What they got was me on one knee, sequined jersey glinting, holding a rose while dramatic music swelled. The guy I gave it to looked stunned—because he was.
They hadn't warned him. They made it look like I'd stolen him from someone else. Suddenly, I was the manipulative wildcard screwing over good-hearted contestants for airtime.
The edit went viral before the credits finished rolling.
I was a meme. A joke. A bisexual cliché in glitter and eyeliner who cried on cue and kissed whoever the camera pointed at.
People online called me a fame-hungry narcissist. A "hockey fuckboy with delusions of RuPaul." One guy DM'd me a picture of a dumpster on fire and asked, "Is this your brand?"
I didn't reply.
I watched the trailer drop in real time with my phone vibrating off the table and my mother texting, "Why are you in makeup? Call me."
I never got to explain it to her before the scene hitPeople's"Notable Coming Out Scenes of the Season" list.
What would anybody do in my situation? I panicked.
And I made "Puck Life."
The beat still haunts me. Four-note synth loop, over-compressed bass, and my voice auto-tuned into digital confetti. "Ice Ice Baby" on steroids.
"Drop the puck, make it quick—hat trick in the mix—skates on fleek, baby, read my lips…"
We filmed the video in my buddy's garage. Smoke machine, flood lights, bedazzled jersey from the back of my closet. I poured a PBR on my helmet like it was champagne. I lip-synced to the chorus while standing on a milk crate.
I thought I was reclaiming something.
Instead, I lit a match under the remaining shreds of my credibility and livestreamed the blaze.
A blog titledGoalie Gagscalled it "the worst thing to happen to hockey since the glowing puck."
One scout who used to respond to my agent's emails wrote back: "Hard pass. Good luck with your… music career."
So, I stopped calling. I stopped expecting calls back. And eventually, I stopped pretending I had a plan.
Back in the locker room, I opened my eyes. Evan walked past me, silent, skates unlaced, and a towel slung over one shoulder.
Coach Rusk cornered me by the Gatorade cooler. He had his arms crossed, wearing that ridiculous backwards cap. He chewed his gum like a cow with its cud.
"You think this is cute?" His voice was low and sharp enough to cut glass.
I blinked. "Uh. My face?"
He didn't flinch. "The chirps. The dancing. The press clippings you pretend you don't read."
I held up my hands. "Look, I'm only trying to lighten—"
"Shut it, Vegas. You want to stay in my locker room? You stop floating. I'm putting you on the third line next scrimmage. If your plus-minus isn't in the black, or you don't make a play that matters, you're out of the rotation."
"Benched?"
"Scratched. Sent packing. Like we ran out of fuckin' tape and couldn't make a name tag for you."
I swallowed. "That's a wicked try at motivation for a guy who only just learned my name."
He looked me dead in the eye. "I knew your name the second that stupid video dropped. I wasn't sure you knew it anymore."
He turned and walked away, gum snapping like a starter pistol.
