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By the time the last player leaves, practice has been over for an hour. Anthony stands, hands in his pockets and coffee-colored eyes on mine. I try to memorize every inch of his face—all the little things Google Images gets wrong.
“So,” he says, voice and eyes hopelessly sad. What a wretched pair, we are.
“So,” I reply, and he smiles the barest hint of a smile.
“Fair warning, I’m going to call you, text you, and generally be such a nuisance that you can’t forget me.”
“I’ll be disappointed if you don’t.”
Picking up his baseball cap from where he’d left it with his shoes for practice, Anthony jams it onto his head, causing his hair to stick out the sides haphazardly. I reach out and tuck a tuft behind his ear before my brain can catch up with my body; he smiles at me, warm and soft as his eyes, and I have to look away. That smile is hard to look at.
He opens his mouth, and I rush to interrupt him. If he asks me to reconsider, or if he can come over tonight, I won’t be able to say no. “I’d better get going. I’ve got an assistant coach to hire.”
He steps back, mouth twisting in disappointment. “Alright. I’ll see you later, Nico.”
I watch him walk away until he’s nothing but a shadowy, distant blur. I’d like to sit down and scream, maybe have agood cry. Foolish, since I’ve nobody to blame for my misery but myself. Turning, I head to my office to gather my things to bring back home. I wasn’t lying about the work I need to get done, and I’m appreciative for it. It’ll be a welcome distraction when my mind wants to wander to more enjoyable post-practice pastimes.
???
South Carolina’s first regular season game falls on a night where SCU doesn’t have one. I get home from practice with just enough time to drop my things by the door, shower, and nuke something for dinner. By the time puck drops, I’m lying on my couch, earbuds in, listening to the game. Adjusting the pillow so I’m not lying on the hard arm of the sofa, I rest my hands on my stomach and close my eyes.
I’ve not made much of an effort to listen to games since the accident, having fallen just a little bit out of love with the sport and having plenty of other things to occupy my time. This season, however, I find myself wanting to participate with renewed vigor. Watching hockey on a screen becomes too much, but I can listen just fine; and if my heart clenches, and my stomach drops every time Anthony is mentioned, that’s nobody’s business but my own.
The pre-game show focuses heavily on Troy Nichols. Unsurprising, given his recent public coming out, but the anchors seem determined to concentrate on his hockey skills and emphasize his rising statistics instead of his sexuality. I appreciate their effort, and I’m sure Troy would too, if he were listening.
The first time Anthony is spoken of is when they are declaring the starting netminder for each team. I perk up, warmth suffusing my limbs as I picture his dark eyes behind the cage on his mask. The sportscaster seems to be a little bit in lovewith him, rattling off records and stats with the rapidity of an auctioneer; I can hardly blame him, since I’m a little bit in love with him as well.
The game starts fast, with both teams fighting for an early foothold. The Sanhover and Nichols line has a new member, after losing St. James last season, which is giving the anchors another thing to gossip about. They’re doing an admirable job of skirting around the obvious conversational choice of ‘Troy Nichols is gay’; somebody needs to give these men a raise.
South Carolina scores first, Monroe picking the pocket of an opposing forward and setting Troy up for a backdoor goal. The wordsmagicandartare thrown around on the broadcast, making me smile into the empty room. I wish I was watching the game, and seriously consider saying fuck it and putting it on my laptop. But I’ve already extended myself way beyond my allotted screen time for the day, and my eyes are exhausted. Listening will have to do.
By the end of the first period, Anthony has saved fourteen shots on goal, one of which really did sound like magic. Muting the broadcast while the game is on intermission, I tap out a quick text to him. We’ve been communicating pretty steadily, since summer ended and his preseason began, but haven’t been in the same room since that last day. I miss him terribly, in a way uncomfortably similar to the way I missed my perfect vision right after I lost it; like something fundamental is missing from me. Sending the text, I settle back down on the couch and wait for the game to resume. He won’t be able to reply now, but at least he’ll have it when the game ends.
The second period sees the opposing team even the score and has the game sitting at 1-1 going into the third. And then, as though to raise a big middle finger to every hockey fan who doubted him, Troy Nichols scores a hat trick. Predictably, and as well they should, the announcers lose it—excitedly glorifying thefact that the first out gay NHL player scored a hattie during the first regular season game. I hope Martin Tremblay is watching and chokes on it.
Anthony
For the first time in over a month, I feel happy. The roar of the home crowd and the light in Troy’s eyes as he bumps his helmet against mine in the lineup have me smiling wide enough to hurt my cheeks. We have a 4-1 win in the opening game, and three of those were Nicky’s—and a big fuck you to every asshole who said he didn’t belong in the league anymore.Corwin is the last to tap a gloved hand on my helmet, leaning his forehead against mine. He looks sweaty and exhausted, and his eyes are bright with fervor. He’s not smiling, because it’s him, but I can feel it all the same.
I scan the crowd as we meander toward the bench. I’d seen several signs pressed against the glass during warmups that are now absent—their authors having been ejected from the arena. The signs that do remain mainly feature bright, rainbow colors; smiling, I head down the chute and take my place next to Troy in the locker room. Reaching over, I give a gentle tousle to his disgusting hair. Beaming, he leans his shoulder against mine.
Going through the motions of stripping down, I’m more than halfway undressed before I check my phone. As if this night couldn’t get any better, there are two texts from Nico waiting. Grinning, I sit back down.
Nico:“The magic hands of Anthony Lawson” is a direct quote from the live broadcast. If they only knew.
I snort, smile widening. Troy looks over and I wink at him, holding up my phone. “Magic hands.”
His already flushed face turns a little more crimson. “Gross.”
Laughing, I look back down at the second text. Thinking through a dozen replies, I eventually tap out a message to send back.
Nico:I’m proud of you. The whole team, but mostly you.
Anthony:I miss you.
Putting my phone away, I listen to the post-game speeches and try to maintain my good mood. Troy is antsy as always, knees bouncing with impatience beside me; Sam was here, as he always is for home games, and is likely waiting outside the locker room door for him. When Coach finally sends us on our way, Troy is out the door like a shot. Corwin, who had watched him leave, locks eyes with me in shared amusement.
“Hey, Lawson! What’s the plan for tonight?” There are a chorus of shouts as several of my teammates chime in. I’ve dug myself into something of a hole, these past few seasons, as being the one who’s always willing to go out for a celebratory beer and to pick up women. There are only a handful of single guys on the team, and I’ve so long been a part of their number they’ve grown used to me joining them at the bars. I can imagine only a few things I’d like to do less, tonight.
