Season's Change, page 18
“It’s fine,” Olly repeated, like if he said it again it would become true. “Shit happens.”
“I don’t get the sense that kind of shit happens to you, though.”
Olly’s mouth pulled to the side. Not into a smile. “I kept telling you I make bad decisions when I get drunk.”
Ouch. “Sorry,” he said, again. “I mean, I’ve done that—” he waved a hand “—plenty of times. And it doesn’t have to get weird.”
Olly’s shoulders tensed. Benji had never known someone else’s body language this well. “Not that it’s weird or wrong that you’re having, um, a feeling about stuff. But it doesn’t have to change anything, or mean anything about you, or, like, us, or...whatever.”
Olly took a sip of the coffee, still looking down. He had dark eyelashes, even with his hair. Benji didn’t know why he knew that, or that the freckles he’d arrived to training camp with had disappeared in December. Or that he’d flushed all the way down his chest when he came, staring up at Benji like he was dying for it.
“It’s a good thing you made me get a therapist,” Olly told his coffee. “I didn’t have enough shit to talk about.”
“Oh, buddy.” Benji reached out for a hug automatically. He hadn’t known he’d finally worn Olly down. But touching him did not feel like his best option, so he ended up with one hand hovering in the air between them. Fuck. Benji wasn’t used to feeling awkward.
“Fuck you,” Olly said, tired. “If it’s not gonna be weird, give me the damned hug like you would have yesterday.”
Benji had him folded up before he was even done talking, not careful enough of the coffee: he could feel hot liquid seeping into his sweatshirt. But who cared. Olly was leaning his forehead into Benji’s shoulder and there was no space between them at all.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Olly’s flight to Duluth passed in a fog. He was still halfway fucked up, hadn’t slept, even though the rest of the day after the goddamned threesome had been normal enough. Benji made him breakfast; they went to Georgetown for old-person yoga.
And Olly was going to be fine. He was going to unpack this whole experience with Dr. Martinez, and he was going to keep playing halfway decent hockey, and nothing was going to change. Benji clearly had no idea it had been any different than those other threesomes he’d had plenty of times before. Olly never had—had never done anything more with a girl than kiss his prom date. He hadn’t wanted to lie like that, when he knew he wouldn’t ever feel the right way about her.
It was weird, Olly thought, watching the dark blur of Lake Superior give way to Duluth’s lights. He should have been losing his shit; had been, yesterday morning, had been having a complete fucking meltdown, sitting in his shower with the water pounding down on his shoulders and stomach acid on the back of his throat.
But he’d realized: he was going to get through it. He was going to fucking survive. Benji was a solid dude, and fuck it, Olly trusted him. And if everything really went to hell, he was still going to be fine. He had money; he could move to his cabin on Lake Vermilion and fish all day and never think about this shit ever again.
Joey and Sami met him at the airport. Levi had bailed because of some emergency at work.
It was snowing as they pulled out of the arrivals lane in Joey’s truck, flakes materializing out of nowhere in the beam of the headlights. It was only two hours to the cabin Joey had rented on Lake Winnibigoshish—a new place, some resort that would turn on the heat in their fish house for them. Apparently Dad had been giving Joey shit for going soft.
Olly caught them up on the season as they rolled up Route 2, the windshield wipers a quiet shush over their voices. Olly was glad to be there: the Järvinen brothers had been going ice fishing during the All-Star break since he’d made it to the show. He barely remembered last year, he’d been such a wreck. Not sleeping, drinking too much. The whole week had been a blur of trying to hold it together, and realizing that he was failing.
Sami was asleep in the passenger seat by the time they drove through Deer River. The conversation had tapered off around Grand Rapids, and the snow was getting heavier. Olly felt a little sleepy himself, lulled by the narcotic hush of the windshield wipers and the soft music on the radio.
“Olly,” Joey said quietly. All Olly could see from the back seat was the curve of his shoulder, the nape of his neck. “I wanted to say—I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Last year. I should have been there. For you.”
Olly couldn’t think of anything to say. They were passing the casino: its lights blazed against the darkness.
“Sami filled me in, a little, after Christmas. But he shouldn’t have had to. I should have...” He stopped again. “I should have known you better than to think what Dad was saying was true. That you needed to be tougher, or whatever, that you were giving up. You’re the toughest little bastard I’ve ever met.”
“I don’t feel like it.” Olly leaned back against the headrest. Shut his eyes. It was easier to talk in the dark. “I was so fucked up.”
“We were all worried about you last year, but—shit. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. You don’t make it easy to—I don’t know. To know what’s going on. That’s not an accusation or me trying to make an excuse. I should have figured it out. Manned the fuck up and talked to you.”
“I wouldn’t have talked to you.”
“I would have fucking made you.” That was Joey’s big-older-brother-voice: the voice that had helped him with his wristers, that had carried him piggyback around the backyard, that had pushed him on the swings and helped him tie his shoes and showed him how to shotgun a beer.
“I’m gay,” Olly said to the black space behind his eyelids.
Joey didn’t say anything, but the truck slowed, pulled off to the side of the tiny road. Olly opened his eyes as Joey put it in Park, Sami waking up with a curious noise. Joey got out, opened the back door, and pulled him into his chest, as far as he could get with his seat belt still fastened.
Belatedly, Olly realized that he was crying into Joey’s flannel shirt, hard, like when he was four years old and had fallen down the steps into the basement. Before he’d learned to play through it.
Sami was scrambling out of his seat belt, demanding to know what the fuck was going on, and Joey was telling him. The other back door opened, letting in a whip of snow, and then Sami was crashing into his back, wrapping his arms around him from the other side.
They made it to the cabin eventually, all three of them raw-edged. Olly’s head had gone fuzzy, from a day in airports and all the fucking emotions. They hadn’t talked, really, on the rest of the drive. But no one hated him.
Olly didn’t know what else to do. He emailed Dr. Martinez once his phone got connected to the wireless at the cabin. He also got a text from Benji of an icy drink with an umbrella, in front of crystal-colored ocean water. Stay warm up there.
Sami dragged in the last load of stuff from the truck, a cooler with all the beer and steaks and breakfast shit they’d need for the week. Only craft beer; no quinoa or butter made from anything but peanuts; no vegetables, unless you counted potatoes. Neither Benji nor Liz would count potatoes.
“I think we all deserve a fucking drink,” Sami said. He pulled three IPAs out of the cooler and handed them around. Joey popped the top of his off on the side of the counter—he’d learned to do it in college and always liked showing off his trick. Olly and Sami stuck to the Buckeyes bottle opener on Sami’s key chain.
Olly tried not to drain half his beer at once. Failed. Sami handed him another without a word.
They ended up on the couches in the living room, arguing over what to watch the same way they had their entire lives. They settled on the Calgary-Winnipeg game. It felt like every ice-fishing trip they’d ever been on; Olly was so grateful he didn’t even know what to do with it.
“Don’t think we’re not gonna talk about your shit,” Sami told him, when the game was over and Olly was half-asleep on the couch.
“This fucker loves to talk about feelings now.” Joey sounded resigned.
“I have a therapist.” Olly swallowed a yawn. “So apparently I do, too.”
There was a long pause. Joey and Sami stared at each other over his head: Olly wouldn’t have had to know them for his entire life to know it was a speaking look.
“Did your big, sexy roommate have anything to do with that?” Joey asked, finally. “’Cause Liz is ready to roll out the welcome wagon if you want to get gay-married.”
“No,” Olly informed them. “We are not doing this.”
“Oh, Olly.” Joey reached out to give him three soft pats on top of his head, like he was one of the fucking Järvinen huskies. “We are definitely doing this.”
* * *
They did, too, giving him shit all goddamned week. But it was the same shit they’d always given each other, bullshitting around the fish hole and reminding each other of every embarrassing thing they’d ever done.
And they talked for real, too, around the pine-topped table in their kitchen, looking out onto the white of the lake while Sami fried fish on the stove. Olly told them about the Wolves, more than he’d ever told anybody—letting his eyes go unfocused so he wouldn’t have to look at Barnard spitting in his face, calling him a bitch-ass little faggot every time Olly’s checking wasn’t up to his ever-evolving standards, every time he failed to get in front of a puck; how by February he’d been so desperate and fucked up that he’d gone out to a bar and gotten smashed and let himself get picked up, and how that had been the one night Crowder hadn’t stayed out with the boys until two in the morning. The legal shit, the brewing scandal, the relentless grind of being a fucking gay professional hockey player.
All the shit he’d been hearing his entire life.
All the shit he’d picked up without ever once having to be told.
He wouldn’t say any of it hurt less, exactly, like one week could make up for a lifetime. But it was something.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Olly got back to the 505 looking good as hell, like standing on six inches of ice to pull cold-ass fish out of even-fucking-colder water really did something for him.
Benji was still dehydrated from the sun and saltwater and rum. Poiro had reverted to type in Jamaica, and combining him with the craziest fuckers from the NHTC had been the recipe for one hell of a week. Benji had been the old man of the group, chasing after everybody with Gatorade and sunscreen. Any party squad where he was the responsible one was...yeah.
But it had been good to get out of DC, have a little time to wrap his head around the Olly thing.
They’d texted all week, but it was different than having him there: tucked into the corner of the couch and frowning at Pro Hockey; wrinkling his nose at doing the dishes; falling asleep on Benji’s shoulder on the plane, close enough that he could smell whatever he put in his perfect fucking hair. He could never figure out exactly what it smelled like: sharp and fresh, underlain with masculinity.
So yeah. He didn’t think he’d gotten his head around much of anything. Or figured out what in the actual fuck had made him think it was a good idea to go there with his complicated, very-not-DTF Olly.
Benji refocused on chopping carrots while Olly filled him in on ice fishing. It sounded like actual hell, but it agreed with Olly, so Benji cared about listening.
* * *
They came back from the break with a long home stand—games every other day while most of the Western Conference swung through. Mils called it the Groundhog Day schedule: skate, eat, sleep, repeat.
Benji liked the rhythm, settled into the work with a will. He didn’t like to assume things, but the Eagles were making the playoffs as long as they didn’t implode spectacularly, even though their offense was not the best. Coach was rumbling about sending Lukesy back up to 1C, which he was being a total diva about. Prince Luke liked playing with a consistent line, not to mention having Olly and Bevvo pick up his slack with checking.
But Poiro had remembered how to stop pucks and their D was nailing shit down. And Stormy was back on his skates in a white no-contact jersey, which gave everybody a boost.
Nothing was different back at the 505. Olly seemed happy to act like he’d been struck with selective amnesia. He was spending more time FaceTiming his brothers, and Benji liked listening to the laughter from his bedroom, liked coming back from drinks with the boys to find him sprawled on the couch, long legs angled over the back cushions with his phone tucked into his shoulder.
But sometimes—fuck—Benji worried he wasn’t doing quite as good of a job at playing it off.
Well, he was. Benji was being his most chill and normal.
But sometimes...he’d be in his shower, or getting ready to fall asleep, and it would hit him like an electric shock: Olly’s eyes fluttering open, dark Great Lakes blue in the dim light of his bedroom; the dent his teeth left in his lower lip; the punched-out gasp he’d made when he came.
Benji didn’t understand why he kept thinking about it.
He wasn’t thinking about it that much.
Except for when he was.
* * *
“Where’s your better half?” Poiro asked, when he slipped into their room two minutes before curfew.
“With Soko.” Olly locked his iPad. He’d been watching tape of San Diego. His old roommate from Colorado, Jake, was tearing it up this year. And his abs were still as ridiculous as they’d ever been, if Instagram was anything to go by.
“Trouble in paradise? Still?” Poiro flopped onto his bed. “Or has Soko gotten finished with his murder-show kick?”
“Go brush your teeth. You’re disgusting.”
“Fucking Christ, Oliver.” Poiro rolled his eyes, like he was offended by basic dental hygiene, but he did haul his ass out of bed to brush his teeth, so.
Olly clicked off the light when he got back, shut his eyes, and rolled to face the wall. He wasn’t tired, even after the game and a steak the size of his face, but the video had started blurring in front of his eyes. He needed his brain to shut up. Lay in the dark and do his mindfulness exercises, like tonight they were finally going to work.
He didn’t know how long it had been—long enough that he thought Poiro was asleep; the bastard slept like a blameless, innocent child—when Poiro’s sheets rustled. “Olly?” he whispered. “You know you can talk to me, right. If you wanted to.”
“We talk all the fucking time.” Olly reluctantly rolled himself over.
Poiro was propped up on one elbow, a blur of black hair and white sheets in the dark. “Mostly bullshit and chirps.”
“Did you finally learn more English, then?”
“Fuck you,” Poiro shot back. He had an accent, but he was fluent. “I’m trying to have a real talk, and all you do is insult me.”
“I really feel the togetherness,” Olly told him. He appreciated that Poiro was trying or whatever, but he wasn’t having this conversation. “I feel like this is a very safe space.”
Poiro chucked a pillow at his head. “Fuck you, for real.” He flopped back down onto his bed. Olly thought they were done, but no. “It’s just. You’re a decent guy for an asshole, Oliver. So I want you to know that I’ve got your back. And if you ever need anyone to rearrange Benji’s face, I’m your man.”
“I would pay money to see you try to beat Benji up.”
“I’m not fucking stupid. I’d get your lineys to hold him down.”
“I don’t know why you want to beat Benji up at all.”
“I don’t want to,” Poiro said. “Just if you need me to.”
“Why would I need you to whale on my best buddy on the team?”
“Fuck you, Oliver.” Poiro hurled another pillow, getting less power on it since he was all cuddled up in his blankets. “All I’m saying is that. You know. Whatever’s going down. There are guys who’ve got your back.”
“Nothing is going down.” There was no way Poiro knew what had happened before the break. Unless Benji had said something in Jamaica. But if he had, Olly didn’t think Poiro could manage to be this subtle about it. And Olly thought he was handling it okay, the best that he could. Sometimes the wanting cracked him in half; but it was more manageable, now.
“Fine,” Poiro snapped. “Be difficult. And give me my goddamned pillows back.”
He was quiet after that, at least. Olly turned on a podcast and gave up on sleeping. All of this felt like it could blow up in a fucking instant. His knee, a concussion, a career-ending scandal about the gay guy tricking his roommate into sex.
Still, Olly couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a panic attack about hockey; the last time he’d thrown up had been the morning after the threesome, which he thought was more than justified. And, anyway, he and Benji had been fine since the stuttered-out apologies Benji had offered along with a cup of coffee and makeup yoga. They’d been leaving a little more space between each other, maybe; no falling asleep in the same bed, no naps on each other’s shoulders on the plane.
It didn’t make anything easier, exactly, but it was what Olly needed.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
They finished out the road trip, and then won against the Demons at home. Olly sacrificed his rib cage to a puck in the second, and skated off to get checked by the trainers. He was back in the third, before he got knocked into the boards and Coach O pulled him.
Benji didn’t let himself worry about Olly until after the game. (He did his best to crack some bones on the guy who checked him, though.) (Legally. The Demons had a decent power play.) He found Olly propped up in his stall, a bag of ice taped to his ribs and a determinedly neutral expression on his face, indicating I’m suffering but I’ll die before I admit it.
