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SEVENTEEN

Clay

It’s almost game time. The arena is jam packed with fans. My players are about to make history. The number of news vans outside has swelled beyond my wildest imagination. We’re the story of the hour.

And I’m a mess inside. A goddamned mess. I want to barf from nerves and then hide in a corner somewhere with a cool washcloth on my forehead.

Instead, I force my shoulders back and give my players a last-minute pep talk before warmups. “For some people, tonight is a big deal. We’ll have new eyes on us.” The room goes quiet, as it always does, because I run a tight ship, and this is a respectful team.

If only I felt truly deserving of that respect tonight.

“The thing is, though—we’ve already done the work that’s led us here. We already know that being a team means more than passing the puck or covering each other on the ice. It means embracing every player’s unique contribution. We understand that the strength of a team lies in its unity and the trust we place in one another.

“We support our teammate Hudson Newgate—and all our teammates—every night. So it doesn’t matter who’s out there watching or what they write about us in the news tomorrow. We already know who we are. We already know what to do when the puck drops. All we need to do is bear down and do it. It’s time, guys. Let’s show all our new fans how this is done. Cougars on three.”

Murph counts to three, and then the room shakes with the force of thirty raised voices. Including mine. And Hale’s, whose face I find unerringly in the crowd, even if I’m not supposed to seek it out.

In their bright rainbow jerseys, the players hustle out the door and into the tunnel. I stay to the back, clipboard in hand. The crowd gets louder as I draw nearer to the ice, which is wild, because the game doesn’t start for another half hour. Warmups are usually for diehard fans only.

Not tonight. When the first players reach the bench, the crowd erupts with cheers. Bringing up the rear, I stop and stare at the spectacle of packed seats throbbing with fans in Pride gear. They’re wearing rainbow hats and face paint. Many of them are waving signs, mostly on the theme of: WE LOVE YOU NEWGATE.

“Holy pepperoni,” mutters Stoney. He hasn’t taken off his skate guards. He’s just standing there, gaping like I am.

I clap my hands together. “Let’s go, boys. Clock’s tickin’.”

Newgate takes the ice, and the crowd screams. His face is bright red as they chant his name. “NEW-GATE! NEW-GATE!”

“Huh,” Stoney says, stepping onto the ice with a couple other players. “If I kiss a dude, will they chant my name? Anybody wanna test that out with me?”

“You score a goal in the first five minutes, I’ll kiss you myself,” Kapski says. “Get a hat trick tonight, and I’ll even give you tongue.”

“NEW-GATE, NEW-GATE!” says the crowd.

Newgate skates toward center ice, where a couple of his ex-teammates from Brooklyn are waiting for him. We timed his announcement with this game for a reason.

The crowd erupts as he fist-bumps them one at a time.

My guys hit the ice for real, and I try to pay attention. This is my last chance to think about our plan of attack. Just because Brooklyn has some friendly faces doesn’t mean they’re going to hand us the win.

But it’s no use. I keep staring down at my clipboard without really seeing it. In my head, I’m a scared teenager again, terrified to confront my sexuality. Keeping my eyes down in the locker room, wondering who’d kick my ass if they knew about me, hearing homophobic slurs casually tossed around and trying not to flinch.

Then I’m the loneliest guy on my college campus, working hard to charm everyone around me so they won’t see what an anxious mess I am inside.

And then I’m in Busker, New York, slowly falling in love with Jethro Hale and feeling queasy every time I try to picture a future with him. For good reason.

Today the world has changed, at least for Hudson Newgate. Literally thousands of people showed up here tonight to tell him that he’s enough just the way he is. That he can have a life without hiding.

It’s awe inspiring. It’s amazing. It’s… stinging my eyes.

Damn it.

I force some cool air into my lungs, but it’s not enough. I turn around and stride back into the tunnel. It’s blissfully quiet, and I need a minute to myself. Or maybe several minutes. I take a slow, deep breath and exhale through my nose. But I’m actually shaking, and my hands are clenched into fists.

Let yourself feel all the feelings , my sister’s voice repeats in my head.

Easy for her to say, when I’m the one shaking in the tunnel. I bend over and grab my knees, while each breath saws heavily out of my lungs.

After a minute or two, a shadow appears in my peripheral vision. And then a pair of goalie skates clomp into view.

I turn my head to confirm the inevitable. It’s Hale, which just fucking figures. He’s holding a cracked goalie stick.

“Kapski got me with a slap shot,” he says.

I make no reply, because I don’t trust the sound of my voice right now. Hale’s the last person I want to talk to. So I don’t. I stay where I am, my gaze on my shoes.

“C-Coach,” he says, catching himself before using my actual name. “Uh, you okay? You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine,” I grunt. Please go away .

“But…” He hesitates. “Look, maybe I should go grab Coach Murph?—”

“No!” I snarl, straightening up. “Jesus Christ! Just fuck off, already! Go get a stick, or go the fuck back to Detroit. Now is not the time. If I needed your help, I’d ask for it.”

He throws his hands up as if in self-defense. “Christ almighty, I thought maybe you were having a heart attack. Just trying to be helpful, Coach .”

Then he stomps off, and I lean against the wall, my heart pounding. Get a grip, Powers. Get a fucking grip .