Saint was on the floor in the middle of the room, knees drawn to his chest, staring up at the display.
Carmine caught his breath. Saint was in sock feet but otherwise hadn’t changed his clothes. He didn’t move, gazing at the trophy on the wall.
“Hey,” Carmine said gently.
“None of it matters,” Saint whispered, almost too low to hear.
Carmine went to his knees beside him. “How can you say that?”
Saint’s eyes were shadowed, dark rings below them. He put his cheek on one knee and closed his eyes without answering.
“They don’t know it was you,” Carmine tried. He wanted desperately to touch him, but he held still. “I haven’t confirmed anything, I won’t. Saint, I won’t tell anyone, you have to know I won’t. You’re safe, baby, no one knows.”
Saint opened his eyes. “They asked you if it was me.” His voice was empty of emotion. “They know. Or at least they suspect.”
“No.” Carmine shook his head. “Saint, everything you’ve done, everything you’ve fought for—you won’t lose it. I don’t care how many people ask me if it was you. I’ll lie. I won’t let you lose everything, not for me.”
“You should go,” Saint said, still sounding empty. He stood, and Carmine scrambled up after him. “People will talk.”
Carmine planted his feet. “No.”
That made Saint turn to look at him.
“I fucking live here, Saint,” Carmine said. “If people ‘talk’ about me going home to the house I live in, then they really need a fucking life of their own.” He swallowed. “And I’m not leaving you.”
Something flickered across Saint’s face and he lifted his chin. “I don’t want you here.”
Despite Felix’s warning, the words sliced into Carmine’s heart. He took a shaky breath. “I d-don’t believe you. I think you’re scared, and I get it, baby, I do. But you can’t push me away and isolate yourself. You need people around you. You need family around you.”
Saint sneered. “You think you’re my family?”
Carmine’s resolve faltered. Maybe Felix had been wrong. But then Saint turned his face away and Carmine saw the shine of tear tracks on his cheeks. He set his jaw.
“I know I’m your family,” he managed, his voice wobbly. “Because I love you. And you love me. And I’d do anything for you. Saint—”
Saint’s breath caught on a sob and he hurled himself forward, into Carmine’s arms. Pain rocketed through Carmine’s ribs at the impact but he didn’t make a noise, holding on tight.
“I’ve got you,” he said into Saint’s hair. “Nothing’s going to happen to you. I’ve got you.”
“I can’t come out,” Saint choked, face pressed to Carmine’s chest. “I can’t, Caz, it’ll ruin everything, none of it will matter—”
“Hey, breathe,” Carmine ordered gently. “Let’s get comfortable, okay? Come on.” He led him into the bedroom and Saint crawled obediently into bed as Carmine got himself situated beside him, holding his breath to keep from making a noise.
“Your ribs—” Saint began.
“I’m fine,” Carmine interrupted, giving him a tiny smile. “Really not even on my radar right now.”
When they were side by side facing each other, he ran a hand down Saint’s arm. “Tell me what you mean by none of it will matter.”
Saint closed his eyes. “If I come out—it’ll all… nothing I’ve ever done will be worth anything. I’ll just be ‘the gay hockey player’.”
Carmine rubbed Saint’s arm again. “Adam got nominated for the Selke.”
Saint’s eyes snapped open. “What?”
“Adam Caron, the openly gay hockey player,” Carmine said steadily, watching Saint’s face, “just got nominated for the Frank J. Selke award. Because he is a damn good openly gay hockey player, and people know it.”
“But it’s different for me,” Saint said, and his voice pled with Carmine to understand. “They say I’m the face of the western league. I can’t—I have to be perfect.” Carmine flinched but Saint was already reaching for him, apologies falling from his lips. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he babbled, “I didn’t mean you’re not perfect, Caz, I swear, I just—”
“You just think being gay is a flaw.” Carmine rolled away and sat up. “You think there’s something wrong with us.”
Saint hiccupped and Carmine glanced back to see him with both hands pressed to his mouth, tears rolling down his face.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Saint managed. “I don’t know h-how to be on a pedestal and b-be gay and pl-play every night when I know what other players think, what they’ll say.”
Frustration and hurt were still tangled in a snarl around Carmine’s lungs, making it hard to breathe. He stood, smoothing the wrinkles in his soft pants to give his hands something to do. When he turned, Saint was watching him, tears still leaking from his eyes.
“You have to not care,” Carmine said. He shook his head when Saint opened his mouth to speak. “No. You listen to me. What did you do, when parents called you shitty things in Major Juniors? When they hated you for being better than their precious spawn?”
“I cried,” Saint said baldly, dropping his hands. “I got in the car after practice and I fucking cried, Carmine, is that what you want to hear?”
“And what did you do after that?”
“I—” Saint’s mouth worked. “I got back on the ice and I made myself even better.”
Carmine lifted his eyebrow.
Saint slid out of bed. He stepped in close, until their bodies were pressed together, and his cheek was on Carmine’s shoulder.
“Does what I think matter?” Carmine whispered.
Saint nodded silently.
“Felix? Roddy? Kasha?”
“Of course,” Saint mumbled.
“Then that’s what you hold onto, when people say shitty things. Because they will, sweetheart. They’ll say hurtful stuff. Try to throw you off your game. Find reasons why you were never as good as everyone said. So you hold onto us, then. Yeah? You listen to us. We’ll tell you the truth.”
Saint took a ragged breath. “I don’t think I can do it. Not—not the listening to you. I will. I will. But coming out. Admitting it’s me with you—I’m not—Caz, I can’t do it. Not yet.”
Carmine pushed him away just far enough to look into his eyes. Saint looked ashamed, unable to meet his gaze, and Carmine tipped his chin up to press their mouths together.
“I told you,” he said when he pulled away, “you don’t have to. When you’re ready, baby. Not because you’re being forced into it.”
Saint hid his face against Carmine’s chest again. “I’m sorry I hurt you.” The words came out muffled.
Carmine tightened his grip. “That’s what people do. We hurt each other sometimes. But then we fix it.”
“God, Caz,” Saint said, pulling back suddenly. “You got outed tonight. Why aren’t you more upset? Why aren’t you freaking out?”
Carmine couldn’t help the laugh, but it was bitter. “You think I’m not? Trust me, I am. I didn’t want this. But—” He lifted a shoulder. “What can I do? It’s done. All I can do now is focus on what comes next. And so you know, I spoke to Dumont tonight.” He didn’t miss the way Saint stiffened. “He’s promised his full support at the press conference tomorrow, and going forward. I’ve got you, and the team. Well, the parts of the team that matter. I’ll be okay.”
“And… you’re okay with me—not coming out?” Saint’s eyes were anxious, and Carmine reached out to reel him in.
“Sweetheart, you could stay in the closet the rest of your career if that’s what you needed, and I’d be okay with it. I know you love me. You’re with me, in every way that counts.”
Saint went up on his tiptoes and kissed him, hard and bruising. “I love you,” he panted when he broke away. “God, Caz—”
Carmine tugged him back for another kiss. “Who could blame you?” he murmured, and relished Saint’s laugh when it bro
ke free.
30
Saint insisted on going with Carmine to the press conference in the morning, ignoring his protests.
“I’m the captain,” he said flatly as Carmine tried to argue yet again. “How would it look if I weren’t there? Trust me, I’d be there for anyone who was doing this.”
“Oh, so I’m not special?” Carmine said, folding his arms.
“You should not be so cute when you pout,” Saint informed him. He kissed the reluctant smile off Carmine’s mouth, smiling back at him. “You know you’re the most special, stop sulking.” He patted Carmine’s ass and turned to choose a tie.
“Are you nervous?” he asked in the car, watching Carmine’s hands on the wheel.
Carmine lifted a shoulder. “Ish? I mean yeah. Fucking David—I really didn’t want to do this yet. But there’s a relief to it, too. I don’t have to hide anymore.” He slanted a smile at Saint. “It kinda feels good.”
In the arena, Saint led the way to the conference room, which was set up and ready for everyone. Leon handed Carmine three sheets of paper, and Carmine stared at them.
“You know I’m not reading all this, right?” he asked.
“Worth a try,” Leon said philosophically. “There’s a notepad on your table. Write your own speech, but use what I gave you as the framework.”
Saint spent the hour while Carmine worked wandering the arena. He went into the stands, gazing down at the ice from the perspective of a fan and looking up at the Jumbotron, still and dark in the early hours of the morning. Then he went down to the ice and stepped onto it, gingerly in his dress shoes with very little grip.
This—this was home. From the time he’d been tiny, slapping at pucks—and missing, discovering the glee of putting one past the goalie, learning the bone-deep satisfaction of working with a team that understood him—Saint turned in a circle, gazing up into the rafters. He’d never been happier than on this ice. No—he amended that. He’d never been happier than on the ice until he’d been in Carmine’s arms. But this was still home. This was where he wanted to be, for the rest of his life.
And it didn’t matter, he thought. It didn’t matter if the fans or players were shitty to him. It didn’t matter, because they couldn’t take this away from him. He’d made this place home, he’d carved out a space for himself. He had his friends—his family, the family of his heart—with him. No matter what happened, he wouldn’t lose what mattered most. Carmine. Felix. Roddy and Kasha. Hockey.
He could play. He would play. And he’d prove to all of them that he deserved to be there, just like he’d always done.
“Thank you,” he whispered to no one in particular.
Then he carefully made his way off and back to the conference room, terror and jubilation filling him in equal measure. He thought vaguely he might throw up. Was he doing this? He thought, just maybe, he was.
Carmine was reading over his speech, brow furrowed and lips moving as he worked through phrasing, and Saint wanted desperately to kiss him, to show him how much he meant to him. Carmine glanced up, and from the way his eyes warmed, maybe he’d somehow read Saint’s mind. Saint smiled at him and the terror fled. He was doing this.
The first journalist stepped through the door, followed closely by Roddy, then Kasha, then Felix. Right behind him was Tye, who smiled shyly when he caught Saint’s gaze. Saint looked at them, his eyes stinging, and then at Carmine, who was hastily wiping his own eyes.
Saint went for Felix and hugged him. “Thank you for coming,” he whispered.
“Stupid boy, thinking we wouldn’t,” Felix said, but his voice was thick and he hugged him back, tight enough Saint couldn’t breathe for a minute.
They settled at the table, Carmine in the middle, Saint immediately to his right, and the rest spread out around them. The journalists filled the room in fits and starts, finding seats, organizing notes, talking amongst themselves and eyeing the line of players with avidly interested eyes.
Saint pretended not to see them, focusing on Carmine solid and steady beside him as he shuffled through his handwritten pages.
“Thank you all for coming,” Velvet said, startling Saint back to awareness of the room. “Carmine has a small speech prepared, and then we’ll take a few questions. I think one from each, and if any are inappropriate or rude in any way, you will be immediately ejected and blackballed from covering future games. We clear?”
“Velvet,” Kevin Dumont said, stepping forward. “One more thing to add.” He raised his voice to address the crowd. “David Stahl has been reassigned to the Embers for the foreseeable future and put on waivers. He is not available for comment.”
He stepped back and Velvet motioned to Carmine, who cleared his throat.
“Last night, a photograph of me was released without my knowledge or consent. It showed me kissing—someone. Someone who’s clearly male.” He hesitated, and Saint pressed their knees together in a silent show of support.
“I’ve known I was gay since I was nine years old,” Carmine continued. His voice was steady, but Saint could see the way his free hand trembled in his lap, out of view of the reporters. “It took me a while to come to terms with… everything. But I’ve been pretty okay with who I am for a while now. The picture being released was—not optimal. I’d like to have chosen my own timing, but life doesn’t always play out the way we plan. Truth be told, I’m kind of glad it happened at all. I don’t have to hide anymore.” He lifted his chin, surveying the room. “I’m gay,” he said. “I’m not ashamed of it. It doesn’t dictate the quality of my play. This is who I am, like it or not. I guess I’ll take questions now.”
Hands shot up and Velvet pointed at one.
“Who is it in the photograph with you?” the reporter wanted to know.
Carmine scowled, opening his mouth to answer, and Saint stopped him with a touch to his hand.
“Can I take this one?” he asked, low enough for the microphones to not pick up.
Carmine nodded, obviously bewildered, and Saint squeezed his hand briefly before leaning forward to the microphone.
“It’s me,” he said clearly, and Carmine’s hand on his tightened to the point of pain. Saint took a deep breath. “Carmine and I are together, and I’m in love with him. Have been for a while. Any other questions?”
The room erupted, and Saint snuck a glance at Carmine, who was staring at him, clearly stunned.
“Sorry for stealing your thunder,” Saint whispered under the noise of the shouted questions. “I just figured it was time.”
Carmine’s eyes softened. “You can steal my thunder anytime. I love you so damn much.”
Saint grinned. He felt light and airy, like he might float to the ceiling if it weren’t for the grip on Carmine’s hand.
“I love you too,” he said, and turned to face the crowd.
Acknowledgments
For Aaliya, always. You followed me into the world of gay hockey romance without hesitation, even though you don’t give a crap about fighty men on knife-shoes. I couldn’t ask for a better friend or beta, even if you refuse to marry me and fulfill my dream of becoming a Canadian citizen. (Unreasonable, honestly.)
For everyone else who read this book and gave me invaluable feedback on its way to becoming what it is today—Sarah, Em, CJ, I thrive on your reactions and grow more powerful with every tear I make you shed. Thank you for helping me bring these characters to life and letting me bounce ideas off you.
And for my readers—I’m here because of you. You keep me writing, keep me hungry to create, ask for more when I think my well’s run dry, and never lose faith in me. I’m humbled and so, so grateful you’re here.
About the Author
Michaela Grey told stories to put herself to sleep since she was old enough to hold a conversation in her head. When she learned to write, she began putting those stories down on paper. She resides in the Texas Hill Country with her cats, and is perpetually on the hunt for peaceful writing time.
When she’s not writing
, she’s watching hockey or blogging about writing and men on knife shoes chasing a frozen Oreo around the ice while trying to keep her cat off the keyboard.
Tumblr: greymichaela.tumblr.com
Twitter: @GreyMichaela
Facebook: www.facebook.com/GreyMichaela
E-mail: [email protected]
Blindside Hit
Sneak Peek
Center Ice was a well-known gathering place for hockey players, and it catered to that demographic shamelessly, with signed pictures and jerseys of famous players on the walls and huge flat-screen TVs in every corner, playing whatever game was on. During the off-season, they played highlight reels, Liam told Etienne, towing him to a table in the back.
A cheer went up at the sight of the three of them and Etienne stopped dead in shock at the sight of most of his team gathered there, all grinning at him.
“Why?” he finally managed.
Liam clapped him on the back, hard enough to knock him forward a step. “Because you don’t know how to have fun, and we’re gonna help with that.”
Rudy pointed to a chair, a smile on his dark features. “What are you drinking?” he asked as Etienne settled beside him with a nod to Logan.
Etienne shrugged. “I don’t care.”
“You may be a lost cause,” Johnny said. “Tibs, get us a pitcher of beer, would you?”
Liam headed for the bar and Etienne looked around the table. Next to Logan was Broussard, and Theo, unfailingly as sunny as Broussard was sour. Jax and Wyatt were in the corner talking, but they spared a moment to wave at Etienne.
“You guys really all came out just to make sure I’d have a good time?”
Rudy gripped his shoulder, grinning at him. “You work too hard, Tenny. You need to relax.”
Roughing Page 24