Page 41 of Interference

Coach gave another sharp nod. “Keep me posted. And both of you—I want your heads in the game tonight, or we’re going to have another conversation.”

Again, we both replied, “Yeah, Coach.”

Then he stomped back into the locker room.

I turned a cautious look on Simon. “I didn’t know your knee was acting up again.”

“It’s always acting up,” he gritted out, not meeting my gaze.

“But is it—”

“You know it’s not,” he hissed, and finally looked at me. “Don’t act like you’re not distracted, too.”

“I know I am,” I whispered. “Which is why we need to fix it before—”

“We’re not doing this now,” he snapped. “We’ve got warmups in twenty minutes, and I still need to talk to Nick.” He started to clomp away.

“Simon.”

He turned around, head tilted and expression full of impatience.

I swallowed. “Thanks for not saying anything.”

“I’m not going to.” He didn’t sound thrilled about it. “If we fuck this up, then we’re going to fuck it up for any couples who come after us.”

Without waiting for a response, he stomped back into the locker room, leaving me alone in the hallway. He was right, wasn’t he? Like it or not, we had to make this work, because we were the ones paving the way for anyone else. The first openly gay player had been under a ton of pressure to be a superstar on the ice and morally pristine off it in order to set the precedent that people like us had a place in this League. Now Simon and I were in the same position, potentially either opening the door for other teammates to be together, or being the reason every team in the League forbade their players to get involved with each other.

No pressure or anything.

Simon and I stepped off the elevator along with a half dozen of our teammates, all of us pulling suitcases behind us and carrying garment bags over our shoulders. It was late—almost three in the morning—so there wasn’t a whole lot of conversation. We just shuffled down the hall, peeling off one or two at a time to go into our respective rooms. D’Angelo and Taylor were longtime veterans, so they didn’t have to have roommates anymore. Strictly speaking, Simon probably didn’t need a roommate anymore either, but our situation was… unique.

At our door, Simon rested a hand on the small of my back as I fished my keycard out of my jacket pocket. D’Angelo was in the next room. Beaus and Young were across the hall.

I kept a tired smile in place as we exchanged goodnights with our teammates, and then Simon and I stepped into our room.

As soon as the door was closed, we both dropped the pleasant façade. Neither of us said anything, but Simon’s hand vanished from my back and I almost breathed a sigh of relief that I didn’t have to smile anymore. In absolute silence, we started our usual routines of settling into our room. It was as automatic as our pregame rituals—something we could do in our sleep, which we were very nearly doing right now, given how wiped out we were. I had a feeling that even if we’d still been in a good place, we wouldn’t have been chatty or pleasant right now.

We weren’t in a good place. We were in a fucking miserable one, and now, on top of that, we were stuck in the same room and exhausted.

We’d been rooming together ever since we’d come out as a couple, and there’d been no way to ask for some space without letting on that something was wrong. A few times, I’d wondered if maybe that was what we needed to get back on the rails—a few nights apart while we were on the road. A little bit of breathing room.

But living apart wasn’t helping, so why would separate rooms? And anyway, we couldn’t let the cracks show. We couldn’t let anyone on the team catch on that we weren’t blissfully happy together, which meant we couldn’t ask for separate rooms even if that would help.

That was hard as hell on a good night lately, and tonight was not a good night. We’d played in Seattle a few hours ago. The game had been a tough one, the 5-3 loss a kick in the balls, and the flight had been a long one. I was tired, I was sore, and the last thing in the world I needed was to share a room—and a bed—with Simon.

That hurt, too. The first season we’d been out as a couple, rooming together had been bliss. Even the nights we didn’t have sex were amazing because it was just the two of us, taking our domestic life on the road, cuddling together, waking up together…

Why did all that feel like a fever dream now? Like something I’d conjured up during those hazy few seconds after a concussion?

I watched Simon hanging up his suit. Just gazing at his back made my chest tighten with frustration. I wanted nothing more than to be as far away as possible from this man who, at one time, I was pretty sure I couldn’t get enough of. I’d wondered a lot if he still loved me. These days, I asked myself often if he even still liked me.

When did we stop being friends?

God, that was the core of it, wasn’t it? I could cope with a relationship hitting a rough patch or needing work. Everyone had their ups and downs. No problem.

But Simon and me—every interaction was abrasive and adversarial. We couldn’t talk to each other or even look at each other without this unbearable tension. It was like we were so exhausted from the charade around our friends, teammates, and cameras, that when we were alone and didn’t have to pretend anymore, there was nothing left but resentment.

I didn’t want to dwell on it right now. We were stuck together tonight, and there was nothing I could do about it. Might as well settle in, get my ass into bed, and get some sleep before tomorrow morning’s practice.

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