Page 97 of Home Ice

He didn’t ask where I wanted to go. He just said, “This way,” and badged us through a door marked STAFF into the concrete guts of the building.

“Good game,” he said on the stairs.

At the bottom, he pushed open a door, and the sound changed. We were near the dividing line where the tunnel from the ice turned into a hallway into the garage. Down at the far end, the media gathered around the locker room doors, dozens of voices asking questions over each other.

Mark stopped me short of all of it, in the open stretch where the players would pass on their way out. He stepped back several feet, put his hands in his pockets, and pressed himself against the wall.

I took my place at the mouth of the tunnel, in a place fans normally couldn’t go, and waited.

At first, I couldn’t see Rafe at all. I saw only the glow of the camera lights and the boom mic hanging in the air like a giant fishing pole.

Then I heard his voice coming through a gap in the questions.

He finished. He told them that he had nothing more to say. Somebody laughed, and the boom mic lifted away. Suddenly, about fifty feet away, the crowd parted enough for me to see him.

He was looking toward the way out. He saw the hallway first, and then he saw me.

His face broke into a massive smile, and then he walked toward me.

He didn’t hurry. A few of the reporters followed his sightline and spotted me. They didn’t follow him, and I watched smiles form on their faces, too.

The hockey star was on his way to claim his craftsman boyfriend. When he reached me, Rafe didn’t speak. He pulled off a glove, shoved it under his arm, and took my chin in his bare fingers.

Then he kissed me in front of a wall of cameras.

Lights flashed, and I heard one reporter gasp, “Oh, my God.” It wasn’t an angry exclamation. It was one of wonder at being in that place at precisely that moment.

Mark made no move to stop any of it.

Rafe pulled back enough to whisper in my ear. “Come home with me.” Before I could answer, he added, “Tomorrow morning I mean. Not tonight. I’m too wired. I’m still half on the ice, but in the morning, I want to come get you and take you home with me.”

“Yes,” I said.

It all lasted less than a minute, perfect to appear on TV and phone screens across the country. They wouldn’t hear the whisper. They would only see the kiss. I was happy to let them have that.

He pulled back from the kiss. “Morning.”

“Morning,” I confirmed.

Rafe backed up a step, and the media crowd swallowed him. I turned the other way and passed Mark, still pressed against the wall.

“Mr. Gregory,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said.

***

I was awake and downstairs in the shop by seven a.m. Max had sent eleven messages between midnight and one a.m. I considered that impressive restraint.

The first ten were variations on a theme. I laughed about the eleventh.

Max: I’m not going to call you. I want credit for not calling you. I’ll take payment in dinner, Chinese

I waited and have to admit that I was fidgety for one of the first times in my life. I’d wiped the bench down a fifth time when I heard a truck pull in and park at the curb across the street.

When I heard the thunk of the door, I put my rag down and walked to the door. I opened it at the first rap of knuckles.

He’d navigated his night well. His arms hung loose at his sides, and he was wearing a coat over a henley, properly zipped up. The morning cold still colored his cheeks rosy pink.