“Maybe we should mess with the system. Something’s gotta give.”
I hate seeing him so down, especially with himself. He gets ridiculed for not being the brightest crayon in the box, but to me, he has always outshone everyone else. Not because of his brains but because of his happy and bubbly personality.
He quietly sulks while the coaches try to pep us up, but none of it matters when we get out there. Because we still suck. From the second the puck drops, I earn my keep. They come at me from all angles. Our defense is broken, our offense doesn’t even get a chance at the puck, and Anaheim is on a rampage.
I let two past me in the first ten minutes of the game, but this can’t be put all on me.
Adler skates by me in between plays. “Pull it together, man.”
“Tell our D men to pull it together,” I grit out. “I’ve let in two out of how many shots? Tell them to maybe help me protect the fucking goal.”
He pulls to a stop. “Shake it off, bro. We’re still in this.”
With the encouragement from our team captain, I manage to keep Anaheim out of my crease. But barely.
By the end of the first period, it feels like the third. And in our short break in the locker room, Coach yells at all of us.
“You can’t leave everything up to Mitchell out there. It’s a miracle Anaheim only has two on the board with how sloppy you all are.”
Thank you, I say in my head because no way am I saying it aloud and bringing his holy wrath down on me.
“Where’s the team from last season?”
“I dunno,” Fensby says. “But I do know of one big difference.” He glares at Dex.
“That was rhetorical, Fensby,” Coach says. “How many shots on goal have you taken tonight?”
Fensby goes to open his mouth when Coach cuts him off.
“Also rhetorical,” Coach snaps. “Get back out there and turn this around.”
Easier said than done.
It’s not even close.
And when the final buzzer in the third sounds, we walk away with zero points on the board.
Great start to the season, guys.
We’re all doom and gloom as we head down the chute, trying to stay positive for the cameras while we spout bullshit about just needing to find our rhythm and that Anaheim played really well.
They didn’t. They didn’t even need to. We were disasters out there.
Dex is frustrated. The tension rolls off him. His usual easygoing nature is gone, and as he undresses, he throws his gloves and skates in his cubby with so much force, it makes a resounding thud.
“We’ll get there,” I murmur.
“And if we don’t?” He turns to me. “Maybe that trade will happen after all.”
At least then we’d have a clean break.
We’re so exhausted and mentally drained that when we get home, we both crash out without even a goodnight kiss or handjob. And when I wake, Dex isn’t snuggled into me like usual. He’s sitting up, his delicious abs on display, but his focus is on his phone in his hands, and the scowl on his face isn’t my Dex.
“What are you looking at?” My voice is croaky from sleep.
He flinches. “Fans being brutal.”
“Well, yeah, we sucked ass last night, and not in the fun way.”
Dex’s anger disappears for the briefest moment where his eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “You do that?”
Oh, honey. “You still don’t know half the stuff I do in bed.”
He puts his phone down. “Why not?”
“Because I’m trying to ease you into this whole gay sex thing. When you first learn to drive, you don’t floor it in a Lamborghini.”
Dex eyes me. “And in this situation, you’re the Lambo?”
“Mmhmm.”
“What if I don’t want you to ease me into it? I’m doing all right so far, aren’t I?” His face falls. “Fuck. Aren’t I?”
I laugh. “You’re acing it. But we have an entire year to explore each other.” I nod toward his phone on his stomach. “What are the fans saying?”
“That us being married messed with the team dynamics.”
“Wait, what?”
He shows me his screen, which is the Twitter feed for the hashtag #mitchellmarriagecurse.
“Stay off Twitter. That’s where rationality goes to die.”
“How can people be out there saying things like they want us to break up and that I played hockey better before I was gay? And why do they assume I’m gay because I’m married to a man now? Why does being married to you suddenly cancel out all the women I’ve been with?”
I know exactly what he means. “Welcome to the other side of being in a same-sex relationship.”
“This is … normal for you?”
“Haven’t you ever wondered why I don’t have a Twitter account other than the one the team runs for me? Ever since I was drafted and came out, I’ve been dealing with this kind of shit. It’s all part of the territory.”
Dex looks stunned. “Why … why didn’t I know? I’ve seen stuff here and there, but … not like this. This is … everywhere. And constant. There’s been a hundred new tweets about us since I woke up this morning.”
I take his phone. “Which is why I stay away from it.”
“How do you all deal with it? You, Oskar, Ezra, Anton—”
“Maybe you should talk to Anton. He only came out last season. Guys like Ezra and me, we’ve been out from the beginning, so we haven’t known any different. It sucks that with all the progress we’ve made, there are still people out there who want to blame our sexuality for everything, but at the same time, there are some really great things that come from being an out hockey player too.”
“Like what?”
I check the time. It’s still early Saturday, which is perfect, and we don’t have to be at the practice arena until this afternoon for a skate to keep loose for our away game tomorrow night. “Let me show you.”
Twenty-Five
DEX
When Tripp said he was going to take me somewhere to see the upside of his being out, I’ve gotta say, I expected a gay strip club or something.
So sitting here, staring out the windshield at a small ice center just outside of Spring Valley, has me confused.
“What are we doing here?”
Tripp puts the car into park and turns off the engine. “We’re going to talk to some people who might be able to help.”
“Like a team psychologist? We have one of those.”
Tripp gives me his crooked smile that makes my gut all jittery and unclicks my seat belt. “Get your ass out and you’ll see.”
He grabs our gear bags out of the trunk, and I follow him across the quiet parking lot and into the center. There aren’t many people around, and I worry whether we’re supposed to be in here or not. “You sure this is okay?”
“Trust me.” He opens the door to the rink and waits for me to pass.
Down on the ice, there’s a junior team running drills.
“In here.” There are only three rows of seating, and Tripp nudges me into the back one.
I go quietly, and we sit there listening to the familiar sound of skates on ice and the clip of the puck hitting their blades.
“You going to explain yet?” I ask.