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Practicing in front of Wren meant more now than it did when he was a stranger in the stands, just watching, and distracting me. He was still a distraction, but in the best possible way. My brain had yet to quiet itself with thought about him, I knew there was something happening within me I hadn’t told myself about before. Once more, my mind was beating itself up because it couldn’t articulate itself. It was beginning to stress me out, but every time I found myself on the edge of smashing something from frustration, I saw or pictured Wren and his orca teddy. It was an immediate calm.

After coming out, I assumed the team would’ve been trying to paint me as some predator and not want to shower with me. It was the opposite. They were now more pissed that I’d never tried to hit on any of them, some of them seemed to be genuinely hurt that I hadn’t hit on them. It was almost like they’d asked me to describe my type, and I didn’t know how to say, I didn’t have a type, a preference, the only thing I had was a feeling in my stomach that operated like a blender with blades, and Wren turned them on.

Trying to spend more time with Wren was difficult when he was quoting Coach on not being a distraction, and for him to call me just as much of a distraction from getting a good start on the school semester.

There was, however, one thing that he was willing to spend time with me about.

In my room at the Icehouse, late on Thursday evening, Wren was laid on my bed, scribbling into his notepad as I sat on the floor in front of his with my laptop. We were filling in the details for his fantasy league.

“What are you calling your team?” I asked him.

He lifted his notepad up. “I wanted it to be something punny, or something that fits me.”

“Ok.” I took the pad to see the names he’d already written. There were a lot of names. I had to looked up at Wren, amazed his brain worked. I read some of them aloud. “Puckaneers, Ice Capades, Orca Overlords, Killer Whale Kings, Yarnstorm, Crochet Crushers.”

“That one is my favorite,” he said.

“Well, yeah, I guess if you only drafted from the Orcas you could have them, but isn’t the whole point of the fantasy league to create the team you want, not one that already exits,” I said. “I do like Puckaneers.”

“I also liked—” he wiggled, almost pushing himself over the bed to point at a name on the notepad. “Puck and Purl.”

“Do you mean pearl?”

“No,” he giggled. “Purl is a type of stitch, usually for knitting, but you can get the same type of effect with crocheting.”

“Aren’t they the same thing?”

He fell forward in shock, right onto my lap. Thankfully, my laptop was already on the floor. “No,” he said, curled up on my lap as I held him. “They’re two different things. Crochet is done with hooks, and knitting is done with two knitting needles.”

I stroked the back of his neck with my thumb. “Then I think you should go with the name that fits you the best,” I told him. “So, Puck and Purl or Crochet Crushers.”

He stared at me in this position and smiled. I leaned in, craning my neck to kiss him. His warm skin on my lips was nice to feel. Flushed red, he pressed the back of a hand against his forehead. “Can we open a window?”

“I should’ve asked before I did that,” I said.

“No, I fell into your lap, I kinda let it happen because I maybe wanted to see how it would feel.”

Cradled with my arm holding his head up at one side and my other arm hooked around his legs, he was like a baby in my arms. “And how does it feel?”

“Safe.”

“Good. You should feel safe with me.” It was all I wanted him to feel.

“I think I’ve decided on my name,” he said.

Puck and Purl was his team’s name, citing that he didn’t know if he had the time to create crochet players for each of his picks. I was once again surprised by his skillset. I didn’t even know people could make stuff like that, I thought they were all done by machines. I shouldn’t have been too surprised given the orca he’d made Jack and the one he carried around everywhere with him.

“I know I want you as my first pick,” he said. “Can I input that now?”

“Looks like you’ve got to wait until the 10th when the pick open,” I told him, looking over the website where I’d filled in his data. “But you actually can include the names of the players you want in the notes.”

“Oh god no, I don’t want people seeing who I want.”

“For your eyes only,” I said before typing my name into the notes. “I’m thinking Liam and Jack are great picks as well.”

Wren batted his lashes at me. “Is that you trying to tell me they’re going to be playing most of the games?”

I held my hands up. “I’m not saying anything.” I mimicked a padlock across my lips.

A knock came at my door, followed by someone trying the handle, and opening it. Zachary stood there in sweatpants and an undone zip through hoodie, showing off his body, not to me, but in the face of Wren.

“Everything good?” I asked.

“Heading out on an evening run,” he said. “Forgot you had company.”

“I’m leaving soon,” Wren said.

I reached out to touch his lap. “Aren’t you gonna stay over? Barely had time to show you the ceiling projector.”

He shook his head. “That wasn’t the plan,” he had a slight giggle. “But I do need to leave soon. So, you should go out for a run. I don’t want to be the reason why you’re not training.”

Zachary had walked inside. We had very few boundaries as a team. “Oh snap, people keep asking me about the fantasy league,” he said. “Are you going to pick me?”

Wren shrugged. “I haven’t made my mind up yet. I need to go through all the colleges taking part and seeing their teams.”

“Well, I should be getting a lot of playtime this season.”

He gasped. “I don’t know if that counts as insider trading.”

It was adorable. “Relax, nobody is going to lock you up,” I told him. “But the team is always mixed around depending on how Coach wants to play.”

Seeing Wren interact with the team was reassuring that these people I’d called friends and teammates for the last couple of years were accepting. I still didn’t know what they were accepting of from me, but they were.

* * *

It was hard not to be distracted by Wren when I was trying to be open and honest with him, and try figure myself out. Two weeks since the news had broken that I was gay, and still the term didn’t feel like it fit me. And searching for the exact way I’d felt on the internet had thrown me a couple of terms that I didn’t know about.

Asexual, graysexual, demisexual, pansexual. I’d never heard those terms before, but the article someone from the college paper had written just labeled me as gay, and it felt like too much work and effort to have them change it now everyone had already read it.

I was in a fake gay relationship, after all.

“Lucky,” Coach called me over, blowing a whistle at me.

Skating over to him, he folded his arms. “Oh shit,” I grumbled to myself.

“Where is your head?” he asked, snapping his fingers. “For the last week now. And it’s not Wren’s fault, he saw it too, that’s why he hasn’t been around for training. I thought having him around would be good for you, and the team, seeing how good their captain is.”

“I’m good,” I said. “I’m just—”

We were in a staring contest for a moment as I searched for words. I’d gone from being an assertive player, dominant on the ice, to having life drained out of me as my mind and soul seemed to be on some other journey.

“You should talk to someone,” he said. “I can’t imagine it’s doing you any good to come in such a high-pressure environment. We’re gonna need your head in this if we’re going to get anywhere this season.”

It was true. “I’ll speak to one of the team doctors, see if they can put me in contact with someone who can help.” Maybe that’s all I’d needed, was someone to suggest it, because suddenly, it made everything seem like it was all going to work out.

* * *

On-campus counseling was offered out to all students. They were located within the humanities building which is where I was already taken my classes, but I’d never ventured into the depths of the building where a colorful hallway led to a waiting room.

A woman I’d seen a handful of times appeared at the door. I was the only person in the waiting room. Doctor Jean Roman. One of the mental health specialists. From making the appointment to sitting in front of her had been a day, something about the sports endowment seemed to make things happen and move faster when you were playing for one of the teams on campus.

“I have a suspicion I know why you’re here,” she said, welcoming me into her office. The walls were lined with bookcases and filled with thick-spined books, family pictures, and trinkets. And as my eyes traveled to the desk, I saw the copy of the Caldwell Chronicle.

“Oh.” I sat in the comfy chair, my arms restless on the arms, immediately my fingers felt the ridges and grooves from where fingers had scratched into it.

“But I won’t make any assumptions,” she said. “Let’s start with how you’re feeling. I can imagine there is an immense amount of pressure on your shoulders.”

“I can deal with that,” I said. “I’m—” my eyes flickered to a close as I tried to surmise my thoughts. It was not easy. “I’m not gay, but I’m not straight, and I’m—I’m dating a guy, but I’m not sure what it is, and I think I might’ve made some mistakes.”

Jean pulled the college paper across her desk and tucked it into a drawer. “Sexuality has been described as fluid in a lot of people. There are many terms.”

I nodded. “I’ve heard a few of them, but I don’t know.”

“Let’s go through them together then,” she said. “What you explained is possibly related to bisexuality, where you are attracted to both men and women, pansexuality is similar, but you’re attracted to a person without the attachment of their gender.

“Yeah, I get those. But—this session is private, right?”

She nodded. “Everything here is strictly confidential.”

“I’ve never felt a really strong sexual urge,” I told her. “Like, I’ve never been someone who thinks, I want to have sex, and because of that, I’m technically still a virgin. But there’s something, something about the guy I’m—dating, and he makes me feel different. And it feels like it was all chance, like I would’ve been happy to exist without that feeling, but now I’ve got it, I don’t understand it.”

She looked me over and hummed, her eyes stayed on me, but they weren’t scalding, they were soft, like she was smoothing out the edges around my body. I felt relieved to have expressed myself, but it was still semi-painful to speak it aloud.

“It sounds like you are demisexual, it’s described as someone who only experiences sexual attraction after or through developing a strong emotional connection with someone,” she said. “Is that what’s been bothering you?”

It had been one of the terms I’d read, and now that I knew it’s what I was, there was relief. The first person I wanted to tell was Wren, but we weren’t together. We agreed, but not a relationship.

“The coming out experience is not something I can identify with myself, but there are communities on campus that might be able to help you, people who identify in similar ways. It’s a journey, and you need to surround yourself with people who will lift you up,” she continued.

“Thank you. I’m also having a bit of a crisis of confidence,” I said in a mumble. “I don’t get it, but it’s probably connected.”

It was the fact that I knew it was connected, and I knew someone on the team was trying to undermined me and get me replaced as captain, or worse, removed from the team altogether and have my entire life ripped away.

“Anxiety is common in people who play sports and find themselves in their final year, or near big events,” she began.

I wished that was all it was.