“And you...stopped him?”
“Yes. Obviously.”
“...why?”
“What do you meanwhy?”
“Well,isn'tthat why you were breaking up? Why not let him fix it?”
“What is coming out going to fix? He'll still be miserable, just miserable in public with me.”
Avery squints at me, and I can't tell if he's thinking or too drunk to focus properly on my face.
“So he should stay in the closet forever? Is that the answer?”
Honestly,I'mtoo drunk to be having this conversation.
“I mean, maybe? Or at least until he retires.”
Avery doesn't look happy with my answer.
“I mean, Jesus Christ, Jamie. The man can't win with you. You call him self-loathing and he, I don't know, actually does some introspection and wants to change and now you're telling him he can't come out? Is being gay that awful, Jamie?”
His anger shocks me and I can't find a response. Before I can attempt one, he speaks again.
“Look. I think you should leave.”
My eyebrows raise, shocked that he's kicking me out.
“Leave?Why?”
“I mean, Jesus, Jamie. You haven’t asked about my knee once. You want to sit here and bitch about your perfect NHL life and your perfect closeted boyfriend who wants to come out for you and I’m fucking tired of hearing it!”
I sit there, stunned. By his anger, his volume…by how true it is.
I’ve been avoiding him, too wrapped up in my own head to even spare a thought for him, for the hell he’s been going through.
“How-” I start.
“It’s too late, Jamie. Get out.”
Eyes already filling with tears, I grab my sweatshirt and go.
CHAPTER THIRTY
ETHAN
As partof the media circus known as the All Star Game, I have to participate in a media day, cycling through outlet after outlet, talking about the season, the team, and this ridiculous act of pageantry.
My first few interviews are pretty easy puff pieces – questions of the day about my favorite snack food or pregame ritual. Just before lunch, though, I get ushered into a room with Sam Montgomery. Sam is what I think of as a Serious Hockey Journalist, and unlike most people in that mental box, I don’t totally hate him. A few years ago, a sexual assault case tore through one of the New York teams and Sam was one of the few calling for accountability all the way up to the head office.
Needless to say, my fatherdespiseshim.
As we sit down, he seems a little disinterested. I can hardly blame him. I have to be the least interesting player here — a pretty solid defenseman who’s a little on the old side, but not old enough to be interesting. I have a reputation for giving bland answers and I’m sure he sees this as yet another box to check before his lunch.
“Ethan, good to see you.” He shakes my hand and takes a seat.
“You too, Sam. Happy to talk with you today.”
