Page 89 of Take Two

We salute the crowd before heading toward the tunnel. Tor raises his stick first, followed by Ridley, and the cheering climbs again for two of the most recognizable names in Seattle hockey. Devan gets his own roar when he lifts both arms and beats one gloved hand against the Vipers crest on his chest.

Then I spot all the signs with my name and number on them. There are more of them than there used to be now.

Maxwell jerseys hang from the shoulders of grown men, women, and children scattered throughout the stands. A kid pressed against the glass waves both hands when he catches me looking, his number seventeen sleeves hanging several inches past his fingertips. A woman behind him holds up a sign with my name painted across it in blue and green. Rainbow flags fly several rows back, some small enough to fit into a child’s fist and others stretched between groups of fans who are still chanting for us.

For me. It seems crazy how much the summer changed the way people see me. They know more about me now than they ever have, and somehow the world didn’t end. The fans didn’t turn away. My teammates don’t treat me differently because of it. I gained support from people who’d never noticed me before and messages from kids who told me seeing someone like them on the ice made them feel as though there might be a place for them here too. The entire Vipers team is an inspiration and I feel like I’m making a big difference in the limelight right along with them.

I lift my stick and give the crowd the smile they deserve. It’s not entirely false. We won, I scored, and thousands of people are celebrating something I helped create.

The happiness simply can’t reach every part of me tonight. Honestly, half of me was elsewhere tonight, hence my lackluster performance. I skate down the tunnel with my teammates, forcing myself to stay inside the moment while the ache I have been carrying for four months follows close behind.

The corridor outside the dressing room is packed with reporters, camera operators, arena staff, and security. Voices rise from every direction as soon as we appear. Questions about the goal, the hit in the second period, and the upcoming road trip blend into one wall of noise while the team’s media staff keeps us moving.

I duck my head and follow Tor through the crowd, one hand wrapped around my stick and the other tugging my helmet free. Camera lights flash against the concrete walls. Microphones reach over shoulders. Someone calls my name twice, but I keep walking until the dressing-room door closes behind us and cuts the noise in half.

The room erupts all over again.

Devan turns the speakers up so Jay Z’s Show Me What You Got blasts through the stalls at a volume that makes the metal lockers vibrate, then begins shaking his ass through the locker room, shedding his kit as he goes with theatrical flair. Ridley throws a towel at his head, which Devan catches without missing a beat in his victory dance. Tor tells everyone to calm down long enough for Coach Lennox to speak, his captain’s voice cutting through the mayhem with authority. Devan pouts dramatically but turns the music down to a level that won’t blow out eardrums.

Coach steps into the middle of the room, his presence immediately commanding attention despite his modest stature. He looks around at all of us with that expression we’ve come to know well, part pride, part exasperation, wholly honest and shakes his head slowly. “That was ugly.”

A chorus of laughter answers him, the sound bouncing off concrete walls and metal stalls. Someone wolf-whistles. Another voice calls out, “Ugly wins still count, Coach!”

“It was also two points,” he continues, allowing himself the smallest smile. “Enjoy it tonight. Tomorrow, we fix everything that nearly cost us those two points.” His gaze sweeps the room methodically, taking inventory of faces, checking for injuries, reading the room.

His eyes land briefly on me, and I feel the weight of his assessment. “Good finish, Maxwell.”

“Thanks, Coach,” I say, lifting my head in acknowledgment while trying not to think about how many scoring chances I missed before that final goal.

“As you were, Scott,” he says as he nods toward the door and leaves us to it, his departure signaling the official end of his involvement in tonight’s celebration.

The music is turned up once more and my teammates surge back into celebration while I lower myself onto the bench in front of my stall. The familiar routine of post-game wind-down begins around me, cutting tape away from shin guards, skates being unlaced with relief, the gradual transformation from hockey players back to regular men. Adrenaline still hums through my body like electricity in my veins, but exhaustion is already moving in behind it, creeping up from my bones. My shoulder pulses where the defenseman caught me during the final play, a reminder that will bloom into a proper bruise by morning. Everything hurts in that specific way that comes after sixty minutes of controlled violence, and all I can think about is how quickly I can shower, get dressed, get home, and call Blue.

He has an early rehearsal tomorrow. I know because I study his schedule religiously, every call time, every interview, every flight, and every narrow window when we might be able to talk without one of us fighting sleep.

Four months of calls, texts, and video chats have turned me into an expert on the distance between us. I know the exact number of hours between Seattle and Los Angeles. I know which hotels have the best Wi-Fi for video calls. I know the sound his voice makes when he’s bone-tired but trying to stay awake for me anyway.

I know everything there is to know about his life in Los Angeles, travel times from his penthouse to the studio, his sleeping habits, the coffee shop he stops at when he has early calls, the times he spends with Julian and his husband Malik. Yeah, one may call my knowing a bit obsessive, but knowing isn’t the same as having him here. So I covet every bit of knowledge about Cyaire I can get my hands on.

I’ve been the calm one because one of us has to be. Whenever Blue got frustrated about another cancelled call, I reminded him that the distance was temporary. Whenever his schedule changed at the last minute and stole another evening from us, I told him we would adjust, we always do. Whenever he looked at me through a screen with exhaustion in his eyes and apologized for something neither of us could control, I told him we were going to make it through this.

I believe every word of it, but enduring it is still killing me slowly.

Hockey doesn’t leave room for an impulsive flight to Los Angeles because I miss my boyfriend. An off day isn’t truly an off day when my body needs treatment, recovery, and sleep to function at the level required. There are practices, video sessions, team meetings, road trips, and games stacked so closely together that losing one night of rest can follow me onto the ice for a week, affecting everything from my reaction time to my decision-making.

Blue’s career is no easier. A film schedule owns him from the moment he steps onto a set until someone decides they have enough footage to release him back into the world. Even when he’s not filming, there are rehearsals, interviews, fittings, reshoots, and meetings that appear with little warning and take whatever time we thought belonged to us.

Neither of us is doing anything wrong. We’re both living the lives we chose, pursuing careers we love. That almost makes it harder, because there’s no one to blame, no obvious solution, no clear enemy to fight.

I strip off my gear methodically, each piece feels heavier than it should. The familiar weight of shoulder pads, the restrictive embrace of elbow guards, the shin pads that have molded themselves to my legs over thousands of games, all of it comes away like armor being removed after battle. I head for the showers before anyone can pull me into another celebration, craving the solitude that hot water and tiled walls can provide.

Hot water pounds against my shoulders, washing away sweat and the lingering tension from sixty minutes of controlled aggression without touching the heaviness beneath it. I stand there longer than necessary, letting the noise of the room fade behind the tiled walls while steam fills the space around me. I picture going home to a quiet house.

Blue’s black hoodie is still draped over the chair in my bedroom from the last time he wore it. I haven’t moved it, can’t bring myself to put it away because it feels too much like erasing evidence of his presence. His toothbrush sits beside mine in the bathroom. A half-empty bottle of his ridiculously expensive face wash sits on my counter because he forgot to pack, and I refuse to move it, using it as a bookmark for when he’ll be back.

Evidence everywhere that he has been there, small reminders of shared mornings and lazy evenings, but nothing that means he will be there when I open the door tonight.

By the time I return to my stall, most of the team is dressed or close to it. The transformation is always striking. Suits replace jerseys, watches go back onto wrists where they belong in the real world, and wedding rings return to fingers after spending the game locked safely away.