Page 50 of Dangle

The way his ‘okay’ trailed off blew me away. Everyone, once they realized who I was, went starstruck and tongue-tied. Butthat didn’t happen. Not even when he added the title the media hung around my neck as a kid. And I agreed with him. So did my mother. A pissy mood and a half-day Russian rant muttered under her breath about me being an even better figure skater. “My mother would agree with you if she were here.”

He smirked and said, “That would’ve been awkward given you were on your knees sucking my dick as soon as your eyes opened this morning.”

Ignoring that because, eww, I said, “I’m also an Olympic gold medalist and a number one draft pick.”

“Impressive pedigree, but what’s that matter in relation to the question I asked? What’s it got to do with your Jekyll and Hyde routine?”

I stared at him. He had to be fucking joking, right? Instead, I continued, determined to make him respond the way everyone I’d ever met responded initially. “The team my father and grandfather played for their entire careers, the team that retired their numbers, the team they both lifted Stanley Cups for, five times between them…” I paused, sucked in a deep breath, and said, “Drafted me, but haven’t signed me.”

The space between his brows disappeared as one dark blond brow dropped while the other lifted.

“My draft class was a couple of years ago, and instead of offering me a contract, they’ve risked letting me get injured playing for The U.”

“Okay, so that makes some of the commentary I’ve heard about you make sense, but it still doesn’t explain the switch.”

“I don’t act that way because I want to.”

Sharing about this shit wasn’t something I did. So why was I doing it now? With him? I wanted him to want to fuck me, not be my therapist.

“So you need to…?”

“I don’t know what the fuck I need, if I’m being honest. My dad is certain me being a ‘cocksucking faggot whore’ is why New York hasn’t signed me yet.”

“First of all, if he called you that, I sincerely hope he and I never meet. Secondly, and you’d know better than me, but that seems weird since you’re not the only out gay?—”

“I’m pan.”

“What?”

“I’m pansexual. Not gay. I’m an equal sexual opportunity kinda guy. Even if I am more attracted to cisgender males who look like me and you than anyone else, but on occasion someone outside that finds their way in my bed or me in theirs.”

“Okay, thank you for explaining, but all that changes is the language. Not the meaning. You’re not the only out queer player, and New York is historically LGBTQIA+ friendly.”

He was right. I wasn’t the only out hockey player, and not only because of Aiden and Gavin. Other than them, there was a veteran from LA who got outed for sucking face with a dude who turned out to be the third for the player and his wife. The way my father and grandfather raged about the disgustingness of the situation felt like a physical attack. Each word stripped flesh from my bones, leaving me scared and feeling exposed.

I was still in the closet at the time, newly drafted, fresh off the Olympic victory tour. Sitting on the sidelines watching the maelstrom of craziness that the throuple went through, I made a decision. I wouldn’t chance dealing with that shit. So, I stepped out of the closet. And by stepping out, I mean I kicked the fucking door down. My mantra became “Pucks, Sucks, and Fucks.” I started fucking who I wanted, when I wanted, and fuck anyone who didn’t like it.

“You’re right. It’s one of the friendliest cities for the queer community even if the league isn’t exactly waving the ally flag.”

“Okay, so that leads me to wonder what the team has said to you?”

“I’m not ready.”

“You’re not ready? To what? Play? You do that and go to school full-time.”

“That’s what they’ve said. That I’m not ready. At least, that’s what New York’s coach told Storm.”

“I’ve fucking seen you play. Granted it’s not my sport, but you’re a fucking phenomenal player.”

A warmth bloomed across my chest and crept up my neck to my face. He leaned forward, and his hand cupped my cheek. Calluses brushed over my cheek, softly twisting something up in my chest. A deep shuddering breath filled my lungs. The tears that accompanied it forced me to look away from his gaze. The penetrating look drilled through my skull as if laser-guided to the parts of me I hid from everyone.

“Thanks. I was born to skate.” And I was. I like to think I would’ve still found my way to the ice even if I hadn’t been born into the legacies I was.

He nodded. “You can tell, and not because of the genetics. It’s the passion you bring to the ice. When you’re in your groove, you get this look on your face.”

“I do?”

“Yes. It’s like you’re…I don’t know how to describe it. Free? Flying? Happy? At peace? Especially during warm-ups when you really fall into the music and let go. The first time I saw you skate, you were in full hockey gear, and you did some crazy ass figure skating shit.”