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)
A lump forms in my throat, because it seems like such a waste. I’ve been playing for the NHL for over three years, Soren’s been here for ten, but neither of us had anyone … Well, that’s not true, I had Tommy, but it’s not the same thing.
Maybe Ma was right all along, and this is what the league needs for people to start coming forward. Solidarity. Kinship.
Questions are thrown at Soren, each one more invasive than the next and without time in between for him to actually answer.
“How long have you known you were gay?”
“When was your last relationship?”
“Why did you wait so long to come out?”
His GM answers. “Caleb won’t be answering any more questions.”
My brain and feet decide it’s a perfect time for me to make my move toward the long table of microphones.
As soon as Soren’s coach sees me approaching, he moves, vacating his seat next to Soren for me. I guess he was given a heads-up about my arrival. Soren still looks confused as to why I’m here.
“I might be able to help with the answers to those questions.” I turn to Soren. “At least, for me.”
His eyes widen, and I reach over to squeeze his shoulder briefly before facing the media, where cameras are going off in our faces. Ten bucks says the front page of the sporting section tomorrow will be that photo. Me reassuring Soren for a total of three point two seconds. No doubt the article will speculate when we’ll get married.
“Sorry to gatecrash the press conference,” I start, “but I couldn’t sit by and watch this happen while living the exact same story as Soren. I’ve known I was gay since I was fifteen years old. My last relationship was with my childhood sweetheart, but it ended because I never had it in me to take this step. That’s not his fault, and I do regret the way things ended. But the reasons I waited so long to come out pretty much reflect the same reasons Soren had. In a lot of ways, the NHL appears ready for this, but in a lot of other ways, it doesn’t. My biggest fear was coming out and having no support and feeling alone in all this. When I found out what Soren was doing here today, I didn’t want to let him experience my fear.”
“So, did you know about each other before today?” someone asks.
“No. Honestly, when I heard an NHL player was about to come out, my first thought was someone found out about me and was going to run my story. I don’t care how the rest of the world sees it, but we’re entitled to come out how and when we want. No one should take that from another person.”
I feel Soren staring at me.
“You don’t think the public has a right to know?” another reporter asks, but I don’t see where the question comes from.
My heart kicks up a notch, and anger tries to take hold. What the fuck kind of question is that? No! No one has a right to know what I do in my bedroom. I go to open my mouth to say that, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Damon shaking his head and mouthing no, no, no, no, no.
Before I say something I really want to but shouldn’t, Soren’s GM beats me to it.
“What happens in any player’s private life is just that—private. If it doesn’t affect their game, it’s no one’s business but their own. Just because they’re public figures, that doesn’t mean anyone has a right to pry into their lives off the ice.”
“They signed on for that life, though,” the same reporters says. I see him this time and realize it’s the fucker Lennon works with.
“Actually, I signed on to play hockey,” Soren says. “And if you ask every single player on all thirty-one teams, I guarantee not one signed on saying ‘I can’t wait until my privacy is compromised.’ We’re all here for the love of the same sport.”
“It’s the same as celebrities,” Kevin says. “It’s a known condition of fame. Fans want to know everything.”
The PR rep for New Jersey steps in. “If no one else has any relevant questions, we’ll gladly call this press conference to a close. Thank you all for your time.”
Soren and I are quickly ushered away and led into the back corridors of the New Jersey arena. The GM and coach each give us pats on the back and tell us they’re going to go field phone calls. When they leave, I’m left alone with Soren. I go to ask him if we could bring my people back here as well, but he beats me to speaking.
“You’re an idiot.” There’s no real malice behind his words, only pure defeat.
“Uh, why?” I ask.