Page 84 of Poetry On Ice

Some of them suspect us.

Some think it’s the craziest thing they’ve ever heard and that neither Robbie nor I would ever ‘do something like that.’

It’s that, the ‘something like that’ that kills me.

I know where thoughts like that come from and the kind of thinking that gives rise to them.

When I think of Robbie being exposed to that, I feel physical pain. I feel hot and cold all over, and for the hundredth time, I look down at my screen as I type the message I need to send to set him free.

My thumb hovers over the send arrow, shaking as I will myself to do it. I try and try and try.

At long last, by the time I’m so exhausted I’m seeing double, I delete the message and type another one instead. I don’t look down to read it back.

I hit send without hesitation.

I miss you.

He takes less than twenty seconds to reply.

I’m on my way.

33

Robbie McGuire

“Be reasonable, Robbie,” Antsays in a hushed tone on the phone, “you’re still signed off. You can’t just fly out to see me.”

“Why not? My flight is booked, and I’m already at the airport.” He’s quiet for a couple of seconds, and I can all but hear the cogs of his mind grind as he tries to think of something to say that will dissuade me. “I’ll say I’m there to boost morale. You guys have been on a massive losing streak without me, so it makes sense for me to get my ass out there to cheer you all on.”

“I think massive is a bit strong.”

“Fine, you’ve lost more than you’ve won without me.”

“You’re really fucking impossible to deal with, you know that, McGuire?”

“You have alluded to it once or twice.”

It’s almost midnight by the time I get to the hotel. It’s freezing in Detroit, but the hotel is nice. I’ve stayed here a few times before. The rooms are spacious andmodern with a classic contemporary slant that gives them a lived-in feel. Since I’m staying here on my dime, I booked a great room on the top floor.

The Vipers lost again tonight. Ant texts me to let me know that most of the team is at the VIP bar drowning their sorrows, so I check in and head straight up there.

The bar is a high-end space with a good vibe. The walls and ceilings are painted an inky dark blue and the lighting is moody. It’s been designed to make guests feel secluded. Enclosed. Private. It’s working because the second I walk in, I spot my teammates, and even from fifty feet away, I can tell they’ve let their hair down in a big way. Alcohol is flowing like water. The guys are still wearing their game-day suits, and that, along with their bulk and the raucous bursts of laughter erupting from them, makes them hard to miss.

Ant spots me first. We lock eyes and neither of us moves. I don’t know about him, but for me, it’s because I can’t. He’s so gorgeous and guarded, and somehow, he makes more sense to me than anyone ever has. The corners of his mouth twitch as he fights a smile. He looks away and doesn’t make a move toward me. It kills me, but I get it. We have eyes on us now whether we like it or not. I understand why he can’t do it.

At least, I understand in words. I’ve spent a lot of time talking to my mom and dad about it this week, and they’ve helped me understand how and why Ant might feel the way he does about coming out. I get it in words. I really do. It’s just that my heart is struggling to catch up.

Bodie is the second to see me.

“Robbieeeee!” he roars as he speeds over to me and lifts me off my feet. He’s as drunk as I’ve seen him in years. His eyes are vague and unfocussed, but God, he’s in a good mood, and seeing me unexpectedly seems to have made his night. Luddy and Pejic follow suit and beat a path to me.

“Thank God you’re back,” says Pejic. “We’ve been losing ground without you, bud.”

“I’m not officially back for two more days,” I remind him. “But I thought I might be able to convince Coach to let me join practice tomorrow, and if that fails, I can cheer you on when you play the Cats.”

Soon, I’m surrounded by a horde of players saying my name. There are fists stretched out in my direction and open hands offered. Big bodies crash into me as everyone tries to welcome me back at the same time. I’m passed from person to person until I can’t tell who I’ve already greeted and who I haven’t. There’s such a profusionof embraces that they quickly become indistinguishable from each other.

There’s only one that stands out. It’s not an embrace so much as a light, covert touch. A big, heavy hand drags across my lower back when no one is looking. The hem of my shirt is worried and tugged gently as if the person doing it doesn’t want to let go.