What happens when hockey is over for me?
Watching Ezra with Todd, it’s clear that when Todd looks at him, he doesn’t see a hockey player. He sees someone he can look up to, who proves he can do anything, time and again, and his sexuality isn’t a factor in that.
He inspires people.
I want to do that too. I want to give kids inspiration, to echo the message that queer players are in the league and kicking ass. I want to be a role model, and I can’t do that if I’m scared.
It’s my bias holding me back, I know that. The deep-seated fear I have of never being good enough. But it’s not just me who faces the impact of my choice to stay private, it’s every closeted kid out there who doesn’t think things can get better.
It’s Todd and the ones like him who shouldn’t have to pick between a handful of people to look up to. His options should be endless.
So I open my mouth and utter something I’ve never officially said out loud in public. “Being a queer player in the sport isn’t always easy, but I think I speak for Ezra and myself when I say we’ve been lucky to have supportive teams. I’m happy that the inclusivity has brought you two together.” I cuff Ezra on the shoulder. “Sometimes I don’t give this guy enough credit.”
Todd’s dad gapes at me. “Wait, so you … You are, ah, queer too? And you guys don’t actually hate each other?”
I’m surprised when Ezra doesn’t jump in with a smartass comment, so I do it for him. “Well, he’s pretty annoying, but I manage to put up with him most of the time.”
We say our goodbyes, and as we shift behind our teammates to wait to meet some others, Ezra leans in, hand on the small of my back and lips at my ear. “Careful, Hayes. You got close to complimenting me again.”
“Damn. I must have been thinking of that other Ezra Palaszczuk.”
“Uh-huh.” He pulls back, knowing gleam in his light eyes. “Don’t think I didn’t hear what you said. You outed yourself. You played the Q card.”
“People know I’m gay.”
“No one outside your circle or people you’ve hooked up with. Did it feel good to say?”
“Actually, yeah.”
“I’m happy for you.” He sounds so sincere, but then he keeps talking. “And also, you’re welcome, because it’s clearly my influence and my magical dick. I’ll let you thank me properly later.”
There’s the Ezra I was expecting. I laugh before I can stop myself and shove him toward the rest of our team. I’m not going to admit to anything that I’ll regret later, but after meeting fans and owning up to something I really shouldn’t be keeping hidden, I’m feeling pretty fucking good.
Until that night when we go head-to-head with Vegas and lose on a total shut-out. Four to nothing.
Ouch.
Fifteen
EZRA
My phone rings in my pocket as we leave the arena for the team bus to go to the hotel. I don’t have to look at it to know it’s my dad calling again. I ignored his call after we lost Dallas because he’s been holding on to all the condescending ways he can tell me he raised me to be a better hockey player than that for the whole summer. He’s probably bursting at the seams.
I step aside and answer, using the excuse I don’t have much time. “Hey, Dad. We’re about to get on the bus, so I can’t talk for long.”
“You allowed too many shots on goal tonight.”
Yes, because the entire reason Vegas scored four times was my fault and hockey is not a team sport or anything.
“I know.” My tone is complacent. I’ve learned over the years that if I agree with him, we get off the phone quicker. Getting into a heated argument never ends well, and telling him to back off makes him start on the whole “You don’t take constructive criticism well” angle.
“What are you going to do about it? You need to ask your coaches to run defensive drills. For some reason, you forgot the number one rule in defense. Always be between the player with the puck and the goalie.”
Coming from an ex-center forward, he really has no right to talk to me about defense. And maybe I’m bitter. Maybe he is trying to help. To bond with me. But why do I always hear from him when we lose? Can’t he praise me for once in his life?
And yet he doesn’t understand how I got the rage to be a better defenseman than forward. It’s a real mystery.
“Yep,” I say.
“Keep your eye on your opponent’s chest. Not the puck. That has always been your downfall since you were in junior league. You’d think the NHL would’ve beaten that bad habit out of you by now.”