TenKarma. It’s a real bitch. Just ask anyone.
I’d left my man and my team behind in Harrisburg and flown to—get this—fucking Tucson, Arizona, to begin treatment for my traumatic head injury.
The same city the Raptors played in.
I could open the blinds in my room here in the Draper Neurological Rehabilitation and Performance Center and see the glistening mirrored sides of the Santa Catalina Arena. Funny shit right there. Four blocks over, the Raptors were on the ice for morning skate, and I was here, trying to get my brain healed enough so I could maybe play my game again someday.
Shit, right now I’d be happy to be able to speak or read normally.
“Ho, ho, ho,” I growled, closing the drapes, then pulling my sunglasses off and tossing them to the bed. Living behind sunglasses and blinds sucked. Headaches sucked. Slurred speech sucked. Seeing the pity in the eyes of my boyfriend and family and teammates sucked. Christmas with sand and cactus sucked. I wanted to cry. I wanted to be back home with Mads, decorating our tree and shaking my presents. I wanted to be shopping for gifts for my boyfriend, my mother and father, for my brothers, and for Stan and Adler and all the Railers. I wanted things to be the way they had been before that night. Tears threatened, but I held them in. Crying only made my head hurt worse.
So, I padded out of my room and made my way to breakfast and the first of several rounds of rehab I’d be facing today. I’d been here one day and had come to realize that my brain was now as well-known with the neurologists here as my face was back in Harrisburg. This was the place for athletes to come when they were battling CTE-related brain issues. Most of the men here were older, retired players, lots of football players. I mean lots of them. I’d met three other hockey players so far, all retired, all fighting to keep a step ahead of the disease taking over their brains. Sometimes, late at night, when I was lying in bed, I’d get scared for myself and all the other guys on my team. I worried about Mads. God knows how many concussions he’d had when he was playing. Add that to his heart shit and… well, I worried about stuff now. Lots more stuff than I had before the night my head met the ice, sans helmet.
The facility held a hundred and fifty people, and not all of us were athletes. Lots of patients had come here after car accidents or other catastrophic injuries. There were head injuries and spinal cord injuries being healed. The staff seemed nice, confident in their ability to nurse me back to my old self or as close as we could get. The halls were bright and airy, the food excellent, and the medical staff top-notch. And yes, it was expensive and elite and the cream of the crop. Which was why Mads had stubbornly pushed me into coming here after my initial rehab had been completed. Two weeks at the facility, a couple of weeks back home for the holidays, then back for another four weeks. Then maybe we’d talk about hockey.
“Hey, you’re Tennant Rowe, right?”
I skidded to a halt outside one of a dozen sun-rooms. As though people in Arizona didn’t get enough sun just stepping outside? They needed to make rooms for sun? A tall, burly black man about my age ran at me, hand out. I smiled up at him, trying to pull some information about him from my cloudy memory banks.
“I’m Declan Fidler, cornerback for the Temple Owls.”
“Ah, cool, hey man.” We shook hands. God, he was cute. Short hair and a flashy smile, big wide shoulders and inkwork all over his arms. “Sorry to see you here though, dude.”
“Yeah, I know that.” He ran a hand over his hair. “First game of the season too.”
“That sucks,” I said, then released his hand. “I was on my way to the dining hall.”
“I could eat if you want some company.”
“Totally. Be nice to have someone to talk to who’s under forty.”
“I feel that.”
He joined me on the walk to the dining hall, which looked nothing like the hospital cafeteria I’d been expecting when I first saw it yesterday. This place was upmarket. Round tables with cloth covers, thick royal-blue carpeting, windows that ran floor to ceiling, flowering plants in the corners, and a wait staff.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this place,” I murmured as I followed Declan to a table by the windows.
“I feel the same way,” he said as we took our seats. “I mean, I grew up wealthy, my father’s the chief justice of the Pennsylvania Supreme Court, and I was still blown away.”
“That’s impressive. Did he…?” My brain went totally blank, and I scrambled to find the proper word. “Push. Yeah, did he push to get you in here?” I winced at the slip.
Fuck this shit. Really. Push? How fucking hard it is to recall a word like push?
An older woman in a tidy uniform filled our water glasses, then asked if she could have our room numbers. All the meals here were prepared by nutritionists with an eye to the patients’—athletes in my case—unique needs.
“Big-time. He was adamant about me coming here after the initial rehab. Said that this place would do things to counter the damage that no regular rehab could do. You here for CRT?”
“I uhm…” and that skip again. Fuck. “Dude, sorry, I’m like…” I tapped my temple.
He reached over the table to take my hand. “Ten, man, do not sweat it. You should have seen me when I got here. Barely able to string four words together. Sometimes I still trip up, just like that. But it’s all good. We’re tough motherfuckers. We’ll train our brains.”
“Yeah, train the brains. Cool.”
He gave my hand a squeeze and then released it. “So CRT?”
Our food was served, my platter loaded with scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, a bowl of oatmeal, and chocolate milk. My meds also sat on my tray. Declan’s food was similar, as were the meds in tiny cups lined up for him.
“Cognitive rehab therapy,” he said before shaking out his napkin and laying it over his lap. I did the same and tossed down the pills. I had no idea what they were pumping into me, and I truly didn’t care. As long as they got me back on the ice, they could be dumping Soylent green into my body via the milk. Man, that old movie rocked. What I wouldn’t give to be curled up on the couch with Mads watching it again. “Speech, occupation, and physical therapy. You don’t have any big physical issues, do you?”
“Some weakness on the left side, my arm, but it’s getting better. I hardly drop anything now.”
“That’s good. Once the swelling goes down, things tend to get better.” He took a bite from a slice of whole wheat toast. “I can’t believe I’m sitting here eating with you. Cup winner, LGBT crusader. Thanks for doing that, coming out, being proud and gay. I know how hard that is. My family and team have been amazing about my being queer.”
“Excellent. Glad they’re… fuck, I just. Give me a sec. Yeah, uhm, glad it’s good for you. I’m sorry. Sometimes I can go, like, whole days and barely fuck up, and then I’ll hit this patch where my brain glitches out and… shit. Fuck. Okay, I’m going to shut up for a minute and let my neurons… fire or something.”
“It’s fine. I understand.” And he did. I could see it in his eyes. He totally got it because he was living it too.
I wished everyone else in my life could get it as Declan did. We ate in amiable silence, not that heavy, cloaking pity blanket of quietude that my family draped over me every time I fumbled.
Therapy followed that pleasant breakfast, hours of it. Doctors and nurses, therapists, reading and tests and poking and prodding. Weights and treadmills and medicine balls. Shoving tiny pegs into tinier holes, pet therapy which was actually cool because who didn’t love a dog kiss? Speech therapy was last, and I tanked at it. Totally blew it to shit with my inability to recall one simple phrase. It made me so mad I flipped the table, sending papers and pencils flying. Then, because I had no clue where that outburst had come from, I felt even shittier.
“Tennant, it’s okay,” the woman, who was some fancy kind of advanced speech therapist, said as we picked up the mess I’d made. “Temper flare-ups are common. It’s frustrating not to be able to express yourself. We see that frequently in stroke victims.”
“That was uncool. Just so uncool. I didn’t… it wasn’t… shit.” I dropped to my ass, hands full of work sheets that looked as if a four-year-old had scribbled them down, buried my face in the papers, and wept.
Julie. Yes! That was her name. Julie sat down beside me, rubbed my back, and told me all kinds of reassuring things.
“I’m kind of done for the day,” I told her, and she let me go. I walked the halls, feeling discouraged and sickened with myself. Once I got back to my room, I called home, needing to hear Jared’s voice. As soon as he picked up, I kind of began babbling. A lot of it wasn’t sensible, and it was garbled because I’d have to stop, think, and then restart. But through all of that, Jared listened and never interrupted. When I was done, I fell back onto the bed, exhausted, battling a headache, and sick to death of myself and my stupid brain.
“Sounds like a rough first day,” Jared said. I rolled to my side, tucking my knees up, my gaze on that shiny arena where the Raptors were playing hockey right now. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come out? I can get a hotel room.”
“No, you need to work. The team needs you.”
“You need me as well, Tennant.”
“No, I got this. You can’t do this for me, Mads. Neither can Ryker or Brady or Jamie or my mother. It’s just…” I exhaled through pursed lips. “It’s so much harder than I thought it would be. I mean, I knew it would be hard but fuck sake, I couldn’t recall simple words. How will I ever be able to play if I can’t…” I stopped and calmed myself down. “I hate that this happened. I hate Aarni so much for doing this to me, Jared. I never thought I could ever hate anyone.”
“I know, babe. I wish you’d reconsider and let me come out there.”
He sounded as sick at heart as I was. And truthfully, in that moment, I was close to telling him to fly out. I so needed his arms around me.
“Tell me you love me.”
“I love you.” He drew in a shaky breath. “Do you want me to come out? Just say the word.”
I sat up slowly to avoid a head-rush and the pain that went along with those. “No, I’m good.” I pushed to my feet and went to the window. The sun was setting now, the mirrored sides of the Santa Catalina Arena glowing scarlet and pink. “I’m a tough camper. My Mom said that to me the first time I went to hockey camp.”
“Yeah? How old were you? Five months old or so?”
That made me chuckle. “Nah man, I was like six. And this camp was in Buffalo. I wanted to go so bad. I mean, I can be kind of stubborn when I want something.”
“I’m well aware of that fact,” he replied. Was he sitting down or pacing? Probably pacing because he was tension-riddled over me. “You were persistent about us.”
“Damn right I was. I knew we’d be good.” I touched the pane of glass as a smile of remembrance played on my lips. “I went to that camp, and as soon as my folks dropped me off, I wanted to come home. But Mom wouldn’t let me. She said I had to be a tough camper and that once the homesickness wore off, I’d be glad I stayed.”
“Were you?”
“Yeah, I loved it. Scored my first goal against Tommy Wayfarer. He got mad and cried.” The lights of Tucson began to flicker to life. Someone walked by my door humming Santa Claus is Coming to Town. “I’ll be okay. I just have to score my first goal here.”
“You will.”
“Yeah, I will. So, tell me about morning skate. How did the lines look?”
We talked about the Railers and about Ryker and Declan, my new therapy buddy. We talked about old movies and new songs. We talked for hours. Darkness had blanketed the city when I dozed off on him. I woke up a second later, phone still to my ear, my boyfriend chuckling.
“Wow, you snored yourself awake,” Mads said, then groaned, rising to his feet I assumed.
“Shit, yeah, I fell asleep.” A yawn rolled out of me. I flopped to my side on the bed, my sight on the desert sky over Tucson.
“I need to turn in too,” he said around a yawn.
“Yeah, you’re a couple of hours ahead of us. I’ll call you tomorrow at the same time. I love you, Mads.”
“I love you too, Ten. And your mother was right; you are a tough camper. You’ll begin to see improvement, I know you. You won’t stop until you do.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
“Wiseass.”
“I miss our goodnight kisses.” My eyes were so heavy I could barely keep them open.
“You’ll get plenty when you get home.”
“Mm, loving sounds good.”
“Yes, it does. Get some rest. Heal. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Night,” I mumbled, ended the call, and then fell into an exhausted but fitful sleep. The bed was too hard, too narrow, and far too lacking in Jared Madsen’s big, broad body.
Coach Carmichael paced the full length of the locker room, his gaze landing on each of us before he stopped right in front of Alex. This was what he did before every game. He zeroed in on one of the guys and imparted words of wisdom. Sometimes it was just a quick “get this done” with a lift of an eyebrow; other times it was this whole speech about teamwork and how good the picked-on player could be if only he did X, Y, or Z. On most occasions, he lightened the tone. Sometimes he even made a joke, although none of us laughed in case he was being ironic; none of us wanted to get on Coach’s bad side after all.
Before the last game, it had been me under the spotlight, being reminded that scrappiness in the corners was a prerequisite and not a choice. I’d held his gaze, even as Alex had snickered next to me, and Jens had scrubbed his face with his hands, trying not to laugh. One turnover against Boston and I would be labeled as the guy who got sloppy in the corners for the rest of the damn season, but what everyone had failed to mention was that I’d had Brady Rowe all the fuck over me and I’d been intimidated. Every rookie had their first time breaking under intimidation, and that had been my moment, and I’d sure as hell wanted to own it. But that was the last game. This game it was Alex who would get the pep talk. I waited with bated breath and a barely held snicker at this payback.
Coach crossed his arms over his chest. “The Railers will put Tennant Rowe’s line out against the JAR line.”
I exchanged glances with Jens, who was the J in the Jens/ Alex/ Ryker line, or JAR as we were now known by pundits, haters, and fans alike, and he gave me a look that spoke volumes. Going up against the Railers was something that only happened a few times a year. After all, the Pennsylvania team was in the Eastern Conference, and we were in the West, but given they were third in the overall table to our scratchy twenty-third, we all knew that tonight was going to be one long-ass fight to come away with any points at all.
That’s defeatist, my dad’s words flew into my thoughts. He always told me that the game was won in a man’s head way before he started to play, and I respected the hell out of my dad, who was coach to the same damn Railers team we were facing tonight.
“You know you’ll have their best D-Men out against you, Ulfsson and Sato-West, so for fuck’s sake keep your heads up and stay on task.” He waved to include me and Jens. “To quote the Great One, 'skate to where the puck is going to be, not where it has been’, okay? Watch for any space and play the game. I want shots on goal because tonight we’re playing the statistics game.”
My brain went immediately to another well-timed Gretsky quote, ‘you miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take’.
Yay for that to pop into my thoughts when we were potentially going to come away losing ten-one to one of the best teams ever fielded in the NHL.
“Coach,” Alex murmured, and we all said the same. The pep talk wasn’t just for Alex. It was for all of us, really, and we knew that. “We can do this,” Coach added and slowly turned a full three-sixty.
“We can win against this team. We have the pieces in place. We just need to move in the right direction. Let’s call the starting lineup,” he instructed and handed the clipboard to Colorado, who was our backup goalie tonight, nursing a sprained groin muscle. Whether or not it was from hockey or one of his particularly active sex marathons he talked so much about , we didn’t know. Still, he was there if we needed him, but on the other hand, we really hoped we didn’t because just recently he’d become even more erratic than he’d been before. Colorado grinned wolfishly, then tapped the board in an imitation drum roll.
“Forwards: Jens, Cherry, Madsen; D-men: Novikov, Myers, and Lemon is our starting goalie.” At that point, he fist-bumped Andre LeMans, who just sighed at the fact that his nickname had somehow become Lemon, just as Alex Garcia had become Cherry. Part of me wished I’d get a cool nickname as well, but Mads was already taken by my dad, and even though other players used it, I kind of wanted my own. One day.
Each name was met by a small cheer, and by the time we were lined up in the tunnel, waiting for warm-ups, I was pumped. This was going to be good. I just had to forget it was the Railers and focus on the fact that I’d practiced against Ten, my unofficial/ official stepdad, for so long over the summer I’d begun to learn some of the things he did so well. Of course, seeing him tonight wasn’t going to be fun like we’d had in the heat of summer. This was serious shit. The Raptors needed the points desperately, and I couldn’t even look at my dad on the Railers bench in case he smiled at me with encouragement or was in coach mode and scowled at me as an opposing player. Unfortunately, Ten hadn’t gotten the memo about avoiding me as he was waiting at the center line as I passed.
“Ry.” He nodded and skated slowly away, giving me a smile that was half love and half we’re-gonna-crush-you. I smiled back and returned his nod, sending a puck across the ice to land on his stick. He passed it back, and that was all we did by way of acknowledging each other as opponents.
Then after a short break, it was game on, and the Railers were three goals up in the first period with Ten’s line out every single damn time the JAR line was out. There wasn’t a hope in hell of them making a mistake so we could steal the puck.
But then, early in the second period, Adler Lockhart, made a mistake. He turned over the puck, and I could hear the collective gasps in the arena and probably from every single person watching this game on TV. The Railers didn’t do turnovers, and at first, our line froze, and then it became obvious what had happened. Lockhart’s stick had tangled after a heroic dive from our best D-Man and captain, Vlad.
Vlad shuttled the puck to Alex, and what Alex did next was a thing of beauty. He hared up the rink toward Stan Lyamin, making it look as if he was going straight to shoot, and then in a highlight reel move, he passed left to Jens, who sent it streaking from his stick onto mine. There was no way I could dust this pass off; we didn’t have time. We’d caught the Railers off guard, and I had to shoot now. Otherwise, Stan would close that tiny gap he’d left, thinking Alex was firing a slap shot from the other end. Everything slowed down, instinct kicked in, and I visualized where it was going. I could feel every muscle in me screaming to make this the right shot for this moment.
When the puck left my stick, it didn’t even wobble or waver. It headed straight for the hole between Stan’s glove and his beloved pipes— a hole that was closing, even as the puck flew. He missed the flying rubber disc by an inch, the net straining as the puck hit it, and somehow the Raptors had scored against the Railers, and we had pulled a goal back. The siren sounded in the arena, the Raptors fans going wild, and I went to one knee, celebrating in the most dramatic way I could. That goal, the first I’d ever scored against my dad and Ten, was one I would remember forever.
After that, it was almost okay that we lost by four goals.
Alex and I met Dad and Ten after the game. With only three days to go until Christmas, it was hard to find any suitable place we could meet up, so we’d asked them back to our place, which had a tiny tree in one corner and lights around the arch into the kitchen. We were done with official games before Christmas, with five days off because of the way the game schedule fell for us. Not so much for the Railers, who had games in Dallas and Florida close to Christmas Day.
After tomorrow’s practice and postgame analysis, my Christmas break started, although losing to the Railers five to one wasn’t a brilliant result for us to discuss as a team. Whatever. Nothing was going to mess with my excitement at spending an entire five days with Jacob.
Ten waltzed into our place, looking all kinds of badass, then hugged me so tight I couldn’t breathe.
“So proud of you, Ry,” he wouldn’t let me go until Dad pried him away.
“Nice goal, son,” Dad said gruffly and held me almost as tight. “So fucking tight.”
“What about my feint and pass?” Alex teased when we all separated, and he got included in hugs as well, along with congratulations from Ten. Alex was spending time with his family, and that included his partner, Sebastian, and I know he was apprehensive, although things had been better recently. At least Sebastian had been invited to spend time with Alex’s family, so that was a win.
“Presents!” Ten announced, and I heard Dad groan. Ten had this way of going into a shop and buying everything. No joke. From a bargain-bin bobblehead to expensive skates, he just wanted to give everything to everyone, donating a shit ton of money to local charities anonymously and helping to make peoples’ Christmases good ones.
Even Alex was in on the gift exchange, and we spent a good hour laughing and drinking beer and celebrating Christmas early. Part of me was sad that I wasn’t seeing Mom and Dad in the break, but Dad was down south, and he had Ten, and as for Mom, she was on vacation in Mexico with her husband and my little sisters. Everything had worked out so well for both of them, but I knew if I’d been alone, then either Mom or Dad would have been there for me.
Only this year, I wasn’t going to be alone at all.
I was going to Jacob’s farm, staying in some old cabin he and his dad had spent the fall renovating. Scott was coming with Hayne, and Benoit was visiting with Ethan for at least three days. The six of us had been planning this Christmas break since the NHL bigwigs had released the schedule, and it would be so good to catch up with Scott and Ben, if only to shoot the shit and remember life before everything had gone to hell. Owatonna College seemed so long ago, and chilling with friends was exactly what I needed. Not that it was only a college reunion. After all, we’d invited Henry as well, but he was only coming out of the therapy facility for a few days and spending the time with his family this Christmas, although he didn’t seem all that happy with that particular state of affairs. He was getting more morose and confused with every visit, so much so that his key therapist had suggested we stop visiting for a while.
Alex went to bed a little after two a.m., Ten pleaded exhaustion, and then it was just Dad and I, sitting by the tree in silence, enjoying each other’s company, and sipping coffee, which I knew would likely keep me up.
“Is it okay if I ask you something, Dad?”
He glanced up from his coffee and smiled at me. “Always,” he murmured. We’d had our bad times, Dad and I, but there was no man I wanted more in my corner in my public and private life. The question I had was very relevant to the thoughts spinning in my head right now. Jacob and I. The future.
“Did you know Ten would say yes when you asked him to marry you?”
His eyes widened a little, and then he nodded. “You have to remember Ten wasn’t in a good place back then, with his injury and with the residual…” He tapped his head, and I couldn’t help but recall the awfulness of that Christmas. Through it all, Dad and Ten had fought the effects of the injury to stay together and in love, and then the wedding, it had been so beautiful.
“But you knew he’d say yes, right?”
He paused, but that was my dad; the focused, calm one, he never let words fly that weren’t considered and thoughtful.
“Ten is the other half of me, and despite everything, in my heart, I knew he’d say yes. Why?”
“No reason, just been thinking about things, is all.”
“Is something worrying you? Is someone on the team messing with you about me and Ten?” Abruptly, he was fiercely defensive of his son, and I loved him for that.
“No way would Coach Carmichael let any of that fly,” I reassured him. “I just…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. The enormity of what I felt for Jacob was difficult to put into mere words.
“What is it, Ry? Are you okay?” He looked so concerned, and it didn’t take much for me to see that I was coming over as a weird-ass kid who was worrying his dad.
I wanted to tell him that Jacob and I would be together forever. But he might’ve thought I was stupid, and say that we couldn’t know what we wanted yet. Dad loved me whatever I did, but what if he said I was too young to think about tying myself to one person?
I’m twenty-four, and Jacob is my forever, I defended myself in the imaginary scenario in which Dad might think less of me or question my decisions. Of course he could be good with everything, but on the off chance he wasn’t, I kept my truth that Jacob was my everything to myself for now.
“I’m fine, Dad, just happy to see you and Ten so good together.”
Dad pulled me into a sideways hug.
“Love you,” he said.
“I love you too.”
“Merry Christmas, son.”
Chapter One
Jared
February
I hated waking up to a Ten-sized space in bed but in the last few weeks it had become the norm. Missing the early morning snuggling was one thing, but knowing that my normally unflappable husband woke every day with his thoughts in a twist was hurting my heart. As I tugged on sweats and a T-shirt and resolved to hunt him down, I didn’t know what I’d find.
Day one of waking at dawn I’d found him running hell for leather on our treadmill, day two it was weights, day three he was slamming pucks at the net in our large backyard, then day four we were back to running. It was twenty-one days since we’d gotten the letter from the Harrisburg Central Family Agency, and I had no idea what Ten could be doing today. Hockey players were a superstitious lot, but I was convinced this new daily ritual he’d formed was less about helping his game and more about escaping his worries.
I grabbed coffee and the specific protein shake Ten had on game days and went searching for him, finding him in the home gym. Only he wasn't running, or lifting weights; he was sitting on the treadmill, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He was a sight for sore eyes, his dark hair soft and messy around his face, his Railers T-shirt with his number was old and worn and hugged him like a second skin, and his shorts meant that I got a good peek at his long legs and spectacular hockey thighs. But it wasn't any of that that I focused on—it was the look of misery on his face.
The Railers were on top of the division by five points, he’d played with a fire that blew away the opposition, and the team was on a high. So I was sure it wasn't hockey that was playing with his mind. Also, he’d only just had another checkup so I hoped it wasn't his brain that was causing him issues. He had headaches sometimes, moments when words didn’t immediately come to him, but that was a small non-issue according to the specialist, just remnants of the trauma.
I was sure it was tomorrow that was messing with his head, but then it was a big day for us both. Stress and worry frustrated him, and that was why he’d reverted to routines.
“Babe?” I called from the door.
He glanced up at me. “Hey,” he murmured.
“You worried about Philly?” I knew he wasn’t, and also knew full well what his answer would be. At least it would raise a smile.
He huffed. “The day I worry about playing hockey is the day hell freezes over.”
“Good.” I deliberately didn't push him to tell what the actual reason was, always kept it to hockey, because one day he’d tell me the truth. I almost left him to his thoughts, but it appeared that today was the day he’d decided to share.
“Jared? It’s not hockey, it’s all these worries about what we’re doing.”
My stomach fell. “About trying for a baby?” We’d made the decision together, on Christmas Day, and had talked the issue to death until we were both completely sure we were on the same page. Ten wanted a family with me, I wanted a family with him, and at the end of it we’d hugged and agreed that the time was right.
“No, not that.”
“What about then? Do you want to talk?”
“You’re going to think I’m stupid,” he muttered and rubbed his eyes.
“Never.”
“Well, what if our surrogate hates us?” he blurted.
And there it was. Twenty-one days ago we’d had an email confirming a potential match from our choices, and twenty-one days ago Tennant Madsen-Rowe had begun to lose his shit. I instinctively knew that was the thing messing with his head, but it was up to him to process it all and let me in when he reached a point where he couldn’t keep it inside anymore.
I handed him the shake, and settled next to him on the treadmill, bumping elbows. “What is there to hate?”
“Where do I start?”
I winced at the resignation in his voice. As his coach I needed his head in the game today, but as his husband and lover I wanted to make everything right for him. “You know she picked us from the list, right?”
“Yeah, but—”
“No buts, babe. We ticked all the boxes, same-sex married couple, sportsmen, annual income, family history, your injury and recovery backed up by doctor letters, my divorce, Ryker, wills, trusts, suggestions for contacts, references, there was nothing we left off, so if she chose us then she made decisions based on facts.”
“She can still pull out of it all.”
I put an arm over his shoulders and tugged him close. “She could, and you know what? We’ll deal with that if it happens. Together.”
“What if we go all the way to the end and—?”
“Stop thinking ahead. Let’s take each day as it comes. Treat it like hockey and take each day on its merits, where each win and loss forms a tapestry of content to get us to the finals.”
He laughed, and I knew I’d broken the fears for the moment. “Dude, did you just use the word ‘tapestry’ in a sentence about hockey?”
“I have mad English skills,” I said with a smile and pressed a kiss to his stubbled cheek. He faced me and the kiss changed from a peck to a full blown hello and good morning.
Ten would be fine and we’d make it through the game, and then hell, we’d rock the meeting tomorrow with the potential surrogate.
Together.
Isobel Mackie was thirty-one, a beautician, married to Eddie, and with a twin brother, Adam, who was gay. Isobel had signed up with the agency when her brother had been going through the same process as us to become a dad with his husband. In a selfless exchange of love, she’d offered to become a surrogate because her brother was now the father of twin boys by using the same method. That was one of the things that had drawn her to us the most; that she knew what the process had been like for the brother she adored, and that her family supported her one hundred percent. In fact, her husband, Eddie, was with her today as her advocate, and there was so much love between them that it was like looking in a mirror at Ten and me. The four of us were ushered into a plush room to sit at a round table with the agency owners and a young woman called Michelle who was there to take notes.
We shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, all very formal when all I wanted to do was hug Isobel until she squeaked. Of course that would be after I explained to her that Ten was sure she was going to back out, and then begged her not to.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you in real life.” She smiled broadly.
“And you,” I said when Ten stayed quiet. I knocked my shoe against his, but he was focusing on the paperwork in front of us.
“Do you have any questions for me?” Isobel asked with an open smile, and I knew Ten had a thousand, but again, silence.
“This is the time to discuss the finer points,” Lloyd, the owner of the Harrisburg Central Family Agency encouraged, but Ten seemed tense.
“Ten?” I murmured, “You want me to—?”
“No, it’s okay,” he said, then lifted his chin. “I’d prefer this meeting to be just the four of us in here, with Michelle as our case manager,” Ten interrupted.
“For a high profile situation we usually oversee,” Lloyd said.
“Actually, we’d prefer it to be Michelle,” Isobel murmured.
Lloyd glanced at his wife, Jennifer, the other half of the ownership team, but Jennifer shrugged.
“Okay, if that’s the way it has to be, then Michelle has this,” she said, and pushed back her chair. “Michelle, make sure you detail everything.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Michelle murmured, and opened the pad in front of her, making a big deal of writing the date and time at the top of a fresh page.
We waited in silence until Jennifer and Lloyd had left, and as soon as the door closed behind them I could see the tension leave Ten in a rush.
“I hope that wasn’t rude. I wanted it to be us so we can get to know each other better,” Ten admitted.
Eddie nodded. “Totally understandable,” he said. “But, then I thought maybe they’re all sniffy because you’re high-profile clients.”
Ten dipped his head, he hated the celebrity part of what he did, and out in Harrisburg he was recognized more often than not. “I don’t want them staring at me as if I don’t deserve to be here, or that we won’t be the best parents.” He glanced at Michelle who was still in the start position waiting to write, but who returned Ten’s glance with a level stare.
“Believe me, I have noted, and fully understand your concerns,” Michelle said, and that was all we were getting. Only there was something in her expression that spoke of a deeper understanding of Ten’s worries.
We knew they were the best local agency, and from the first meeting the owners had made it clear that they supported our choices. But they’d also insisted we didn't publicly post about our progress or make what we were doing into a media circus. They called it reasonable discretion, but I felt as if they were implying we were going through this process to get an accessory to our lifestyle and not because we wanted a family. I was probably wrong to even think that, but still, the concern had been there on my list of pros and cons.
I liked Michelle though, a quiet woman who appeared to respect what we were doing.
“Actually, can Jared and I have you as our specific case officer and put it in writing?” Ten asked Michelle.
Michelle appeared startled, but then stared down at the notebook. “You can request whomever you want,” she admitted after a short pause.
“We request you as well,” Isobel said, and Eddie added his agreement.
“Okay then,” Ten said with enthusiasm, “can you write that down. Number one, Mr. and Mr. Madsen-Rowe request Michelle as the official case manager.”
“And Mr. and Mrs. Mackie,” Isobel added.
Michelle was flustered at first, and then she pulled on her game face and sat back in the chair a little more relaxed.
“Let’s get down to business then.”
The next few hours were spent working through the surrogacy structure, the financial and emotional investment from both sides. We spoke at length about why Isobel was ready to do this, and she spoke so eloquently about her twin. Some of it was technical and dry, the fact that we would have an anonymous egg, with Ten’s sperm, and that Isobel was our gestational surrogate. The rest? That was laughter, and getting to know each other, and finally ending up leaving the agency with the four of us going for lunch. We’d signed reams of paperwork and Michelle was collating and copying and sending our contracts.
Everything in writing even this early before conception was an issue. We’d already had a home assessment, criminal and records checks, and Isobel had been screened alongside us. There were extra NDA pages to sign so that Isobel didn't go out and sell our story to the media, and even though I wanted to say blindly we trusted her, we had to have that level of protection.
I had to keep my family safe.
Isobel had us sign anonymity forms, and our own type of NDA that we wouldn't out her as our surrogate unless she chose to reveal it. Michelle appeared to have every eventuality listed, and lawyers had prepared everything. It was reassuring, and overwhelming all at the same time.
We had an egg donor chosen, no name or identification, but we had enough information and we’d asked for very little in the way of qualifying data. We didn't care about some of the more specific stuff like hair color and eyes, because who knew what genetics would play a part in the baby we would end up loving? Yes, we crossed all the Ts and dotted all the Is but now we wanted to know Isobel, the person.
She was lovely, there was no other word for it, and even though we knew the dry details, I wanted to know more about her, but she beat me to it.
“At sixteen we fell pregnant,” she blurted out, and Eddie squeezed her hand. “We’d been dating since eighth grade, and I knew I’d be with him forever. But me getting pregnant was the final straw for my parents. They not only had a gay son in my twin brother, but they had a daughter who was expecting a baby outside of marriage. Let’s just say both myself and my brother were encouraged to leave home.”
Of course we’d read all of this in her profile, but to hear her say the words and know that her parents had rid themselves of two children at the same time, was heartbreaking.
“She didn't need them,” Eddie said, “both Isobel and Adam moved in with my mom and we did okay.”
“We got married, and our first son, Dale, was born just after my seventeenth birthday, and our second, Austin, when I was nineteen. We worked for Eddie’s mom in a salon in town and we were a family. When my twin, Adam, met his husband and wanted a baby, I offered to carry a baby for them.” She glanced at her husband. “We offered. But it worked out better for all of us to have anonymity, and I promised myself that we would help another couple who couldn’t have children. When we read your profile, we knew it had to be you.”
“Thank you.” Ten was choked.
“Of course, when we matched and they revealed who you were we nearly rethought it,” Eddie said, and my chest tightened. “Only because I’m a New York fan.”
“Someone has to be,” Tennant deadpanned, and like that, the ice was broken.
I knew we were in good hands. She was very open about why she was willing to carry our baby, using the money to fund her education and to give her kids a good start in life, and I wanted to hand everything over to her there and then. Ten relaxed as lunch continued, and we were done. We hugged her goodbye, thanking her so much she was scarlet with pleasure. We headed back to the parking garage, and Ten tugged me into a dark corner, and held me as if he’d never let me go.
“We’re doing this,” he whispered in my ear.
I grinned and held onto him. “We’re so doing this.”
The disappointment was real when the first cycle didn't work. February was a hard month mentally and physically for us both. The Railers were fighting tooth and nail in a close division, tensions were high on ice, and the call from Michelle to explain there would need to be a second try rocked our safe little world.
“We get everything so easy.” Ten grasped my hand hard after the call ended, “I just expected this to be easy as well.”
“We don’t get everything easy,” I said, and tugged him to sit next to me on the couch. “We work hard at everything, and this is no different.”
We entered the second month with renewed hope, and the day we would find out if everything had worked was the day after a brutal game against Brady’s Boston Rebels. Ten had been slammed into the boards in so many different ways that he was a mess of bruises, and he was exhausted. We’d slept late, but at least when I was woken by my cell phone dancing on the bedside table, he was curled up next to me.
I reached for the phone, connected the call as soon as I saw it was Michelle.
“It’s good news. Isobel is pregnant.”
And in that single instant as Ten and I hugged each other, we knew our lives were about to change in the most dramatic way.
Bring it on.
