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“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” I wasn’t worried he’d react badly to having a gay friend, obviously. Iwasworried that he’d feel betrayed by the six years of friendship I’ve spent lying to him.
“Cor, come on.” He adjusts himself on the barstool, leaning forward and resting his forearms on the island. “You get to decide when you come out and to whom. Thank you for telling me.”
I close my eyes for a moment, overwhelmed. When I open them again, he’s sitting unmoved, watching me. If I were Troy, he would have pulled me into a hug. “There’s something else, too. Nigel isn’t in the guest room, he’s in mine. We’re…together.”
I stumble over ‘together’, not having said it out loud to anyone but Nigel before. This time, I do catch Lawson by surprise. His eyebrows wing up his forehead, and his lips part slightly. I have the sudden, mad urge to tell him I lost my virginity last night. Like telling one secret has opened the floodgates for them all. Pressing my mouth into a firm line, I wait for him to speak.
Lawson is still processing when Nigel himself makes an appearance, walking into the kitchen in sweat pants and a hoodie and looking deliciously unkempt. His eyes immediately find mine, but before I can speak Lawson slaps a palm down onto the marble countertop.
“Are you fucking kidding me, dude?” He says to Nigel, swiveling toward him on the stool. “You skate around acting like the biggest homophobe in the league. What the hell is wrong with you?”
I nearly laugh at the expression on Nigel’s face. He’s clearly wishing he’d remained upstairs, leaving me to deal with Lawson.
“He’s not a homophobe.” I tell Lawson.
“Yeah, no shit.” He says, eyeing me sideways. Nigel breaks in, voice still raspy from disuse. I hold out my water glass.
“You’re right, I probably did give that impression. But this is the first team I’ve played for thatdoesn’tuse slurs in the locker room and on the ice. I figured if I talked the way everyone else did, nobody would question that I was straight.” He shrugs, taking a drink. “The people in this room are the only people from my professional career who know I’m bi.”
Lawson’s eyes narrow, as he considers whether this is an explanation he will accept or not. He blows out a breath, shaking his head. “Montreal were a bunch of pricks, huh?”
“Oh, you have no idea.” Nigel responds, skirting the counter to stand next to me. His arm brushes mine. Lawson looks between us, eyes snagging on the contact between our bodies.
“Are you going to tell Nicky?” He asks.
I wince. “Yes. I think I’ll try and talk to him today, after practice.”
Nigel glances over at me, surprised by this new piece of information. I hadn’t planned on having this conversation with either of them today, but Lawson knowing with Troy still in the dark feels worse than neither of them knowing. Bile curdles in my stomach—somehow, I don’t think it’ll be quite as easy as this was. Lawson, either reading me or inferring correctly, offers me a conciliatory smile.
“It’ll be alright.” He tells me.
“What’s in there?” I ask, pointing to the paper bags Lawson brought in a wildly transparent attempt to divert the conversation. He lets me get away with it, nudging one across the counter toward me.
“Soup.” He eyes Nigel, smirking. “Because I thought you were sick, not getting laid.”
Ignoring this, I peek inside the bag. I’ve been friends with him long enough to know that one should be wary around anything he cooks beyond a grill. “You made me soup?”
“Of course not. I asked Alicia andshemade you soup.”
I stare at him. “Who the hell is Alicia?”
“Her parents own that café outside of town, The Sea Glass. She works there as a pastry chef.” He says all of this as though it’s perfectly conceivable that a pastry chef would whip up some soup for his sick friend at his request. Nigel has his lips pursed, like he’s holding back a laugh. “Their lunch menu has a killer chicken noodle soup.”
Lawson points at the bag and Nigel hooks a finger in the opening to peek inside. I check the time on the stove: 7:00 a.m.
“So, your pal Alicia made you soup off of the lunch menu at some ungodly hour this morning because, why?”
“Well, you know.” He shrugs. “We went on a few dates.”
“And there it is.” Nigel comments, dryly, eliciting a laugh from me.
“Your life is wild.” I tell my friend, who huffs and tries to tug the bag away from us.
“Fine.” He says. “No soup for you, you ungrateful bastard.”
I swipe the bags out of his reach; Nigel is already at the cupboard grabbing bowls. Lawson’s eyes follow him as he moves confidently around my kitchen, noting the way he doesn’t have to ask where anything is located. Possibly wondering just how long this thing between us has been going on. I know him well, and feel confident that I’d know if he was mad or upset, but even so…
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” I tell him. I feel foolish, now that I’ve done it. As though I just realized the mountain I’ve been climbing has been a hill all along. “I feel like an idiot.”
