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I open my mouth to argue with this bit of cynicism, and then discover I don’t care enough to fight this fight. Toronto is keeping me, even if Jamie and I are outed.That’s all that matters, I tell myself. And the man in front of me is paid to think like a jackass, just like I’m paid to think like a killer.

“Is there anything else you wanted to discuss, Ryan?”

I blink. “Um...no. That was it.”

Frank scrapes his chair back and stands up. “Then I hope you don’t mind if we cut this chat short. I need to speak to Hal before I head home to the wife and kids.”

My legs are wobbly as I follow him to the door, where he stops to clap me on the shoulder. “You should come to dinner at our place sometime. Your boyfriend’s welcome, too.”

I blink again. What fuckingplanetam I on right now?

He grins at my confusion. “I know you’re new to the city and probably haven’t met a lot of folks yet. And my wife loves to host members of the team. She’ll be thrilled if you came by.”

“Oh. Um, sure, then. I appreciate the invite.”

We go our separate ways once we reach the lobby. I’m not feeling too steady on my feet as I head outside and walk toward the subway stop. It’s like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders, and I’m not sure how to handle the sensation it leaves behind. Lightness, giddiness. Relief.

I can’t wait to tell Jamie.

THIRTY-NINE

JAMIE

It’s been a long day of coaching.

Pat runs a two-week intensive at the end of camp, and we really fill the place up. Since the dorm is jam-packed, the kids who show up stay in condos with their parents. We max out our ice time, and we max out our waking hours.

It’s tough, but I love it.

I’m on pins and needles all day, though, because Wes has his meeting with the PR guy. So after the last session of the day, I run back to the dorm. This morning I intentionally left my phone in the room so I wouldn’t spend the day checking it.

There’s something in front of my door. It’s a FedEx package. When I pick it up, it’s weightless.

I unlock the door and push inside my mostly empty room. Pat is still a coach short, which means it’s a good thing I came back to help him.

Checking the phone is the first thing I do. There aren’t any voicemails, and the only email is a solicitation for discount sunglasses. So I turn my attention to the package, tearing off the strip at the edge and opening the envelope.

A gift box falls out—the same one I recently filled with purpleSkittles. I yank open the top and find a piece of paper inside, grinning when I see a single purple Skittle taped to the page.

It’s the result of recent medical tests on Mr. Ryan E. Wesley, Jr. Every STD known to man is listed there, and the word “negative” appears after each one.

He’s scribbled something at the bottom:I was going to fill this box with purple condoms, but then I had a better idea.

Annnnd now I’m horny as well as impatient.

So I commence pacing the room.

When the email program on my phone pings a few minutes later, I yank it out of my pocket to read the message.

But it’s not from Wes.

Dear Coach Canning,

I can’t believe that I didn’t get to finish the session with you. I’m still not speaking to my father, either. Working with you has been the best summer of my life, and I’m pissed that it ended on a bitter note.

My team for this year is the Storm Sharks U18. Here’s the link, just in case you were ever curious about my stats. I think they’re about to improve, and it’s all because of you.

Sincerely,