Page 4

ALDER

You're still going to come, right?

I stare at my unanswered text much longer than is healthy, well past the time I should power it off and get dressed for the morning skate. I mean, shit. I'm a pro hockey player preparing for game seven in a playoff series. I have zero time for my love life to be fucking with my head.

It's been three weeks since the barbecue disaster, and Adam's responses have been increasingly cold and distant.

The few texts I've gotten make it clear he's still dealing with the fallout from my loose lips.

According to social media, the merger announcement had been rushed out a full day ahead of schedule, with stock prices taking a hit due to the "unplanned disclosure. "

I fucked up. Royally. But I've apologized a dozen times, and I'm unsure what else I can do to make it right.

Finally, mercifully, Adam texts me back.

I said I'd be there.

The curt response makes me wince. No emoji, no elaboration— just the bare minimum acknowledgment. I purse my lips. I know this isn't working. I know. But I can't seem to quit this guy. Another text comes through before I can respond:

Unlike some people, I understand the importance of professional commitments.

The dig is unmistakable. I type and delete three different responses before settling on:

I really am sorry. What can I do to make it up to you?

The response is immediate:

You've done enough.

I stare at those three words, feeling the chill through the screen. Part of me wonders if I should just end things now, cutting my losses before game seven. However, the thought of facing both a playoff elimination game and a breakup on the same day is too much.

Besides, maybe watching me play will remind Adam why he was with me in the first place. Perhaps I can still salvage this.

This is what I get for chasing a PR professional, right? From the moment I saw Adam at a post-game team event in a crowded bar, I've been following after him like my dog, Gordie, going for a butterfly.

Gordie is a lot to love, as my mother puts it, but I am, too.

I decide I need to see that ball of smelly fluff before I suit up, so I call my dog sitter, LeMarcus. Dude lives with his mom in my townhouse community and loves crashing in my guest room when I’m on the road. He’s well worth every penny I give him .

“Yo, Aldy!” LeMarcus answers with the screen facing Gordie, and I break into a massive smile at my little scrappy Pughasa. The shelter believed he was probably a pug mixed with Pekingese and Lhasa Apso. But now he’s all mine. Man, I love this dog.

“Hey, big guy! You being good?” Gordie wags his tail and woofs at the sound of my voice. “LeMarcus, do you have my face aimed at Gordie? Can he see me back?” My dog starts pawing at the screen.

I hear my teenage neighbor mumbling something about me being a boomer. “Yeah, man. Chill. He sees your ugly mug.”

I wave, and Gordie woofs again. “I miss you, bud.”

LeMarcus adopts a lower, goofy voice. “Dad, it’s been like three hours since you left. I’ve barely been awake. I don’t miss you at all.”

“Tough crowd,” I mutter. “Hey, thanks for showing me my good boy. Did he go out this morning?”

“Alder, I’m not discussing your dog’s toilet time with you while you’re in the locker room. Go bring us a win, man. Me and Gordie will be watching on your big-ass TV.”

He flips the camera back, so I’m looking into his deep brown eyes. He sticks out his tongue, and I laugh. “Thanks for watching him. You find out about that culinary program yet?”

LeMarcus rolls his eyes. “Do you have any focus at all? Don’t you have hockey shit to worry about right now? You can hear all about my life when you and my ma are out sittin’ on your lawn chairs.”

I love that this kid shows me absolutely no deference. It’s refreshing, especially in a hockey-crazed town like Pittsburgh. Most people are all up in my business, trying to get me to sign their boobs and pecs and leave their phone numbers on Gordie’s dog poo bags.

I hang up with my dog sitter, take a leak, and lace up my skates, wondering where my brothers are.

My twin, Tucker, and I are the youngest of four kids.

Three of us play hockey for the Pittsburgh Fury, the team our dad played for and won a handful of Cups.

He’s a legend in this town, and I know my brother Gunnar lets that mess with his head, but he’s a goalie, and they’re weird.

Tuck and I have twin mojo. A coach would be nuts to break us up.

Hell, I thought Tuck was nuts for wanting his own bachelor pad, and it’s been a big adjustment living separately from him this year.

I would probably have been content to room with him forever, but I get that we’re adults now, and we’re supposed to differentiate.

Tuck bursts into the locker room and slides onto the wooden bench beside me, planting a kiss on my cheek. Which I allow because I love him. “Hey, Fucker.”

He flinches. “Why does everyone call me that?”

“Because it rhymes with your name, and you’re a fucker.” He’s been trying to think of a suitable annoying nickname for me for the several decades we’ve been alive. What do I care if he calls me Derpy? Doesn’t have the same impact.

Tuck glances toward the door, shakes his head, and starts suiting up. “I just had the best fucking massage. I think I slept through half of it. Not even sure how I rolled over.” He stretches his arms above his head. “I have a good feeling about today’s game.”

I run a hand along my scruffy jaw. I sort of hate the requirement to stop shaving when we make the playoffs. I know beards are hot right now, but I find them itchy. At least Adam seems to think it’s hot.

Tuck and I match each other’s pace, getting dressed as the other guys file in, suit up, and head out to the ice. The goalies must have gone out early or something because I don’t see any sign of Gunnar.

Tucker tosses his bag into the locker above his cubby and slams the door. “Who all is here today? From the family, I mean.”

I glance up, considering. “Mom and Dad. All the uncles…honestly, I think everyone.”

Our oldest brother, Odin, just moved back from England with his girlfriend. Our cousin Stellen just finished law school. When I say everyone is here, I mean there are 25 members of the Stag family in the stands, ready to make some noise.

Tucker gives me a pointed look. “He going to show this time?”

I swallow the hairball that his question creates in my throat. “He’ll come. He’s sitting somewhere different, though.”

“It’s insane that you’ve been with this guy for six months, and I, your more-handsome twin, have only met him in passing. You know that, right?”

“Jesus, Tucker, I know. You know it’s still scary to be queer in this society, right? Cut him some slack.”

My brother shakes his head. “Of course I know that. And any person you date should know our family is a safe place, Bruh.”

I close my eyes, think of my dog, and take a few deep breaths. “Look, I can’t talk about this now. Let’s just focus on beating Montreal, okay?”

He pushes to his feet. “You’re right. But we are talking about this after we win tonight, okay?”

I follow him out to the ice, wondering how annoyed I should be that he’s giving voice to all the quiet concerns I’ve been afraid to name for months.

I truly believe if I give Adam enough time and space, he’ll come around.

Like, he will literally come around to family dinner.

I don’t need to trot him around town on my arm.

I don’t need him to be my date at the hospital gala.

But my brother is right. Our family is the best, and pretty much all I want in the world after a Cup victory of my own is to bring the person I’m dating to a lazy summer day at our vacation house, where we all fight over card games and shove each other into the pool.

I glance up at the empty arena and emerge from the tunnel toward the ice. I look to the seat I reserved for Adam. He’ll be there. I know he will. And maybe, when we win, I can skate up to the glass, press my glove against the barrier, and he’ll lean in and smile.