Page 6 of Sweet as Puck
No one was going to be embarrassed by me like my parents had been.
Maybe then, Chris and Kamirah would be open to me using their front door, or fuck, not even leaving.
Who knew?
Until then, I planned on focussing on my game and keeping their secrets. It wasn’t ideal; secrets didn’t make for good team dynamics. But the decision to come out wasn’t just mine to make. Until Minns and his wife were prepared to do the same, I was back in the closet.
It wasn’t all bad. I was an NHL player. It was my job, but there were few others like it. The perks were incredible, and it was, quite literally, the best sport in the world. I wasn’t afraid of hard work either—it had gotten me this far, and it’d take me all the way to the top.
Being on the ice came naturally to me. Everything slotted into place and all distractions fell away. My mind and body worked in sync, decisions made and executed in milliseconds. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just me and my teammates and the puck.
This season was done and dusted.
Next season, we’d do it. We’d make a play for the Stanley Cup.
Steam rose out of my gloves as I yanked them off. My helmet was next. My hair was dripping wet. Sweat poured off me. My muscles were heavy, but I was buzzing. I was floating on air, basking in the two goals I’d sunk and two assists I’d made. Our last win of the season was sweet.
Everything had come together beautifully. Every touch, every play had been flawless. Our D-men were impenetrable, and Rune, our goalie, was lightning on ice, shattering every attempt by Dallas’s offensive line to sink the puck into our net. We’d won in a shutout, 4–to–1.
The mood in the locker room was jubilant.
I wanted to stand there and soak it in, but at the same time, I wanted to celebrate privately too.
Those fucking secrets again.
I pushed the disappointment and shame away. This was a time for celebrating.
I took off my skates and slid them into my cubbyhole before I turned to my teammates. They were gathered around, shooting the shit in the open area.
Above them, our team flag hung from the ceiling right next to the Stars and Stripes.
Twenty-eight cubicles lined three sides of the room. Each one of us had a space to hang our uniform and pads and store our skates, as well as a cupboard above it where we kept our phones and keys. A nameplate was velcroed to each door, and our name and number were written on it. The lack of permanence in this career was never more pronounced than here in our own changerooms.
A U-shaped row of benches painted the team’s signature purple were between me and my teammates.
Gauthier, our captain, always spoke to us before Coach did. He was young—a year younger than me—but even at twenty-three, he deserved the C on his jersey. We acted like testosterone-charged children most of the time, hooting and hollering and trash-talking each other until our parents—Coach, Gauthier, and Rune, our AC—stepped in. But once they did, we showed them the respect and admiration they deserved.
Everyone gathered in a circle as I reached for my Gatorade and chugged half of it.
The room quietened momentarily, and Gauthier raised his own bottle. “Huxley!” he shouted.
Cheers rang out and that floating on air feeling intensified until I was in the fucking clouds.
“Those goals and assists were magic. And Minns, you beautiful thing, you. Your breakaway was the stuff of legend, and that wrister”—he mimicked the move perfectly—“was pure gold.”
“We’re here, Seals. We’ve arrived.”
We shouted, crowding in on both Gauthier and Minns. I was tugged into the middle, and my teammates slapped my back, whooping as we jumped around.
Gauthier waited us out until we’d settled before he spoke again. “We’ve announced to the world that we’re the team to beat next season.”
Someone started chanting, “Seals,” and the cheers and whoops grew along with Gauthier’s grin.
He stood on his bench and pointed at us. “You—each and every one of you—turned that W from a lucky goal or two into absolute domination tonight.”
The room erupted, whistles and wads of stick tape flying every which way. Half-full bottles of Gatorade were tossed up into the air, splashing all of us as we celebrated together. The end to our second season had been fuckin’ sweet.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Coach enter the room and lean against the doorframe. I tapped the guys closest to me—Rossi and Kuznetsov—on their shoulders and shushed a few others. The team gradually grew quiet. It took a whole lot longer than normal, but Coach let it slide with a smirk.