Page 12 of From Coast to Coast
He is. The buzzer sounds without the goalie even making a move to save the puck—he didn’t see a goddamn thing. Spinning around, I coast into the boards butt-first and open my arms for Grayson.
“Fuckyes,” I shout, right before he slams into me and knocks the breath from my chest. “I love it when I’m right!”
The team joins us and saves Grayson from answering, but his grin is answer enough. He takes a seat back on the bench, smiling wider than I’ve yet seen him do. I sit beside him, smushed into his side in the cramped space. Coach Lamonte doesn’t even acknowledge the play beyond a firm nod in our direction that I would have missed had I not been staring at him. Annoyed with him, I jostle Grayson’s shoulder with mine, waiting until his blue eyes meet mine.
“Feel good?”
“Yeah,” he admits. “Slick pass.”
I accept his fist bumpwith a modest, “I know.”
“You know I’ve scored before, right? Multiple times, in fact,” he says, amused.
“I know. But the majority of the points you put up come from assists. Which is great, I’m not knocking it. But you could be a hell of an offensive D-man, Iknowit. Just stick with me.”
He laughs, but the conversation is cut short when we’re sent out for another shift. Later, I feel good about the game and how I played. I hadn’t been sure what to expect after being traded and had anticipated there to be some growing pains. Sure, we’re all professional hockey players, but throwing a new guy into a group of players who’ve been together for years is bound to cause a few hiccups. Fortunately, if this game is anything to go by, I might not have to be quite so worried about it as I’d been. This is a contract year for me, and although I’m not certain this is the team I want to stay with, I’d like to at least be given the choice.
Beside me, Grayson is staring into his locker while he dresses, silent in the otherwise rowdy room. He’s the only person not talking or laughing, and his broad shoulders are tight with anxiety as he appears to compete in a race for fastest person to be clothed. Deciding that the busy locker room probably isn’t the best place to ask him what’s wrong, I try to follow his lead and get dressed quickly, not wanting to keep him waiting around for me when he’s ready to go home. I do, however, take a second to check my phone and smile when I see a notification.
I don’t open the app until I’m seated in the passenger seat of Grayson’s car and we’re listening to soft instrumental music. It’s a weird choice, and sort of reminds me of doctor’s office music, but it’s not my car and so not my choice.I open the app and angle the screen away from him, not quite ready to share this part of my life yet.
Brody
Hey, how was your day?
Ree
Hi, it was fucking great, how was yours??
That extra punctuation might be a little much, but I really did have a good day. I love winning, regardless of whether I’m one of the people who put a point up. Brody doesn’t respond, but I wait for a solid five minutes before I close the app with a sigh.You only talked to the guy for a couple hours last night, calm the fuck down and act your age.I look over at Grayson in the driver’s seat, and decide a distraction might be in order.
“Hey, can I ask you something?”
He glances at me. “Sure.”
“Is there something…you’re not super close with any of the guys, are you?” Flinching, I try to tone it down a bit. “I mean, other than Zolkov, you just don’t seem particularly friendly with anyone. Is there a reason for that?”
“I used to be,” he says, shrugging.
“But not anymore?” I ask, not wanting to needle him but not understanding. Grayson is chill as fuck—he’s the most inoffensive person I’ve ever met.
“No,” he says, and then sighs. “Look, I think some of the guys just aren’t comfortable with me and I’ve tried to…acknowledge that and stay to myself.”
I scrunch up my nose in consternation.What the hell does that mean?
“Uhm…why?”
He laughs, but stops after looking over and seeing my facial expression. Sobering, he waits until we’re parked in his garage before telling me in a careful, explanatory tone: “Because I’m gay.”
He’s out of the car before I can comment on that. Honestly, I’d completely forgotten. Now, though, the team dynamic is starting to make sense. The way the guys laugh and talk around him like he’s not there, make exaggerated efforts to keep themselves covered with a towel, and exchange loaded glances behind his back. Suddenly furious, I follow him inside and barely manage to not slam the door behind me. He’s looking down at his phone, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It seems incredible that he can be smiling when he just told me that his teammates are uncomfortable with him because he’s gay.
“Okay, what the actual fuck,” I say, dropping my bag on the ground and waiting for him to look up from his phone. In my pocket, my own phone buzzes with a notification.
“It’s fine,” he says. “I’m just here to play hockey. I can’t be concerned with every bigot in the league.”
“These bigots are onyour team,” I argue. “If you are going to be concerned with any, these might be a good place to start!” I try to modulate my tone and make it look less like I’m attacking him. It’s not him I’m mad at, after all, even though his calmness is infuriating right now.
“What do you expect me to do?” he challenges. “I’ve played here for six years, and the majority of those years I was in the closet. Theyknowme, and they liked me up until the point they decided my gayness might be a little too much for them to handle. I’m not going to beg anybody to be my friend.”