Page 16

November

November was early enough in the season that Matt shouldn’t have been having this much trouble with his knee, but he had accepted it as a new fact of life this year. No matter how carefully he tended to it with foam rollers and stretching and cold/hot soaks and diclofenac gel, it was just going to ache after every game. And during every game. By now, the Toradol injections were frequently part of his pregame routine, even though he knew he shouldn’t have been using it that often. In the short term, he needed to be able to play . He thought, nothing happens to anyone that they can’t endure. Philosophers aside, he had been enduring it for several seasons now.

In his youth he’d had one of the longest active Iron Man streaks in the league and it had been something he’d been proud of. His surgeries had cut that abruptly short, but in between, he worked at regaining it. He knew it was kind of fucked up, especially because he didn’t have anything he needed to prove, but that was always the kind of guy he was. He hadn’t even missed a game the time he’d needed seventy stitches after getting cut with a skate: he’d just worn a cage for the third period.

Today, the team was in Columbus, before heading south for another game in Raleigh, and a flight back to Montreal. The Battery were one of those perennial bottom-scraping teams that couldn’t seem to ever get it together, unlike the Royal, who were on the cusp of maybe a rebuild, maybe transitioning straight into the next wave of kids successfully taking the reins. The kind of team where the lack of success ground down on the players, made them mean. Matt always prepared to get cross-checked in the back of the neck more often than usual, especially if he was in the blue paint.

He took the opening face-off anyway, used his shoulder to push the Battery center out of the way and shove the puck back to where Alex Morin was waiting for it. This late in his career the face-offs were almost automatic, nothing like the struggle they’d been when he was a kid, before he’d built up enough muscle and the experience to know where and when to move.

The knee wasn’t an issue while he was playing, particularly if he’d taken care of it beforehand—it was like being able to concentrate on the developing play, anticipating the open areas of the ice and the movements of his teammates, even going up and over the boards were enough of a distraction that he didn’t feel it until after, when the adrenaline had worn off and he started to regain sensation in his limbs again. That was why he’d loved hockey so much, as a kid: playing was all-consuming, a way to shut out the rest of the world. When he was playing, nothing mattered except the win.

Tonight was the kind of night where everything was connecting: Morin anticipated his passes, Fourns was locked in and Jammer was a menace on the blue line, his rocket of a shot a constant danger during the power play. By the time the horn sounded for the first intermission, the Royal were up two, thanks to timely goals by Crane and Jammer.

Matt took the time during the break to ice his knee and test it out gingerly. He could probably go a little longer without the heavy meds, which was always good. Too much Toradol could cause nasty stomach issues, and he only used opioids when there was breakthrough pain even with NSAIDs. Too many horror stories and former colleagues who’d had their lives ruined. His own experience after Aiden had left the first time was a personal illustration of how quickly you could slide down into the depths of something very fucking dark.

Back out on the ice, he threw himself into the game in earnest.

“Hey, Safaryan,” Morgan Wright said, as they battled along the boards for control of the puck. When Matt didn’t respond, Wright kept going, “Hey, Safaryan, you fag,” the slur falling easily from his mouth as he slammed Matt against the glass. “How about I take out your knee, and then you can go home crying to your boyfriend.”

Matt didn’t ask what did you say , because he didn’t like talking to opposing players on the ice, even when he was trying to get under their skin. He preferred to let his body do the talking. He dug in with all of his weight and shoved , and Wright lost control of his stick. That half-second was all Matt needed to get the passing lane, and the puck was on Morin’s stick and safely out of the zone.

It wasn’t a close game. Matt widened the lead with a goal late in the second, and by the time the third rolled around, the Royal had a comfortable 4-1 margin to protect. Matt was pushing himself a little too hard, maybe—this was a win he really wanted to earn.

He thought about Aiden saying that it wasn’t just chirping, and he thought about Morgan Wright and what he’d said in the middle of the third. Matt wasn’t as fast as he used to be. He’d never been that strong a skater. But he turned on the jets for this one, streaking after Wright through the neutral zone. Wright had his head down, eye on the puck, and Matt had him lined up.

If it had been anyone else, he probably would have let it go. The team was up three goals, and he could have poke-checked the puck away, probably, could have cut Wright off with his body and forced a turnover. If it had been anyone else, he would have.

He didn’t.

Matt leveled his shoulder down and braced himself for the impact. It was lined up so perfectly that Wright basically skated right into him, and it took only a little extra force from Matt to send him flying, bouncing off of his body and down to the ice. He could hear the roar of the arena around him, the fury of the Columbus faithful, the boos that followed.

Matt was moving fast enough that he couldn’t tell whether Wright was slow to get up or not. To be quite honest, he didn’t care. He had the puck on his stick, and the play had gone from the neutral zone to the offensive zone, and he was setting up a scoring chance for Crane, who’d come out in the middle of a line change, and then it was Matt’s turn to get off of the ice. It had been petty. The character and actions of another player shouldn’t have affected him. But it had been satisfying, to give in to that nasty impulse, anyway.

On the bench, breathing hard, he took a second to collect himself.

“Calisse, what the hell got into you, Cap?” Alex Morin asked.

“Wright likes to talk. I don’t think he’ll be talking so much after this.”

He regretted it later on, of course, once he got back to the hotel and his knee felt like it was on fire. He weighed his options and took two Percocet and FaceTimed Aiden, who was still awake and sitting on the couch in Matt’s living room.

“Hey, baby,” Matt said, and it was like all of the anger and frustration he’d felt in the moment during the game were gone.

“Hey,” Aiden said. He looked concerned. “What the hell was that hit in the third period? That’s not like you at all, Matty. I know you like to get physical sometimes but it’s never out of the blue like that.”

“You know how you told me that it wasn’t just chirping? Someone was chirping. I shut him up.”

Aiden pushed his hair out of his eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—the article? He put two and two together?”

“I’m sure even if you hadn’t, he probably would’ve said something shitty, just because people know you’re here now. It wouldn’t have mattered if they knew you were gay or not. It’s fine. I was prepared for it, and I took care of it.”

“I’m just worried about your knee. I don’t want you to hurt yourself—”

“Hey,” Matt said softly. “It’s okay, you know? I know what I’m doing. I’ll be careful. The sooner you shut one of those assholes up, the less you have to do it in the future.”

“Okay,” Aiden said doubtfully, because he was a goalie, and Matt was the only fight he’d ever had.

“Don’t worry, Aidy. I’ll be home soon, eh?”

“Not soon enough,” he muttered, and then: “You must be exhausted. Let me let you sleep.”

“I love you—” Matt started, but Aiden was already hanging up.

Hello! an unknown number texted Aiden. The greeting was followed by several smiley-face emojis.

Hi?

Sorry, I should have introduced myself first!! This is Aino Saarinen, Aatos’s wife.

Nice to meet you?

Nice to meet you too!! Now that things are a little more official, I wanted to reach out and on behalf of the rest of us, welcome you to Montreal!!

Aiden stared at his phone and tried to remember if he’d ever seen a picture of Aino Saarinen. He couldn’t bring her face to mind. Right now, he was mostly picturing the smiley-face emoji, which she used almost like another form of punctuation. He wondered if she’d asked Matt for his number, or if Saarinen still had it saved from the last time. Thanks, he said, that’s very kind.

Please feel free to ask me if you need anything! Or if you’d like to hang out!

Thanks? I’m okay, though. Mostly settled in.

Okay, well, the offer stands! And you should come and watch a game with me!! We can get to know each other, we have pretty good seats reserved for the girls!! And I promise you I don’t bite!!

Aiden stared at the phone again. He drafted several potential texts in his head, but ultimately said, That sounds nice. Thank you.

Great!!! Let’s pick a home game sometime soon! Can’t wait! I’ll add you to the group!

Aiden sighed and put his phone back into his pocket. He looked at the condo. There wasn’t much to do at this point in the day, so he wasted a few hours reading the book about Jacques Plante he had downloaded on his phone last week, and then got up to start getting dinner together. When Matt was on the road, Aiden reverted to his old habits of making the same thing for every meal. This week it was bison burgers, but the sooner he could eat, the sooner he didn’t have to think about it anymore. Just another monotonous detail in the day.

Matt FaceTimed him later, after Aiden had eaten and cleaned up, in the middle of doing hundreds of push-ups in the living room. The repetitive physical activity was painful but mindless and it kept him occupied, at the very least. There was no game tonight between Matt’s games in Florida and Texas. Aiden flopped down out of the position and answered the phone.

“Hey, Aidy,” Matt said, eyes flicking from Aiden’s face to his sweaty hair and back down. He looked vaguely amused. “You working out?”

“I was bored, so I just did some push-ups. How’s the trip going?”

“Just lost three hundred to the rookies in a poker game,” Matt said, grinning a little sheepishly. “I couldn’t take their money, so...that’s about how it’s going.”

“You lost on purpose? Oh, Matty, now that’s some captain shit, eh?”

“Ah, shut up. You really think I’d take some kid’s ELC money? But they’re never going to let me live it down.”

“That’s why you don’t play poker with the rookies,” Aiden said, the smile fading as he remembered that he didn’t have rookies anymore. “You can’t win, no matter what you do.”

“Yeah, well. Too late for that now, eh? But enough about that...what’ve you been doing today?”

Aiden sighed. It was a gustier sigh than he was intending. “I kind of got invited to sit with the WAGs for a game.”

A variety of expressions shifted over Matt’s face in the five seconds it took him to get it under control, most of them somewhere on the spectrum between amusement and horror. He smoothed it out into a carefully expressionless mask. “You...what?”

“Saarinen’s wife said we should watch a game together and get to know each other.”

“Oh, Jesus. She’s very friendly, and I’m sure she didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m not offended, I mean... I kind of...well, it’s not totally off base right now, is it?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Are you going to take her up on it?”

Aiden sighed again. “I think I kind of have to, don’t I?”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“She was really nice about it. I don’t want to be an asshole, you know?”

“Aino is—ah—kind of aggressively nice. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

“It’s fine, Matt. Let’s, uh—talk about something else, eh?”

Matt somehow managed to hold it in, but his eyes danced. “I’m sorry, I’m just picturing you in there. They’re going to eat you alive , baby.”

“Not helping ,” Aiden groaned, and hung up. He’d call back in a minute, once Matt had gotten it out of his system. Aiden sighed again. These were not the problems he’d expected to have back in June.

Aiden texted Aino Saarinen to tell her that he could come to any of the games within the next week. It seemed better to rip the Band-Aid off and get it over with.

Great! How about the Cons game on Tuesday?

Sure.

Perfect!

“You really don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,” Matt attempted to reassure him, on their next call.

“It’s fine. Really.”

Tuesday rolled around, Matt left for the rink and Aiden spent the rest of his time staring at his phone, half-hoping that Aino would tell him she couldn’t make it, for whatever reason.

It was weird dressing for hockey games, now—he never had to think about it before. He couldn’t really wear his own jerseys there, and he couldn’t wear Matt’s jersey in public without making more of a statement than he was really comfortable making while he still felt the future dropping like pebbles off the edge of a cliff as his toes tried to grab purchase. A suit was too formal when he wasn’t even playing or sitting in the press box.

He usually ended up settling for one of ten Libs hoodies he had brought with him and the kind of joggers that cost more than he ever would have felt comfortable paying as a rookie.

Then he had no more excuses, and it was time to drive to l’Arène. It was a building where, even though it was relatively new in the grand scheme of things, you could feel the history and weight of it as soon as you approached. It didn’t hurt that all of the Royal legends were represented in statues outside, their metal faces stoic and determined, a reminder of just how many giants had carried this team over the years. He felt a little self-conscious walking through the crowd of people streaming in the doors, like they probably would know or recognize him. No one stopped him, though, and some of the tightness in his chest faded.

Aino waited for him in the lobby. He knew it was her because she was holding a sign, like she was in an airport or something, that said CAMPBELL surrounded by hearts in the Royal’s blue, white and red. She was a small woman, probably only five feet and six inches even in the towering heeled boots she wore, with a mane of ashy blonde hair flowing loose over her shoulders and framing a freckled face that could only be described as elfin. She beamed at him, and he realized his earlier mental image of her—the smiling emoji—wasn’t entirely far off. It took up her whole face.

“Aiden! Welcome to l’Arène!”

“Aino?” It turned out the caution was unnecessary, because she immediately threw her arms around his waist in a hug. Aiden patted her on the back, awkward. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Lovely to meet you, too,” she said, released him and winked. “Aatos says you have a very nice voice; I’m sorry I missed karaoke night.”

“He’s, uh, being generous.”

“I’m sure he wasn’t! Well, come on up! Everyone is mostly here already, so I can introduce you!”

Aiden followed her down the halls to the elevator or, more accurately, allowed her to lead him, since she had hooked her elbow casually through his, like they were old friends who had reunited after years apart rather than relative strangers.

She didn’t stop talking the entire way: she jumped from topic to topic, from things she loved about Montreal, to things the other women loved about Montreal and that she was sure he would also love about Montreal, to asking him about his own last season. She was cheerful enough that he found himself answering, even though he hated talking about it.

Sometimes, for special occasions, the WAGs might reserve a box. But Aiden knew that most of them usually sat in the stands, with a row of seats reserved so they could all hang out and talk. Even without the pressure of being in an enclosed box area, he wanted to run as soon as they all turned their eerily similar faces to look at him, like the moment before they’d start speaking in tongues, or levitating, or climbing up the walls with their heads at the wrong angle.

It was unfair of him. He was sure they were all perfectly nice.

Aino pulled him forward by the arm, surprisingly strong for such a tiny person, as they awkwardly squeezed their way around the other WAGs, who were all standing as they went. “This is Maddy and Mia and Maya and Avery and Daria and Chloe and Sophia—”

Most of them were tall and slim and white, with blonde hair, natural or dyed, and they were all wearing very similar clothes, the kind of casual look that spoke of way more effort than they ever would have admitted to. He shook hands awkwardly as he went, before he finally got to sit down in the seat they had reserved for him.

“We’re so happy you came,” Aino was saying, “definitely make yourself at home, we’ll probably go and get food during the intermissions, and Aatos did tell me you don’t eat dairy, so there will be something for you—”

“Thank you,” Aiden cut in hastily, a little overwhelmed. He took ten deep breaths, and then ten more, and then ten more.

“Hey,” Saari had asked, as they were getting ready to head out for warm-ups. “By the way, Aino asked me if you want me to add Campbell to the group chat. He never gave her a clear answer.”

Matt had exhaled. The WAG group chat was one of those constants of hockey life, the kind of thing that you always knew was going on in the background, but usually tried to stay out of. It had its own rules and customs and histories. It was basically the same no matter where you were playing: there was one WAG in charge, usually the captain’s wife, and you needed approval from the player before she’d add you to all the official shit. If Aino had asked, that was as good as saying that she wanted to know if things were official . And that, at least from the women, was an endorsement.

But he didn’t have time to think about it, because it was time for warm-ups. Matt had been playing in the league for a long time, long enough that he knew guys on pretty much every team. Either he’d played with them in juniors, or they’d spent some time on the Royal and been traded, or he’d played with them during international competitions representing Canada. It was one of the things he’d always loved about hockey: what a small world it really was, when it came down to it.

That was no different now that the Philadelphia Constitution were in town, the ice filled with red, white and blue jerseys in clashing shades. It had been a few years since he’d won a Cup with Zachary Reed and subsequently watched his tailspin and trade. There were no hard feelings, though. Matt had been relieved to see a player he still thought of as one of his rookies pick himself up out of the gutter and work himself into a position of responsibility and win another Cup with his new team.

“Hey,” Matt said, casually, skating by Reed during warm-ups. “The A looks good on you, buddy.”

Reed grinned. He had a cheerful, handsome face, with curly brown hair and warm brown eyes, the kind that were best described as twinkling. Some of that light had dimmed, that last season in Montreal, but it was back in full force now. “Everything looks good on me,” he said, and extended his glove to bump fists with Matt. “How’re you doing, old man?”

“Well enough,” Matt said, with a shrug.

“The knee?”

“Not talking about that with a rival right before a game, come on.”

“Aw, Safy, you’re gonna hurt my feelings, talking like that,” Reed said, pushing his lower lip out. “I was asking from a legitimate place of concern.”

Matt didn’t answer immediately. They watched their teammates going through their various pregame routines: Sakari M?kel?, the Cons’ goalie, tapping his posts with his stick and whispering something to them; Manny Singh slamming his entire weight into Jammer’s bulky body and bouncing right off; Bee Morin shooting a sneaky puck at the Royal’s net, much to the displeasure of her brothers, who immediately skated up to try to intimidate her. She didn’t back down.

“Thank you,” Matt said, and left it at that.

“And, uh, I wanted to ask...” Reed trailed off. He lowered his voice, so that Matt had to lean forward to hear him. Things carried on the ice, but Reed spoke quietly enough that it didn’t. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, I know it’s not really my business. I’m just asking because I...well, I heard through the grapevine that Campbell’s in Montreal. And maybe staying with you . I know it wasn’t in the article, but...”

Matt looked levelly at him, unsure of what to say. Reed, on the Royal, had been a mess. He’d fucked his way indiscriminately through Montreal, and even if he’d never really come out to the team, they’d certainly figured it out quick enough on their own. He hadn’t been particularly discreet. Of course, Reed had grown up since then. He wore an A now, Singer’s loyal right hand. Matt remembered the photographs of Singer handing him the Cup, the way they’d looked at each other like nothing else existed.

Ah.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Reed was saying hurriedly, “it’s just, there’s not a lot of us out there, you know?”

The moment stretched between them, fraught and awkward. He could shut it down, right now. He could say, I don’t know what you’re talking about. He could say, it is none of your business. He said, finally, “It’s been nice to have him back in my life.”

Reed’s golden retriever face scrunched up almost comically, processing the implications. Matt was old enough that his first relationship with Aiden had ended before Reed had even been drafted, which was a depressing thought. Reed got himself back under control and shot a bright smile Matt’s way, the kind of smile he’d often given to the media, one of the ones that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was nervous . “Well, you know, if you guys are ever in Philly...you’re welcome to stop by our place. We could hang out, shoot the shit, that kinda thing.”

“‘Our place’?”

“Mine and Nate’s,” Reed clarified. “I sold my house last season.”

“Ah,” Matt said, and wondered if this would ever get less awkward. On the one hand it was—nice, to know that he wasn’t alone. Even if the first interaction he’d had about it, in this new world where Aiden had been public about things, hadn’t exactly been positive, it was still something. On the other hand, he tried to imagine Aiden’s face when he told him about the invite, the horrified wince it probably would’ve brought out, and almost couldn’t bite back the laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Reed asked, a little wary.

“Just the way you said you guys —you’re really going full-on Philly, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Reed said, but he was smiling as he shoved at Matt’s bicep.

“Careful. Don’t push the guy who’s gonna kick your ass in about twenty minutes.”

“Hey!” Manny yelled, careening toward them. “No fraternizing with the enemy, Safy.”

“Fuck you , Manny,” Reed said, still just as cheerfully as he said anything. He glanced over his shoulder as he skated away. His eyebrows went up. “Well—Safy—the invite’s open.”

“I know. Merci,” Matt said, surprised to find he meant it.

Once the game actually started, it got a little easier. Aino knew quite a lot about hockey—and used to play defense in a women’s league in Lappeenranta—and when they only talked about the game, it wasn’t that bad. It was almost like watching from the bench back in New York, with the way she would occasionally break off what she was saying to mutter a curse word in Finnish when Philadelphia got possession or lurch out of her seat in disgust and frustration when the refs made a bad call. As much as he would have liked to talk only to her, that was impossible when he was the curiosity of the evening to the rest of the women.

They kept leaning in to pepper him with questions about when he had met Matt and when he came to Montreal and whether he was planning to stay long and whether... Aiden didn’t really answer beyond one-word replies or short sentences: they had known each other since their first playoff series, July, he didn’t know.

And then he had to be content to simply listen to the chatter while keeping one eye on the game. No matter how he sat in his seat or how unapproachable he looked or how deeply he slouched into the cushions, someone was always talking to him.

It was overwhelming. On his immediate right, Mia whispered to him quick little introductions about some of the other women, the kind of quirky little anecdotes you wouldn’t find out except from someone who had been friends with them a long time. From behind him, Sophia offered, generously and with the most innocent wide eyes, to cut his hair for him, because she had a salon on Sherbrooke Ouest. Daria, next to Sophia, told him that Montreal was an interesting city, but the locals were such snobs especially if you didn’t speak French—oh, call her Dasha, by the way. Avery, one extra seat down, wanted to know if he was going to be interested in organizing , because although Aino mostly did it now, after all, Matt was the captain . Maya, a nurse, and Maddy, the owner of a small, trendy bakery, seemed fairly normal, but they were farther away down the row, and he couldn’t talk to them.

Unfortunately, he didn’t know what to tell any of the women.

This happened sometimes when he was dealing with social situations where he didn’t have a script. He’d freeze up and choke, and either start rambling on about something unrelated or shut down completely. It had been easier at the team night because he’d had Matt there as a safety net, and he’d had alcohol to make it a little easier to turn his brain off, but he didn’t have either of those things right now.

The thing about all of this was: however well-meaning they were, Aiden could barely think of anything to say to any of them. Could barely string together coherent sentences. He could feel the sweat soaking through the thin underlayer he had thrown on beneath the jersey, the kind of cold chill that went deeper than the skin.

The thought of spending forty-one nights a year like this made him want to gouge out his own eyes. Even by the end of one night, he had to excuse himself to go into the bathroom, wet his hands with cold water and slap himself in the face several times. The sharp sensation helped jolt him out of the panic, but it didn’t help him feel any better, really. A guy finishing up at the urinal looked at him oddly and Aiden beat an even hastier retreat.

How was he going to do this? In Montreal or anywhere else. It would be exactly like this anywhere. Rows of arena seats full of perfectly nice women who were going out of their way to include him, to make him feel welcome, even though the situation was undoubtedly pretty fucking unusual for all of them. Rows of arena seats full of perfectly nice women he had nothing to talk to about. He wondered whether any of them would be willing to listen to him do the things he normally did when he was panicking, which was either recite a little mantra to himself, or talk about goaltending technique. Aino, at least, would probably be amenable to it.

He exhaled. That was a problem for future Aiden. Right now, he had to get through the rest of the game.

By the time the clock had ticked down and the horn sounded for the end of the period, the Royal had eked out a win. The players went through the little routine that they always did for home wins: after the line to bonk Fournier on the helmet and give him a hug, they circled back to center ice, skating in slow circles with their sticks raised in a salute to the crowd. Matt faced the section of the arena where the WAGs were sitting and waved one hand. Aiden watched Matt on the Jumbotron as he skated toward the tunnel, looking up at the upper levels again. Maybe for Aiden. Maybe it was a coincidence.

It shouldn’t matter, but it did.

Matt felt unexpectedly emotional about the whole evening—the chat, the conversation with Reed—even after the win. He’d looked up into the stands, knowing he wouldn’t be able to see Aiden in such a crowd with the lights shining in his eyes, looking for him anyway. He wondered what Aiden would say if Matt told him he’d said yes.

But then he had to worry about changing and showering and media. He didn’t have time to think about how he felt about it. He didn’t have time to think about how Aiden felt about it. He hoped he didn’t mind too much. Matt would have to tell him that it was okay to mute it if he wanted to. That it was just for organizational and logistical purposes.

But it wasn’t. It was Matt telling the team what Aiden was to him.