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JAKE

O fficial press release:

“I haven’t made many personal statements, but I feel like it’s important to be transparent and honest to my family, my friends, and to hockey fans. Anyone out there questioning their sexuality or where they fit in a world that feels hostile, you’re not alone. I’m a son, a brother, a friend, a hockey player, and a proud bisexual man. And while my personal life is my own business, if my honesty can make a difference to anyone struggling with their sexuality, I want to help. I’ll see you on the ice.” – Jake Milligan

Boston’s PR gurus worked with McD on the messaging for my coming-out story. I called a meeting with the team and told them so no one would be blindsided. My teammates were a good group of guys, and though I knew it was unreasonable to think everyone would have my back, I’d been blown away by the support of the entire organization.

Post preseason games were a flurry of annoying questions about my personal life instead of the killer shot I’d buried in the second period or the pass I’d made to Sergei that he’d turned into a late goal. But I was getting used to it. I’d talked to Denny about how he’d handled the press and fans, and I worked on my own spiel.

“This was the right time for me. It’s that simple.”

I ran into some assholes on the ice who used slurs as defensive strategies, but those guys had always been around. I was more surprised at how cool the fans were than anything. I spotted a bi flag in the stands in Toronto and homemade posters that said, “Bi is fly” and “We love Jake!” in Detroit. So yeah…this was good.

If anything, I was disappointed that I’d waited. My bi-ness was a superpower, and it felt kind of great to acknowledge it. Maybe it was time to take a page out of Mason’s book and get involved in a charity for LGBTQ youths in the city too. I could start my own. I had a lot to think about, and it was a positive diversion from my usual routine of wondering how long I had a place in the league and how I was going to survive playing against Denver.

Yeah, Denver was on my mind…big-time.

I was nervous. It had taken me two weeks to return Mason’s text messages. I know that had probably seemed like a dick move, but I’d needed space. I hadn’t wanted him to feel any obligation whatsoever. We’d agreed it was over, and I had to be okay with that.

But we were going to have to meet on the ice. And just like every other time, all eyes were on us. Maybe more so.

We’d left Elmwood on friendly terms, and our names hadn’t been associated since I’d come out. An ex-girlfriend or fuck-buddy of his had posted pics of Mason shirtless, but I knew that body like my own and there were a few tattoos missing that suggested the photos were at least a year old. I hated the flare of jealousy, but it wasn’t my business.

I had to move on. This was about hockey now, not my hopelessly fractured heart.

I stood next to our goalie, hand on heart, jaw clenched in an effort not to stare as the announcer called his name and the crowd went wild. And I do mean wild.

The rafters shook as fans screamed, “Trin-sky, Trin-sky.”

And there he was, head high, a brilliant smile on his handsome face. I missed that smile. So fucking much. He was beautiful. So fierce and so proud.

Holy fuck, this was hard.

And knowing the fans expected some sort of interaction between us made it extra…awkward. No one was going to forget that he’d blamed Denver’s Stanley Cup loss on my damn leather jacket just because we were allegedly friends now. They wanted proof. They wanted his stamp of approval.

It came in the form of an up-nod in the faceoff circle. “Milligan.”

“Trinsky.”

“You’ve been busy,” he drawled.

The puck dropped and he was gone, flying toward our goal. I caught him. C’mon, this was still hockey. And even though this was a preseason game, we’d come to battle. I wasn’t about to let him win.

And this was what I’d always loved about competing with Trinsky. He drove me nuts, but no one pushed me like him. We skated like demons, scrapping it out against the boards in a constant battle for the puck. I wanted it, he wanted it. I was invested in the thrill of playing with a worthy adversary.

I worked my ass off for that goal in the second period and if I shoved him a little too hard to break up a play, so what? The mischievous glint in his eyes told me he didn’t mind.

But in the third period, he tripped me and I saw red. The ref saw too and Trinsky was destined for the sin bin, but the gloves came off and I was on top of him in a heartbeat.

“What the fuck was that?” I growled.

Trinsky put his hands up in mock surrender and laughed, then lowered his voice for my ears only. “I had to get your attention. I’ll text you my address after the game. Come over. I want to talk to you.”

“Mase, I don’t?—”

He pulled me in for a hug. At center ice in the middle of a fucking game. “Please. And now…if you don’t punch me, I’m gonna have to take you down.”

I punched him.

We both got two-minute penalties.

Much to Denver’s delight, we lost, 2-3.

I showered quickly, answered a few questions for the reporter who’d literally stalked me into the locker room, and made up an excuse about meeting a family member to my teammates. I should have had dinner with them, but I was too churned up to feel guilty.

True to his word, there was a text waiting for me with an address, directions to the back entrance, a code, and a simple message.

Please.

I drove my rental to Trinsky’s luxury high-rise building, followed his instructions, and knocked on his door.

And knocked.

I raised my hand to knock a third time when Mason buzzed me in, his hair damp and his snug black tee sticking to his body as if he hadn’t properly dried himself off.

“Sorry about that. I hurried out of there tonight without showering and…I stunk.” Mason wiped his hands on his jeans and gestured toward his contemporary-style kitchen. “Want something to drink?”

“Um…no. I’m fine. I’m—why am I here, Mase?”

He dropped his hands to his side. “You came out.”

“Yeah, I told you I was going to?—”

“I didn’t think you meant now.”

“It felt right.”

He nodded. “Oh. Okay.”

“Was that all?”

“Yeah. I mean, I think it’s great, and um…” He closed his eyes briefly. “Fuck, I fucking hate that you did it alone. I should have been there for you. You wouldn’t take my fucking phone calls, and you wouldn’t let me in, and I fucking belong there. It’s wrong. It feels wrong and is wrong and I hate it.”

I had nothing.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you. We talked about this. We agreed that it was over and?—”

“Fuck that.”

“Mase, I don’t?—”

“I love you, asshole. Don’t you get it? I fucking love you.”

“You…I?—”

“Yeah, I love you, and I want to be with you. So you gotta let me in, Jake. Let me be part of your future. Let me be someone you need, ’cause God knows I need you, and I’m so damn tired of doing this alone. I just…love you.”

“I love you, too,” I rasped. “So much. But we have the same problem we always did. We play hockey, baby. It’s what we do. We can’t be boyfriends. We can’t?—”

“Yes, we can. We just have to keep it quiet for now and be patient. One day at a time, one thing at a time. Look…” He raked his fingers through his hair and pursed his lips. “I’ve been thinking about us for weeks, Jakey. I know I don’t have a lot to offer. You live in Boston, I live here. We travel constantly—being in the same city won’t happen often enough, and when it does it’ll feel dangerous. But I’ll take what I can get. I’ll wait for you if you wait for me.”

“Yeah, I can do that,” I whispered, hope flaring in my chest.

“I’ll come out too…maybe not tomorrow, but I’ll do it. And maybe you’ll retire sooner, ’cause you’re a little more beat up than me.”

“Fuck off,” I scoffed without heat. My smile was far too big for my face.

“Or hey, maybe I’ll retire first. I’ll come live with you in Elmwood, and we’ll coach teenage punks. And we’ll visit Eddie and my mom in California all the time and stay at my mobster house and we’ll go camping and I’ll share my tent, my sleeping bag, and whatever the fuck else you want. Just give us a chance and be mine, Jakey. Please…be mine.”

He opened his arms and I flew into them, unthinking.

I crashed my mouth over his and damn, it felt like coming home. Maybe that was why it didn’t seem completely and utterly ridiculous to think that we might stand a chance.

“I’m yours. I want you and I love you, and I’m with you all the way.”

“All the way.” Mason rubbed his thumbs along my cheekbones and leaned in to press kisses on my forehead and my nose. “I pucking love you.”

“That’s weird.”

“It’s not weird, it’s romantic. You get it, right? Puck, love, hockey players…” He linked our fingers and pulled me into his kitchen. “C’mon. We need food. I’ll make you an omelet, and we’ll cuddle on the sofa, and you can tell me how awesome my wrist shot looked tonight.”

I laughed, but I was still smiling and I felt lighter than I had in weeks. I had my best friend back, and no matter how hard it might be to keep our private life to ourselves, it was worth it. A thousand times over.

“Hey, Jakey? I’ve got a good feeling about us.”

“Me too. Me too.”

And I did.

Loving him was easy. He was my other half—the one who reminded me to embrace lightness and laughter. Somehow I knew that with him by my side, we’d find a way to have it all.