Page 1 of Home Ice

Chapter one

Rafe

The passing lane to Varga closed about half a second before I would have used it. My body pivoted, and I pulled the puck back through my feet, let the defenseman commit to his read, and slid it to Heath on the far side. He buried the puck top shelf as if that had been the plan all along.

“That’s rude,” Varga announced to the entire rink. He bent over his stick at the far post, sweating through his practice jersey. “I was open.”

“You were not open,” Heath said.

“I was open in theory.”

Coach Markel blew the whistle and waved the next group down. We circled back to the line, and my lungs informed me, politely, that eleven days off and Mom’s cooking would be two things I’d be paying for through the end of the week.

There were more reporters in the hallway than on any Tuesday in the fall. Camera operators staked out space where they could find it. It wasn’t hard to figure out why.

Rook and Varga coming out was the biggest story in hockey over the break. A photo Rook posted of Varga asleep on their couch under a cat that wasn’t even theirs went viral. Mark from PR described the numbers as “genuinely deranged.”

Trier glided in beside me at the line while we waited our turn. He looked me up and down.

“Good break?” he asked.

“Yeah. Went home. Quiet.”

“I can tell. You’ve got a farmer’s cut.”

“My mom’s neighbor does it,” I said. It was true, but I immediately regretted saying it.

Trier nodded. “A neighbor,” he repeated slowly. Somewhere behind us Varga was loudly continuing to proclaim he’d been open.

I took my rush. My legs were tired, but my hands were fine. The puck went where it was supposed to go, and for the moment, as long as I didn’t think about the rest of the morning, all was well.

I’d avoided thinking about it the entire drive in. I kept it up through stretching and the first three drills. A thing sat heavy on my chest, and it had been there since Saskatchewan, since a phone call with my agent on New Year’s Day where he’d asked me a question and I’d answered it honestly.

After the last drill, Varga skated up alongside me on the slow lap to the gate, not saying anything. Varga quiet was a little scary. He looked at me once and tipped his head toward the tunnel and the locker room beyond.

“Whenever,” he said. “I’m here. It’s your choice.”

Then he peeled off and yelled at Trier about the haircut comment, defending me at full volume. I skated the last thirty feet to the gate by myself.

The room was loud. Half the guys were lying to each other about how much they’d trained over the break, and there was a smell of fresh tape that I’d missed. Heath was telling a story about Kieran’s dad and a snowblower that had at least three guys paused in their undressing, sitting there waiting for the ending.

I got to my stall and started on my skates. Varga sat down next to me. His stall was four down from mine, and he was in Pratt’s spot. Pratt looked at him, and Varga stared back. Pratt moved his shower stuff eight inches to the left and let it go.

Varga said nothing. He didn’t nudge me or start giving a speech. He just sat there beside me, taking up space and untaping a shin pad like it was a normal Tuesday.

The snowblower story ended. There was that lull in the noise. I stood, and I heard myself clear my throat and say, “Hey, can I say something real quick?”

I wasn’t loud, but the room was quiet. Twenty-odd guys in various states of undress all looked at me.

“I’m gay,” I said. “I wanted you guys to hear it from me. That’s it. That’s the whole announcement.”

There was one full second where nobody said anything. My right hand shook, and then Cross nodded from his stall. “Good. Okay,” he said. “Hey, while everyone’s listening—second unit, we’re changing the entry on the power play. Markel’s going to walk us through it in video. It was soft all last month.”

And that was it. The sky didn’t fall.

“Come over for dinner next week after the road trip,” Heath said to me, pulling his practice jersey over his head and muffling the words. “Kieran’s doing the Korean short ribs.”

“Don’t miss my short ribs,” Kieran said, and threw me my water bottle. He went back to sorting his tape.