Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
“Where’d you go to college? Minnesota or Wisconsin? I forgot,” I lied.
He sat on the opposite end of the bench and untied his laces. “Wisconsin. I was there for two years before transferring to UCLA.”
“UCLA,” I repeated. I knew he’d transferred and had moved to California, but I couldn’t remember why. Or maybe I’d never asked, so… “Why? You were at a Division One school, why transfer to D-two?”
“I stopped playing after my freshman year.”
“Why?”
“You sound like a two-year-old,” he snarked. “Why, why?”
“Well?”
Nolan pulled his sneakers out from under the bench, wiggled his feet into them, and bent to tie his laces. He took his sweet time looping the lace around his thumb and double-knotting it…right foot first, then left. Same as always. It was a superstition we’d shared when we were kids. Right, left, right, left.
I was about to kick that left sneaker to get his attention just as he straightened and twisted to face me.
“I came out.”
That was it. Three words.
And the crazy thing was that it wasn’t news. I knew he was out. I’d personally known he was gay since he was sixteen. But I’d never heard the story or had been brave enough to ask how he’d told the rest of the world. Ronnie had mentioned it in passing once. I’d probably said, “That’s cool” or something passive and neutrally supportive. Something that in no way reflected how I’d really felt.
True…I hadn’t seen Nolan in seven years, but still…this was something we’d never ever discussed. It felt momentous and important. And maybe something I could use to address that sort of accidental kiss the other day.
But of course, I flubbed it.
“Came out of what?”
Nolan rolled his eyes. “Can you ever be serious?”
“Fuck serious. Serious is the worst. Serious ruins everything.” I leaned forward and braced my elbows on my knees. “And…I knew you came out. Ronnie told me a while ago.”
He inclined his chin slightly. “Yeah, I was nineteen—homesick, heartsick, and…believe it or not, I’d started to hate hockey.”
I bugged my eyes in dismay. “What?”
“No joke. I passionately hated it. I hated going to practice, I hated my coach, my teammates, I hated the smell of the ice. Nothing about it made me happy anymore, and it showed. I became a permanent fixture on the bench.”
“Fuck. That’s…bleak.”
“I know. Maybe I wasn’t the best forward on my team, but I’d always been one of the best. I became the worst. It was like I was punishing myself or something. My folks suggested a change would do me good. They wanted me to come home. Instead, I transferred to the other side of the country, came out to them over the phone, and delved headfirst into becoming my best gay self.”
My heart tripped over itself in a furious round of cartwheels and somersaults. I swiped my sweaty palms on my thighs and squinted. “How’d that go for you?”
Nolan chuckled. “Very well, thank you. I played hockey on a club team, graduated with a business degree, got my master’s, and worked for a set designer in Hollywood…until my dad died.”
I gulped. “Did you ever want to go back to LA?”
“Are you kidding?” he scoffed. “I dreamed about it every damn night for the first two years I was home. I loved LA. It’s so different from here. Manic, fast-paced, plastic in some ways, more gritty and real in others. And you can’t beat the weather. You’ll never hear me complain about seventy-degree days in December. Ever.”
I gave a half laugh, sobering quickly. “But you stayed here.”
“Yeah. And I rarely plot my escape anymore, either. I don’t need to. I have nothing to hide.” Nolan looked away briefly and flipped his palms up. “I didn’t mean to go into all that. I just…I found my passion for hockey again, but it’s nuanced now. I love the smell of the rink. I love sharp blades and smooth ice. I love the sound of the Zamboni, and I love teaching younger kids. You’re right…we don’t have the strongest group of juniors this year. Maybe one or two of them will play in college instead of eight or nine. That’s okay. I hope they enjoy every second of it ’cause one day, they’ll hang up their skates for good and stick to pleasure skating. They’ll be content to watch their kids play and hope one of them will make this town proud. Like you.”
“That’s…depressing.”
“No, it’s not. That’s real life for most of us, Vin. My point is…hockey is fun. It took losing it for me to appreciate it. And I’m thrilled those guys want to be here in the summer when they could be out fishing out on Carlton Creek or smoking pot in the lot behind St. Finbarr’s,” he said. “It means they love it too. They don’t have to go pro to learn and enjoy.”