Changing on the Fly Read online

  “I didn’t think that,” Nick said, because he hadn’t. He crossed over to Everett, his heart hammering in his chest. He pushed him gently back on the bed and climbed on top of him. “I would have sucked you off to make you feel better, though.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Nick started working at the buttons on Everett’s shirt, feverish in his desire to touch skin, basking in the tenuous, unknown thing that was growing between them. “But since you were gone, you gotta make it up to me.”

  “I think I can do that,” said Everett, smoothly moving underneath Nick to flip him on his back, fingers already reaching for his belt.

  ***

  AFTER THE GAME, Nick and his family went to get ice cream. They’d done that all the time back when Nick and Jacob were still playing and living at home, before juniors and billet families and teams took them away from each other.

  He ate his chocolate-and-caramel sundae, waiting for the opportune time to introduce the subject of his sexuality. It wouldn’t be a big deal; he knew that. His parents were staunchly in support of LGBT rights, and Nick had no reason to think that wouldn’t hold true for their own son.

  Still, his heart was hammering unpleasantly in his chest, and it was taking him twice as long as it normally would to eat his ice cream. The place was mostly empty except for his family as it was late after the game. Nick slumped down in his seat, pushing his spoon into the soupy remnants of his sundae.

  “So, Kris and I have something to tell you guys,” Jacob said, startling him. He grinned over at Kristen, who was smiling contentedly.

  “No,” said Nick’s mom, putting a hand over her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears, and she made a squeaking noise.

  Nick glanced at his father, who was getting up to hug his brother.

  Nick had clearly missed something. “Wait, what is it?”

  Kristen giggled. “I’m pregnant,” she said, while Nick’s mom engulfed her in a hug.

  Nick was suffused with a warm, simple joy. He was going to be an uncle! “Oh, wow. Wow, you guys, that’s…how come everyone else figured it out before you said it?”

  “What the hell else could it have been?” Jacob asked, snorting. He rolled his eyes. “I got the talents, the looks, and the brains, apparently.”

  Nick took the opportunity and went with it. “I’m gay.”

  “Oh, honey,” said his mother and rushed over to hug him.

  “You should date another hockey player,” his father said, slyly, after giving him a hug of his own.

  Kristen grinned at him across the table. His brother smiled encouragingly.

  And that was that. They talked about baby names and Nick’s failure to find a nice boy to date while Nick and Kristen both ordered another sundae.

  Chapter Seven

  THEIR LAST TWO road games were against the Vancouver Vipers and the Los Angeles Lions. The Vipers were the only ones heading to the playoffs, while the Lions, like the Foxes, were playing for their jobs. Both games were grueling and netted the Foxes an overtime win and a loss, respectively.

  By the time they were back in Philly, Nick could see the potential for next season glimmering just over the horizon, no longer a mirage, but something real and attainable. This was going to be a good team; he knew it.

  “Do you ever think about telling the guys?” Everett asked, forking over some pasta he’d made the two of them for dinner. It looked like spaghetti with fancy, green sauce on it. The cheese, rather than being the sprinkle-y, snowflake-like Parmesan of Nick’s experience, was clumpy. He poked it curiously with his fork. “It’s pesto and goat cheese,” Everett said, amused. “I promise it’s good.”

  Nick shot him a sheepish grin and forked up a bite, thinking while he chewed. It was good, especially the goat cheese. “I dunno. I guess sometimes, but I hear shit on the ice, and I think maybe I shouldn’t.”

  Everett sat down across from him, tucking into his own pasta. “People just say shit. You know that.”

  “Yeah. But they say shit about gay people, and I’m gay.” Nick took a pull of his beer, in a bottle because pesto and fancy cheese aside, he was not a beer-in-a-glass kind of guy. “I know they think it’s just a word, but it isn’t.” Nick had been to the sensitivity training, and they were always trying to explain that, but it never seemed to sink in. “It’s like people use it like it’s a curse word, you know? A bad thing. And I guess I should say something, but I’m there to play hockey. And I shouldn’t have to. They should know not to use words like that, but that’s how it is.”

  “That’s how it is,” Everett agreed. He leaned back in his chair, long fingers playing with the beer bottle. It was making Nick hard, imagining those hands playing like that on his dick. He felt kind of bad about that, seeing as how this was a nice dinner and a serious conversation and all. “But you know, you’re right. You shouldn’t have to speak up, but clearly someone has to.” He looked pensive.

  “I’ve played with guys in the AHL who did. They’d say something like, hey, man, don’t use that fucking word around me, but if any of them were gay, I didn’t know about it.”

  “I played with a gay goalie in college,” said Everett. His gaze went somewhere beyond Nick’s shoulder. “He was so fucking hot. Part of it was he was out and didn’t give a shit what anyone thought. Watching him stretch was a torture.” He smiled.

  “He go on and play after college?” Nick asked.

  Everett shook his head. “No, but it wasn’t because of that. At least, I don’t think it was. He was injured and not even playing hockey. Boat accident or something.” Everett shook his head. “Sucks. He would have been a good first guy to come out, I bet.”

  “Would you?” Nick asked. “If someone else did?”

  Everett looked away. “I want to say yes. But I don’t know.”

  Nick didn’t know what he would do, either. “I didn’t know you did the college thing,” he said, instead, because he really didn’t know all that much about Everett.

  “University of Michigan,” Everett answered, taking a drink of his beer. “You went through junior hockey, yeah?”

  Nick nodded. “OHL,” he said, referring to the Ontario Hockey League. “Kitchener Rangers.”

  “You like it?”

  They talked about hockey – what else – during the rest of dinner, and Nick offered to do the dishes, but Everett was apparently in a mood to chat, because he stayed in the kitchen to help. They talked idly about what it was like to grow up in a hockey family (some member of Everett’s family had been in the NHL since the 20’s) and how they hoped the team would do better next year.

  “So you were glad about the trade, then,” Everett said, as they finished drying the last of the dishes. “Since it got you a full-time contract.”

  “I was glad about that, definitely. I mean I worked my whole life for this. I can still remember that first game I got called up for.” Nick looked out their small kitchen window, smiling slightly at the memory. “I was so nervous I was shaking. It seemed like the game lasted three minutes – or maybe that’s because that’s all the ice time I got.”

  Everett gave a good-natured chuckle. “I remember my first game, too. I forgot to take the skate guards off the blades of my skates during warm-ups and went down face-first.”

  Nick burst out laughing. “I heard about that happening, but I thought it was a hockey urban legend.”

  “Nope. Just an embarrassing story for Everett Sparrow,” Everett joked. “I don’t even remember if we won or lost, isn’t that funny? I remember we lost the game where I scored my first goal, though.”

  “I like scoring goals. The few times I’ve done it.”

  “Well, you’re not supposed to score goals.” Everett flushed. “I didn’t mean to sound like a dick.”

  “I know. Just comes naturally, right?”

  Everett snapped the dishtowel at him. “Right. Smartass. But you’re a good defenseman, is all I’m saying.”

  “I get a lot of joy keeping hotshots from scoring,”
Nick told him, straight-faced. “If I were more flexible, I’d be a goalie.” He cleared his throat. “Goalies are always hot, man.”

  “You’re pretty hot,” Everett said, the timbre of his voice changing as he backed Nick up against the counter. “You were even hot in that stupid parka in Buffalo.”

  “You were hot in that Escalade. As in, warm, when you drove off and left me in the snow.” Nick spread his legs, letting Everett have room to step between them and press close. “This is okay, right? I mean, this thing we’re doing. And how we’re still doing it.”

  Everett went still and gave him an unreadable look. “You ask me that a lot. Are you saying you don’t want to? Because I’m not going to – I mean, it’s cool if you’re not into it. Into me. We’re still teammates, still friends, and I won’t fuck up your life by outing you because you won’t put out or anything.”

  “No, that’s not it. I’m definitely into it, and trust me, I’ll totally put out. But I’m, um.” He could barely say it, but he made himself. “Into you.” He closed his eyes, mortified at how dumb he sounded. “Maybe you don’t want that.”

  There was a pause, and then Nick felt Everett’s fingers beneath his chin. “Nick? Look at me.”

  Nick opened his eyes.

  “I want it. And I’m into you, too,” he said, leaning down. Right before Everett kissed him, he said, “I made you my date-dinner. That’s literally the only thing I can cook.”

  Nick would have reminded him about the pancakes, but he was distracted.

  Chapter Eight

  THE END OF the season came quickly, and Nick was in a daze of hockey, working out, fucking, and trying to find a house that he liked enough to want to buy. Part of him wanted to stay in that little townhouse with Everett forever, but he’d probably start regretting that in winter when Everett still insisted on parking his car in the garage and leaving Nick’s on the street.

  He could, if he wanted, buy himself an Escalade. But having money was a new thing, and mostly Nick wanted his parents to buy something for themselves…though of course, Jacob had already bought them a house when he got his first multi-year contract. Maybe Nick could send them on a nice vacation or something. Defensemen on the worst team in the NHL didn’t make a lot their first contract year, but it was still more money than Nick had ever had attached to his name in his whole life.

  Everett – who had more money and a much larger contract – was also looking for a place. So he and Nick decided just to share the same Realtor and went to look at a variety of listings in their individual price points at the same time. It seemed easier that way.

  Everett was picky, which shouldn’t have surprised Nick. He was beginning to pick up on that, the way Everett liked things to be tidy and neat. Nick was definitely not like that, but he tried to pick up after himself. He was bad about remembering to do his laundry, but he was twenty-four, and he figured maybe he’d grow out of his habit of throwing everything on the floor.

  “I don’t think this place has enough natural light,” Everett said, scowling, standing in the middle of a kitchen that was twice the size of the one in their shared townhouse.

  Nick didn’t think he’d ever use all those cabinets, but this was one of the houses for Everett, not him, so he didn’t say that. What were you supposed to put in all of them, though? All his glassware was plastic cups with restaurant/bar/hockey logos on them. A cabinet for each team, maybe.

  The Realtor looked over at Nick, which confused him. What was he supposed to do? Agree? Disagree? He searched for something to say. “You really only cook dinner at night,” he offered then scowled when Everett burst out laughing.

  The Realtor smiled, but Nick knew she was getting frustrated at the two of them. He wondered if he’d ever explained that the fancier houses they looked at were for Everett, and the cheaper ones were for him. Maybe she thought they had a strange budget.

  Nick opted for a loft apartment in downtown Philly that he could rent, simply because it was easy to get to the arena and he liked the sleek, modern design of it a lot. It had two bedrooms and two bathrooms, and he loved the windows (“plenty of natural light for you to cook me dinner,” he’d told Everett) and his very own, covered parking space.

  Everett ended up buying a recently renovated house in Chestnut Hill, which was unique, classy, and somehow traditional all at the same time. A lot like Everett, who did genuinely seem to care more about houses and where he was going to live than Nick did. Nick was still impressed he had another bathroom for guests to use, and something that wasn’t a futon for them to sleep on.

  They stayed in the townhouse by mutual, unspoken agreement until the end of the season. Nick slept in Everett’s bed at night, after they’d fucked or just messed around, and he wondered how he was going to get used to sleeping alone.

  ***

  IT HAPPENED WHEN the Foxes had just two games left in the season, and all things considered, Nick figured it could have been worse.

  Harry was trying to get him to agree to go on a date with one of Melanie’s friends – not Jade, this time, but another one – and Nick didn’t know how to bow out gracefully without admitting he was gay and/or in a relationship. If he said he was in a relationship, Harry would want details, and Nick sucked at lying.

  As Harry extolled the virtues of the girl in question, Nick looked around the locker room and thought not about what little remained of this season, but of the next one. Of sharing a locker room with these guys, going on road trips, doing drills. Showering. All of that shit that might be changed forever if he opened his mouth and just said two simple words.

  But then he thought about the sick feeling in his stomach, the lies, having to pretend he was someone that he very much wasn’t…and, suddenly, he was tired of it, and knew what he had to do.

  “Hey, Chris?” It was rare that the guys used each other’s first names, so Harry immediately stopped and gave Nick his full attention. His green eyes were friendly, his expression open.

  Nick could taste his heartbeat, feel each pulse of it echo like gunshots in his chest, his head. “Can I – uh, can I talk to you about something?”

  “Sure, Milesy. What’s up?” Chris gave him a concerned look. “Everything okay?”

  That was the problem with this whole thing. Nick’s teammates were good guys. Nick’s teammates had always been good guys. They were still the guys who used gay slurs as insults, who said things were “gay” when they meant “stupid”, and swore it “didn’t mean anything” when they did it.

  “I think you should – that is, I don’t –” Nick wondered if he should make something up about how he wasn’t feeling well, but he’d started this, and he had to finish it. The guys who were still in the locker room were having individual conversations, and no one was paying them any attention, but that could change at any minute.

  “Milesy, dude, if you don’t want to go out with Kess, it’s cool.”

  “I’m gay,” Nick blurted, the words escaping on a hurried, hot breath.

  The moment stretched between them for an eternity. Nick felt stripped open, exposed, like he was waiting for judgment. He hated this, but the relief in having done it was so strong he was shaking.

  Harry shrugged. “Okay. So, you want me to see if, like, Kess or Mel has a brother?” Very deliberately, Harry stepped up and slung an arm around Nick’s shoulders, just like he’d done a thousand times before, and hugged him. “It’s cool, bro.”

  Nick felt his eyes sting, so he just mumbled, “Thanks,” and hit Harry in the arm.

  “You want the other guys to know?” Harry asked, nodding toward their teammates. “I can, you know. Talk to them.”

  “I’ll tell Coach,” Nick said, because he knew that’s what he should do. As tempting as it was to let the good-hearted team enforcer out him, it was his responsibility. “It’s okay if you say something, though.”

  “Hey, so, you know how I say stuff sometimes…” Harry trailed off. He looked embarrassed. “I’ve probably said a bunch of stupid shi
t. You know.”

  Nick did know, and Harry had. “Yeah.”

  “I didn’t mean it,” Harry said, words that Nick had a feeling he was going to be hearing a lot of, before this was over. “You know how it is.”

  “Yeah, I do,” said Nick. “But you don’t.” It felt good to say that.

  Harry looked away and nodded, and Nick went to see the coach.

  Chapter Nine

  NICK WAS NERVOUS when he sat down to talk to Coach Samuels because he knew that there was a chance this could be deemed a “problem in the locker room” and he could be shuttled down to the minors. He was also just a little bit resentful, because at no point in time would guys like Chris Harris ever have to walk in, sit down, and tell his coach he was straight.

  Coach Samuels listened without a change in expression while Nick got through his stammering, less-than-eloquent admission.

  “Okay,” he said, sounding as if they were discussing plays. “Couple questions.” At that, though, he cleared his throat and the tips of his ears got red, like they did sometimes when he was mad. “Uh…not…personal ones. First off, anyone giving you shit about this? In this locker room, I mean. Or anyone in the organization.”

  “No, Coach,” Nick said honestly. “I’ve just told you, Sparrow, and Harry, though.”

  Coach nodded. “If you do get shit for this? You come tell me. Immediately, Miles. You don’t go have Harris punch them; you come to me. Got it?”

  Nick nodded, though they both knew that players tended to handle their shit on the ice and without their coach’s help. “Got it, Coach.”

  “Good. Second thing, you want this public information or not?”

  That’s the thing that Nick didn’t know how to answer, and probably why he should have thought this through a little more before saying something. Part of him did want to just get it out in the open, and part of him didn’t. The part that feared the media attention, the part that had a tenuous and new relationship with a teammate who was in the closet, was the loudest. “I don’t – I don’t know,” he said, miserable, looking down at his shoes.