Page 84 of The Tryout

Thanks for everything

Don’t have too much fun without me

When I first see my exit row seat, I’m not sure what to think. Certainly, it looks more comfortable than the seats around it, with enough leg room even for my six foot frame. But I’m sitting right next to the exit door, which looks like a strong thought might open it.

As the plane fills up, I try to keep my breathing even.

People fly every day. This is fine.

Once the plane is full and everyone is seated, it isn’t long before we’re pulling away from the gate. As the plane rolls along the ground, I know my heart is racing but I can’t seem to slow it down.

“Nervous flyer?” the woman in the seat next to mine asks, looking up from the knitting in her hands.

“First time.”

She smiles and pats my hand.

“You’ll be fine. Flying might seem like magic, but it’s really just science, you know?”

“That might help if I hadn’t failed the last science class I took.”

She chuckles at that, but puts down her knitting and holds my hand.

I’m grateful for her kindness as the plane begins to move forward, accelerating until it’s racing down the runway. Just when I think for sure we’ll run out of runway, we begin to lift off the ground. Soon, we’re hundreds – thousands – of feet up, the trees and cars on the ground shrinking away until they look like toys.

I squeeze the woman’s hand.

“You can go back to your knitting. Sorry I was freaking out.”

She laughs again.

“At my age, it’s not often I get to hold hands with a strapping young man like yourself. Let me know if you need a repeat.”

With a wink, she returns to her knitting.

Blushing, I lean over to look out the window, seeing the Des Moines river fall away beneath us. I see the arena, and try to find our apartment. As we rise up above the clouds, pink like cotton candy as the sun begins to set, I can’t help but think of what I’m leaving behind.

In Minneapolis, I follow the stream of people exiting the airport. It is much bigger than the Des Moines airport, and I find myself grateful that Ethan and Jamie have come inside to meet me. As we grab my bags off the luggage carousel, I can’t help but notice people around me looking their way, some whispering and even pointing.

After coming out officially to the team in October, their interview with Sam Montgomery went live. I’ve tried not to read the fallout from the interview too much, sure that there are plenty of absolutely stupid takes out there. Still, it’s been difficult to consume any amount of hockey media without seeing posts, articles, and reels about the two and whether their relationship will be the end of hockey as we know it.

That being said, they seem to have decided to fight the chatter by having absolutely phenomenal seasons. Coming off of a Calder-worthy rookie season, Jamie has somehow increased every stat and is currently on pace for a seventy goal season. Meanwhile, Ethan – whose possible retirement has been a topic of conversation for at least two seasons – seems to have forgotten his age altogether. He’s become a brick wall on the ice, hitting harder than he has since his mid-twenties.

I wonder if part of that has been necessary, protective instincts kicking in. I also wonder how the team has been taking it, although I guess I’ll find out soon enough.

We head back to Ethan’s house, although I guess now it’s Jamie’s house, too. As much as he was here during training camp, there are little touches here and there – a gear bag, a new laundry hamper, a large collection of video games – that would tell me he’s here full-time now even if I hadn’t already guessed.

I get the same room and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t grateful for the familiarity. At least if I have to uproot everything to fly off to another city, I have a good place to call home here.

As I pull out my phone to text Avery that I’ve arrived, I hear Jamie calling for me downstairs.

“There’s something here for you.”

He holds out a plastic bag, tied at the top and full of…

“Is that Vietnamese food? Where’d you get it?”

He looks at me, something sharp and knowing in his gaze.