Page 16

SIXTEEN

Jethro

The Uber ride from my hotel to the arena shouldn’t take more than a few minutes, but when the driver starts muttering to herself, I look up from my phone and realize it might take a while to approach the back entrance.

More than a dozen news trucks cluster in the drive circle, their satellite dishes reaching toward the sky like ugly metallic flowers. And there’s a row of crowd-control barricades set up in front of the arena that aren’t usually there.

When I see a group of people waving signs, my stomach drops. But then I read them and blink. DROVE TEN HOURS, NEED TWO TICKETS!

Those people aren’t picketing, they’re pre-gaming. It’s like a strange little tailgate party, and the price of admission is at least one item of clothing in rainbow colors.

“Not sure I can get any closer than this,” the driver grumbles, waving at a sawhorse guarded by a couple of cops. “You okay here?”

“Uh, sure.” I could probably flash my team ID and get the car past the next pinch point, but there’s no need. “Thanks.”

“De nada,” she says, and I feel a weird prickle at the base of my skull. I grab my gym bag and leave the car behind, threading past some bystanders and heading for the players’ entrance.

“Excuse me,” a policeman says. “You got ID?”

I pull it out of my pocket and hand it over.

He checks the ID and then looks me up and down in my game day suit. “Wait. You’re the new goalie?”

“Yeah.”

He hands back my ID. “You gonna play ever?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself.”

He doesn’t even smile. “Stay sharp. I’m counting on some playoffs action this year.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Inside, I make my way to my stall, noticing immediately that there’s a skittish energy in the room. Tate is buzzing around like a nervous bee, his phone glued to his hand.

There’s a special warmup jersey set out for me, and I hold it up for inspection. It’s rainbow tie-dye in riotous colors.

Volkov, who will be in the net again tonight, weighs in from the bench next to mine. “Very bright,” he says. “Like a unicorn vomit on jersey. But, hey, if Newgate have kink for this, I wear it.”

Across the room, Newgate gives him the finger, and everyone snickers.

For the hundredth time in a week, I feel like I’ve stepped into someone else’s reality. If you had told me at twenty-two that I’d be standing in an NHL dressing room listening to a Russian goaltender gently ribbing his queer teammate about a rainbow jersey, I would never have believed it.

I change into my workout gear as Tate makes another nervous lap of the room. “StubHub seats are up to fifteen hundred bucks,” he says gleefully.

“You know what this means, right?” Clay’s voice booms suddenly from the doorway. His hair is freshly cut, he’s wearing a very sharp suit, and his tie is a tasteful blue with subtle rainbow stripes on it. “You boys have got to win this game. Can’t make a big splash in the news cycle and then hand Brooklyn two points on the road.” He rubs his hands together. And then his gaze sweeps the room, making eye contact with every player.

Every player except for me.

Yeah. Okay. I’m probably the last person he wants to think about today. Or ever.

I slide out of the room and head for the alcove where there are mats on the floor for stretching. My pregame routine used to take a half hour, but now I’m up to about forty-five minutes. It doesn’t matter whether I expect to play or not. Staying this limber at thirty-seven requires a lot of effort.

On the mat, I start with big muscle groups. Quads and hamstrings. I’m stretching my hips when a face appears in the doorway. It’s the man of the hour, Hudson Newgate.

“Hey,” I say. “There’s plenty of room. And only one of us made it onto the starting lineup.”

“A little bitter, huh?”

“What? Aren’t I hiding it well?”

He snorts and flops down on the mat beside me.

“You want the space?” I ask. “Maybe you need a break from people.”

“Nah, distract me,” he says. “Believe it or not, I don’t really enjoy being the center of attention.”

My heart rate bumps up a notch, because I can’t even imagine what kind of a day he’s having. “You okay? You feel solid? Do people keep asking you that?”

“Only all of them.” He leans forward, stretching his hamstrings.

It costs me a lot, but I add, “For what it’s worth—which is not much—I think you’re really brave.” In a way that I could never be .

“Thanks. But that’s the funny thing; it’s not about being brave. It’s about getting to a place where my personal life is more important than what the hockey world thinks.”

“Okay. I can understand that.” Maybe? The truth is that I’m incapable of looking at anything that way, because hockey is my life. There’s no separation.

He shrugs. “Hockey can be so insular. And conservative, in the classic sense. We don’t like change.”

“Yeah. I’m just barely used to having quick-release blades.”

“Exactly.” Hudson leans into a stretch. “But where fans are concerned, somehow I ran out of fucks to give. Coach Powers made this possible, by the way. He’s a great guy once you get to know him.”

I crack a smile. “We played together fifteen years ago in the minors. Back when Earth was green.”

He sits up and smiles. “No lie? You must have some good Coach Powers stories, then. What was he like as a teammate?”

“Uh…” I chuckle uncomfortably. When I think of twenty-four-year-old Clay, I don’t picture him skating. I picture him stirring his homemade tomato sauce in our kitchen.

Shirtless.

But that’s not the image I need right now. “He was flashy as a player. But always responsible, too. A natural leader. He had some of Kapski’s dad energy even then.”

“Yeah?” His smile widens. “Come on. Give me one good story.”

“Well…he used to get the whole bus singing. One time he got the whole team to sing ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’”

Newgate laughs. “Please tell me there’s video.”

“Sad to say there’s not. Another time the bus broke down before our dinner stop, and we were all starving. We ended up at this truck stop with a strip club but no restaurant. Coach wouldn’t let us go into the club. So we’re standing around helping the bus driver change a tire, and Clay sneaks into the strip club and asks for forty dollars change. ‘Because strippers always have singles…’”

Newgate hoots.

“Yeah. He came out with the cash and bought out the vending machines for us.”

The moment Newgate lifts his gaze toward the doorway, my neck heats.

“You telling tales?” Clay booms from behind me.

I turn around to find him leaning against the cinder-block wall, looking too classy for this world. “Just a couple,” I say, suddenly embarrassed. It’s a really inconvenient time to remember how attractive I used to find him. “In my defense, he asked me to distract him.”

Clay suddenly looks worried. “You okay?” he asks Newgate.

“I’m fine .” Newgate gets to his feet. “I promise. Just feeling really weird about being the diversity poster boy for an entire sport. No big deal.”

Just the idea makes me want to climb out of my skin.

“Come and sign a few items for the auction,” Clay says. “Then see the trainer.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Newgate strides out of the alcove. “Later, Hale.”

“Later, kid.”

I wait for Clay to leave, but he doesn’t. “He’s not a kid,” he says.

“They’re all kids,” I grumble, tipping onto my back to pull my knees into my chest. “From one dinosaur to another. Am I right?”

Clay sighs. “Not gonna let that go, huh?”

“Nope.”

He finally walks away.