Page 30 of Rookie Attraction

“You and Kirkland did good, but only time will tell,” Makela remarks. “Things will ramp up if he can get out of his head.”

“The guy’s dealing with a lot,” I counter. “Any one of us would be the same in his skates. I think he did great. And being with a new team always takes time to adjust.”

“He did alright.” Sorensen taps the table. “But we get paid big bucks to play and play it the best we can. That means no matter what’s going on in our personal lives, we gotta suck it up and give our all.”

“Respectfully, I think that’s simplistic,” I reply. “Especially since dealing with the media is part of the job and they make it personal. At least, they did with Sel tonight. Plus, don’t tell me you guys haven’t had stuff happen in your life that fucked with your focus. I know I have. Don’t get me wrong, I play my best and I don’t give up, but we’re human, not robots. And how many other queer players are out in the league? Huh? Name one. But wait, you can’t. All I know is, he’s fucking brave.”

Sorensen glances at me with one eyebrow raised.

“Rookie’s scrappy off the ice too.”

“You don’t achieve anything by being less, right?”

Are they surprised that I have an opinion? I’m a nice guy, but that doesn’t mean I’m a doormat. Is the rookie supposed to keep their mouth shut? I’ve never been great at keeping quiet, and I don’t intend to start now. If college taught me anything, it’s to be true to myself.

Sorensen smiles and clinks my glass, breaking the tension.

“I like you, Baran. You’re an upfront guy, and you play your heart out.”

“I try.”

I swallow the rest of my champagne in one go and Makela offers me a refill.

“I need to take a piss,” I announce. “Where’s the washroom?”

“Head for the bar and take a right,” Berg directs.

Somehow, I manage to make my way through the packed VIP room and past the sleek bar, until I find what I’m looking for. The washroom is as modern and edgy as the rest of the club and has a bigger footprint than my condo. As usual, I head for the stall at the end and close the door. Just as I start to unzip, I hear a door slam. My bladder doesn’t care about the company, so I go on about my business. I hear the sudden echo of footsteps, chatter, and running water. Nothing unusual about that.

I’m almost finished when the water stops, and one specific voice becomes clear.

“I thought he’d show up tonight for sure. His reputation as a partier is well known.”

That sounds like St. Clare…

Trying to be as quiet as I can, I zip up, but I wait to flush the toilet.

“I’m glad he didn’t. Like we need any more scrutiny? He’d probably have the paps following us in here. Why the fuck did we have to sign Kirkland of all players?”

Shit, that’s Brady. Not that I’m surprised. I guess him and St. Clare are tight on and off the ice. Last I looked, they were out on the dance floor surrounded by throngs of women.

“You can’t deny his record, Alden,” St. Clare replies.

“No, but there are plenty of other great d-men we could’ve signed,” Brady grumbles. “Players who aren’t bogged down by all this attention about being queer. It’s distracting as hell, and we don’t need it. Fuck this diversity and representation crap.”

“The press will die down eventually. I’m not thrilled at the attention he’s getting either, but he’s a great player. Can’t argue with stats.”

“I can. Add to that, we have a fucking motormouth of a rookie. What a dork.”

“He did great.”

“He’ll probably choke before the next one.”

What the fuck? Brady doesn’t like me either. I could blame the sudden fire in my gut on too much champagne but that would be a lie.

“Jesus, you don’t even know the guy. Go find a hot woman to fuck and get over your shitty mood.”

“Take your own advice, Jude.”