Contract Season, page 27
Brody laughed again, sounding delighted. “I don’t have a foot thing. I needed to get you skates.”
Sea twisted around to look into the back seat as Brody pulled away from the curb, car practically soundless. There was a collection of ice skates in the back. “I’d have thought you wanted a break from skating. I know you, uh, had a tough time in Florida.”
Brody made a face. “We’ve got issues on the road. If I stopped skating every time I had a bad game, I wouldn’t have gotten very far. Thanks for saying something, but I don’t want to talk about our shitty road record tonight.”
“Fine. If I break a bone a week before the CMAs, you’re telling Ian.”
“You’re not going to break a bone.” Brody sounded awful confident for someone who had seen Sea trip over a flat, unobstructed sidewalk.
“If I do, I’m making it your problem.”
“You’ve been making things my problem since the second we met.”
“Actually,” Sea clarified, holding one finger in the air as Brody pulled onto I-65 South, “you made yourself my problem. Because you poured champagne on me. In case you don’t remember.”
Brody remembered things a little differently—which was inaccurate as hell—and the bickering took them the rest of the way into Antioch. Sea didn’t make it out here too frequently; if he was leaving the city, it was usually to visit Josette in Brentwood, or to let Lila-Rose drag him around the Mall at Green Hills.
Definitely not to pull up to a massive building painted Bucks green and white, dominated by an oversized logo of a charging buck.
The parking lot was fuller than he would have expected at 8 pm, but Brody explained there was a rec league playing on one of the facility’s two ice sheets, and open public skate on the other.
“Fantastic,” Sea drawled, “more people to watch me fall on my face.”
“You’ll be fine.” Brody pulled the skates out of the back seat, swinging them over his shoulder by the laces. There were five pairs, which seemed like three too many. Before he could ask about it, Brody asked, “You brought gloves, right?”
Sea waved them in his face. “You told me to. I listen.”
“I want to make sure your precious hands don’t get cold when you fall.”
Sea hit him with the gloves. Not that it did much, since he was a professional athlete in a sport where you had to be able to take a punch. “Who says I’m falling?”
“Everyone falls.” Brody shoved the gloves out of his face. “We call it losing an edge to be polite. But it just means you fell on your ass.”
“Fantastic, this sounds like an ideal sport for me.”
Brody opened the plate-glass doors and ushered him inside, like they were on a date or something.
Which they were.
An actual one.
Not a fake one.
Sea shoved down the nerves. He knew how to do this. Well, not skate, but exist in the same place as Brody. Talk to him. Laugh. Flirt. They were good at all of that.
They checked in with a high-school-looking kid at the rink’s front desk, who looked starstruck and stammered when she had to talk to Brody. She offered Sea a waiver. After he’d signed it, Brody asked how he’d read it that quickly, and Sea learned that Brody read safety waivers before signing them.
“Did you read the terms of service for your iPhone, too?” he asked, flabbergasted. “For your cable bill?”
“I don’t have cable.” Brody paused. “You didn’t read your contract with your cable company?”
“Uh, no? It just auto-deducts.”
Brody ushered him through another set of doors to the rink that was open for public skate. It was cold, smelled like Sea’s high school locker room, and there was a weirdly textured mat over the ground. People circled the ice—little kids zooming around in miniature Bucks jerseys, parents supervising, a pair of shy-looking high schoolers holding hands.
“Let’s deal with your skates. We can tackle your cable bill later.”
“My cable bill is fine,” Sea protested automatically. He kicked off his boots and accepted the pair of skates Brody handed him. They were heavier than they looked, made of stiff, inflexible plasticky material.
Brody started going all type A about lace tightness and ankle support, so it turned out that all the extra pairs of skates were for Sea to try. He felt no difference in any of them, except that they all felt too tight, which Brody said was how they were supposed to fit, so Sea wasn’t sure why he’d asked for his opinion at all, and then they were low-key arguing about ice skate minutiae that Sea had no thoughts or feelings about, and also high-key laughing until they snorted.
But finally, Sea was in a pair of ice skates that fit Brody’s exacting fucking standards. Brody started trying to explain a bunch of shit about inside and outside edges and proper stance, which Sea appreciated, but also he couldn’t stand here for any longer wondering how long it was going to take him to fall.
“I think I got it,” he said, and wobbled over to the door cut into the side of the rink, and stepped out on the ice.
It went...medium. His skate flew out from under him, but he managed to catch himself on the wall.
“This is why I wanted to practice your stance first.” Brody sounded aggrieved.
“I’m more of a learn-by-doing kind of person.”
“I can tell.” Brody, who ice-skated for his literal job and was also a Canadian so had probably been born with scale-model skates on his infant feet, had no problem skating backward and holding Sea’s hands while he got his feet under him.
Sea blew out a sigh. “What were you saying about that gliding thing again?”
“Oh, now you want my help?” But Brody was dimpling while he said it, and was more than happy to start explaining again, and it did help once Sea could feel what he was saying about the way his skates connected with the ice.
Which was not to say Sea was good at ice-skating.
In fact, he was very bad.
The worst at this damned public skate session by a country mile. Five country miles. Fifteen.
If he wasn’t hanging on to the wall or Brody, he was falling. Again, and again, and again, but gradually less, the more times they maneuvered their way around the rink. The children zooming around in Bucks jerseys were all menaces with no concept of mortality—their own or Sea’s—but Brody smiled after them and talked about how long it had been since he’d come to a public skate session, so apparently they were part of the vibe.
Along with falling on your ass.
“Maybe I should have booked some private ice time,” Brody said, reaching down to tow Sea up yet again.
“It’s fine.” Sea hauled himself to his feet. Brody barely moved. “Like you said, I’ve fallen on my ass in front of more people than this. Now hold my hand and maybe I can make it around this turn without eating shit.”
They made it around that turn, and the next one after that. Nobody seemed to care that two men were holding hands, even though they’d gotten a few double takes when they first arrived. Sea had overheard one of the parents telling their demon child not to bother Brody when he was busy, so it was probably less because of the gay thing and more because a Buck had showed up for a random public skate night.
He hadn’t seen any phones out, though. He didn’t care either way—this was a G-rated outing, other than Sea’s language.
It was calming, though, once he got a rhythm going and most of the younger kids had filtered off the ice.
Other than the mild peril and shit.
But that wasn’t a dealbreaker.
Sea had done a lot of reckless shit under worse supervision than going ice-skating with a literal professional.
“You’re a good teacher,” he said, because he thought Brody might like to hear it.
Brody squeezed his hand through his gloves. “I used to work at camps when I was in juniors. Never with total beginners, though.”
Sea fluttered his eyelashes, wobbled on his skates, but stayed upright to say, “Oh, am I your first?”
Brody laughed. His dimple made Sea feel dizzy, the swoop in his stomach having nothing to do with how his feet skidded out from under him.
One of the rink attendants called a five-minute warning.
“Hey,” Sea said, tugging on Brody’s hand before they’d made it to the gate off the ice. “This was fun. Thanks. And thanks for—you know.” He swallowed. “Giving me some time on stuff.”
“Of course.” Brody paused, tracing his thumb over Sea’s wrist. He was smiling but his eyes looked earnest, at least until he said, “I’ll watch you lose an edge anytime.”
“You literally just told me that was the same as falling on my ass.”
“Exactly. Anytime.” Brody nodded, mock-serious, dimple ruining Sea’s life. “At least before we get to the big playoff push. Then it’s eat, sleep, skate, repeat.”
“Sounds intense.”
“It’s always intense.”
They stepped off the ice and took off their skates. Back in his boots, Sea’s toes felt like they could breathe again.
The rec league was letting out as they made their way through the lobby, spilling loud voices and the faint smell of beer out of the locker room. A pair of women with athletic bags over their shoulders nodded at Brody as he held the door for them, ever the gentleman.
The bubble popped as soon as they got into the parking lot. A cluster of guys with open beers surrounded the tailgate of the truck parked next to Brody’s car. Sea heard words like overpaid, and liability, and distraction; I can’t believe he missed the check for that fucking shorthanded goal, he’s soft as hell. What’d Kellerman do, blow every hockey journalist to get that Defenseman of the Year?
There was no way Brody hadn’t heard it.
“Fuck all y’all,” Sea snapped. Heads swiveled. “Really fantastic insult for the only out gay player in the league. Did you stay awake all night thinking of that one?”
He raised his middle finger toward them before he climbed into the car, slamming the door behind him. “Can you believe that, babe? Just standing in the parking lot talking like that?”
Brody’s jaw was set as he put the car in reverse. “They’re sports fans. They’re blowing off steam.”
“Don’t make excuses for that.”
“I’ve heard worse.”
“So have I,” Sea said. “But that doesn’t mean it’s okay.”
“Fine. It’s not okay. But you can’t pick fights with fans.”
“I didn’t pick a fight.”
“Sea.” Brody’s voice was sharp. Flat. “You can’t do that.”
“Whatever.” Sea dug his fingers into his sweaty hair. “Be like that. Mr. Perfect Professional Hockey Player, even if it fucking sucks. Nothing gets in the way. No distractions.”
“You’ve been a distraction since the first day I met you.” Brody didn’t sound happy about it. Sea didn’t know how much he’d gotten used to the tolerant amusement in Brody’s voice until it was gone.
Sea looked out the passenger-side window at the lights, the guardrails, shredded tires from a long-ago blowout. Brody drove in the right lane unless he was passing someone.
They sat in uneasy silence. Sea didn’t know what to say, how to de-escalate their standoff. He didn’t know how to be someone’s boyfriend—how to fight or how to make up or how to move forward when you didn’t think you’d done anything wrong. He was realizing how much he’d relied on Brody to get them through the hard parts.
When Sea had tripped out of the door with his gloves in his hand, he’d thought he might invite Brody inside at the end of the night. That he might push him down onto the couch and climb into his lap and kiss him and let Brody touch him, and see if it was as good as he remembered.
Brody pulled to a stop in front of Sea’s house, where the porch light glowed golden against the night.
“I’ll see you,” Sea said, unbuckling his seat belt.
“We’ve got Calgary tomorrow and then I’ll be on the road for the next week.” Brody’s hands stayed still on the steering wheel, nine and three.
“Good luck.”
“Good luck with rehearsals.”
This felt horrible. Stiff, awkward. Sea wanted out. Sea wanted to stay forever, only in a version of this where everything was better; where he’d been honest from the start, and they’d met without the pressure and the intensity and the relationship timeline signed in official black ink. Without the charts about market shares and the national media interviews and the petitions about whether they were appropriate influences for the youth of America.
“Bye, then,” he said. Brody echoed it, then Sea was closing the front door behind him.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Calgary snapped a six-game losing streak in the Bucks’ barn. Brody was on the ice for every goal.
Blaming a fight with Sea was loser’s thinking. Shit happened. Home losses happened.
Brody leaned his head against the window of the airplane that was taking them to Dallas. It was a late flight. Next to him, Alex had on his eye mask, seat reclined.
Brody’s seat remained upright. His phone played Spotify, uninterrupted by texts. Jenny Lewis—nothing that had to do with Sea.
London had introduced him to Jenny Lewis. He hadn’t been much of a hockey fan, but he’d had alerts turned on for final scores. He’d always texted. Way to go! or I’m sorry, you’ll get them next time.
Or rather, he’d always texted until their final season together, and then he’d trailed off. Disappeared entirely.
Brody didn’t like thinking about London. He hadn’t thought about London in ages. The escalating tension that he’d only recognized after the fact, the way Alex and Josette’s wedding had become a massive symbol in London’s head: a place to hang all the ways their relationship wasn’t working for him anymore.
Being out in the league hadn’t been as bad as he’d been expecting. He had the nascent group chat, whether it ever grew or stayed at three. The NAHA had decided on the message, and enforced it—say what you would about a league under such tight central control, but it had its advantages. Mostly people had been supportive; maybe he wished they’d do a better job of googling their 101-level questions before they texted him, but they meant well. He’d started a list of answers to commonly asked questions and links to additional resources in his Notes app so he could paste them in his replies.
Nobody had called him a slur on the ice, not even the names on his mental bullet point list of the NAHA’s worst Neanderthals.
Well. The season was young. And they hadn’t been to Minnesota yet—Olly from DC had made a few allusions.
Being out in the league was also a source of pressure he’d never wanted to face. Feeling as though every goal against his plus-minus was a statement about whether LGBTQ players could make it at the highest levels of sport. People calling him a symbol. Talking heads dissecting whether the media attention was a distraction for the Bucks, no matter how much Raz got in their faces about it. The pressure to perform, to make sure the Bucks thought their investment in him was worth it, to make sure all the sacrifices that Brody himself had made—relationships, truthfulness, his time and energy and his body—were worth it.
He pressed his palms against his eyes, cutting out the uninterrupted darkness of the window.
His situation with Sea was nothing like his situation with London. Sea was an unexpected gift, quiet and fiddling with a playlist in his kitchen; morning sunlight through the window, catching glints of gold in his leg hair; the smudge of dish soap bubbles he’d left on his forehead when he pushed his hair out of his face.
Brody wanted that, but Brody knew as well as anyone—better than most—that wanting something didn’t mean shit. You had to break it down, make it achievable, put in the work. And then the stars still had to align: you had to be lucky with injuries, you had to have been born with the right combination of speed and skeletomuscular resilience and size, you had to make it to the right juniors teams and even after that, you had to stay out of the 94% who would never lace up their skates for a single NAHA game.
Wanting things was worthless.
When he’d been younger, Brody had wanted—desperately, almost more than he’d wanted to be a hockey player, because the two things felt incompatible on a molecular level—to not be gay.
He’d been gay anyway. Fortunately he’d gotten over all of the self-hatred and self-doubt at an early age.
Later, Brody had wanted a partner. London had broken up with him anyway, in a time and a manner that demonstrated that the two of them never would have worked anyway.
He’d told himself he wasn’t getting tangled up in another relationship until he retired, and then within half a year—less than—he was dating someone more publicly than he’d ever been with London.
Fake dating. None of it was real, he reminded himself, with merciless attention to the detail of Sea’s flirtatiousness, his talent, the way he was always the best thing in any room.
Attention to detail was Brody’s thing.
He had plenty of it to torture himself with.
Sea taking shots at Bucks fans in a parking lot, and not understanding why Brody thought he’d done something wrong. Throwing Brody’s focus back in his face like he’d never understand or respect it.
All the time they both spent on the road, the opposite-season impossibility of it. They couldn’t make it work under the best conditions they were going to get—early fall, before the awards season kicked off for Sea and before Brody’s existence narrowed to skate-recover-skate-recover.
His phone vibrated against his thigh. It was Sea, for the first time since Brody had watched him close his front door with the porch light haloing his messy hair gold. sorry if I did the wrong thing with those fans. or made things worse for you.
