Page 2 of Bro Code

Riley drove. Lindholm sent him the puck. Riley shot.

The goalie saved it.

He did it effortlessly. The kind of save that made a goalie look like he could predict the future, which was demoralizing when you’d thought, for a full half-second, that it was in.

The whistle blew. The crowd cheered. Riley skated to the bench and sat down and stared at the ice.

“You telegraphed that shot,” said Coach Bertram, who was glaring at the ice with his arms folded and not looking at Riley. “May as well have rented out a billboard to let everyone know it was happening. Maybe next time you can sell tickets.”

Riley said nothing. He didn’t need to hear it – he’d felt it: a half second of hesitation before he took the shot, that wasn’t nerves and wasn’t fatigue. He didn’t know what it was. It kept happening. Which was making the back of his neck prickle.

Lindholm sat down beside him. He was watching the ice, his expression neutral. Diplomatic. “Still a good play,” he said, eventually.

“Bad shot, though,” Riley said.

“It was…” Lindholm tilted his head back and forth, “…not your best.”

“Fantastic. Great pep talk.”

Lindholm got up to shake sweat out of his hair, and Riley watched Arsenault and Harris making eyes at each other across the ice. If they kept that up, sooner or later it was going to come out that Harris was gay.

Earlier this year, Nic Arsenault had taken a leap of faith and gone public about being bi. He was the first guy in the league to do it. It was after they’d all been at the Olympics together, and Riley had been so inspired he decided to come out too. They were all riding high, coming off a gold medal. Riley’d assumed all three of them would go public, since it was blatantly obvious to him that Arsenault and Harris were an item – but for some reason, Harris stayed quiet. Which was frustrating, because he’d been the guy Riley had been so inspired by.

Riley and Arsenault gave an interview to Vanity Fair in June, and officially became the first two openly queer active players in the NHL.

Most of the ensuing media frenzy was focused on Arsenault – he was the ringleader, and he had that shiny golden hair. But there had been plenty of heat on Riley all summer too, and it was more than he’d been prepared for. New York was famously a media fishbowl. He didn’t regret coming out, exactly, but sometimes he couldn’t help resenting Liam Harris for staying quiet.

Especially when Harris and Arsenault were out there flagrantly eye-fucking each other in the goddamn neutral zone!

Lindholm rapped him on the knee: next shift. Sighing, Riley got up and adjusted his gloves.

Maybe what he was mad about wasn’t Harris staying quiet. Maybe he was just jealous because he was chronically single and didn’t have anyone to eye-fuck in the neutral zone. Looked like fun.

He scanned the ice and read the play, and vaulted over the dashers.

Why did he feel like he could hear his name up in the crowd again?

He couldn’t shake the feeling the building was extra hostile tonight. That they had some kind of vendetta against not just his team, but him. But he was probably imagining it. Probably just projecting his own insecurities. Just because everyone knew he was gay now, didn’t mean they were gonna start throwing tomatoes. Or something worse.

Harris may have been smart to protect himself by not going public, but that didn’t mean Riley was in any actual danger.

Right?

“Rye! How’s my guy? How’s Montreal? How’s the ice?”

Riley sighed and pinned the phone to his ear with one shoulder as he scooped up his duffel bag and slung it over the other. “Fine.”

He took the phone in his hand as Rick said, “Uh huh. Okay. Fine’s good. First day back. Fine’s fine.”

Riley shut his locker with his knee and headed for the door. A few of the guys were still dressing. Showers ran in the other room. He wasn’t interested in hanging around chit-chatting – he’d played like garbage and his legs were toast and his hip was aching where he’d fallen during the game. He just wanted to get on the bus and back to the airport.

“Seemed a little stiff out there,” said Rick.

“Well, like you said: first day back.”

“Uh huh.”

He sounded like he was doing two things at once. Riley was used to that: he’d sounded that way in every conversation Riley’d had with him since he signed with Rick after the Olympics. Riley had already had an agent, but Rick came recommended from Nic Arsenault as a guy who was specifically trying to be an ally to queer players. Calls from “Rick Gallagher” had been popping up on Riley’s phone all summer as he fielded interview requests and branding opportunities. A lot of underwear brands, weirdly, wanting to put Riley on billboards. Something about a gay Korean hockey player in underwear? Diversity! So in right now. He’d signed a deal with Calvin Klein and now his junk was on display all over the internet. Which was…kind of weird.