Page 6 of The Poster Boy (Love The Game #3)

Marek

I fucking hated change. Even when the change had been a good thing, it was still a lot for me to wrap my head around.

Did I know I was traded? Obviously. Had I already moved to a new city, unpacked my clothes, and explored a three-block radius from my building?

Definitely. But the morning of my first practice with a new team was the moment my brain chose to let the events of the past week catch up to me.

I’d played against the Vikings before. They weren’t an unknown entity to me as opponents.

But as teammates they were question marks on skates.

Some guys didn’t like the idea of having the league’s poster boy—not my choice of nicknames—on their team.

But clearly it was an issue for some guys on my old team, or I wouldn’t have been traded.

Part of me wasn’t sure it really had been the other players because the guys all seemed to be cool with me.

A few of them had even dropped a text since I left.

Trevor and Jackson had checked in with me several times.

Bridges had given me a recap of the friendly, but funny welcome-to-the-team prank they played on the new guy.

It made me wonder if that was something the Vikings did.

If it was, I’d take it all in stride. I just had to get to practice first.

Getting out the door for practice was the easy part.

Both times. The first time I left, I got down to the bottom floor only to realize I’d forgotten to take my medication despite the three alarms on my phone that I’d set.

The second time I left, I felt better having my secret weapon on board.

It had taken a few tries to get the right kind of medication, one that let me focus without turning me into a zombie or that killed my appetite like the last one had done.

When I got to the rink, of course there were camera crews waiting for me.

I didn’t mind talking to the media. I’d gotten used to it since I was outed, but sometimes I wished I could be accepted for who I was without all the fanfare.

Maybe one day we could live in a world that realized gay people were everywhere. I was hardly a novelty.

I put my media face on and gave them all what I hoped was a dazzling smile.

A reporter I didn’t recognize stepped in my way. “Mr. Myers. Julie Urman, CKCY News. Do you have a minute?”

“Sure, but only one. I’m running a bit late as it is.” It wasn’t a lie. The morning had been a scramble for me. Right from the minute I woke up, it seemed that everything I wanted to accomplish took twelve extra steps.

“What do you think of the trade? Are you aware of why you were traded?”

“Well, I was traded because that’s what happens in professional hockey. And while I wasn’t exactly expecting it, I’m looking forward to getting on the ice with my new team.”

“The rumor is that you were traded because of your sexuality. Is that true? ”

In spite of the urge to grab the microphone from her and toss it into the street, I smiled again.

“I was traded because my contract allows for me to be traded. I’m excited about the change of scenery and the new opportunities here in Vancouver, and I’m looking forward to getting on the ice.” I made a show of looking at my watch. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I really am running late.”

“Just one more question?”

“Sorry, what was your name again?”

“Julie Urman, CKCY TV.”

“I’m late for practice, Julie. But if you catch me another time when I’m not late, I’ll answer more of your questions.” Before she could argue, I stepped around her and ducked into the arena.

Sometimes the team practiced at a smaller rink that was close by, but today’s practice was on home ice.

Despite being late, my nerves had me take my sweet time getting to the locker room—where the entire team waited for me.

Getting traded had been a shock to me, and I wondered if it had also been a shock to them.

Sometimes, trading a player could shake up a team’s entire dynamic.

I doubted my absence would make a difference to my old team, but my presence might affect this new one.

I heard the locker room before I saw it. Voices carried out into the hallway, and I tried not to latch on to anything that was being said, but it was hard once I heard my name.

“Wonder why he’s late?”

“Probably got lost on the way here.”

“You know they set him up in one of the units across the street.”

A room full of laughter, rolling from one end to the other as the punchline was delivered. If there was anything I’d learned in the past six months of my media firestorm, it was how to play this particular game.

Pasting on a bright smile, I strode into the locker room with my head held high. It was laughter’s funeral. The good mood plummeted with my arrival, and silence stretched out as I walked through the sea of dumbstruck men.

“Sorry I’m late.” I smiled brighter. “I got lost on the way here.”

I didn’t know who’d said it, and it didn’t matter, because everyone roared with laughter. Everyone except Brookbank. Boone Weimer shot me a sympathetic look when he realized where my gaze fell, and he rolled his eyes at the sight of Brookbank being so clearly pissed off by my existence.

“We didn’t mean anything by it, you know.” A player I should recognize, but didn’t, sidled up next to me and stuck his hand out. “Andrew Rathel. Defenseman.”

The name rang a bell now. Andrew Rathel was on the same line as Brookbank.

“I know. You gotta give the new guy a little shit, or he’ll think you hate him. I get it.” I found my spot on the bench. A fresh piece of tape with my name on it marked my territory.

Between my old team and my new team, they’d dealt with getting new gear for me in the appropriate colors, but it still struck me like a boot in the chest when I saw my last name on the back of a Vikings jersey.

“So what’s your deal?” Andrew parked his ass on the empty space next to my spot on the bench and looked up at me.

“My deal?”

“You know how you goalies are. You all have these insane little rituals and shit.”

Ah yes, the infamous “goalies are weird” remark.

But I’d been branded as weird long before I was a goalie.

Ever since I was a kid, I’d stood out for some reason.

Looking back, the ADHD probably had something to do with that.

The inability to sit still. The lack of friends as a kid because I had two settings—annoying and super annoying.

Until I found my footing in hockey, I’d felt isolated from my peers.

Othered. But with hockey came acceptance.

Even if they’d only put me in goal to begin with so they could shoot pucks at me.

That’s when they found out I didn’t suck.

I would never go so far as to say that my ADHD gave me actual superpowers, but if the skate fit…

My inability to focus on things that I found boring was replaced by a laser focus on that puck.

My mind didn’t wander for a change. Hockey didn’t cure my ADHD.

I still very much had it. Even on the ice, it was still there.

But I’d learned to work with it and let it shape me.

It helped me fit into the role they stuffed me in for a laugh.

But growing up being othered by kids and teachers never really went away.

And so I was a goalie without weird rituals.

Outwardly, anyway. Inwardly, I sang the same song in my head before every practice.

Years ago, I’d stumbled on a version of O Fortuna , but with the lyrics messed up.

It had gotten stuck in my head and eventually it just became part of my pregame prep.

I also took quiet stock of every muscle in my body, starting at my toes and working my way up.

Any little ritual I had, I kept to myself. Guarded them like buried treasure.

“Well, see, I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” I winked at Andrew and sat down so I could pull my skates on.

Andrew’s quick acceptance of me seemed to reverberate through the team. The ice had been thoroughly broken, and everyone went about their business. A couple people shot questions my way. Nice easy ones like did I know I was being traded, and did I like the city so far.

The rest of the team seemed to be okay with me there. Even Tony Church had swung by my corner of the locker room to shake my hand and say hello.

Brookbank remained on his side of the room, quietly seething every time he looked at me. I got the impression that he didn’t say much, and he had a reputation in the league for being ornery, but the chill that came off him rivaled the one that came off the ice.

Once we were out there to warm up, Boone skated over to me and fell into place beside me. As team captain, it was up to him to look after the players, but I got the feeling he was definitely on Brookbank’s side. Boone might not hate me, but he wasn’t about to stop Brookbank from hating me.

“Welcome to the team, Myers.”

Sparing him only a glance, I managed to keep my smile. “Thanks.”

“I wanted to make sure you knew that bullshit won’t be tolerated on my team.”

Out of their own volition, my skates brought me to a dead stop, and I turned to look at Boone. My smile faltered as I tried to think of what kind of infraction I’d committed to be having this talk so soon.

Something in Boone’s expression softened, and he skated over to me and put one of his big meaty hands on my shoulder.

“Dude, I meant that no one is going to give you shit about being gay. That’s all.”

Relief made my knees wobble, but I managed to keep steady, and I clapped Boone on the arm, shooting him a wide smile .

“I knew that.”

He rolled his eyes. “Of course you did.”

The clouds rolled in over the sun and a chill fell over the land—okay, so not really, but Brookbank did skate over and ignore my presence almost entirely.

“Everything good?” he asked, as if I were trouble. As if Boone and I were about to drop our gloves and fight, and he was here to protect Boone.

“Down boy.” Boone shoved Brookbank. “Go be a pain in someone else’s ass.”

Brookbank’s gaze darted to me, then Boone, then he skated away. I tried not to let his attitude affect me, but I had a lot of practice picking up on the vibe when someone hated me, and Brookbank wasn’t exactly trying to be subtle about it.

“Sorry about him. We’re still trying to housetrain him.”

Boone’s comment startled a laugh out of me. “Have you tried whacking him with a rolled-up newspaper?”

Boone’s smile spread, and I realized that even if he and Brookbank were super good friends, Boone wouldn’t let his friend get away with being a shit. It made me feel a little better about everything. Like things might just be okay here.

“We haven’t tried that yet,” Boone said.

“Can I?”

He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder again. It felt like acceptance. “I might just let you, Myers. You never know.”