Page 18 of Gravity
Then, blankness, as if he’s wiped every emotion inside of him away. He rises, backing up so fast that he stumbles and has to catch himself on the coffee table. Then he’s moving across the room, away from me. Over to the windows, where he slides one hand through his hair and fists the other in front of his mouth. I see his reflection blink quickly before his eyes close.
“Bryce…”
“I misread,” he says. His voice is as flat as the desert. Numb as Novocain. “I misread everything.Je suis désolé, c’est ma faute.” He rests his forehead against the window.
“Are you…”
Bryce flinches.
Never, not once in the history of anything, has Bryce Michel been suggested as anything but a regular, red-blooded, heterosexual hockey player. This isn’t something that has been theorized or bandied around. It hasn’t ever been joked about, has never greased the wheels of the rumor mill. I know everything there is to know about my hero. I know his favorite color and his favorite pre-game meal and how he likes to tie his skate laces for good luck, butthis.
There’s never been a hint.
My eyes are blurring, fluorescence and darkness trading places in front of me, Bryce in triplicate as I struggle to catch my breath.
“Désolé, Hunter.Je suis navré.” Defeat stains Bryce's voice. He won’t look my way. “I made a horrible mistake.”
My mind is empty and useless. I have no idea what to say to him. I’ve never kissed a man before. Hell, I’ve barely kissed women.And for all twenty-two years of my life, I thought Bryce Michel was as straight as his passes.
“I think you should go.” He’s braced against the window, both hands flat against the glass, like he can push the pane out and leap. I check. No, he can’t. But his fingertips are white as rink ice, fingernails turning burgundy.
“Bryce—”
“S'il te plaît, Hunter.S'il te plaît.”
I leave.
* * *
I spendthe next two hours in my hotel lobby staring into the bottom of a glass of bourbon, trying to reorient the world. Nothing adds up. Not Bryce Michel liking men, not this weekend and what’s exploded between us, and especially not—especially not—Bryce kissingme.
Out of all the men Bryce could have, out of an entireplanetof men… me?
Our weekend together rewinds and replays. Either I am the world’s most oblivious human—possible, distinctly possible—or Bryce has concealed this so completely inside of him that not even an archeologist could have unearthed it.
No one has ever read this off of Bryce.
Isn’t that the point? There are no out NHL players. I’m not naive enough to believe there are no gay players in the league. Surely there are. But no one has stepped out of the closet. No one is open about it.
And there are definite reasons why.
Bryce Michel liking men—Bryce Michel not being straight—would blow up the hockey world.
The best player on ice today likes men, apparently. That fact could be a slap shot into the haters’ faces, a “fuck you” to everyone who thinks gay men can't play the game.Or the truth could be the end of Bryce’s career and his legacy and turn the next Great One into a broken has-been.
ESPN blares from the TV at the corner of the bar. Basketball dominates, but on a late-night replay of SportsCenter, two commentators spend six minutes dissecting the NHL All-Star Weekend. There is Bryce, and there is me, and there we are. Passing, scoring, skating. Arms around each other. Beaming.
Oh God,Bryce.
Has Bryce Michel found a player who can keep up with him?someone asks.Imagine if Michel and Lacey were on the same team, another guffaws.Well, the league can thank its lucky stars that they are not,the first says again.
At the end of the highlights, these talking heads ask how high Bryce Michel can climb, and if he can truly begreat. They talk about Bryce like they know anything about him, and I almost yell at the TV and hurl a handful of peanuts at the screen. They don’t know him at all, and they have no idea who he is beneath his pads and behind his stick, or how amazing he is already.
But does anyonereallyknow him? His teammates are close to him, but apparently not close enough.
WhoisBryce Michel, deep down on the inside?
Was I given a glimpse?
