Fabian wanted to roll his eyes, but he couldn’t hate how much his friends loved him. Or how much they immediately trusted Ryan. Despite his size, his job, and the fact that he seemingly had nothing in common with them, Fabian’s friends had accepted him.
“Thanks,” Fabian said. “I’ll bring him to brunch soon. If he wants to come, I mean.”If we’re actually dating, or whatever.
“Awesome,” Tarek said. “Now can we talk about literally anyone besides Fabian for a change?”
When Ryan arrived at the practice facility on Sunday, he was surprised to find most of his teammates gathered around the television in the lounge.
“What’s going on?” he asked Wyatt.
“Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are hosting a press conference. They just announced this new charity thing they are starting.”
“What,together?”
Wyatt laughed. “Wild, right? I guess anyone can put their differences aside if those two can.”
Hollander and Rozanov were famously bitter rivals and had been for years. They were two of the biggest stars in the league—Hollander for Montreal, and Rozanov for Boston before he signed with Ottawa over the summer—and, as far as Ryan or anyone else knew, were not friendly off the ice.
“I guess they’re friends or something,” Wyatt said. “That’s what Hollander said today anyway. That’s going to blow some minds.”
“Yeah.”
They watched as Rozanov shared some heartfelt words about his mother losing her battle with depression.
“God, I didn’t know his mother killed herself,” Wyatt said bluntly.
“I don’t think anyone did.” Ryan had played with him for an entire season and he’d had no idea.
“Except Hollander, I guess. I wonder how long they’ve been friends.”
Ryan couldn’t even begin to guess. When would they even have spent time together off the ice?
It was none of his business, really, so he stopped trying to figure it out. Besides, he was too busy floating on the memories of the past twenty-four hours. His brain was basically useless. He didn’t even have the mental capacity to panic about having to get on a plane on Tuesday.
“They’re probably fucking,” Troy Barrett sneered, which made the group around him laugh.
“Gross,” said Dallas Kent. “Rozanov would never. But I’ll bet Hollander is a fucking homo.”
That launched a debate about Shane Hollander’s sexuality that Ryan walked away from. He could remind them thathewas a “fucking homo,” but he just didn’t have the energy.
Wyatt found him in the dressing room. “I told those guys to grow the fuck up,” he said. “Just so you know.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Uh, yes I did. I’m not putting up with that shit and you shouldn’t either.”
Ryan knew that. He should be doing what he could to shut down that sort of bullshit, but he’d spent so many years just trying to escape everyone’s attention, to not cause problems, that the idea of confronting his teammates was intimidating. Which was ridiculous because hisjobwas fighting. But there was a huge difference between dropping the gloves and trading punches on the ice—that was rarely personal—and getting in your teammate’s face in the locker room.
He should say something. Hewouldsay something. He waited until everyone was in the dressing room, then he swallowed his nerves and said, “Hey, Kent.”
The room wentsilent. It was weird. Ryan supposed that’s what happens when someone who doesn’t talk much finally uses his voice.
“What?” Kent asked. Ryan could tell he was trying not to look nervous. Ryan had seenthatlook on a lot of guys’ faces on the ice.
He rolled his shoulders back and raised his chin so every inch of his height was on display. “Just so you know, I’m gay.”
For a moment, no one said anything. Ryan didn’t think anyone in the room evenbreathed. And then Kent said, “Okay.”
“Keep that in mind,” Ryan said. Judging by the way Kent’s eyes widened, he hadn’t missed the threat in Ryan’s tone. Not that Ryan would ever beat up a teammate, but Kent didn’t know that.
