There are plenty of people from my past who have stayed silent, of course. I’ve tried not to wonder why they aren’t reaching out because it’s easy to assume the worst. Among people who have been in contact, I’ve been hurt by the few who felt it was necessary toexpress disappointment or disgust, especially a teammate I’d considered a friend back then. The parents of one player pulled him from our juniors program, and I apologized to everyone else. A couple of former New Jersey players have made biting comments to the press, but I shrug those off okay. I know there are fans who have thrown my jerseys in the trash, if they’re not burning them outright, but maybe having the cheers fade around me prepared me well.
Or maybe I’ve been so grateful for all the brand new applause, no matter how quiet some of it has been.
There are teammates and rivals who’ve reached out to support me. Some have had personal stories I wouldn’t dare share with anyone but Mateo. So many fans have started wearing my jersey again, after having kept it in the back of their closets for years. And more parents have thanked me for the effect my honesty could have on their kids’ future, and maybe that’s what gets to me most of all.
Coming out like I have won't change hockey culture overnight. I’m not sure it’ll change anything—notably, at least—in one year or five years or ten. But I’ve taken a step, and that step leads somewhere.
The league hasn’t released a statement, but that doesn’t mean they don’t know it, too.
My thoughts fade when Mateo kisses me deeply and grabs my wrist, moving me until I can touch his dick beneath our duvet and over his boxer briefs. We’ve been in bed for a while, talking drowsily, mostly about things we’ve discussed before. I don’t think we’d had any plans to fuck about it. Maybe we still won’t. Both of us are soft, and the kiss isn’t hurried. But then his tongue slows, and he moans when I stroke the fabric pulled tight over him.
“Do you really want to keep this conversation going?” he asks. “Or can we move to something far more incoherent instead?”
His hand is cupping me now, and I’ve never been less than pliant in his grip. “Incoherent is good.”
We stop talking and go back to the kissing that could keep me almost as satisfied as anything else he has in mind. We’re older and more tired, and we can have each other any night we want. There are no demands being made by either of us now, but our bodies respond to this familiar want. Even with both of our hands between us, we arch into the contact, seeking more pressure. It’s so simple, rubbing each other’s cocks while pushing up against the back of our own hands. Still, something about it feels at least as filthy as anything else we’ve done. It’s probably because Mateo doesn’t want to get closer to naked first.
The next few minutes are clumsy and desperate. I kick at the duvet because it’s too warm. We’re panting into each other’s mouths as much as we’re kissing now, but it gives us the space to say a dozen vulgar things. By the time we come, our briefs are more of a mess than our hands, and we find ourselves in a fit of laughter that lasts a while. When that dies down, and we’re still breathing the same air, Mateo surprises me more than anyone has in the days since our arena video went viral.
“Should we get married?”
My eyes go wide and my jaw drops. I think I giggle like I’m eight years old. “Should I consider this an actual proposal when our hands are still sticky and you’re asking like that?”
“I—I’m not sure whether I meant for it to be a proposal or just a—we’ve never really talked about it,” he says, his sleepy smile enough to make me say yes to anything. “Everything we’ve said has been about forever, but I don’t know what forever means.”
“And you taught my daughter’s English class?Twice?”
Mateo’s tongue in my mouth means I have to shut up. Just as abruptly, he pulls away and rolls out of bed to toss his boxer briefs in the hamper and wash his hands. I follow, do the same, and grab clean clothes for both of us. Then I drag him back to bed—to sleep this time.
He tugs the duvet over us, and I press my back to his chest so he can speak into my ear. “We don’t need to figure it out now. I know I get forever with you either way, but maybe we can talk about it sometime soon. Maybe we can—”
“Yes,” I say, clearing my throat when it’s not clear enough. “Yes, we should get married.”
It happens in our backyard on a warm August evening, ten years after I brought Mateo home without him knowing. Only about 20 guests are in attendance, more than half of them family. All of them are overcome by laughter and happy tears. We’d invited my parents, but they’d declined to celebrate with us. They sent a card, fancy Hallmark script wishing us the best.
Our honeymoon is full of hammocks and Mai Tais and loud and slow.
Six months later, we take advantage of Taylor’s gift to us and spend a week on a frozen lake.
In between Mateo’s non-proposal and the wedding and more wishes come true, I get formally interviewed during a game. Mateo and I pose for pictures and tell our story. Public reaction remains mixed, but it feels more positive than not, and I couldn’t imagine still waiting for the rest of my life to start. Hockey loved me for as long as it could. I don’t think it’ll ever fully let go, but I had to let something else in.
I had to remember who else I am.
“Hey, Jamie,” Mateo calls out. “There’s someone here to see you.”
I turn to look at him and push my sunglasses to the top of my head. Another school year has just come to an end, even more of hisgraying hair well-earned. We’re enjoying the summer morning by the pool, the ocean out of sight from where I lie on a lounge chair. He’d only left to get us something to eat and drink, so I’m surprised that we’re no longer alone. For a moment, I study him where he stands calmly at the patio door. A soft smile is on his face, and damp swim trunks cling to his muscular thighs. I assume Harper must’ve driven down, since she’s on her summer break, too. Or maybe Kai, if he’s got someone else opening the bar today.
It’s neither of them.
When Mateo takes a step to the side, I almost can’t believe I’d missed the sheer bulk behind him. It’s Sami Eriksson, one of the young guys I’d coached in New Jersey during his first two years in the league. For a strange second, I wonder if he’s here to brag about their Cup win a couple of weeks ago. The thought doesn’t last because I’m entirely happy for them, and he looks as nervous as he did the first time he walked into my office.
“Hey, Eriksson,” I say, sitting up and swinging my legs until my feet are flat on the warm concrete. “This is a surprise.”
“Yes. It’s a surprise. I’m sorry, but McKeon gave me your home address so we could speak privately. It’s very beautiful here.”
I appreciate the quick answer to a question I hadn’t asked yet, and the compliment to go with it. Then I motion for him to sit on the lounge chair I’m facing. Mateo returns with chips and dip and two open bottles of beer, but he leaves them for us and nods toward the house before slipping away again.
I meet Sami’s blue eyes with mine when neither of us reaches for the food, his hands in anxious fists against his knees. “Take a deep breath, kid. I’m right here. I don’t have anywhere else to be.”