Several days later, I get an email from my agent.
A year ago, I loved saying that. My agent. Sounds pretty important, no?
Not so much.
When I was a kid I collected hockey cards. They came in packs of ten with a lousy piece of gum that tasted awful. In every pack there’d be one good player—hopefully not a duplicate of a card I already had—and nine guys you’d never heard of. Those nine went in the bottom of my shoebox, where they waited. Every once in a blue moon one of those guys would rise in the ranks, but usually they didn’t.
Fast forward ten years. To my agent, I’m one of those cards at the bottom of the shoebox. In fact, it’s unlikely the emails I get from him are even written by him.
This one asks me for the date I’m moving to Detroit. “The club will put you up in a hotel near the rink until you’ve found housing. Attached you will find the real estate agent’s contact information. Please set up an appointment with the realtor once you’ve arrived in Detroit.”
The end of summer crawls closer every day. I’m not going to be able to put off these plans any longer.
Between sessions at the rink on Thursday, I look for Pat in his cramped little office. Since I’d promised my mother I’d try to come home, I need to find out if that’s possible.
“Got a second?” I ask from the doorway.
Pat beckons to me, then turns away from his computer screen. “What’s up, Coach?”
Still tickles when he calls me that. Campers get what’s up, kid?
“I’m trying to plan my life, which is always a fun time. So I need to know how you’re doing with your personnel shortage at the end of the month.”
He gives me a thoughtful stare. “Sit down, Canning.”
I drop into a chair feeling like a kid who’s been called to the principal’s office. And I’m not sure why. But there’s something serious in his expression, and I think I’m about to find out what it is.
“I haven’t heard you mention Detroit all summer,” he says, folding his hands into a tent. “Why is that?”
“Um. Been busy.” And you don’t want to know with what.
Pat smiles at me, cocking his head. “Not buying that. Sorry. A man who’s getting everything he wants in life can’t stay silent about it. Not even you.”
Damn it. Coach is going all head-shrink on me. “It’s… I dunno. Not quite sure how it’s going to work out, that’s all. Maybe in a year I won’t be able to shut up about it.”
His nod is slow. Thoughtful. I feel like an amoeba under a microscope. “You know I think you’re a hell of a goalie. You put your heart into it, and someone is going to notice. Even if it takes time.”
It’s kind of hard to swallow all of a sudden. “Thanks,” I manage.
“But I find myself wondering if you’re feeling it. Not everybody wants to get on that treadmill when he could be, say, coaching instead.”
Now it’s my turn to stare across the desk. “Who would hire me as a coach?”
Pat makes a show of looking up at the ceiling before meeting my eyes again. “Lots of people, Canning. You’ve been coaching your ass off here every summer since you started college. I’d be happy to tell anyone who’ll listen. And you had great stats in college. Best stats on your team. Rainier might even want you.”
It’s sort of dizzying to allow myself to think about this. Coaching? As a full-time gig? That sounds like a blast. Coaching at the college level would pay me a living wage, too. I’d just never imagined I could have a job like that.
But Pat knows people. A lot of them. All over the country. Where would I want to be?
The idea pops out of my mouth before I can think better of it. “Do you think someone in Toronto might need a defensive coach?”
Pat’s bushy eyebrows lift, but only for a split second. “Dunno, Canning. They don’t play a lot of hockey in Canada.” Then he bursts out laughing. “Lemme see what I can learn.”
I leave his office feeling lighter, even though nothing has really changed, except there’s a new idea in my head.
But it’s a hell of an idea.
It’s the Friday of parents’ weekend, so coaches have tonight off instead of Saturday because we’re required to be at a special dinner with the parents tomorrow.
When Wes and I were campers, neither one of us ever had visitors on parents’ weekend. My clan couldn’t exactly buy airfare for seven people and drop everything to watch me play a scrimmage in upstate New York. And Wes’s parents… They just didn’t bother. His father liked the fact that his son sometimes won state championship games, but if there wasn’t any way to brag about an event, he didn’t see the point of showing up. And Wes’s mom? I’ve never even met the woman. Sometimes I wonder if she even exists.
As coaches, parents’ weekend means we have to show up and look attentive. Pat’s camp is funded by tuition checks from parents, and when those parents stop by, they want to be sure their kids are getting 24/7 attention.
The kids don’t really want 24/7 attention, of course. But that’s not our problem.
Wes and I are just back from the rink and trying to sort out our options.
“So tell me about this outdoor concert,” he says. “Is that what we’re doing tonight?” Wes is scrolling through his messages.
“I think the music could be okay.”
He looks up. “Says the man with boy bands on his phone.”
“That was a joke,” I sputter. “We’ve been over this.”
Wes cackles. “Tell you what—let’s make a deal. It’s been a while since I had a steak dinner. You find me a steak, and I’ll subject myself to this concert.”
“Here, man.” I pretend to unbutton my fly.
He throws a pillow at me. “Feed me, Canning. Bad local music is easier to take after a porterhouse.”
I pull out my phone. “We can use your car, right?”
“Sure.”
Most of the restaurants in Lake Placid are burger joints, but the Squaw Lodge Boathouse on West Lake looks like the real deal. And since the outdoor concert is in the same direction, I make a reservation and hope for the best.
Then I go over to the closet we share and fish out Wes’s one polo shirt.
Dropping it on Wes’s bed, I find a button-down shirt for myself, and a clean pair of khaki shorts.
“You want me dressed up?” Wes asks, hoisting the shirt over his head. “Are we going on a date, Canning?”
“Seems so. The steak place looks nicer than swim trunks and flip flops.”
“So it’s my fault then.” His words are grumpy, but he’s admiring my chest while I button up the shirt. “You clean up nice, honey.”
I flip him off.
Wes heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth, and I watch him go. I even catch myself admiring his ass. Lately I find myself sneaking looks at him, trying to raise some kind of holy shit reaction to the idea that I’m involved with a guy.
When I was young I used to try to scare myself walking through the woods alone. I’d peer into the shadows and imagine something terrifying waited there, just to give myself a little thrill. But it never worked all that well, and neither do my attempts to frighten myself over recent events.
Because it’s Wes. He’s not scary. And the things we do in bed are just plain hot.
As it happens, the lodge is a nice restaurant. But we’re not underdressed, because the place offers dockage. In other words, some of the dinner guests have arrived on small watercraft, looking wind-tousled and sunburned.
We don’t get a table outside, because I only made the reservation an hour ago. But the interior is dark and sleek, with leather upholstery and candles flickering on the tables. We’re shown to a comfortable booth in back, and I slide onto the seat feeling like this was a damn good idea. I smell garlic bread, and there’s a microbrew beer list a yard long.
“We’re going to eat like Vikings,” Wes says, giving the hostess his cockiest grin. “Which steak is the best one?”
The girl is all too happy to stay and chat. “The creole is popular,” she says with a toss of her hair. “I like the New York strip, though.”
“Do you now. Thanks for the tip.”
She walks away, shaking her hips, and I bite back a grin. “You were this close to making a bad strip joke, weren’t you? Be honest.”
Wes reaches across the table to cover my hand with his. He makes a dead-serious face, the kind he only makes when he’s pulling my chain. “I was this close to making a good strip joke. Duh.”
That’s when the guy sneaks up on us. “Good evening! I’m Mike, and I’ll be your server this evening…”
Calmly, Wes removes his hand from mine and looks up at the waiter.
The man glances from Wes to my hand and back again. “Welcome to the Squaw Lodge Boathouse. Have you dined with us before?” His voice has taken on a slightly different tone. Softer, with a riff of affectation in it.
I’m distracted, but Wes looks him straight in the eye and says, “Actually, it’s our first time.”
“Oh! Well, you’re in for a treat…”
He and the waiter discuss the menu, but I tune out. This is the first time someone has looked at me and decided I was a gay man out on a date, and I’m trying to figure out how I feel about that. Don’t get me wrong—I’d be seen anywhere with Wes. Any day of the week. But there’s something strange about becoming his dinner date. Like I’ve shrugged on someone else’s costume and I’m playing a role.
I order a beer and a steak when it’s my turn, and the guy runs off to put in our order.
“You buggin’?” Wes asks, nudging my foot under the table.
“No,” I say quickly. I’m not, either. “I don’t give a shit whether we set that guy’s gaydar off or not.”
Wes actually winces. “Wouldn’t blame you if you did. Look, that dude is only jealous. But some people are assholes about it. I mean, the things you and I do every night are illegal in some places.”
“You’re really selling it to me then.”
His grin is wry. “There are benefits.”
“Yeah? Hit me. What’s good about going gay?” I nudge him back under the table.
“Well, dicks,” he says. “Obvs.”
“Obvs.”
He smiles. “Okay, now picture this. You wake up on a weekend beside your really hot boyfriend, and fuck like horny hedgehogs for a couple of hours. Then you spend the rest of the day watching sports on television, and nobody ever says”—he pitches his voice high—“honey, you said we could go to the mall!”
Now I’m laughing. “And I guess you can leave the toilet seat up, right?”
Wes spreads his hands. “See? Benefits everywhere. And here’s one more—the parents don’t nag you for grandchildren.”
“I have five siblings,” I point out. “They’re guaranteed at least a basketball team.”
The waiter brings our beers, and I actually give him a wink before he goes.
“Look at you!” Wes crows after he walks away. “You could be good at this.”
“Like it’s hard?” Wes is grinning at me, and I hate to kill the mood. But I realize that I’ve got a question for him that’s been bothering me. “What did your parents say when you told them?”
His face falls. “Well. At first they didn’t believe me. My mother said, ‘This is just a phase.’ And my father said nothing.”
“When was this?”
“Freshman year of college. I decided to tell them on the way to my grandfather’s house for Thanksgiving. We were all trapped in the car together.”
“Nice timing.”
He shrugs. “I didn’t even know what to do with that reaction. It never occurred to me they’d just sort of ignore me. Though in retrospect it makes plenty of sense.”
His dull admission brings an ache to my heart. It also makes me wonder how my own family would react if they knew I was hooking up with a guy. But no matter how many times I try to picture their expressions filling with horror or disgust, I can’t see it. Support is all I’ve ever gotten from them.
“So what did you do?” I ask, hoping my inner distress doesn’t show on my face.
“Well, Canning, this is me we’re talking about here. So I got really fucking mad. And next time I was home on break I picked up a guy at a party and blew him in the family room when I knew they were on their way home.”
Yikes. “That probably got the point across.”
Wes takes a long pull of his beer and I watch his strong throat work. “It did the trick. My dad did all the yelling I expected him to do the first time. He said I was disgusting. And that I was going to fuck up my hockey career. Hell. That’s still his biggest concern.”
Ouch. “What does your mom say?” He never mentions her. How can a mother not defend her son?
“She’s his yes man and pearl-clutcher-in-chief. So she never says much.”
Shit, I really killed the mood. But luckily our appetizers arrive a moment later, and we’re happy again. Sometimes it’s just that easy.
