Page 9 of Save the Game

Stick with me, I’ll keep you on the straight and narrow.

My thumbs hover over the keyboard. The urge to continue this conversation until morning is so potent my chest aches with it. I want Luke to keep me company through the night, grasp his virtual hand and hold on tight. It’s that desire that breaks me out of that daydream.

I’d better try and get some sleep.

Okay! Talk to you tomorrow. Sleep good.

Dream sweet dreams of me ;)

Sighing, I set an alarm and hook my phone up to the charger. Lying there, flat on my back with my hands resting on my stomach, I close my eyes and wait for sleep to find me. It does, eventually, but brings nightmares instead of dreams of Luke.

“Kuemper,” Coach calls, and the locker room immediately goes silent. I’m half dressed, shirt sticking to my damp chest and towel still clutched around my waist.

“Yes, Coach?” I keep my tone even and my grip on the towel firm. I hate changing in the locker room; if he hadn’t interrupted me, I’d already be fully dressed and halfway out the door.

“Stop by my office once you’re dressed.”

He’s gone before I can answer. It wasn’t a request, anyway, but an order. Steeling myself, I pull the towel off and swiftly put my boxers on. In less than thirty seconds I’m fully clothed and able to breathe easier. When I knock on the open door of Coach Mackenzie’s office, he looks up in surprise, eyes squinted as he gazes at me.

“That was quick,” he notes. “Shut the door and have a seat.”

Swallowing the nerves that take root in my sternum, I do what he says. He surveys me, quietly, for a few protracted moments and I have the almost uncontrollable urge to squirm.

“Is everything all right?” He asks, and I tighten my fingers where they rest on my thighs. He doesn’t know. Calm down, he doesn’t know.

“Yes, sir,” I say, nodding. He taps a finger on the top of his desk, a steady drumming that fills the silence between us once more. I feel more naked right now than I did in the locker room. He pulls a sheet of paper out of a folder sitting on his desk, glances at it, and back up to me.

“You’ve lost fifteen pounds in the last year, and you’re not sleeping.”

I keep my face carefully blank, though my hands are clenched so tightly on my legs that they hurt. “I’ve gained most of that back.”

“Mm,” he hums, finger resuming its tapping. “You and I haven’t had many opportunities to speak one on one since you’ve joined the program, and that’s on me. All I wanted to say was that you can come to me, if anything is wrong. You know that, right?”

“Yes, sir,” I repeat. But I can’t. I can’t talk to him about this. Not even Marcos has brought up that night in anything more than an oblique way. I’m going to pretend it never happened until I can convince myself that it didn’t. Ignorance, as they say, is bliss. And even though I know he means well, I can’t bring myself to pick the scab off of that particular wound.

“Well, I suppose I can’t force you to talk to me,” he says, mouth twisting wryly. “But you have my phone number and I’m available all hours of the day and night. For anything.”

I nod, and dry my sweaty palms on my thighs. “Yes, sir.”

Sighing, he closes his eyes for a moment. Pushing back from his desk he reaches down and grabs his bag, shoving a couple things inside and gesturing for me to stand as well. I wait for him to squeeze between the desks and join me.

“I’ll walk out with you,” he says, and gestures for me to precede him through the door.

He walks a step behind me through the halls, making my neck prickle with discomfort. I’m ashamed of my own body’s reaction; Coach Mackenzie isn’t a threat, chill the fuck out, Max. I hold the exit open for him and he murmurs a thank you as he passes. I’m looking at his face and catch his wince as we step outside. His eyes are squinted nearly shut.

“You good, Coach?” I ask carefully.

“Fine,” he answers immediately, but sighs. “Just a headache. And, I suppose, not looking forward to an empty house.”

He smiles at me, and I smile back. His relationship with Anthony Lawson was a big reason I was so on board with Marcos’ plan to transfer here. The Queer Revolution, Marcos calls it: the professional athletes who have come out in the past couple of years. I wanted to be a part of it, however indirectly. I would be a part of it, after I graduate and join the NHL.

“They’re on the road this week, huh?” I ask, about South Carolina’s NHL team.

“Yes.” He brightens, slightly, as much as Coach Mackenzie ever brightens. “Until tomorrow, that is. You have a roommate?”

“Oh, uhm, yeah, I do.”

“Good. Try to get some sleep tonight, Kuemper, you look dead on your feet.”

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