I kiss the top of his head. “Tomorrow.”
Somehow, somewhere along the line, I’ve started falling for Lennon. Hard. The thought of him walking away from me to save my career makes me want to say “fuck hockey.” I realize that’s all Ash ever wanted from me, but I couldn’t bring myself to give it to him. Here I am offering it to Lennon on a silver platter, and he’s telling me not to.
And I think that’s the reason I want to do it. Because he’s right. I need to do this for my own reasons.
I want a chance at everything with Lennon even though it still feels out of reach.
At least this next step will bring us that tiny bit closer.
With a small, chaste kiss from him and a loud complaint from me about it being too short, we head to the car, and I try to put Lennon and me at the back of my mind and focus.
Easier said than done. My thoughts drift to what I have to do, what Soren’s going through, and I speculate what Kip Healy did to warrant getting punched. I begin to worry about the fallout from all this. Not just from the press but teammates, fans, ticket holders, and everyone else and their dog.
It’s been a constant fear for years, and now I’m going to face it head-on. That’s what you’re supposed to do with your fears, right? I don’t know why. If someone is deathly afraid of the zombie apocalypse, I’m not gonna dress up in bloody makeup and try to scare the shit out of them to prove a point. That’s a good way to get stabbed in the fucking head.
Are you really comparing coming out of the closet to being stabbed in the head?
I tell my conscience to fuck off even if it has a point. If I make this a dramatic thing, the rest of the world will too. This isn’t a big deal, and when everyone can accept that, then it takes away the fear.
“Do you know what you want to say on camera?” Damon asks. “I’ve been making notes in my phone all day if you want me to draft a proper speech or something, but it’s up to you. As long as you don’t say anything stupid.”
“No pressure.”
Someone’s waiting for us outside the staff entrance when we pull up to the rink. We’re ushered inside quickly to try to avoid being seen by any possible lurkers from the media.
The press conference has already started when we sneak in the back way. Only a few reporters turn our way, and as soon as they see me, they furiously start typing on their phones, tablets, or laptops, and some are even old school with notepads and pens. Lennon gasps when he spots one of the reporters.
“Who’s that?” I whisper.
“Kevin. I guess my editor sent him when I refused to dig any deeper into the story.”
Kevin turns back to the front when the GM of the New Jersey Bobcats starts talking. That’s when I follow his gaze and see that Soren looks like he’s about to shit a brick.
“As of this moment, Kip Healy is on suspension for the rest of the season, and his contract is pending against a behavioral review. One thing this league takes pride in is our You Can Play motto. All players should be able to go out on that ice with trust in their teammates. That trust is broken when certain players believe they have a right to discriminate against others.”
Their coach goes on to drone about inclusivity, and I’m sure their words reflect whatever Ava and the Dragons’ management team scrounged together for almost the exact same press conference they were planning.
The more they talk, the more Soren pales and looks visibly ill. They’re kinda dragging it out, but maybe that’s the point. By the time it’s Soren’s time to talk, the press won’t be shocked at what’s coming. In fact, I’d be surprised if it wasn’t already all over Twitter even though nothing’s been confirmed yet.
I find myself staring at Soren objectively. His honey-colored eyes shine, only emphasized by his scruff on his cheeks and dark hair. He’s a veteran player—only has a few years left in his career, max. It makes me wonder why or how this thirty-ish-year-old decided to come out. Or maybe it was an accident like how Tommy found out about me, only Kip Healy didn’t react as well as Tommy did.
His eyes catch mine, and confusion crosses his face before he breaks his gaze.
When it’s his turn to talk, he opens his mouth, but only a rasp comes out. He clears his throat and tries again.
“There’s one thing I’ve been terrified of my entire life, and it’s not sitting up here and telling the world I’m gay. My greatest fear is having a life full of regrets. This industry isn’t easy for someone who identifies as anything other than straight. The reason I’ve kept quiet about my orientation for so long is not because I haven’t been ready but because I’ve feared the sport wasn’t ready. But I owe it to myself and anyone else out there struggling with their identity to be honest.”