Changing on the Fly

by Cherylanne Corneille

  “But Buck was closer, and he was already trying to go after the guy.”

  “Yeah,” Boone said not bothering to glance from the pages of his book this time.

  “So no need for you to get involved. I mean, hell, you ended up with a suspension on opening night. The Krewe needed their alternate captain out there. Coach had to be pissed.”

  Boone sighed and laid his tablet on the bedside table, likely realizing this wouldn’t be a short discussion. “If you didn’t notice, Coach – hell, the whole damn organization – backed both you AND me one hundred percent on the situation. No reason to concern myself with the consequences. I’d damn sure do it again. I may well have to tomorrow night.”

  “And you didn’t mind not being on the ice for the ceremony when they raised the conference championship banner?”

  “No.” The answer was emphatic. “This was more important.”

  “I don’t need you taking a bullet for me.”

  “You obviously don’t get it, Nate.”

  Nate shook his head and stood. He couldn’t sit still anymore, not with his friend being so dismissive. He clenched his fist slowly. Maybe taking a swing at Boone himself would knock some sense into that skull. “Really, Boone? What don’t I get?”

  “You have no idea, do you?”

  “No. Apparently, I have no fucking clue. Maybe you should enlighten me.”

  “I know you look up to me…”

  Nate nodded. “You’ve been a huge reason why I even thought I had a chance to make it in this league. But I never really understood why me?”

  “If nothing else, I look up to you.” Boone paused for a moment. “No. There’s no better way to explain it.”

  “What?”

  “You are the strongest, most courageous person I’ve ever met. I’d hoped that by spending time with you, some of that might rub off on me.”

  “You can’t be serious…”

  “I wish I was even half as brave as you are, but I’ve been such a coward. I have lived a lie for so long that I almost believed it myself. But then you had to get drafted, come to Carolina, and force me to really take a look at who I truly am.”

  “I don’t…”

  Boone held up his right hand, the gesture silencing Nate’s latest protest. “You had the courage to be who you are, to love who you love without thought of consequence.”

  “Boone?”

  “I’m bisexual, Nate.” Boone’s blue eyes met Nate’s brown ones. The resolve there made Nate stumble to the bed behind him, faltering as he sat.

  Boone shook his head. “I’ve never told anyone.”

  “How long have you known?” Nate asked softly, his voice shaking.

  A shrug. “Since I was in junior – maybe 15 or 16.”

  Shit. Twelve years was a long time to hide from the world. Nate blinked then shook his head before running a hand over his face.

  “You know for certain?”

  “Yes. I may not have ever acted on my feelings, but I know I’m attracted to both Scarlett Johansson and Chris Evans.” The storm on Boone’s face betrayed his conflict of emotions. “I’ve been trying to figure out what it is I’m supposed to do. Do I tell you? Do I tell Evie? My brain is on overdrive all the time, going over every scenario.”

  Nate nodded. Boone squatted in front of him. “You okay?” Another nod.

  “Yeah. Sorry. A bit shocked. Certainly not what I was expecting.” He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. “I appreciate you telling me.”

  Boone rubbed the back of his own neck. “Figured you would understand, but I was so afraid of losing the relationship we have. Honestly, though, no offense, but you aren’t my type.”

  “Uh, I’m obviously not Scarlett Johansson or Chris Evans.”

  “Or Chris Hemsworth.”

  Nate smiled. “No, him either. So no offense taken. For the record, you aren’t really my type either.”

  “Really?”

  “No matter how much of a pain in the ass they can be, I prefer tall skinny Brits.”

  “I’m definitely not that.” Boone chuckled then his face went serious again as he sat on the floor. “I really don’t know where to go from here. I’m not sure if I’m ready to tell the rest of the team.”

  “Well, it would destroy Buchanan’s theory about the token gay man being the team’s good luck charm.”

  “On second thought…”

  “Better to humor him. His brain might explode otherwise.”

  “No, his brain will explode when he realizes that he’s more my type than you are.”

  Nate threw up his hands. “Oh. Now I’ve lost the last bit of respect I ever had for you.”

  “But at least now you know why I went after McGarrett.”

  “Yeah. And I can finally say thank you.”

  Boone stood. “You’re welcome. Better believe I’ll do it again tomorrow night if the situation calls for it.”

  “Nah. Let Bucky have the spotlight for once.”

  “Let’s go grab some dinner. I know a great steak place nearby.”

  “Sure.” Nate snatched his coat and wallet, and the two men headed toward the door. “Are you sure Buchanan’s your type? He’s such a nutcase.”

  “Eh.” Boone shrugged. “I guess I like ‘em crazy.”

  “I guess it fits. Crazy is your personality.”

  Chapter 6

  WHEN NATE AND Boone wandered into the team breakfast the next morning before morning skate, the rowdy, chatty bunch of players that normally greeted them was oddly quiet. Anyone who noticed the pair enter the room quickly turned back to their bowls of oatmeal and plates of eggs.

  Nate followed Boone to the buffet and started loading up his own dish with ham and eggs then prepared two slices of wheat toast. He grabbed two bananas before taking a seat at one of the half empty tables, smirking as he realized Boone’s “type” sat across the table from them.

  Boone finally snagged the chair next to him, and they began eating. About 10 minutes later, Boone must have reached a limit on the unfamiliar silence because he finally spoke. “Okay. What gives? Bucky?”

  J.J.’s brown eyes reflected a strange mix of anger, confusion and sadness. He reached down to the floor and placed the folded newspaper he retrieved between Boone and Nate’s now half empty breakfast plates. Boone stared at J.J. for a moment before picking up the publication. “Bottom of the page,” J.J. stated.

  Nate chewed a bit of peanut butter toast while Boone began to read. The subject of the story was enough to make his friend’s face go from neutral to stormy in the time it took to read little more than a paragraph. Boone’s knuckles went white as he clenched the edges of the newspaper.

  “What. The. Fuck.” The calm in Boone’s voice didn’t match the obvious anger in his body language. “Looks like you have a fan club, Ward.”

  Nate snatched the paper from the other man’s hands. Even as his eyes skimmed the page, his brain couldn’t really comprehend that the way he lived his private life could cause such chaos. According to the newspaper’s columnist, a conservative Christian group planned to protest Nate’s participation in the game that night. The man quoted in the article said that Nate deserved McGarrett’s wrath and the group hoped that perhaps some of the other Atlanta players might teach Nate another lesson to advance the greater good.

  Nate shook his head as he pushed his chair away from the table. “I’ll see you all at practice,” he said then walked away from the room. He found a loveseat in the lobby and pulled out his phone. His thumb rested over Tristan’s number in his contact list. This was the type of situation he really needed his boyfriend.

  Of course, given their most recent conversation, forget understanding, he and Tristan were not on the same page. Were they even in the same book?

  He scrolled through the other names in his phone, up then down then up again. He found no one. His parents certainly didn’t need to hear about some assholes that had nothing better to do on a Tuesday night
then to hassle their son about being gay. And he sure as hell knew most of his college friends wouldn’t be able to comprehend his problem.

  Exasperated, he closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the chair.

  “Hey.”

  The weight on the couch shifted as his friend sat. Nate sighed then glanced over at Boone. “I don’t know if I really want to deal with anyone at the moment.”

  “I understand, but I can’t do that.”

  “You know, Fowler, I’m not sure that you do. I appreciate that you were able to share with me last night, but there is one thing in my situation that is different. Everyone knows about me. I can’t hide. I have complete strangers wishing me harm for just being who I am.”

  He swallowed with difficulty around the emotion in his throat. “Do me a favor, will you? Don’t follow my example. Evie loves you. There is no reason to jeopardize the relationship you have for the sake of having a clear conscience.” Boone’s hand covered his knee, but Nate pulled away. “Yeah. You might not want to do that. Never know who’s watching.” He stood. “And I think we have practice.”

  * * *

  THE RIDE TO Atlanta’s arena from the Krewe’s downtown hotel was short, but not short enough for Nate. He tapped his foot and chewed on a hangnail, anxious to hop on the ice and work through this latest news the only way he truly knew – by playing the game he loved.

  As the bus turned right to pull underneath the building, Nate noticed the steel barriers stacked against the exterior and wondered why he felt as if they were instead piled at the door. Boone told him the night before how much strength and courage he had. It was going to take all of it to step on the ice later.

  But first, the morning skate. Game-day practices were always closed so the large number of spectators in the stands was unusual, even if they were mostly press. Nate sighed. They must be salivating over the idea that McGarrett’s first game back from suspension just happened to coincide with Nate’s debut in Atlanta. Alexa and Elliott both appeared in the stands as he eyed the crowd. He needed to put on his media guru hat after all was said and done. When the hour ended with a friendly shoot-out and the players began to disperse. Nate opted to stay on the ice for some extra shooting.

  “You avoiding the vultures?” Boone asked. “Something tells me that they can out-wait you.”

  Nate sent a slap shot into the upper corner of the net. He shrugged then sighed. “Will it ever end?”

  “Well, we could give them something to ponder.”

  “I am not kissing you.”

  “Uh. No. We had this discussion. Not my type, remember?” Boone caught a stray puck on his stick and juggled it from his forehand to his backhand before shooting. “I know you said you could defend yourself, but let’s pretend you can’t. I was thinking I could teach you how to throw some punches.”

  Nate grinned. “You are truly evil.” He nodded. “I’m in.”

  “Okay. I’m going to grab your jersey,” Boone said even as he fisted at Nate’s sweater at the neck. “Now try to counter me.”

  Nate struggled back and forth for several minutes then turned under Boone’s arm to free himself. Being shorter was an advantage, but he hesitated as he considered an offensive move. His attempt to lift Boone’s jersey from the back and flip off the other man’s helmet at the same time took too much coordination.

  “What the hell are you two doing?” J.J. interrupted.

  “I’m making sure Nate can defend himself. You know, in case McGarrett comes after him tonight.”

  “Oh, I can assure you McGarrett will try something.”

  “Not helping,” Nate mumbled.

  “Well, neither is Boone. He couldn’t fight his way out of his equipment bag. Trust me.”

  “Excuse me?” Chacin Daoust, the Krewe’s known enforcer, approached. “Who has more fighting majors than anyone else on this team?”

  Boone and J.J. bowed in mock adoration.

  “You’re definitely not worthy. Okay, Nate, you’ve seen smaller players fight? Most of them tackle their opponents to the ice. That’s also a good way for those less experienced to gain the advantage or at least come out on the other side with some of their pride intact and only a shiner. Use your upper body strength or try to take the skates out from under them.”

  “Uh. Yeah, upper body strength is lacking a bit at the moment.” The ache in his shoulder was still a dull throb. What was the old mantra about pain being temporary? “Next lesson?”

  “Most important, don’t let your opponent get the sweater over your head. Listen, McGarrett isn’t a great fighter either. Just don’t dance too long. That’s why tackling him is the main priority. The officials get in there quickly to break it up. When the fists start flying, they don’t want to risk a stray shot catching them on the head.” Chacin dropped his stick. “Come at me.”

  “You can’t be serious?”

  “Throw me a punch.”

  Nate attacked Chacin. They circled a few times before Nate reached to grab some his jersey right above the team crest. He faked a punch to Chacin’s chin then the two men shoved each other a couple of times. Boone and J.J. snickered in the corner.

  The next time Nate and Chacin were close, Chacin whispered. “We’re going after those two idiots. Follow my lead.”

  Almost as coordinated as a pairs’ figure skating routine, they strategically moved their mock fight near enough that they were able to grab their two unsuspecting teammates and shove them against the boards.

  “Uncle!” Boone shouted as he threw up his arms in surrender.

  “I give,” countered J.J.

  A few mock punches laid out their opponents and sent the rest of the team that remained on the ice into a round of stick taps. The photographers who had scrambled from their seats toward the glass for better pictures of the show headed back to their seats even as the reporters continued to scribble on their notepads and type on their tablets.

  Mission accomplished.

  * * *

  NATE THOUGHT HE was ready. He followed all his traditional pre-game rituals. Nap. Pasta and protein. Fall Out Boy. But the minute the bus pulled up to the arena, he knew it would be a rough night. The extra barricades he had seen during the morning skate held back a few hundred fans on either side of the player entrance.

  “Holy shit,” a teammate said from somewhere behind him. Across the aisle, Mattson’s eyes grew wide, taking in the spectacle.

  This committee was anything but welcoming. The protesters came prepared with homemade signs each with its own clever slogan.

  “Gay has no place in hockey!”

  “Hell hath frozen over!”

  “SHUT GAYS OUT OF HOCKEY!” screamed the bold black letters on another.

  At least they were creative in their hatred. Nate sighed as he shook his head sadly.

  When the bus halted safely beneath the arena, Nate’s teammates filed by him to exit, and he caught Boone’s eye. He read the sympathy there, but refused to acknowledge it. This was going to be a test of his mental toughness that not even Tristan and his research team could quantify.

  Although the Atlanta organization might not be able to control the protest outside the arena, the environment inside was its responsibility and the Flares weren’t going to incur any kind of fine from the league if they could avoid it.

  Most of the fan signage during warm-ups stayed on the Atlanta side of the rink so Nate thought it was strange when five minutes after they hopped on the ice, a poster appeared at the end the Krewe would be defending in the first period.

  It read simply: “TEAM NATE”.

  Then Nate saw who carried the sign and thought his mask needed cleaning. It couldn’t be.

  Tristan was there. In Atlanta. Wearing a black Krewe jersey with Nate’s name and number.

  Was he getting punked?

  Or maybe he had stepped into some other dimension?

  Tristan rarely attended Nate’s games. Nate could count on both hands the number of contests his boyfriend showed
up to in the three years they dated in college. Why travel the six hours from Raleigh to Atlanta when Tristan hadn’t bothered to drive the 20 minutes from the apartment to the arena at home?

  Back in the locker room before the initial puck drop, Boone stopped by his stall. “So, Nate, you good for tonight?”

  “My boyfriend just showed up.”

  “Seriously?”

  Nate only nodded.

  “Well, shit. He was the ‘Team Nate’?” Another nod. “Forget the distractions for now. You got this. Just concentrate on playing the game, and we’ll figure everything else out later. And if you need back-up, say the word.”

  If Nate remembered some of the rivalries in college hockey as rough and unpredictable, the recent history between Carolina and Atlanta made this particular game even more volatile than those he’d played against crosstown teams in Boston. Although the first five minutes were scoreless and he had done little more than skate around on his first few shifts, the crowd found him worthy of booing every time he touched the puck. He chuckled the first time he returned to the bench, and J.J. fist bumped him.

  “Public enemy number one,” his defensive partner offered with a laugh.

  The Carolina coaches plan was obviously to keep Boone and Nate away from McGarrett’s line, but the Flares as the home team had the advantage of the last line change, making avoidance impossible. The inevitable match-up happened during a faceoff at about the mid-way point of the first period and honestly, Nate welcomed it.

  “Hey, Rook, how many teammates you banged?” McGarrett asked as they lined up in the slot for a faceoff.

  Nate refused to answer.

  The puck dropped but the linesman called it back, tossing out the Atlanta centerman for an infraction.

  And McGarrett started again.

  “I saw that pansy carrying the sign. He your boyfriend, Rook? Maybe I can find him after the game…”

  McGarrett was goading him and damn, he wanted to be the better person. This asshole was not going to intimidate him by using Tristan and get away with it.