Page 92 of Poetry On Ice
“I can, and I do." He sighs shrugs helplessly. "You think this just happened, Coach? You think I didn’t fight it? ’Cause I did. I did my best. I tried. I did everything I could think of to get rid of this guy.” He looks at me with soft eyes that rollick with humor. He pauses and buttshis shoulder gently against mine before showing Coach the palms of his upturned hands. “It can’t be done.”
“Ant’s right,” I confirm with zero regret. “He’s stuck with me.”
Coach shakes his head and rests it in his hand for a moment, then he unleashes an absolute belter of a laugh.
37
Ant Decker
The season is windingdown. We have one game left to play and it’s a little bittersweet because we’ve played out of our socks since Robbie came back from his concussion. We’ve broken records and made headlines. If we’d gotten our heads out of our asses earlier in the season, and if Robbie hadn’t been out for two weeks, there’s no doubt we’d be in with a real shot at the Stanley Cup this year. As it turns out, we narrowly missed qualifying.
I’m pretending to be super bummed about it, but the truth is, for the first time in my entire career, I’m glad we aren’t playing.
Don’t tell Robbie because his ego can’t handle it, but this year, for the first time, the idea of having a long off-season appeals to me.
Whenever we talk about the playoffs, he gives me a steely look and says, “Next year, baby. Next year, I’ll get that cup for you.”
Maybe it’s because of how well I know him now, or maybe it’s because he has a proven track record of making the shit he wants happen around him when he looks like that, but either way, when he says it, I believe him.
The world is still a dumpster fire, of course, and there are a lot of assholes around if you look for them, but overall, things have been better since we let the team in on our secret. Obviously, not everyone is one hundred percent cool with it. Most of them are, but I’ve seen a look or two. Picked up a vibe here and there.
It is what it is.
It hasn’t bothered me as much as I thought it would. Robbie says it’s none of our business what people think of us, and I don’t know, maybe he’s right. He says we should focus on the fact that a ton of guys have come through for us repeatedly since we told them about us, and that’s true.
Luddy has been a solid brick wall. Impenetrable as he stands guard over us, and Pejic hasn’t missed a single opportunity to deliver the official comment on our relationship. He does it with gusto, and his “Get a life, dickhead” is usually accompanied by a double dose of the middle finger.
My favorite is the way Bodie deals with the situation. Though he’d dearly love to be a badass like Pejic, he isn’t.That’s not how he’s made. Whenever he’s asked about us, he replies with a spluttery, “Get a life, p-please.”
It’s the p-please that gets me. It gets Robbie too. We laugh our asses off every time it happens.
It’s been a wild ride to get here, and no one’s been more surprised by what’s happened to my life this season than I am.
I stand by my point—I don’t think anyone owes anyone else an explanation about their sexuality. I truly believe that. I still do. I feel it deeply, and it annoys me that people haven’t stopped writing and speculating about our relationship. It’s just that I’m at Robbie’s house now, on one of the new sofas, and he’s asleep on my chest. Right now, my annoyance feels more like a distant, fictional construct than something based in reality.
He was tired before he passed out, so he’s sleeping deeply. So deeply that every time he breathes out, he makes this tinypfftas the air enters or leaves him. His head is heavy. He’s cut off the circulation to my left arm. My fingers are fizzing, half numb, half tingling.
I know I should move him, but I don’t because, in a few minutes, he’ll stir, and when he does, I’m going to lean down and kiss his cheek. I know that when I do that, he'll smile in his sleep.
I know this because he did it the last time I kissed him.
And the time before that.
Until he moves, I’m going to lie here, buried under him, and think about what he said the day he told me we loved each other. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. All the time, actually. I’ve been thinking about it on repeat, night and day.
I think of his beautiful face, so pretty and defiant and sweet, and how he looked when he told me that all he wants is to hold my hand and not have to pull away because someone might see us.
The more I think about it, the more I realize how much I want that too. I want it a lot. It’s not much to ask, and it’s new for me to want things like this, but I want it.
I want his hand in mine.
I want it so much that I’ve started suspecting I want it more than my right to privacy. More than I want to stand on my principles. More than I want people to remember my stats.
I want it because as much as the world still is what it is, I’m different now.
I know what matters more than public opinion, more than bigots, more than hockey, more than anything. It’s the softpfft-pfftof the air entering and leavingthe man I love. It’s the fact that he’s here. That fact that he’s real. That he’s mine, and I’m his.
The entire arena is on its feet. There’s a sea of faces around us. A blur of flesh-colored tones. Mouths are open, hands in the air. People are screaming. Stamping their feet. The applause is thunderous, a steady rumble shaking the foundation we skate on.