Season's Change Read online

  “I’m asking about you, though.”

  “We get along.”

  “No problems with...”

  “That’s not going to be a problem.” Olly cut him off. He couldn’t talk about that here. Or anywhere. But especially here.

  “Järvinen.” There was another pause, like Coach O didn’t know what to say. Olly got it. There was no roadmap. “If you think you’re the only gay player in the NAHA, you’re delusional.”

  Olly choked on spit. There it fucking was. “I know I’m not.”

  Coach O snorted. “I guess you would.”

  “Not like that. There isn’t a group text.” Had his coach just chirped him for wheeling on dudes at work?

  “I’m not doing a great job in this conversation,” Coach O told him. “This isn’t a situation I’ve come across before.”

  “Me neither.” Down on the ice, an intern rearranged the cones while the guys who’d been doing drills took a water break. Luke squirted Benji in the face.

  “What I’m trying to say is...what they were trying to do to you in Minnesota? It wasn’t right. You know this team needed somebody with a defensive mindset in the center. But when I heard the rest of it? My brother is gay. They shouldn’t have been talking waivers to you, for doing the same damned thing all those boys do every weekend.”

  Olly shook his head, back to staring at his knees. There was a loose thread on his left pant leg. He tried not to jiggle his foot.

  “I get it if you don’t want to talk about it.”

  Good. Olly did not want to talk about it. Even though nobody was screaming at him, or trying to hit him, or throwing him out of the place where he lived into the street in Minneapolis at 2 am in February. Even though Coach O was trying to be a good guy.

  “But clearly something went down. I know your agent and your lawyers and the league got that side of it dealt with, and so help me God if I see any ‘unnamed sources’ talking shit, I’ll have Sokolov knock their teeth in. But you need to handle your part of it. Because you’re not, right now.”

  “Have you thought about seeing a, like, therapist?”

  “I will.”

  Coach O clapped him on the shoulder. Olly tried not to flinch. “I told Dewitt to keep an eye on you. Get you living with someone who wasn’t going to be an asshole, who could be a little bit of a support system. We have a place for you here. I know what you’re capable of, and I knew there was a chance you were going to need some time to get settled in. So I don’t want you to be worried about the roster cuts. But we need to see that you’re doing the work.”

  “I’m trying as hard as I can.”

  “Then maybe it’s not about trying hard. Maybe it’s about trying something different.”

  “I don’t know what else to do,” Olly said, which was the truth: he only knew one way to be a hockey player.

  “Oh, buddy.” Coach O gave his shoulder a shake. “Go talk to your trainer. See the sports shrink. And damn it, Järvinen, relax. Hockey is fun. Remember playing pond hockey on whatever frozen body of water your pack of neighborhood idiots could find.

  “And if you can’t, well.”

  There it was. The stick behind the carrot. Olly pushed down hard on his knee; it had started bouncing when Coach O told him to relax.

  “Benji does yoga,” Olly blurted out, because it was start talking or throw up. “I could try that.”

  “Yoga. Okay. That’s a start.”

  “How many people know?” Olly asked his knees, when it seemed like Coach O was about to stand back up.

  “Here? The GM, our chief counsel, the head of the PR department, and me, and I don’t see that changing. I couldn’t say in the NAHA central offices. But they don’t want this on SportsNet any more than you do.”

  “I wouldn’t have actually done it,” Olly said, which he’d never told anyone before. “I would have retired, not put the league through the lawsuit.” When he’d gotten off the phone with his agent from the back of a Lyft, that night in Minneapolis, a lawyer had called him ten minutes later. He’d been in her office first thing in the morning. She’d looked him in the eye and told him she was going to crush the Wolves like cockroaches.

  She had. He still didn’t know how she’d kept Crowder from running his mouth, but her threat to sue the Wolves and the entire North American Hockey Association, when the GM told Olly that he was looking at waivers, had been crystal-clear. She’d been assisted by Coach Barnard’s well-documented practice of screaming that every underperforming player, Olly very much included, was a “pathetic little queer.” Not a good look for a league trying to show how modern and inclusive it was.

  “But that shouldn’t be a choice any athlete has to make,” Coach O told him. “Järvinen. I don’t want you to take the wrong thing away from this conversation: we need to see changes from you. You know that. I know that. But I want you to know that this organization is going to have your back with the media, and with anybody who tries to push you around because of something they maybe heard a rumor about.”

  Olly nodded. He pressed back down on his knee. Coach O handed him his tennis ball, and Olly squeezed it as hard as he could. Down on the ice, men were wheeling and scattering across the surface of the rink, shouts drifting up through the refrigerated air.

  Chapter Five

  Benji would never tell anyone this, but one of the trippiest moments of his career had been getting a stop on the Philadelphia Pride’s captain. He’d grown up a Pride fan: the first game he’d ever gone to had been the Winter Classic, Philly versus Pittsburgh, with the best of his mom’s exes. Benji had told Earl that he was going to play in the NAHA, and he was pretty sure Earl had paid his fees with the Junior Howlers for a few years—he’d been a long-haul trucker, so he’d had plenty of money. He’d definitely bought Benji his first set of secondhand gear.

  Hosting the Pride had been their last preseason game, and the Eagles won it convincingly. Olly even summoned up an assist from somewhere, a quick stop and cut around two Philly D-men before he’d lasered a pass over to Lukesy. That had made Benji almost as happy as the win, to see his roommate look like a real boy in the post-goal dogpile, with a big smile and a flush along the tops of his cheeks.

  They went out to a rooftop bar in Clarendon after the game, even Olly. Their first game of the regular season wasn’t until Tuesday, so they had a little time to unwind.

  Lukesy arrived from his bar run, two beers in hand. He hit Benji with a friendly hip-check and offered Olly a fist bump. “Thanks for the assist, dude.”

  Olly managed a smile. “Anytime.”

  “To many more.” Benji raised his beer and clattered it off Lukesy’s and Olly’s bottles. Olly had been sipping on the same one all night: it had to be down to dreams of beer and backwash, but he’d declined when Lukesy asked if he wanted another. Right, he’d said that he was laying off the alcohol. He had a beer occasionally, some snobby craft something that tasted like ass, but always stopped at one.

  Lukesy ambled off a few minutes later. Benji leaned on the railing, looking out over the city: darkness was falling and lights were going on, and he felt happy, buzzed. Jesus Christ, he was about to open his first NAHA season.

  He turned to Olly, who was dangling his beer bottle out into the air. Olly stuck close whenever they were at team things. Benji didn’t mind. He was like a nervous little puppy, one of the shivery ones on the commercials with the sad music. Impulsively, Benji reached out and yanked Olly into his side. He tensed, and then relaxed.

  “I was actually gonna ask you something,” Olly said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I talked to Coach, and he says I need to try some different stuff with training. Get out of my head.”

  Benji squeezed, because he didn’t want to verbally agree with that. But he totally agreed.

  “I was thinking...yoga. I know you do that.”

  “Yeah
, bro. Yoga’s great.”

  Olly looked up at him and wrinkled his nose. He had a few freckles scattered along the tops of his cheekbones. Dark red hair and blue eyes to go with them. “You are the least likely person to do yoga. In the history of the world.”

  “Come on, bud. At least I don’t do those ballet barre classes, with the pliés and shit.” He would, though, if they made him better at hockey. As he’d been told many times over the course of his life, by many, many people, Benji had zero shame.

  “Do you just...start doing it?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve been practicing for a few years. When I started, I went to classes, so the teachers could fix my form and shit.”

  “Oh.” Olly was tensing up again. It was like Benji had a link to how stressed out he was, right through the underside of his arm. Olly didn’t try to pull away, though.

  “I got this, bro. I’ll find us a class.”

  “Us?”

  “Buddy. I’m not dropping you into the shark-infested yogic waters on your own.”

  “Shark...infested.”

  “Some of those yoga people are way intense. Like, Dewitt-on-the-way-to-the-net intense.”

  “Great.” He deflated.

  “But, like, you have to bring the joy and the peacefulness to your own practice.” There was probably something profound in there, but it was slipping away from him. He squeezed Olly’s shoulder tighter instead. “I told ya, buddy. I got you.”

  A while later, chilling on the rooftop had transitioned to partying in the bar downstairs. Olly left with the first wave of married guys, and Benji kept forgetting that he didn’t have to keep an eye on him. Jesus, not that he needed to keep an eye on Olly, anyway. Benji was the rookie and Olly was a grown-ass man. He was three whole years older.

  But still. Sad shivery puppy eyes.

  “Where’s your wife?” Benoit Poirier, a rookie goaltender who had arrived via trade from Montreal, yelled over the music.

  “What?”

  He leaned in. “Long hair. Pretty blue eyes. Stays within five feet of you at all times.”

  “I dunno, your mom’s the only one who’s been giving me a look recently.”

  Poiro whacked him. They were about the same height, but Poiro was a lot leaner out of his goalie get-up. “Women in DC make me sad,” he said, gesturing at the rest of the bar. “It’s a wasteland.”

  “It’s a Sunday.”

  “Still.”

  Benji shrugged. He’d been focused on getting himself and Olly settled, and playing hockey, and also dealing with Krista, so picking up hadn’t registered yet. The girls in the bar looked fine as hell to him, but then he was from central Pennsylvania, not sexy-ass Montreal.

  “Seriously, Bowie. I am depressed.”

  “What about...” Benji did a scan. “Her. The blonde over by the end of the bar.”

  Poiro sniffed. Actually sniffed, like some disdainful French wine critic. “Maybe for you.”

  “Well, then. Have a nice night by yourself.” Benji grinned, and sailed toward the bar.

  The blonde turned out to be super fun. She was in town for a conference, so she took him back to her hotel room. And whatever the fuck Poiro thought, she had a sick body, she made him laugh, and she gave incredible head. So Benji was putting that in the win column.

  * * *

  “How was your night?” Poiro asked him in the locker room the next morning. Olly was on his other side, doing his complicated little skate-lacing ritual. Of course Olly had a skate-lacing ritual, to go with his putting-on-his-pads ritual, to go with his taping-his-stick ritual, to go with... Benji didn’t want to know. He’d find out when he fucked something up at the apartment and doomed them to missing the playoffs.

  “Best blow job of the year,” Benji answered cheerfully. He hadn’t even had to stay late: she had an early meeting, so they’d waved good-night after exchanging orgasms. It was his perfect relationship. “Man, if your standards exclude girls who are that good in bed, I’m glad mine are different.”

  Poiro made an agonized noise. “Now you depress me.”

  “It’s mutual, buddy.” He knocked into Poiro’s shoulder. “And keep your shit out of my stall.” Fucking goalies, leaving their crap everywhere. Olly’s stall was immaculate, even if he couldn’t put away a dish to save his life.

  Poiro responded with something French that sounded rude, but then all French sounded like baguettes and insults to Benji: it wasn’t like he’d ever been exposed to French literature or shit. He only ever heard pissed-off Canadians cussing up a storm.

  Olly, the fucking traitor, choked on a laugh.

  “You too?” he asked in disbelief. “Roomie. Back me up here.”

  Olly said something in French to Poiro, whose eyes lit up immediately. He was the only Frenchie bastard on the team; Lukesy was from Ottawa but only spoke English (well, and Chinese), which was a profound disappointment to Benoit fucking Poirier, the prince of French-Canadian culture.

  Their little cultural exchange was interrupted by the goalie coach yelling for Poiro to get his putain de cul on the ice. Benji did know what that one meant.

  “You’re such a traitor,” he told Olly, once Poiro had cleared out.

  Olly grinned. “I thought taking French would be more useful for my career than Spanish.”

  “You should have learned Russian,” Sokolov said from Olly’s other side. “Real language.”

  “Nyet, buddy,” Benji told him. “We’re in America.”

  “Lucky you’re a baby D-man. If on forward line I’d squash you like a bug.”

  “Or a shrimp,” Olly piped up. Apparently he was feeling good today. If all Benji was going to get out of it was chirps and betrayal, he could go right back to being an abused puppy.

  “Fuck you both,” Benji said. “Yelich! My man. Come save me from these assholes.”

  Yelich, the last of the rookies to make it through the final roster cuts, tromped over. “I’m not taking on Soko for ya, bud. But I can handle Jarvs.” He had such a goddamned Canadian accent.

  From Olly: “I’m on your line. You can’t fight me.”

  “Fuckin’ me against the world,” Benji told the locker room at large. He grabbed Olly around the neck and went in for a noogie. Olly spluttered and attacked back. If Benji hadn’t already been wearing pads, Olly would have gotten him a good one in the kidney. “Ow!”

  “Don’t try this with me, I have three older brothers.”

  “Uh-oh, Mom and Dad are fighting,” Yelich told Sokolov, who rolled his eyes.

  “Young love. Is the hardest.”

  Olly went rigid, quickly enough that Benji almost dropped him. “You okay down there, bro?”

  “Fine,” Olly bit out, and just like that, he was so tense he was vibrating.

  Yoga. Yeah. Benji should get on that.

  Chapter Six

  Morning skate had gone right to hell, after Benji’s little attack-hug and Sokolov’s chirp. Olly had been feeling good, coming off the preseason against Philly. Seeing his name on the final roster. But this morning had been terrible. He could feel himself thinking too much about his passing and his angles, and fucking them all up.

  He threw up in a trash can in the tunnel. A trainer brought him water and asked if he’d gotten a flu shot yet. Olly didn’t snap at her.

  He hid in the back of the video room, pretending not to see Benji waving to a spot next to him, their little moment from the morning forgotten. Olly wished he could forget it that easily. He knew, he fucking knew, that Yelich and Sokolov hadn’t meant shit. That it wouldn’t even occur to them to mean it. And if it had, they wouldn’t have been giving him a well-meaning, brotherly chirp about young love.

  See exhibit A, Eamon Crowder of the Minnesota Wolves. Olly had never had any interest in letting his sexuality intersect with the NAHA. Crowder’s reaction had only confirmed that h
e was making the right decision.

  Olly ducked into the hood of his sweatshirt, and forced himself to focus on nothing but the video and the coaching staff until his heartbeat slowed back down.

  * * *

  When they got home, Benji announced that he was making lunch before Olly could escape. Reluctantly, he dropped onto one of the bar stools. The apartment was still mostly empty: nothing on the walls and not a single piece of extra furniture. Benji had the kitchen set up, though, as far as Olly could tell. He was currently assembling two quinoa and salmon bowls from the groceries Olly had ordered a couple of days ago, consulting his phone from time to time. Olly shouldn’t think the word cute about a teammate, but yeah, okay, Benji was cute in the kitchen. He knew how to make three types of protein—salmon, steak, and chicken—and rotated them with the assistance of a whiteboard he’d stuck to the fridge. Not that Olly could judge; he could make a sandwich, put shit in the microwave, and operate a phone.

  “Let me know if the greens are too much,” Benji said, like he was worried Olly wouldn’t appreciate his homemade lunch.

  “I like spinach.”

  “Dressing okay?” He’d made it himself, using God only knew what. Olly had not known that people made salad dressing from scratch, until he’d seen Benji measuring things into a bottle, with his billet mom, Alise, on speakerphone.

  “Stop fishing for compliments, dude. It’s good.”

  Benji flashed him a big smile, one of the ones that made his eyes go all crinkly. “Glad you like it. I never got food like this growing up.”

  “I don’t think my mom has ever heard the word quinoa.” Olly had been raised on meat and Midwestern starches.

  “Mine either.” Benji looked down at his wild-caught Alaskan salmon. “It was kind of a miracle if there was a fruit or veggie in our house. I don’t know how I didn’t get scurvy.”

  “Didn’t stunt your growth any.”

  “You know I didn’t start growing until I was, like, fifteen, right? And then I had to practically relearn how to skate because my center of gravity was all fucked.”