Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Noah puts his hand over his heart. “Aww, did you just call me your brother?” But then he screws up his face. “Makes how we met a little gross.”
I cock my head. “How you met?”
Jet bounces on the balls of his feet. “You don’t know that story? That needs to be rectified immediately.”
“As fun as that sounds, I’m, uh”—I grip my towel tighter—“gonna go get dressed first.”
I head for the stairs, but Noah’s voice makes me pause.
“By the way, welcome to the club.”
“Club?” I turn back.
“The everything’s gay club. Meetings are weekly, and on Wednesdays, we wear pink.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Sorry to disappoint, but I’ve been a card-carrying member since I was fifteen. And I look wicked hot in pink.”
Noah turns to Lennon. “I like him, Beatle.”
As I walk away, Lennon complains, “Don’t call me Beatle.”
Followed by Noah saying, “Okay, Ringo.”
In Lennon’s room, I use my towel to finish cleaning myself up before I throw my clothes back on. By the time I get downstairs again, the guys are in the living room watching SportsCenter, but Lennon isn’t with them.
“Where’s—”
Lennon appears around the corner from the dining room, and he pales as his phone shakes in his hand.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. My mind conjures shit about what the media could’ve already printed about me.
“Guess I don’t have to worry about resigning anymore.”
So, not about me. “They fired you?”
Lennon nods.
“Because of us?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “They don’t know we’re together, but they’re pissed I didn’t tell them I knew about you. Or Soren. Because they’re convinced I knew of that too. You know, with my gaydar superpowers.” He huffs a humorless laugh.
“That’s bullshit,” I say.
He didn’t want to out someone so they let him go even though he’s one of their best reporters?
“Hey, guys,” Matt says, staring at his phone. “Why is Ollie all over the news, being ’shipped with some other hockey player?”
“Huh?” I step forward to the back of the couch and look over his shoulder.
“Caleb Sorensen,” Matt says.
Noah leans in and blocks my view of the phone. “Damn. Need me to beat him up for you, Lennon?”
Lennon’s still looking at his phone, but he looks up at that. “You?”
“Okay, fine. I’ll get Matt to do it.”
“Soren’s cool,” Lennon mumbles and goes back to staring at his phone as if wondering if he really got fired.
Matt turns to look at me. “You came out publicly?”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Yeah.”
“How is your phone not blowing up?” Matt asks.
“Don’t have it on.”
“Ooh, smart.”
As Matt finishes reading the article, the story appears on the TV. Footage from the press conference is played, and it’s weird watching it. It’s like having an out-of-body experience, and the adrenaline that was pumping through me at the time has already faded the memories around the edges. As TV me speaks, I can’t recall saying half the shit I did. I told them about Ash?
I didn’t name him, but he might be pissed.
Oh, fuck. Speaking of pissed, I turned my phone off from the world, but I also just remembered I never got a chance to give my parents a warning.
I take my phone out and go to turn it on when a glass of dark liquid appears in front of me.
“If you’re gonna do that, I might suggest this first,” Jet says.
“Good point.” I throw it back and then hit the button.
I hold my breath as it reboots and notifications start popping up. Missed calls from unknown numbers, my family members, and Ash immediately fill my screen.
Then the messages come.
Ma: I know you’re busy, sweetie, call us when you can. Love you, and so proud. Xx
Dad: Your ma says you should’ve worn a suit but didn’t want to meddle so is making me do it.
I snort at that one. My brothers have sent through their own messages, mostly congratulations and one from Vic being a smartass that says:
Wait, you’re gay!?
I send out a quick group text to let them all know I’ll call them when I can, but I need time for everything to settle first.
Kessler and Petrov and a few other teammates have sent texts of support. There’s one from Bjorn, and I know I shouldn’t open it. I tell myself not to, but my fingers have other ideas.
Bjorn:. So I understand why you’ve been avoiding me since that day in the locker room when I said some hurtful words. Well, one word. I truly am sorry for my stupidity and want you to know I fully support you as a teammate and respect the hell out of you as a friend … if you don’t want to punch me, that is. If you want to punch me, go ahead. Free shot. I’m sorry for being an ignorant prick.
Whether he’s being sincere or not, I don’t know, but at least I know he’s not going to make a problem for me next season. He probably saw what happened to Healy and is saving his ass, but at least he can admit when he’s wrong, or at least pretend so there’s no drama. I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.