Page 4 of Josh’s Play

We smiled at each other, and the thought crossed my mind that I would always be laughing and smiling around this guy. It’s not something I’d ever thought about another person before.

The therapist was not as amused, so Josh quickly followed up. “It’s Marchetti-Gordon.”

“Oh, Marchetti-Gordon? Your mom’s dean of the Literature Department, right? I took my core class in writing and literature with her a few years ago. Are you the writer she always bragged about?” Diane enthused.

“No, that’s my older brother. I’m just a communications major.”

“Well, communications, that’s writing, right? It must run in the family. Anyway, your mom was really cool, teaching that basic course when she totally didn’t have to. You could tell how much fun she was having, and I learned a lot.” Diane was really putting on the charm for our new friend.

“Come on, Cam, let’s get you stretched.”

I caught Josh’s eye again as his much-less-talkative and much-more-scowly physical therapist gestured to a table and chairs near Diane’s station.

It took Diane patting the treatment table and ordering me to “hop up” to pull my gaze from those captivating eyes. But mine were right back on him after I kicked my shoes off and hoisted myself up as the sound of separating Velcro filled the room. Josh’s brace was pulled off, and he slowly flexed his fingers.

Two of his fingers were wrapped together with a bandage that traveled to his wrist. The physical therapist worked diligently to unwrap Josh’s hand, and I watched her do it while Diane stretched and flexed my ankle.

Josh was watching, too, and winced as his hand was exposed and two pins could be seen sticking out. He looked up and caught me staring. Oops.

“Bet you didn’t guess I was Frankenstein’s fucking monster underneath that bandage, did you?” He flashed his hand at me, but the woman on the other side of the table gently grabbed his arm and maneuvered it to a pillow resting between them on the table.

With a shrug, I retorted, “I would have said cyborg.” We smiled at each other. You know that smile, the one that hopes for and promises more? The one that says “hello” and “welcome” and “I want to share everything with you”? A real smile, the kind I was never supposed to flash at another man.

Diane lifted my leg perpendicular to my body, a move which caused Josh to look up at me again. I violently tore my eyes away from him while trying to tear my thoughts away as well, forcing my focus on the pixie of a woman who was busy asking my leg to defy gravity.

An adorable, bright, tough pixie of a woman, who appeared to be about my age or slightly older, who fondled my foot a few times a week, and who flirtatiously called me Fifty-Nine. I tilted my head back and stared at the ceiling, remembering the head coach lecturing me as I complained about the over-the-top treatment I was being made to pursue for a minor sprain.

“You want to make it to the pros, right, kid?” He may have been chastising me about my stupid twisted ankle, but I heard so much more in what he asked.

Of course the NHL was the ultimate goal, the thing I had worked for and sacrificed for, for years. The thing my parents had sacrificed for, with time and money they could barely spare.

Growing up in western New York, I’d been out on the ice since before I could walk, to hear my mom tell it. She’d come out one day to look for her husband and toddler son and found us on the little pond behind our house, me held high above my father’s head while he performed figure eights to my screams of delight.

I don’t remember a time when I couldn’t skate, don’t know of a time when the National Hockey League wasn’t my goal. I lived on the ice as a kid and rehearsed pretend press conferences to my reflection in the mirror until I had that winning smile down pat.

I’d watched the game, studied the game. Studied the players. The men who honed their bodies to perfection and drove themselves to excellence. It may have been about the sport, but the lifestyle was part of the spectacle as well. The wealth, the big houses, the fancy cars, the designer everything. The carefully cultivated social media accounts. And of course, the picture was not complete without the beautiful woman on your arm. Almost as early as I knew how to map out the positions on the ice, I also knew about “WAGS,” shorthand for “wives and girlfriends” of players. Such was the age of the internet, that an interested teenager could follow certain WAGS on social media as another way to keep up with their favorite team, or in my case, to study the game.

I wanted to play for the love of the game, but I understood at an early age that being a public figure was part of it. When I was a kid, worshiping the players of the day, I knew, I just knew, without anyone telling me, without anyone discouraging me, that I was only allowed to revere the players for their prowess on the ice. I could admire their athleticism but not the way their thigh muscles bunched and strained as they met their perfectly rounded glutes. I could respect the ritual of ending game night in a tailored suit but couldn’t think that those pricey, perfectly cut suits made the men look handsome as they spoke at the podium, the glow of an exhilarating workout making them shine even more in their designer wear.

Lying there on that table, the word came to me in full force. I couldn’t be gay and be in the NHL. That was clear when I was a kid, and it became clearer when I began to understand my own feelings. How ironic was it that the very players that had inspired me to want to play hockey also were among the first men to stir those feelings in me?

Not only had I determined a long time ago that being gay wasn’t an option in professional sports, but I’d also learned early on that I needed to avoid any and all distractions that kept me from succeeding on the ice. And cute boys with remarkable eyes and smiles that felt like they were just for me? That was a huge fucking distraction.

If I thought the word one more time, that would make three. I knew how Beetlejuice worked. I needed to get my head back in the game. The fucking hockey game, to be sure, but also the uber-hetero sports-guy game as well. Maybe if I focused on the cute girl in front of me, the cute guy would fade away. I flashed my winning smile to the woman who at that moment had one hand on the crease of my thigh and the other on my calf as she stood on a step stool and encouraged me to point and flex my foot.

“How’s it looking up there, Di?”

“Oh, I’m Di, now?”

“You molest my foot on a regular basis. A nickname seems appropriate. I mean, I’m your Fifty-Nine, right?”

She scoffed. “Your HU’s Fifty-Nine, and we need you back in front of that goal if our team has a chance this year.”

“So, you're only in this as a hockey fan?”

“No offense, Cam, but I’m only in this for the paycheck and the tuition remission. Not that you and your ankle aren’t scintillating company.”

“So you wouldn’t be interested in a party at the Hockey House this weekend?”