Page 100 of Against the Odds
“Will do.”
I watched him walk away, strong and competent in that uniform, and all mine. When the folks on the sidewalk approached with smiles and questions, I told them so. Then I posed for some candid shots and signed a few things, and in the back seat of the Lyft, when it arrived, I was a good boy and messaged Foxes Media Affairs that there would be pictures of me and my boyfriend appearing. I turned down the suggestion of a formal statement, agreed to post something online— andyes, to run it by thembeforeposting— and smiled my way home.
It only took an hour for my phone and messages to start blowing up, but in a good way.
Sully:You go. Show off that hot boyfriend.
Hannah:Congratulations. Let us know if we can help.
Docker:That’s one way to do it. Welcome to the club.
Hobbes:Congrats. The team has your back.
Jos:One of the guys at robot club might want a jersey, since you’re with my brother. He’s an okay guy. Some of them weredicks but that guy said you were fire in net and they just wished they were half as good.
I texted back:Can do. How did they identify your brother so fast?
Jos:They said I wonder who the cop is and I told them.
That made me smile wider than any of the other messages.
I ignored who I didn’t hear from and stayed away from the comments online, because I wasn’t a masochist. But I did post a Foxes-approved photo of Zeke and me on my Instagram and tagged it “Living the good out life with my BF.” The Foxes put up a “Congratulations and we support you” post on theirs.
Grandpa came over and had dinner with Jos and me, and we watched a movie before he headed home and Jos went up to bed. I stretched out on the couch, giving in to the temptation to scroll. Mostly I was looking at who won and who lost that evening, and game highlights, but eventually I got sucked into the black hole. Comments on my post were seventy percent support, twenty percent passive-aggressive “Who the fuck cares? Just play hockey,” and ten percent trolls. I could live with those ratios, and the trolls were pathetic. I resisted the temptation to reply, “jerseys are synthetics so sure, burn mine and breathe toxic fumes deep in your lungs as it melts” and shut things down before I got that stupid.
Even more than “never read the comments,” the rule was “never respond to the comments.” I knew that. Not like I didn’t experience similar trolling every time I had a bad game.
I hadn’t looked at my emails. I wasn’t going to for maybe three days. Let the stuff just pile up. Zeke was off tomorrow, and once he’d slept in and I’d done practice, we’d have hours together. We’d let the world go to hell and fuck each other’s brains out. Or just hang out on the couch. Or maybe that axe throwing. That might be fun.
I slumped down and pulled the throw blanket over me, too lazy to climb the stairs although I would regret it later.
The brush of a cool hand across my hair woke me. I didn’t jump. I knew that touch, trusted it. “Hey.”
Zeke murmured, “Hey, yourself. Come to bed.”
“Yeah.” I stood, creaking a little. “How was work?”
“Meh. Been worse.” But his tone wasn’t happy.
I wrapped my arms around him. “Let’s go to bed. You can warm those chilly hands on me.”
“Greater love hath no man.” Zeke smiled. “Temperature dropped out there.”
“I’ll even let you warm your cold feet on me,” I offered rashly. “Call me your resident hot-water bottle.”
“I’ll call you hot, all right, babe. After I sleep.”
Satisfaction filled me, affection like a rising tide, the certainty that here was the man I wanted, loved. Through the scary and the nerve-wracking and the fucking mundane, this was the person I needed at my side. I bent and kissed him hard. “I love you so fucking much.”
“What brought that on?”
“You. Me. Life.” Grabbing his chilled fingers in mine, I tugged him toward the stairs. “Let’s head on up, skip the Mr. Yuck step, fall into bed, and do it all again tomorrow. You and me.”
Zeke paused for a second, resisting the pull, and smiled at me as I turned back, his eyes shining. “Sounds like a plan,” he said.
EPILOGUE
ZEKE
