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“Mr. Sanhover, I was pleased to see you on the guest list.” She shakes my hand, and turns to Nigel, beside me. “And you, Mr. St. James. Welcome to South Carolina, it’s been a pleasure watching you this season. Janine Porter, I’m the director of DHoP.”
“Nice to meet you, thank you for having us.”
I inwardly flinch at Nigel’s words; phrased like that, it seems as though we came as a couple. Immediately, I feel ridiculous and ashamed of myself. Wedidcome as a couple, and it shouldn’t bother me if other people find out.What the fuck is wrong with you?
Lawson appears at my elbow, three glasses clutched in his hands in a triangle. “Thank you.” I take both mine and Nigel’s, passing his over to him just as Janine wraps her hand around his elbow and steers him away. He sends me a look over his shoulder and I offer a commiserating one in return. Beside me, Lawson laughs.
“Hey, you’ll never guess who I heard from this morning.” He says, like the thought just occurred to him.
“Who?” I ask, taking a sip of soda water.
“Zolkov.”
I smile, thinking of our Russian linemate from last season. I’d spoken to him briefly when we played against each other this year, but it had been a short exchange. He’d been doing well there, though, if his stats were anything to go off of.
“Yeah? How’s Calgary?”
“I think he likes it. Sounds like him and Grayson Brody are tight.”
“That’s good, I know he was hoping to find somewhere to stick, so hopefully they offer him another contract. When I talked to him last, he had mentioned…” I trail off as Lawson’s expression changes. He’d been his usual self, relaxed smile on his face, until he’d looked over my shoulder and his entire aspect shifted. Now, he was scowling; I don’t have to turn around to know why.
“Your dad is here.” He says, and I nod, stomach sinking.
“Yeah, he mentioned they were coming.” I turn around and watch as my parents stop to chat on their way further into the room. They haven’t seen me yet, and I have a fleeting desire to sneak out the back.
It’s my mom who notices me first, excusing herself from the conversation and making her way over. Her eyes dance between Lawson and I, making me wonder what she thinks she sees. He’s standing close, but not near enough that it should arouse their suspicions.Just because I’m gay, doesn’t mean I can’t have male friendships, Mom.
“Hi, sweetheart.” Mom reaches me, smiling though it doesn’t reach her eyes. She puts a hand on my forearm and squeezes, letting go quickly. We aren’t much of a hugging family.
“Hi, Mom.” I can’t even muster a fake smile. I doubt she expects it from me, anyway. “This is Anthony Lawson, my teammate.”
Before she can respond, my dad arrives. He claps a hand on my shoulder so hard it knocks my arm askew, liquid sloshing over the rim of my glass. It was wholly unnecessary to do it that hard, and I see Lawson’s eyes narrow as he notices.
“There he is! Would have forgotten what you look like by now if I didn’t watch your games on TV.”
He doesn’t let go of my shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle there, until I step out of reach. I nod at him, fingers clenched around my glass. “Dad.”
He’s looking at Lawson, who’s standing next to me like a silent, disapproving body guard. I stiffen, wondering what he’s about to say. Usually, goaltenders don’t factor much into Dad’s tirades, so my friend has largely been left out of his critiques during the few times we’ve talked in the last couple years.
“Anthony Lawson.” He holds out his hand and waits awkwardly, arm outstretched, for Lawson to take it. When he finally does, Lawson lets go so quick you’d think my dad had a skin disease. “You’ve had a rough season, having to pick up the slack from the offensive lines. Not a whole lot happening there, this year.”
It’s a backhanded compliment, acknowledging how hard Lawson has had to work while also throwing the rest of us under the bus. “I don’t know about that,” Lawson responds, diplomatically, a hard glint in his eye. “Both offense and defensive lines are up from last year on goals scored. Corwin here is third in the league for overall points.”
My dad raises an eyebrow at that, reassessing. Lawson might be a friendly guy, but he’s not a pushover—he won’t be easy to bully. I decide to cut in, not wanting a front row seat to my friend finding out just how fucked up my family really is. “Lawson, would you mind taking over for Volstrom over there? Unless they get some fresh meat, they’ll never let him go.”
Lawson shoots me an incredulous look, and I half expect him to tell me no. He doesn’t, but excuses himself from the conversation and heads over to the photographer. I know he’ll be watching me from across the room, ready to intervene, so I make sure to maintain the cool, unbothered expression I adopted when my mom came over. Thankfully, Nigel hasn’t returned yet, and I hope he stays away until my parents move on.
“When did you fly in? This morning?” I ask Mom, who doesn’t even open her mouth to reply before Dad answers the question.
“Yesterday. Heading home tomorrow. Probably would have stayed longer to see you play, but none of the games lined up.”
And thank god for that.I’ve already run out of things to talk about. Taking a sip of my drink, I work on regulating my breathing. My body has such a visceral reaction to my dad’s presence; I’m like Pavlov’s Dog. I can feel my shirt sticking to my back, damp with sweat.
“Are you seeing anyone, honey?” My mom leans toward me, hand on my dad’s elbow.
I stare at her, the words stuck in my throat. Saying no would be easy; it would shut down this line of questioning, which is what I want. It would also be a lie, and I’m so fucking tired of pretending to be someone I’m not.
“Yeah, I am.” I tell her and watch as her eyes widen in surprise. Dad looks at me over the rim of his whiskey. He’s not as good at hiding his emotions as I am—his eyes have narrowed and his mouth is pinched in a thin line.
