Page 23 of Dangle

“See you,” Slone said, opening the back door of his SUV.

I walked backward toward my ride, calling out, “Hey, Ewen! What’s feathers?”

The passenger-side mirror framed Ewen’s laughing face. Slone swatted the back of Ewen’s head, but never responded.

“Cap, dammit, I’m going to toss your ugly mug in the hatch if you don’t get the fuck in the car right this fucking second!” Isaiah yelled.

Turning into the car, I swore, “You fuckers! Where am I supposed to fucking sit?”

They all laughed like fucking hyenas as they pointed to the third row in the middle. At least the SUV had captain’s seats in the middle row, and I didn’t have to climb over everyone. Although if it had been a bench seat in the middle, I could’ve just made somebody scoot over.

Aiden Mercer,former Manchester University starting center and new Nashville Nighthawk, stood on the sidewalk in front of the Hilton when we rolled up. Splashed with the Nighthawks logo, the Bridgestone sat across the street. We couldn’t have gotten any closer unless we slept on the benches in the locker room.

“Welcome to Nashville, boys! Hope the flight was more enjoyable than the drive would’ve been,” Aiden said as we rolled out of the SUV.

We dogpiled the guy, but he took it in stride.

Zane said, “Some of us had a good time. Cap, however, did homework the whole flight.”

Aiden smirked. “Probably why he wears the C.”

My eyes rolled over my former teammate. Aiden stood on the sidewalk in a southern state, wearing eyeliner and lip gloss, with his nails painted black. He was a sexy fucker, and I envied him.

What you had to know about Aiden was that he didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought. Aiden Mercer was authentic. He refused to conform, not that I thought he should. I didn’t. I’d refused to be closeted myself, but Aiden was one of three out-and-proud professional hockey players. But more than that, Aiden pushed the envelope even more, embracing his, I don’t know—queerness, masculinity, gender fluidity—whatever it was; he presented and expressed himself howhewanted, and said “Fuck you” to anyone who didn’t like it. He announced his sexuality to the world on national fucking television, kissing our former coach, the legendary Sasha Svartstrom.

My father had lost his fuckingshit. He’d spent the whole game texting me about what a disappointment I was. Then Nashville won.

DAD

If you weren’t such an idiot and listened, that could be you.

I ignored him. Never a good idea, but the team was going fucking nuts cheering for our buddy. And then, our former coach had just walked out onto the ice and kissed our former teammate on center ice, on a national broadcast in front of a sold-out crowd. If the team had been losing it before that, the pandemonium afterward was on par with our Frozen Four celly the year before.

DAD

Wonder if he’s fucking and sucking the owners like he is Storm. I heard they’re all deviants. Maybe you should give it a try. You like that nastiness.

I shut my phone off and didn’t respond to him at all until he showed up at an away game and manipulated his way into the locker room.

So, yeah, I envied Aiden Mercer. I didn’t envy him the relationship with our former coach. Or the NHL contract—okay, that was a lie; I kind of envied that. It wasn’t even his freedom to be who he was, because it wasn’t like I hid who I was, much to my father’s chagrin and utter fucking dismay. What I envied that night, watching him be swamped after the game, was the loving family he had found and the fearless way he lived his life.

“Let’s get checked in so Aiden here can give us a tour before the game,” I suggested.

Half an hour later, the seven of us strolled out of the hotel to find Gavin Samuelson and Shane Morrison waiting for us. I’d never met Gavin, but Shane visited Aiden when he still lived with the twins and me.

But hockey players were hockey players the world over. We communicated in chirps, and even if we didn’t know each other personally, we knew of each other, especially if we were close to the same age. When all else failed, we knew the life, so the conversation never got too stagnant.

Aiden waved his badge on the security pad to unlock the door to the player entrance, then led us out of the Nashville sunny spring day into a darkened, at least at first, arena. I toured the Bridgestone one year ago. Donnie Malachek made sure he and his party were offered the behind-the-scenes VIP treatment no matter what arena we were at, so I hung back.

Falling between Shane and Gavin while the boys mobbed Aiden with questions, I asked, pointing my chin toward Aiden, “How’s he doing?”

At first, neither Gavin nor Shane spoke. Then Gavin piped up, “Spectacularly. Bauer and Asher are thrilled with how well they’ve stepped into the spots the team called them up for.”

“Yeah. Aiden’s solid,” Shane added, then continued. “Even when he’s not solid, you’d never know it once Aiden steps out on the ice. He locks his shit down, tunnels his vision until all he can see is the puck and the lanes, and tunes out all the other chaos.”

I nodded. I noticed that about him when he first got to The U. I said as much. “Good,” I said. “I worried a little, with how quickly it happened for him. It’s a lot. But I noticed the same laser focus last fall.”

Waiting at the doors to the locker room with his arms folded over his chest stood Egor Ilkovitch, the Nashville Nighthawks head coach. “Guys, this is Coach Ilkovitch. Coach, this is…”