Page 41 of Grief & Glitter

Great. That was always fun. Not.

Knowing we had a busy day ahead, I wolfed down the sandwich, knocked back the coffee, and arrived at the barn with a full stomach to accompany my rapidly increasing anxiety. The place would probably be staff only. Most of the players had made a night of it last night, which was why morning skate was optional. I sent a quick text to Gideon, sure he was sleeping in today, to thank him for a magical night as we entered the players’ gate, a shared entrance for the team and the staff.

I came up short when we nearly ran into Gideon, Bob, Walker, Chip, Sable, and Arnaud having a soccer game just inside the door. The ball bounced over the dog, who never flinched, on a direct line to my face. Arnaud, always the one with the fastest reflexes, leaped to the left to block the shot from Bob just as I threw up an arm.

“Oh shit, sorry,” Bob hurried to say. Gideon shot him a glower before heading over to me with a look of worry.

“Stupid gooseberries, man, you cannot kick the ball at the staff. They will get mad from a purple eye and make your skates dull. Which would match you perfectly,” our goalie quipped as he bounced the black-and-white ball in his hand. Bob parried with a meticulously worded string of curses. Arnaud responded with something that sounded like Moose Breath, which devolved into a little argument, half in French, between the two.

“Wish you two would fuck or something,” Walker barked at Bob and Arnaud. The two of them stared blankly at Walker, then started back up again.

“You okay?” Gideon asked, taking my hands in his as he dipped his head to inspect my face.

“Yeah, fine, Arnaud blocked the shot.”

“Arnaud blocks all the shots. He is a powerhouse, a lethal dancer, and a fancy gem in the tiara that this team wears on its head!” Arnaud crowed. Bob rolled his eyes. Sable wagged her tail. “Surely this is not news to anyone?”

“News to me,” Bob mumbled.

I gave Gids’ hands a soft squeeze. “I didn’t think I’d see any of the players today. Why are you here?”

Dad stood at my side, arms folded, probably wondering the same thing.

“We’re here in case you need us,” Gideon replied, dark blue eyes falling to my lips and down to his—now mine, sorry not sorry—hoodie and back up to latch onto my gaze. “In case any kind of shit filters down from management, we want them to know that the players are with you. All of us.” He jerked his head in the direction of the Art Club guys. “And many others.”

I had to clear a huge wad of emotion from my throat. “Thank you, all of you. Your support means a lot.” I looked from the others to Gideon. “Yours means the most.” I rose to my toes to peck his scruffy cheek just as a duo of young professionals in dressy casual arrived, both wearing lanyards and an air of being driven. Both were women, late 20s to early 30s, maybe. Vaguely familiar. I’d seen them around the rink.

“Gideon, Ryan, we were hoping we’d run into you two,” the taller brunette said, walking up to us and offering me, then Gids, her hand. “Tivida Jones, public relations.” She shook firmly, briskly, and then motioned to a chubby woman in what I’d call goth-inspired makeup. It was artfully done. “This is Paulina Nowak, marketing. We’d like to have a little chat with you two privately if that’s okay?”

“Whatever you want to say can be said here,” Gids said immediately.

Shit. I stiffened, but Tivida held up her hand.

“It’s okay,” Tivida said. “We received a complaint from one of last night’s donors. Ownership has reviewed it, along with statements from several people who witnessed what happened. We wanted you to know that the organization supports both of you.”

Some of the pressure left my chest, although not all of it.

“He actually complained?” Gids asked in shock.

“At considerable length,” Paulina said. “He’s also been reminded that a donation doesn’t buy him the right to harass our staff, players, or their guests.” She paused and wrinkled her nose. “However, management has said they would prefer players bring security into any future disagreement rather than personally inviting donors to leave.”

“He didn’t do anything wrong,” I began, but Gideon shook his head.

“That’s fair,” he said. “I’d still do it again.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Tivida said with a smile. “We’re also here as part of the Copperheads’ inclusion and diversity department.”

“The what now?” Gids asked.

“It’s new,” Paulina said.

“Very new,” Tivida added. “We’re putting together a committee for staff and players, and we’d love you both to be involved. We want to make the team more inclusive and build stronger ties with the LGBTQ+ community.”

“Oh,” I said, which was echoed by everyone aside from Sable.

“We’re not asking you to become the face of anything,” Tivida assured us. “You decide how public you want to be and how much, if anything, you want to share.”

“Okay, sure, that sounds fine.” I looked up at Gideon. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”