Page 40 of Tough Guy and the Show Off

“Chicago,” I repeat in a daze. “Chicago?”

“The Huskies are having a great season so far and you’re just going to add to it.”

“But… Travis. We’re a team.”

“It’s not what I wanted, Beau,” Coach says. “Not at all. But Nilsson… You know he’s been playing poorly. It had to happen.”

A sense of numbness settles over me. I know the drill. It’s already done, already inked. My stall will be cleaned out by this afternoon. This is it. I’m fucking traded.

“There’s a flight tomorrow morning at eight,” Coach continues. “Their PR person will be at the airport to pick you up and take you to temporary housing.”

I have to walk to the gym now and look Travis in the face and break the news. I don’t know if I can. How am I gonna leave my best friend who’s quickly becoming so much more?

“We don’t plan to tell the team until after tonight’s game.”

“Am I expected to play?”

“No. You’re officially not…” He pauses.

“Not on the team. Got it.”

“Show Boston management what they’re losing when you get to Chicago, Bozy,” Spencer says, clapping my shoulder.

“I have to tell Trav. He’s my best friend.”

“You’ll fuck up his game if you do,” Coach warns.

“I don’t care. He’d kill me for keeping this from him.”

“Show will rise above it,” Spencer says. “He’s a great player.”

I nod, staring off into space. He doesn’t know Trav like I do. No one does. He won’t rise above it, but he’ll excel to spite them and push me to do the same. He might play his best game ever tonight because of this. I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse.

“I don’t know what to say, Beau,” Coach says. “You’re an asset to Boston and I’m not happy with this decision either.”

I feel myself nodding, but the room is swirling around me, threatening to take it with me, like water down a drain.

How the fuck does our goalie playing badly end up flipping my life upside down? All the plans me and Trav had are gone. Hiking the Berkshires this summer, visiting Salem for the summer solstice, the weekend on the Cape. What do you even do in Chicago in the summertime?

Will I ever see Trav again or will our schedules keep us apart?

Fuck. This is the worst thing that could happen.

TWENTY

SHOW

I wasn’t picturing spending this morning in the Magic gym at the arena, smelling the stench of old sweat and mildew while old game footage plays on the big-screen TV hanging on the wall in front of the treadmills. To be fair, this is how I spend eighty percent of all game mornings, but I kinda thought today would be different.

I was hoping Beau and I could wake up slowly, wrapped around each other, all relaxed and shit, maybe make out for a little while until we worked our way up to talking about what this all means. I had my fingers in his ass last night and his tongue in my mouth, and goddamn do I want to do it again. My stomach swoops and a burst of adrenaline has me cranking up the speed on my treadmill another few notches.

I like Beau. Not just as buddies, not just as best friends, I fucking like him. I can see the big, stupid smile that stretches across my face in the wall mirror opposite the treadmills, and I don’t bother trying to tone it down. Why should I? I feel like I’ve got a winning lottery ticket in my back pocket, like I just got named MVP for the season, like I finally broke the single season scoring record. I’m on top of the goddamn world.

The gym door swings open and Klaus, Basilio, and Peters all shuffle in. Just out of curiosity, I stare at all three of them a little longer than usual as my feet continue to pound out a steady pace beneath me. They’re all fit, attractive guys. If you don’t take Basilio’s personality into account, he’s got damn nice pecs and some sick ink. Klaussen has blue eyes that could probably make the right guy—or girl—forget their own name. And Peters has kind of a boy-next-door vibe and a nice smile. They’re hot, if I’m being honest with myself. I don’t want to shove my tongue in any of their mouths though. Does that mean I’m only, like, gay for Beau, or is it more complicated than that?

Maybe it doesn’t really matter?

“Your boyfriend let you off the leash this morning?” Basilio snarks, hopping onto the treadmill next to me.