer leaves, and Tate and Doc Whitesmith give their updates. Nothing too serious there, so I start to relax.
The meeting is just breaking up when Liana swans in with a tray of espresso drinks. After we dive for them, Murph and Doc Whitesmith depart, leaving Tate, who’s eyeing me nervously. And Doc Baker, who is communing with his cappuccino.
“Hey, Coach?” Tate clears his throat. “There’s something I wanted to show you. It’s nothing to worry about,” he says, even if his expression says otherwise. “I just wanted to keep you in the loop.”
“All right. Let’s have it.”
He opens his laptop.
“You need privacy?” the team psychologist asks.
“Doubt it,” I grunt.
Tate makes a strangely uneasy face. Then he turns his laptop so the screen faces me. It’s on Pickr, a popular photo-sharing site.
It’s a picture of twenty-something me asleep on a team bus. I’m seated next to Jethro, who’s also asleep. We’re leaning toward each other, my head on his shoulder, his head against mine.
The sight of our boyish faces, blissed out and at rest, makes me take a sharp breath. But then there’s the caption:Look! It’s Jetty and Powers back in the olden days, acting like a couple faggots.
Blood drains from my face.
“It’s really nothing,” Tate says. “Just another dumbass on the internet. The pic isn’t new, although the caption is.”
A long beat goes by before I find my voice. “How did you find this?”
He chews his lip in a rare display of discomfort. “Since Newgate came out, I’ve been expanding my Google alerts for the team to include, um, some unsavory keywords.”
“Like faggot,” Doc Baker suggests. I’d almost forgotten he was here.
“Yeah, and a bunch more.” He shrugs. “Honestly, it’s barely worthy of our notice. I just thought you’d want to see it, since…” He hesitates.
“Since I disclosed my sexual orientation to you,” I say quietly.
He gives a single nod.
