I want to accept what he’s saying so badly that I hold onto the tiny wisp of hope he’s giving me and kiss him again.
“Oh, thank God.” The voice comes from the entry to the pressroom, and as Ollie steps back, the coach appears in my line of vision. “I was sure it was gonna be a drug or prostitute problem. Maybe a DUI.”
Ollie huffs a tiny laugh. “No, sir, just your run-of-the-mill homosexuality.”
The coach waves him off. “The league’s been preparing for this day, because you’re certainly not the first.”
“Just the first foolish enough to get caught?” Ollie’s light tone doesn’t match the sad look on his face.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” his coach reassures him.
Ollie takes a deep breath and holds my hand. I don’t stop him.
Inside the pressroom, there’s no media yet, but all the key players are here. The GM, the coach, Damon, and Ava.
She’s on the phone in the back of the room, pacing behind the chairs set up for people in the press.
The GM leans against the long table at the front where the players and coaches sit during conferences. “We thought we’d sit down first and talk about what you want to happen here and how we go about it.”
Ollie’s hand tightens on mine. “I really don’t know. I’m a little out of my element.”
“Ideally, we would’ve told the rest of the players first,” the coach says. “But they’re scattered all over the country now.”
“Ideally, I could’ve come out after we won the Cup, but that didn’t happen either,” Ollie says.
“Next year,” the coach says with resolve.
“None of this is ideal,” Damon says. “But what do you want to get out of it? Are you telling them your whole life story about knowing you were gay when you were five years old and painting a picture of a lifetime of secrecy, or are we going the whole ‘it’s not a big deal’ route? Are you announcing to the world you’re gay or introducing them to your partner?” He gestures to me.
“I’m not part of this,” I say before Ollie can respond. “I can’t be. This has to be Ollie’s thing.”
Damon nods in understanding, but he seems to be the only one. Makes me feel like a dick, but there’s no time to explain myself. This is about Ollie.
Ava approaches, now off the phone, her lips pursed together. “Can I ask where you got your sources from about Ollie being outed?”
“My coworker at Sporting Health,” I say.
“Did he mention Ollie’s name?” Ava asks, her tone cautious.
I try to recall. “I answered the phone, and his first words were ‘Ollie’s gay, isn’t he?’”
Ava glances down at her phone and then back at me. “Are you sure about that?”
“What’s going on?” Damon asks.
“I’ve been calling around some other friends in PR. Rumor mill is circling around New Jersey and what happened during the game last night between Sorensen and Healy.”
“So, there’s a chance this isn’t happening?” Ollie asks, his face alight with hope.
I shake my head. “I don’t get it … he said the article is ready to go.”
“But not Ollie’s name specifically?” Ava asks.
“I …” I feel all eyes on me. “I … I don’t know. I saw the article about us, and then got the call asking if Ollie—” I remember now. “Kevin never said Ollie. He said he. He’s gay. Who else could he have been talking about?”
“Well,” Ava says, “as of this morning, Kip Healy is on suspension, and Caleb Sorensen isn’t. There’s talk of a press conference happening in New Jersey, and the unconfirmed rumor is they got into a fight over Sorensen’s sexual orientation. Is it possible your coworker got a scoop on that story?”
My mouth opens and closes like a fish. Fuck, not only did we screw up in public, but now I’ve made him come out to his complete management team?
“Call your editor,” Damon demands. “Now.”
It takes a few seconds for me to make a move, but when I finally do, my hands shake. My fingers tremble as I pull up my contacts and hit dial.
“It’s about time you called me back,” Harry growls into the phone.
Like Damon asked, I’ve been avoiding my phone calls.
“Did Kevin tell you I’m not confirming anything?” I ask.
“Why the hell not? It’s your job to report, so be a damn reporter.”
“It’s not my job to out athletes, and I won’t help you do it.”
Four pairs of eyes burn into me, but I don’t know how to ask who he’s talking about without giving Ollie away.
“I thought we were better than that,” I say.
“If we don’t report on this, someone else will, and they’ll get the online hits and revenue.”
Harry’s always been interested in numbers and hits and generating money for the magazine, but he’s never, not once, asked me to write an article or publish an article that could be considered tabloid-y.