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Chapter Two

Campbell

I was sick of the place. I’d been back at HU for weeks, but Coach and the trainers he had whispering in his ears were barely letting me out on the ice. So, I’d had a little slip, goofing off back home with my younger brothers. Yeah, maybe I hadn’t laced up properly, just to fuck around on the ice with a couple of kids, but it was only a slight twist of my ankle, a minor sprain. I could hardly feel it, and they were acting like if I didn’t spend three days a week with someone fondling my foot, my career would be over before it started.

So here I was again, days before classes were set to begin, preparing to do stretches and exercises that an experienced college athlete could have easily completed on his own.

I walked into the clinic and toward the counter to check in.

“Hey, Cam. You’re all set. You're with Diane today. She’ll be out for you soon.”

“Thanks, Alecia,” I replied. That was how often I’d been to the physical therapy department. Frequently enough that I didn’t even have to check in and was on a first-name basis with the receptionist. I was a fucking regular.

And okay, maybe I understood the importance of protecting my health. If your goal is to end up in the National Hockey League, you’ve got to keep your body in tip-top shape, but that didn’t mean I had to like the amount of time I was spending in physical therapy.

And maybe, just maybe, it didn’t help matters that sometimes there was a petite and very pretty woman around my age, the aforementioned Diane, who stretched and flexed my ankle and then watched me putter on a treadmill like some leading man in a slow-motion action scene, and that other times, my therapist was a guy. A skinny guy, with shoulder-length pink hair and a take-no-prisoners attitude. A guy with the gentlest touch and the softest hands as he stretched and rolled my ankle and pushed my leg above my head.

I hated having both of them running their hands all over me and hated myself for the reasons why.

I nodded at the receptionist and looked around the waiting room at the other basketball, hockey, and football players forlornly waiting their turn. It was then I noticed a new face among the damned. He stood out in that he didn’t stand out at all. As opposed to all of the athletic men and women, most of whom were wearing workout clothes in some variation of Hampstead University's maroon and white, this dude was in khaki shorts and a pink golf shirt, wearing two-toned boat shoes, one hue of which matched the color of the shorts. He had one elbow propped up on the armrest, his forearm upright, his left hand and wrist wrapped in a brace.

He was clean-shaven, with short, wavey, light brown hair, sun-kissed in the waning days of summer. He had rich olive skin with a healthy tan that spoke of time outdoors. His legs were slender compared to mine but defined with muscle. He was not unfit but did not have the air of an athlete about him, making him stand out in that room. His phone was propped on this thigh, and he was clearly working to type something out one-handed. Occasionally he would use the thumb of his other hand, scowling in frustration as he remembered he shouldn’t, propping it back up on the armrest in defeat.

He was cute.

I could admit that, right? The guy was cute, Just because I found guys more attractive than women, it didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t, not if I wanted to make it to the pros. I had been taught long ago that there could be no distractions if I wanted to make it to the NHL. So for the same reason I’d sucked it up and spent an inordinate amount of time in that miserable waiting room and hardly any time on the ice, I would ignore how cute I thought he was and focus on hockey. I reminded myself, not for the first time, that anything that wasn’t preparing me for a future as a professional hockey player wasn’t anything I should be focused on.

The only thing was, there were no other seats, like in the entire place, so I went and sat next to him and just couldn’t help myself.

“What are you in for?” I shot him my winning smile, and he smiled right back.

What did it matter if I chatted up some rando in the waiting room; it wasn’t like I was professing my undying love for him, right? Besides, he probably wasn’t even that way. And yes, that was me thinking I could avoid being that way myself by not saying the word, like some horror movie or ghost story. If I didn’t say “the G word” three times in a row, it would never manifest.

Except the rando with the broken hand’s eyes traveled unabashedly up the entire length of my body before moving from my eyes to the hand he held propped up between us. The look he gave me could only be described as “duh.”

“Right, obviously. Can I ask what happened?”

“I got between a seven-year-old and a wave. Twisted and broke my finger in three places.”

“Wow, a hero! Are you a lifeguard?”

“Nah, just on vacation with my family. The kid’s my niece. How about you? Are you here because of that limp?”

“Shit, is it still noticeable? Yeah, I twisted my ankle goofing off on the ice with my younger brothers.” I raised my leg and rotated my ankle. “Gotta get it right before the season starts, or my trainers say it could get a lot worse.”

“You don’t sound convinced of that.”

“I spend more time here than I do on the ice.” I could hear the whininess in my voice and knew in an instant that I didn’t want the guy next to me to see me that way. I sat up straighter and added, “But I do understand the importance of healing. I get that this helps.” I lifted my leg again and pointed and flexed a few times, my shoelace flopping back and forth. We both watched my foot as I leaned in and whispered, “When I get back there, I have to do this for, like, an hour straight.”

“So are you, like, on the hockey team?”

“Yeah, third year. Goalie. You a fan?”

He looked at me with the biggest, most remarkably blue eyes I had ever seen before as he said, “Never been to a game, sorry.” The small confession lingered for a moment until he continued the conversation. “But it is important that you take care of yourself. You wouldn’t want to get hurt worse. I imagine things get pretty intense once the season starts.”

I shrugged, looking from my beat-up sneakers to the guy's preppy shoes. “I know you’re right. It just sucks. I still go to practice because teamwork or whatever, and all I can do is sit there and watch my teammates practice. It’s fucking frustrating.” I was whining again. I wasn’t generally one to complain, but those blue eyes seemed to invite me in, like he wanted to hear what I had to say; like he wanted to know my secrets. Sharing my secrets was the last thing I wanted to do.

“I imagine it would be.”

I had started to reach out a hand to shake his when I heard a female voice call, “Campbell Ryan,” followed immediately by another woman saying, “Joshua Marshy-Gordon?”

My new friend rose at the same time as I did, so I stuck my hand out after all. “Joshua?”

“Josh.” We shook hands. “Campbell?”

I nodded. “Nice to meet you.” I dropped his hand, maybe a few seconds later than I should have, and we walked across the room together. He was much shorter than my six foot one, maybe about five six, broad shouldered and fit. He strode with confidence, only the bandaged hand he cradled on his opposite shoulder showing any vulnerability.

“Welcome back, Fifty-Nine!”

“Nice to see you, Diane. I’m ready for my foot massage!”

She shook her head at me. “You know that’s not what we’re doing here.” I flashed the sparkling smile I knew everyone loved. I could be charming when I needed to be. It was a skill I had practiced in the hopes I would need to use it at post-game press conferences.

Standing next to Diane was an older woman, and I watched Josh give her a smile just as bright, and possibly just as rehearsed, as mine.

“Did I butcher your name?” the woman asked as the four of us headed back to one of the large, open rooms that housed all sorts of equipment. I knew where I was headed, and Josh and his therapist seemed to be targeting the same corner of the room.

“No, it’s Joshua.” Josh caught my eye, and I took his cue and laughed.

We smiled at each other, and the thought crossed my mind that I would always be laughing and smiling around this guy. It’s not something I’d ever thought about another person before.

The therapist was not as amused, so Josh quickly followed up. “It’s Marchetti-Gordon.”

“Oh, Marchetti-Gordon? Your mom’s dean of the Literature Department, right? I took my core class in writing and literature with her a few years ago. Are you the writer she always bragged about?” Diane enthused.

“No, that’s my older brother. I’m just a communications major.”

“Well, communications, that’s writing, right? It must run in the family. Anyway, your mom was really cool, teaching that basic course when she totally didn’t have to. You could tell how much fun she was having, and I learned a lot.” Diane was really putting on the charm for our new friend.

“Come on, Cam, let’s get you stretched.”

I caught Josh’s eye again as his much-less-talkative and much-more-scowly physical therapist gestured to a table and chairs near Diane’s station.

It took Diane patting the treatment table and ordering me to “hop up” to pull my gaze from those captivating eyes. But mine were right back on him after I kicked my shoes off and hoisted myself up as the sound of separating Velcro filled the room. Josh’s brace was pulled off, and he slowly flexed his fingers.

Two of his fingers were wrapped together with a bandage that traveled to his wrist. The physical therapist worked diligently to unwrap Josh’s hand, and I watched her do it while Diane stretched and flexed my ankle.

Josh was watching, too, and winced as his hand was exposed and two pins could be seen sticking out. He looked up and caught me staring. Oops.

“Bet you didn’t guess I was Frankenstein’s fucking monster underneath that bandage, did you?” He flashed his hand at me, but the woman on the other side of the table gently grabbed his arm and maneuvered it to a pillow resting between them on the table.

With a shrug, I retorted, “I would have said cyborg.” We smiled at each other. You know that smile, the one that hopes for and promises more? The one that says “hello” and “welcome” and “I want to share everything with you”? A real smile, the kind I was never supposed to flash at another man.

Diane lifted my leg perpendicular to my body, a move which caused Josh to look up at me again. I violently tore my eyes away from him while trying to tear my thoughts away as well, forcing my focus on the pixie of a woman who was busy asking my leg to defy gravity.

An adorable, bright, tough pixie of a woman, who appeared to be about my age or slightly older, who fondled my foot a few times a week, and who flirtatiously called me Fifty-Nine. I tilted my head back and stared at the ceiling, remembering the head coach lecturing me as I complained about the over-the-top treatment I was being made to pursue for a minor sprain.

“You want to make it to the pros, right, kid?” He may have been chastising me about my stupid twisted ankle, but I heard so much more in what he asked.

Of course the NHL was the ultimate goal, the thing I had worked for and sacrificed for, for years. The thing my parents had sacrificed for, with time and money they could barely spare.

Growing up in western New York, I’d been out on the ice since before I could walk, to hear my mom tell it. She’d come out one day to look for her husband and toddler son and found us on the little pond behind our house, me held high above my father’s head while he performed figure eights to my screams of delight.

I don’t remember a time when I couldn’t skate, don’t know of a time when the National Hockey League wasn’t my goal. I lived on the ice as a kid and rehearsed pretend press conferences to my reflection in the mirror until I had that winning smile down pat.

I’d watched the game, studied the game. Studied the players. The men who honed their bodies to perfection and drove themselves to excellence. It may have been about the sport, but the lifestyle was part of the spectacle as well. The wealth, the big houses, the fancy cars, the designer everything. The carefully cultivated social media accounts. And of course, the picture was not complete without the beautiful woman on your arm. Almost as early as I knew how to map out the positions on the ice, I also knew about “WAGS,” shorthand for “wives and girlfriends” of players. Such was the age of the internet, that an interested teenager could follow certain WAGS on social media as another way to keep up with their favorite team, or in my case, to study the game.

I wanted to play for the love of the game, but I understood at an early age that being a public figure was part of it. When I was a kid, worshiping the players of the day, I knew, I just knew, without anyone telling me, without anyone discouraging me, that I was only allowed to revere the players for their prowess on the ice. I could admire their athleticism but not the way their thigh muscles bunched and strained as they met their perfectly rounded glutes. I could respect the ritual of ending game night in a tailored suit but couldn’t think that those pricey, perfectly cut suits made the men look handsome as they spoke at the podium, the glow of an exhilarating workout making them shine even more in their designer wear.

Lying there on that table, the word came to me in full force. I couldn’t be gay and be in the NHL. That was clear when I was a kid, and it became clearer when I began to understand my own feelings. How ironic was it that the very players that had inspired me to want to play hockey also were among the first men to stir those feelings in me?

Not only had I determined a long time ago that being gay wasn’t an option in professional sports, but I’d also learned early on that I needed to avoid any and all distractions that kept me from succeeding on the ice. And cute boys with remarkable eyes and smiles that felt like they were just for me? That was a huge fucking distraction.

If I thought the word one more time, that would make three. I knew how Beetlejuice worked. I needed to get my head back in the game. The fucking hockey game, to be sure, but also the uber-hetero sports-guy game as well. Maybe if I focused on the cute girl in front of me, the cute guy would fade away. I flashed my winning smile to the woman who at that moment had one hand on the crease of my thigh and the other on my calf as she stood on a step stool and encouraged me to point and flex my foot.

“How’s it looking up there, Di?”

“Oh, I’m Di, now?”

“You molest my foot on a regular basis. A nickname seems appropriate. I mean, I’m your Fifty-Nine, right?”

She scoffed. “Your HU’s Fifty-Nine, and we need you back in front of that goal if our team has a chance this year.”

“So, you're only in this as a hockey fan?”

“No offense, Cam, but I’m only in this for the paycheck and the tuition remission. Not that you and your ankle aren’t scintillating company.”

“So you wouldn’t be interested in a party at the Hockey House this weekend?”

“Now, I didn’t say all that. There’s a Hockey House, you say?” She lowered my leg and tapped my shoulder. I had been trained over the past few weeks to rise slowly.

“That’s what we call it. It’s just a couple of the guys from the team. We all live together in a group house. Over on Windmill, past the Hughes Terrace apartment complex. When it’s not hockey season, you can basically assume there will be a party on Saturday nights. We always have a keg and the grill going. I’d … It’d be cool if you came.”

“The Hockey House, creative.”

By this point in my recovery, I knew the drill. I was leaning down and slipping my sneakers back on, ready for my meander on the treadmill. I looked up, smile at the ready again, but caught Josh’s gaze on me before I even got to Diane. He was unabashedly staring, and it sent shockwaves through me in a way Diane’s hands all over me never did.

He was resting on his elbow again, our eyes locked in a clear communication that I couldn’t stop while his physical therapist delicately poked at his hand. He winced and looked down at it, ending our staring contest. I stood and let Diane lead me past him, to the treadmill.

As if I had no free will of my own, I paused at the table, placing a gentle hand on Josh’s shoulder. “You alright there, Frankenstein?” He smiled up at me with his whole face as if he hadn’t just been wincing in pain, those blue eyes dancing under the too-bright fluorescent lights that should have given the room an air of harshness but instead just lit him up like a fucking angel.

“Still just a little raw. Everyone promises me I’m healing, though. I should have these fuckers out soon. Right?” he asked the woman currently wiggling his finger, and she nodded curtly.

I was on the treadmill walking, walking, for God’s sake, at an excruciatingly slow pace, when Josh passed by, waving his now re-bandaged hand at me, and smiling that smile.

I tried for a casual up nod. “See ya, Frankenstein.”

“Good luck with the walking.” He cracked another smile as he left the room, a smile that felt like it was cracking my heart open.