Page 41 of Between the Pipes

“You’re sure?”

“That was exactly what I wanted,” I tell him, honestly. I’m going to be sore for days, and aren’t I the lucky one? “Still hungry?”

Stepping forward until our chests brush, he snakes his hand between my back and the wall. Face in the crook of my neck, he hugs me to him; we’re half dressed, tussled, and sated.

“Starving.” And then, face pressed into my neck so hard it’s a miracle he can breathe, let alone speak, he adds: “I am so glad I left that hat here.”

???

The last week of camp arrives in a wave of bad weather. Fitting, as it mirrors precisely how I feel inside. Anthony and I have yet to discuss what comes next, as our coaching partnership comes to an end and his season begins. He was cleared from IR weeks ago, and has been participating in off-season training. I can tell he’s ready to get back to work and that he’s been missing his team, though he hasn’t said as much. I remember how it felt: the summer off was nice, but we all preferred the rigor of the regular season.

I’m terrified that he’ll break things off, and equally as terrified that he’ll want something more. Anxiety churns in my stomach, burning like acid. I want there to be a way for us to move forward; be together in secret, if nothing else. Maybe that would be enough for both of us: a romance in private, where the NHL and the world can’t get at it.Maybe nothing has to change, except the frequency we see each other.

“Thinking deep thoughts?” Avery’s voice cuts through my doom spiral, and I blink at him, desperately trying to focus my tired eyes.

“Morning.” I give a grateful nod to the coffee he sets on my desk in front of me.

“So,” he says, dropping into his seat and looking at me with an unreasonable amount of excitement, “what do you think?”

“What do I think about what?”

“The article.”

Narrowing my eyes, I stare at him. He’s practically bursting at the seams, fidgeting in his chair and biting his lip. “What article? Something about SCU hockey?”

“No, even better. Gay NHL player, and get this…,” he pauses, for dramatic effect, “he’s on our team.”

I stare at him, and he stares at me. I clearly am not giving him the reaction he desired because he doubles down. “Agaydude plays for South Carolina, and the internet is fuckinglosingit. Article was released yesterday.”

“Okay.” Something slimy and cold curls in my stomach at the look in Avery’s eyes.

“Guess who it is,” he says, leaning forward in his chair.

“No.”

Undeterred, Avery can hardly get the name out fast enough. “Troy Nichols.” He waits, eyes wide and intent on my face. “Troy Nichols is marrying a fuckingguy. Seriously, I can’t believe it. I’ve been watching him play for years; I have a jersey with his name on the back! And turns out he’s a fairy. I wonder if Lawson knew.”

These words register so slowly in my brain, I might as well be thinking backward. By the time I’ve clocked his use of a homophobic slur, he’s already moved on; apparently, my inclination to keep my sexuality hidden from Avery was a keen one.

“The article was posted in some gay magazine—like, an online one—but they left the comment section on and you should read them, dude. People are tearing Nicholsapart.” He laughs, shaking his head and looking disturbingly pleased bythis. “I mean it’s wild, right? I bet everyone on the team is regretting every time they bent over in front of—.”

“That’s enough.” The words crack across the small room like a whip, coming out every bit as forceful as I had intended. My heart is pounding, and I don’t want to have this conversation anymore; I want to text Anthony. Hell, I want toseehim. I want to fire my assistant coach. “I shouldn’t have to remind you that SCU doesn’t discriminate based on sexuality, nor do they align with people who do. You signed a contract, to this effect, if I remember correctly? Consider this your first and last warning, and keep in mind that I have the power to terminate your position based on grounds a good deal less damning than bigotry.”

The look on Avery’s face might have been funny, in another situation. Color suffuses his cheeks, down to his collar, and his eyes are wide and bright. His mouth is twisted into a semblance of a pout. He looks exactly like a child who’s just gotten in trouble and feels hard done by.

“You know what? I’m done with this shit.” He stands, the chair rolling back and hitting the wall with a bang. “I’m so sick of this fucking job, and you, and all of this. I’m out.”

It’s hard to make a dramatic exit when the exit—in this case the space between our desks—is so tight you have to turn sideways and shuffle through. I hope he feels as ridiculous as he looks. Weary and heartsick, I watch in silence as he leaves the office, slamming the door impressively in his wake. Probably, I should have said more. Taught him a lesson with words, or, more satisfyingly, with fists. Instead, I turn to my desk and put my face into my hands, squeezing my eyes shut.

???

I text Anthony and he doesn’t respond. I call him, twice, and get no response there either. Based on this information, I assume he won’t be at practice today and I will be on my own. Down two coaches in the space of an hour—it must be a record. And, because I apparently enjoy being kicked when I’m down, I locate the article Avery mentioned. It’s a nice piece, tasteful and a little bit sweet, particularly when Troy talks about his fiancé, Sam. I recognize the name as the ‘friend’ Anthony mentioned, and a tiny flash of pain worms its way into my heart.Of course he didn’t tell you about Troy, you’ve done nothing but try and convince him that he means little to you beyond being a good fuck.

As promised, the comment section is brutal. There is support, and a lot of it, from the queer community, but at least twice as much vitriol from hockey fans. Fans whom just days ago would have bent over backward at the chance to meet Troy Nichols.Hockey is a man’s sport,one commentor writes,there’s no place for fags.I notice, during my scroll, that this is one of the tamer remarks.

A headache, loud and persistent, decides now is the time to make itself known. There is a pressure behind my eyes and in my chest, and I just want Anthony to call me back. Closing the webpage and picking up my phone, I begin typing another message to him. A loud bang echoes down the hallway, and I lift my head, listening carefully.Is that yelling?

Standing, I walk into the hallway where the muffled noise becomes more distinct. Voices. A lot of them, and all of them raised. Setting off at a pace faster than I would usually employ in these halls, I half jog toward the locker room. Opening the door to a wall of bodies, I have to push my way inside. There’s yelling, a lot of it, and my own raised voice is heard only by those closest to me. The boys nearest me step back, eyes wide and fearful as they look at me.

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