Page 9 of Rule 4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter

Rex continues to speak about Jason. Jason’s disgust when referring to the multiple men in same-sex relationships was palpable at the last press conference. Valerie uncovered that he’s made those same teammates uncomfortable. I worked on the story with her, though mostly I added details about his career from the AHL in Providence before he was called up to the Blizzards four years ago. Jason is a reliable player, but not a star. Most Blizzards fans don’t know his name.

Every time someone says Jason’s name, my chest tightens. I reach for another cookie, as if sugar and flour and white chocolate can erase from my mind that he was the first guy I ever kissed.

Since he’s now known as the most homophobic professional athlete in the country, the kiss was a spectacular failure. I shouldn’t have spent any time pining for him. I hope I’m not the reason for his subsequent bad behavior, though he could have said no.

“Cal, you’re doing the Larvik story.”

“Me?” I flick my gaze toward Valerie.

We worked on that article together, but Valerie took the lead. It was her idea. It should be her story.

Rex frowns. “Yes. You.” He sighs. “Because you bring a relevant perspective. One the rest of us don’t have.” He waves a hand, and I do my best to not react, even as snickers sound from around the table.

He means to say that I’m gay, but apparently that’s not something that can be said in the polite conversation thatis the Sports Sphere newsroom. I glance at the reporters sitting around the table, finally putting their English and communication degrees to use after their athletic careers.

I reach for another cookie. The sugary scent wafts around my nostrils, briefly calming me.

My sun-kissed colleagues, their golden-hued skin no doubt maintained from regular trips to five-star resorts in the Caribbean instead of hasty spray tans in sad-looking mini-malls, smirk.

“Are we sure it’s appropriate to put Jason on this article?” Valerie asks. “I wouldn’t want him to be in an un-safe environment.”

The words are technically kind? I don’t know her well enough.

I stiffen anyway, but not because I’m afraid of Jason or anything. Maybe that’s also a problem. If I’d been afraid of him, maybe I wouldn’t have kissed him, and all of this awkwardness between us would never have happened. Maybe I’d still have my great new friend from hockey camp. Maybe he wouldn’t have gone on the homophobic spiral he went on.

I take another sip of coffee. The bitter liquid does nothing to distract me from my thoughts.

When I looked Jason in the eyes and said, “can I?”, did he really know what I wanted to do? Was he thinking kiss? When he kissed me back, was it instinct, rather than desire?

Obviously, that’s what it was.

It’s clear he hated it.

How could something that felt so good to me have felt so terrible to him?

I was in the press room when Jason vented about the abundance of teammates in same-sex relationships and his open doubt that Dmitri Volkov and Oskar Holberg, the coach’s son, were in a legitimate romantic relationship.

“I can handle Larvik fine,” I tell Valerie, even though my mind is flicking through every memory of Jason. He used to listen to me ramble about stats and laugh whenever I made a terrible joke.

I was so stupid to fall for him.

And yet... how could I not?

Valerie gives a sympathetic smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and that reminds me she might have been more concerned with covering this story than concerned for my supposed well-being. I’ve only been here a week, and I don’t want to give my new boss the impression my colleagues need to cover for me.

“The Blizzards benched Larvik after his comments on Volkov,” Rex says.

I stiffen.

Did our article do that? Neither of us wrote the headline. Another team does that, one that specializes in drama.

“I suggest you interview him and find out his thoughts,” Rex continues.”

Jackson sneers. “Bet Larvik has some interesting thoughts.”

“Probably wishing Holberg’s not coaching the Blizzards,” another reporter says.

My colleagues chuckle.