Page 7
“Cap? How you doin’?” I asked.
He laughed. “You’re shitfaced.”
“No, I ain’t.”
“You are. Your Texas accent is starting to come out.”
I flushed. My childhood friend DeAndre ragged on me often for “code-switching” when the drinks started flowing.
“Whatever, man. Do you want another beer or not?”
“I could go for another beer,” he mumbled, side-eyeing the waitress’s exposed cleavage.
We ordered two more drinks. In the waitress’s absence, I snatched an empty beer bottle off the table and peeled at the corner of the label with a thumbnail.
“What’s eating at you, Hart?”
When I finally spoke, the silver and blue label of the Gray Social Lager had reached the halfway point.
“I don’t know, man. I feel like I’m having a midlife crisis or something,” I said, punctuating the sentence with a derisive snort. Marlon quirked a brow in intrigue.
“Go on,” he pressed. “Wait!” he exclaimed, holding his hands up to pause me. He leaned in and whispered, “Are… are you coming out to me? Is that why you haven’t been interested in the ladies?”
I rolled my eyes. “I need you to be serious.”
“I am being serious. It’s 2026; you wouldn’t be the first gay man in hockey. For fuck’s sake, Christiansen is gay.” He nodded resolutely. “It’s all starting to make sense now.”
“I’m not gay, but…”
“Bi-curious?”
“No… it’s… I’m feeling—”
“Jesus, the playoffs will be here before you spit it out,” he complained.
“I’ve been feeling lonely lately.”
My confession earned a double brow raise. “Lonely? How so?”
I clenched my teeth, ripped the remainder of the label off the bottle, and crumpled it in my hand before tossing it onto the lacquered tabletop.
“I don’t know how to explain it because it doesn’t even make sense to me, but I see the guys with their girlfriends and wives who come and support them at the games and—”
“You want a girlfriend.”
“No,” I replied firmly.
“You want a wife?” he asked dubiously.
“Hell no.”
Marlon blew a raspberry and ran his hands through his blonde locks before lacing his fingers together on the table. “You better get to talking, Hart, because right now, two plus two is equaling five.”
“I—”
I stopped speaking when our waitress returned and didn’t resume until she left, leaving the scent of her peach body mist behind.
It’s not my favorite scent. If I’m being honest, it makes my stomach turn a little.
