Austin
June
It was just a party.
A small family gathering— according to my mother— to celebrate my being drafted into the NHL. Nothing to worry about. Right. And I was Celine Dion. Whom I kind of secretly adored but kept it hidden because… hockey players didn’t listen to Celine Dion. They listen to Metallica and thrash. It was one of a few things I kept hidden because hockey players just didn’t.
Blowing out a breath, I studied the fifty or more people packed into our little backyard in Liberty Village. Ninety-nine-point-nine percent were either hockey players, married to hockey players, or had been involved with hockey in some way. To say that hockey was the lifeblood of the Rowe family would’ve been spot-on and then some.
Hockey ran through our veins. And no one had more of that elite blood than my older cousin, Tennant Madsen-Rowe who was here, with my other famous Rowe cousins Jamie and Brady. The sun was setting on Toronto. Shadows grew long as the party rolled along, but no one cast a longer shadow than Tennant. My father had groomed me to take his place as the most famous Rowe to ever play hockey. No pressure there.
Ryker flopped down beside me in the glider. He was another cousin— by marriage or something— and we’d never met in person before.
“I have never talked this much hockey in my life, and that’s saying something.” Ryker grumped.
“Yeah, it’s like air in the Rowe household don’t you know?” I tossed out, took a swig of my orange soda, and then burped. My gut was a tangled mess. If I didn’t draft high… well, I had to. My whole future rode on it. I couldn’t let Dad down.
“Oh yeah, I’m familiar.” Ryker leaned back and stared at the big men and beautiful women milling around. “Nervous about tomorrow?”
“I’ve reached the puking into my sneakers stage.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, been there and puked that.”
I smiled a little. “I’m sorry I didn’t make it to your wedding. I was in school and then had a tourney and—”
He waved me off as Tennant laughed at something one of my twin sisters was saying. Chloe and Dawne were fourteen and thought Tennant Rowe was the coolest and best-looking thing ever. Poor guy had been trailed by teens since he had arrived. “No problem. Jacob wanted to fly up with me to this, but we’re breaking ground on a project and he had to oversee it.”
“He seems nice. My dad keeps me informed about everything that happens with everyone in the States.”
“Yeah, he is incredibly nice.” Ryker glanced down at his wedding band and a softness settled over his face. “Anyway, I know you’re feeling as if your whole world is hinging on the draft tomorrow, and in a way it is.”
“Thanks!” Ugh, my gut was going to eat itself.
He chuckled. “I’m kidding. Seriously, you’ll do fine. Boston has been looking for a generational player and are willing to trade big names to get you. You’ll do fine. Just a word from someone who came up in that big shadow.” He jerked his chin at Tennant, who was baby and husband-free as little Charlotte was teething and had a slight fever so they’d gone inside. “Just be you. Play your game your way. Don’t try to be Tennant because no one can be Ten other than Ten. You’ve got skills, crazy good skills. Focus on what you bring to the game. Just be Austin.”
I stared at his profile for a long time. “Thank you. That actually kind of helps.”
“Sure it did. I’m a freaking genius.”
He laughed but I kind of thought that he was a freaking genius. “Would you mind if I kept you on speed dial for when I freak out?”
“Totally hit me up whenever. We are related. Sort of. Somehow.”
Poor guy. He had no clue how often I freaked out. I hoped his husband was as cool as he said he was because I could foresee lots of calls to Ryker over the next year or so.
Chapter One
Xander
“I’m not one to make long flowery speeches. I leave that to Dunny who loves to run off at the mouth. What I will say is that I’ve reached a point in my life where I can no longer hide who I am from the world or the fans nor do I wish to. I’m a bisexual man in a sport that is slowly—painfully slowly, it feels—growing in acceptance of LGBTQ players, thanks in no small part to the bravery of Tennant Rowe. Thank you for your time.”
Less than one hundred words spoken but those few sentences would forever change my life. For the good or for the bad remained to be seen. Judging by the looks of shock my best friend Eli Kingsley was wearing, I had to assume some of that bad was headed my way. And rightfully so.
I’d kept my private life locked down tight.
No one had known I was bisexual because on the odd occasion I dated, it was women, and really it’s not anyone’s business what I get up to behind bedroom doors. So, yeah, no one knew anything. Not the team or my parents. No. One.
Of course, there had been a few men, meaningless hookups, whom I’d used to scratch the itch, but they’d not known who I was. Dark bathrooms, no names exchanged, bust a nut and leave without a thank you slaking of basic needs thing. I’d thought I’d been careful. Fuck, I had been careful. Giving some rando a blowjob in an alley at night while wearing sunglasses and a ballcap was sadly cliché and always left a bad taste in my mouth. Pun sort of intended.
Seems I wasn’t as clever as I’d thought. Rando guy from a month ago in Columbus had taken note of the tattoo on my wrist when he’d been on his knees in a slimy men’s room in a tacky gay bar. It wasn’t a large tat or anything bright or flashy. Xander Holden didn’t do flashy. It was just a small fish. A memento of a summer getaway with my folks. I’d taken them to Hawaii and after a few cocktails—okay—my mother and I had gotten inked. Dad had gone to sleep off his mai tais and had missed the drunken tattoo talk. Mom had gotten a pretty little tropical fish on her left wrist. I’d gotten a tribal design koi chasing its tail. Nothing gaudy. Xander Holden, aka the man in the closet, didn’t do gaudy either.
How the fuck this rando guy had known who I was simply by spying my koi tattoo while I was stroking his jaw as he sucked me off, I have no clue. It had been so murky and shadowed in the stall, I could barely see my dick between his lips. But he’d somehow figured it out. He did the two plus two and within two days of that shitty BJ, he’d contacted me on Twitter via personal messenger and asked for money to keep my secret.
One short DM and my life had crumbled around me. I refused to call the cops and I refused to be bullied. I played hockey for the Boston Rebels. Defensemen for the original six teams did not allow themselves to be bullied. So I took a day to cry alone in my condo, then I beat the asshole to the punch. They can’t blackmail you if the whole world knows the secret. I’d taken a personal day and flown down to Tampa where my parents lived and told them everything. They’d been incredibly accepting but hurt that I’d not felt able to tell them when I was a teen. And now I was seeing that same pain in Eli’s eyes. And it sucked.
Brady, the Rebels captain and my defensive partner, and Nick, team owner, hustled me away from the press. I wasn’t taking questions. I’d told them I was bi and that was all they were getting out of me on the subject.
“Team meeting,” Brady announced as my teammates silently trudged along behind me. “Mr. Sinclair wants all of us in the video room in ten minutes. No calls to family are allowed until after this meeting.”
Good old Brady. The poor bastard. I’d laid this on him yesterday after morning skate. Then I’d ridden up to Nick Sinclair’s posh office overlooking the ice with my captain/diversity union rep at my side to drop the bomb on Sinclair. To say that the always volatile Nicolaus Icarus Sinclair took the news well would have been a lie. Nick tended to explode with little provocation. I assumed it was his Mediterranean blood that gave him such fire. The man was still smoldering today, but the inferno had died down.
“I need to talk to you a minute,” Eli said as we made our way to the video room. I nodded. It was only right I give him some personal time. He’d been my best friend since we’d been toddlers. We’d grown up together, lived side-by-side, had both skipped college to come to Boston to play. We were as tight as he was with his younger brother, Mason. He of the sensual eyes and lush lips. Mason. The one man who I shouldn’t be so damn attracted to and yet… yeah, and yet. Even thinking about the way his eyes sparkled when he smiled or the way he tipped his head when in thought was off-limits. He was Eli’s baby brother. One didn’t wheel a fellow teammate’s little sister or brother. And one most certainly did not wheel a best friend’s sibling. That was asking for drama I didn’t need at the moment.
Shaking off the image of Eli’s brother, I led him into the skate sharpening room. No one was here, obviously. Everyone had been at my presser. Everyone except my agent who’d dropped me when I’d called him yesterday to tell him I was bi. Or rather I dropped him when all he could say was that I’d better stay quiet and just date women because bi wasn’t a real thing. Guess ten years of him getting ten percent of everything I earned wasn’t enough to buy me some respect or understanding. I suspected I would lose more than an agent before this all settled down.
Eli closed the door then leaned on it, his eyes glittering with pain. I studied the racks of skates needing attention. When I finally looked back at him, his lips were as thin as a papercut.
“I’m sorry for not telling you,” I blurted out.
“Yeah, well, I appreciate that, but it still hurts that you hid this from me for… forever!” Eli snapped then drew in a long breath and closed his eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get loud. I know how hard it is for people to come out. Mason kept it from everyone for a few years until he was ready, so I get it but still, Xan, man it hurts. I won’t lie. Fucking Brady knew before I did.”
I drew in a slow breath. “I had to tell him. He’s the diversity rep and our captain and my defensive partner.” His eyes rounded. “I know you’re my best friend, but I had to get a handle on something in a hurry.”
“What thing? The bi thing?” He folded his arms across his chest, his forearms resting on the revolutionary war eagle that was our Rebels logo. “I knew something was off with you. You’ve been so damn angry at the world forever.”
I had been? Okay, yeah, that was a fair call.
“No, well yeah, but… some guy I hooked up with wanted five hundred grand, or he would tell the press that I was into guys.”
His jaw dropped. “Holy fucking hell, Xan.”
I shrugged. Then I filled him in as quickly as possible. Sinclair wanted to talk to us and the smell of all these sweaty skates was becoming overpowering.
“I hate people,” Eli grumbled after the sordid tale was told.
“Yeah, I’m not too fond of people at the moment either. Maybe I’ll just become a monk.” Eli snorted and it was that stupid sound that told me we’d be okay. Eventually. “If it helps, my parents just found out three days ago.”
“Jesus. For a guy who shuns attention… ”
“Yeah, I know. Trust me, this was not how I wanted my coming out to go.”
“I get that, buddy.” He uncrossed his arms so he could grab my shoulders. Our eyes met and held. “And if I ever find out who this asshole is I’ll drop a hammer on him. I might not be a big, bad D-man like you, but I can kick ass when warranted. And if anyone on the ice gets lippy about you being queer my fist will find their face. Just putting that out there.”
“Thanks. That means a lot.” I got a little emotional. Eli gave my shoulders a squeeze. “It’s great that you’re willing to toss the gloves for me but maybe you should let me handle any instigators. Remember the last time you threw down with Adler Lockhart? The dude whipped you like a rug.”
Eli made that pig-like snort sound. “In my defense, he caught me unaware with some stupid joke about a rabbit, a priest, and minister walking into a bar. While I was trying to figure out whether he meant rabbit or rabbi, he sucker punched me in the face.”
“Dude, that was no sucker punch. People in the rafters saw it coming.”
Eli tugged me into his chest. We bro hugged for a long time then we broke apart. “We better get to that meeting, but we’re not done discussing this. And don’t ever hide shit from me again. We made a blood pact.”
I smiled. The first smile to grace my face in days. “I won’t do it again.”
“Okay then. Let’s go see what Sinclair has to say to us.”
We gave each other one more hug then hurried to the video room. Coach Franks met me at the door, chunky scarred hand extended. I shook the old defenseman’s hand. All eyes rested on us. Austin and Brady Rowe stood and began clapping. Soon the entire room was on its feet aside from Nick Sinclair, who had draped his slim frame over a rolling desk chair. I ducked my head. Eli clapped me on the back then we dropped into our usual seats. I hated attention. I wasn’t here to dance in the spotlight. I was here to play hockey. That was it.
Nick got to his feet, tugged down his expensive suit jacket, and ran a hand over his ebony hair. He was a handsome son-of-a-bitch. Lean, not overly tall but not super short, always full of spunk and energy which would do him well as he’d taken over all his late father’s vast holdings, including a hockey team. Not too bad for a man not even forty years old yet. He wasn’t my type at all, but his smoldering dark looks and designer clothes won him the eye of many. Being one of the richest men in Massachusetts didn’t hurt his appeal either.
“You know I’m not one to beat around the bush so I’m going to say it right out. I’ve been known to knock boots with guys on occasion myself. If anyone in this room wants to make it known to the team and or the Rebels management that they’re LGBTQ, now is a great time to free yourselves. This is an inclusive organization. We do not tolerate hate in our hallowed halls. The first time I hear of anyone using a racial or phobic slur of any kind your ass is grass, and I will be the motherfucking lawnmower. I have zero tolerance for hateful shit in any business I run.” Sinclair looked out at the room. “I’m not forcing anyone to come out. I wouldn’t do that, and I can’t legally. What I’m asking is that if you decide to make any announcements, let me know beforehand please and try to give me more than twenty-four hours’ notice. I’m not a fan of last-minute surprises. Dry humps suck.” He looked at me. I nodded in understanding.
Trust me, boss, if I would’ve had a choice I’d have handled it with far more reserve and grace. Or maybe stayed in the closet until I’d retired.
“Just wanted to get that out there. Feel free to talk to Brady if you have something bothering you or come to me or the team counselor. We’ll have your backs,” Nick said and then looked at each of us with those dark, dark eyes of his until his gaze settled on Austin. The poor kid withered under the owner’s attention then he raised a hand.
“I have a boyfriend,” Austin said softly. There was really no surprise there.
Dunny stood up. “I like dick.” The room exploded in laughter. Dunny chuckled. “Well, I do. I like pussy too. Hell, I’ll boink anything that’s got a pulse.”
“Someone lock up the sheep!” someone shouted from the back of the room.
Nick glowered. Coach Franks pinched the bridge of his nose. Brady was struggling to maintain his captainly composure. As the laughter settled, our soft-spoken goalie got to his feet. Renco rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze flickering around the room just as it did when he was doing his ocular warm-ups before a game. We all waited for him to speak but he simply made some vague motion with his hand that looked like ASL to me. He tended to do that a lot as his older sister was deaf, so I think it was second nature to him at times.
“Queer,” he said as an afterthought then sat down.
Our newest acquisition from Detroit to play rightwing on the third line, Marquis Miller, got to his shiny brown boots and tugged at the collar of his African print turtleneck sweater. Marquis had been voted one of the best-dressed players in the NHL three years in a row by magazines that do that kind of fashion thing. I never saw him in anything that wasn’t trendy or well put together. And he never wore a beanie, but he’d wear those old 40s style hats. Trendsetter they said.
People in the press talk about Nick, his family, their connections, and how they got their money. Lots of talk of Greek mafia ties that his grandfather had established before leaving Greece. I had no clue if the Stavropolous—which became Sinclair when his family arrived in America for reasons unknown—had ties to unsavory sorts or not, but Nick knew hockey. And he was making trades that would aid us in our quest for another Cup. Including the fashionable Marquis, who looked like a beefy Jon Batiste and played one hell of a physical game.
“I’m pan,” Marquis announced then sat back down as smooth as silk.
“You guys are killing me here.” Nick sounded so forlorn.
I understood where he was coming from. My announcement today was going to stir up some real shit that our PR team would be trying to shine up for palatability for weeks, if not months. The common fan wouldn’t be impressed as the common fan was male and white and more than likely straight. Professional sports were the last bastion of masculinity according to some, and the raging hetero boys clung to their outdated homophobic biases with vigor. Sure, we’d made some strides. Tennant Rowe had forced others to look at queer players with new respect as had many of his teammates and a few players out in Arizona. So while I wasn’t the lone target for the haters, I was going to be the newest one. And that could translate to empty seats.
“Coach, they’re all yours now. Oh, and we ask you all not to comment publicly on Xander’s announcement unless it’s to say you’re an ally and fully support your teammate. If you don’t feel that way, fine, that’s your right but do not spout hateful rhetoric to the press or fans. And for the love of my grandmother’s fasolatha keep your views to yourself on social media.”
Nick left, and our attention turned to Coach Franks as he walked over to the light switch. “So, I think we all know where the team stands on today’s announcement. Keep in mind that we’re a team. We play as one and we support each other. With that said, since we’re all here let’s spend the next hour doing our jobs.”
The lights went off, the video screen lit up, and we put aside the shitstorm brewing outside to do that hockey thing we got paid to do.
“Hey, guys, did you see this story coming out of Fort Lauderdale?”
Everyone looked at me.
“I didn’t do it,” I quickly said as I lifted my hands up innocently. “I was here in Boston.”
“No, it’s nothing bad like you’re used to,” Austin blurted out. Xander swatted him upside the head. The boy’s eyes bugged out, and his soft cheeks turned scarlet. “Oh! No, I didn’t mean you did bad stuff! Being drunk isn’t bad. Well, it kind of is bad when you run off the road and hit a mailbox. It’s not bad in a bad way. It’s, uhm… well, it’s just an addiction right, and you’re not drinking anymore so it’s all okay. No, well, okay in that you’ve stopped drinking and are now—”
“It’s okay, Rowe, I know what you meant, and it’s fine. I did some pretty fucked up things when I was under the influence of alcohol.”
Austin wilted a bit. “Okay, thanks. I didn’t mean to imply that addictions are bad. I mean they are! No, not bad like bad but—”
“It’s okay, kid. Just move onto the news story.” I chuckled. Moral lobbed a chunk of apple at Austin. He ducked it and the glob smacked Kyle in the cheek.
“Right, yeah, so there’s this guy down in Florida who’s looking for a bone marrow donor for his daughter. He showed up at a preseason hockey game to search for some mysterious fan called ‘Hockey Guy’ which the dead mother named as the possible father.”
“Shit, so the guy is raising his daughter alone?” Moral asked, the sad news slowing his inhalation of muffins for a moment.
“Wait…” He placed his muffin on its plate. “If he’s the father then why is he looking for the father?”
“He’s the baby’s uncle but has been raising her as her father. It’s all super sad and everyone in the league is signing up to see if they’re a match for the little girl with leukemia. Look at her.” He showed us all an image of an adorable little girl of perhaps three and her daddy/uncle who was also cute as hell. “We should sign up.”
