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Was it too much to hope we’d be the same way in person?
And, like, we’d connected because a person I followed had reposted something Ian had written in response to some dickweed saying that being gay was all about sex and nothing else. Ian had argued that if gay men didn’t fall in love, he wouldn’t know what it was like to have his heart stomped on. I’d reposted it, adding that, for fuck’s sake, our community hadn’t pushed for marriage equality just for spite. Then I’d followed Ian. He’d followed me back. After a few weeks of liking and reposting each other’s posts, he’d messaged me privately to snark about someone we’d both been arguing with. Then we’d just… kept messaging, and that was that.
So we’d known from the very, very start that we were both gay. We’d learned very quickly that we were on the same page about more things than not. In fact, about the only things we really disagreed on were football (I loved the Broncos and he hated the sport), pizza toppings (olives made me gag), and whether that one overtime goal during last year’s Cup final should’ve been called back (no way had that puck fully crossed the line, but whatever).
There was undeniably a connection, and we could talk about things that so many people in our lives didn’t understand, and… yeah, no shit I had feelings for him.
Why couldn’t I have this with someone I knew face to face?
And would meeting him in person break that spell?
Or would I wonder why in the world I’d waited so damn long? Especially when I knew he lived in the same city?
Except I knew why I’d waited. Why I was still hesitating. I was a public figure, and I had created Nick so I could still speak openly about political issues and crack jokes online. The whole point of that persona had been so I could be myself without anyone knowing it was me. If I let the lines blur between Nick and Tanner, then someone could connect me Nick’s posts. I didn’t say horrible things or anything—though I could get creatively profane when I was taking on a terrible politician or a troll—but even cursing online or daring to have political opinions absolutely could land me in hot water with my club or the League.
I’d seen other players’ reputations (and even careers) fall apart over hacked emails, leaked text messages, or badly judged public statements. Still, my gut told me I could trust Ian to keep my secret. So… meet him or don’t meet him?
Well, those were all things to consider another day. Tonight, I had a game to play, and now that Coach was done talking, everyone was getting their gear back on for the second period.
I drained the last of my Gatorade, tossed the bottle in the bin, and started getting myself ready. I pulled my jersey out of my stall and tugged it on over my gear. As I was reaching down to get my helmet, though, a muffled beep told me I had a message. And I was about ninety-nine percent sure I knew who’d sent it, since the vast majority of my notifications on that particular app came from one person.
I froze. I needed to focus on hockey right now.
But would I be able to focus if I hadn’t read what Ian had sent?
Fuck it.
I glanced around. The clock said we had four minutes to go, which left me two before I needed to be heading for the ice.
I reached into my locker stall and tugged my phone out of my jacket pocket.
And my heart stopped.
Ian:You know, as long as we’ve been talking—do you think we’ll ever meet in person?
I staredslack-jawed at the message. We were on the same page? Oh my God. Did this mean hewantedto meet? Andshouldwe? What if we—
“Hey. Tans.” Bens tapped my skate with his stick. “You coming?”
Oh. Shit. The guys were starting to file out of the locker room.
I shoved my phone back into my jacket, grabbed my helmet and stick, and managed to catch up in time to get my usual place in line. I skated out onto the ice, determined to pull my focus back. Hockey wasn’t one of those games you could play while your mind was someplace else.
But my mind wasn’t even in this arena anymore.
Playinghockey while distracted usually had one of three predictable results.
One, a complete inability to be useful offensivelyordefensively.
Two, huge and costly mistakes that would be replayed until the end of time while people questioned if you were overpaid.
And three… injuries.
In my case tonight, it was an ugly hat trick. I’d been amessout there. Unable to keep track of where everyone was, never mind where that tiny round black thing was. Then I’d finally gotten my shit together enough to steal the puck and break away, and I’d passed it to another forward for a scoring chance… realizing a second too late that there was an opposing defenseman coming up between us. He probably would’ve scored, too, with that shot he absolutely ripped from the blue line…
…if I hadn’t blocked it with my face instead.
And that was the story of how, nine and a half minutes into the second period, I was sitting across the hall from the locker room, getting my upper lip stitched.
