Empty Net (26 page)

He’d offered to go into the hearing too, but Misha informed him that it wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t as if they didn’t know what had happened to Isaac, and Simon had already been expelled from the league for the hit. He didn’t think it would take too much convincing—not with all the other evidence—that Denis St. Savoy had made it worth it for Simon to take out Isaac in the finals. He’d told Laurent what Simon had said. “I hope I broke your fucking leg, Drake.” And that was all he could offer. But he would gladly have repeated that to the panel if it meant he could be there with Laurent and Misha.

Quite a few guys in suits came through the hotel doors, looking a bit nervous and asking for directions to “The ECHL Meeting.” Isaac didn’t recognize any of them until he saw Xavier Matthews, looking composed but definitely nervous. But his suit was impeccable, and he looked like a walking fashion ad. Isaac told himself not to stereotype, but it did figure that the best dressed guy there would be the gay one, even if he was obviously nervous as hell.

Isaac walked over to shake his hand. Xavier’s palm was clammy, but his grip was firm. “Thanks for this. What you’re doing. I know you never wanted to have to come out here.”

“It’s the right thing to do.” Xavier’s mouth set in a grim line. “He’s an awful person and a terrible coach. You can’t imagine what it’s like playing for him.”

Isaac thought about Laurent—his scars, the sneer he wore like a mask, how Misha’s simple declaration of respect had unwound him completely. “I have some idea.”

“Ah. Right. You know, I never knew Laurent was gay.”

“He’s not. He’s demi.”

“Uh.” Xavier blinked. “That’s, what? Like half-gay?”

Isaac snorted. “No. Demisexual. Look it up when you get home. And would it have mattered if you’d known?” Isaac smiled a little. “You don’t have to pretend like he wasn’t an asshole. He still is, sometimes. We’re working on it.”

Xavier gave a quiet laugh. “He was a lot different when he was at my place. But God. He talked about you, like, constantly.” Xavier gave a theatrical roll of his eyes. “Ew.”

“Ha-ha.” Isaac couldn’t help but notice that Xavier still looked like he was about to be executed. “You know, just because you’re doing this, it doesn’t mean everyone is going to find out that you’re gay,” Isaac said. “It’s not like they’re going to announce it.”

“It doesn’t matter. I came out to my family.”

Isaac didn’t need to ask how that went. The “dead man walking” look just got worse when he said it. “That bad?”

“They’re refusing to let me see Whitney until I undergo Christian counseling and successful conversion therapy.”

Oh holy fuck. What is wrong with people?
Frustrated, Isaac ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, man.” He was too. Even in their brief time together, Isaac knew how much Xavier adored Whitney, his younger sister.

“I know. Look. It was time. I can’t live my whole life waiting for the moment I’m traded so I can finally admit that I’m gay and hopefully have a normal relationship.” Xavier closed his eyes and composed himself with effort, then straightened his shoulders. “But I did it, and now it’s done. And even if nothing comes of this, St. Savoy has nothing to hold over my head anymore.”

“Relieved?”

Xavier nodded. “Actually yeah. It kills me to think about Whitney and what my parents must be telling her. But I’m glad it’s finally out there.” His voice turned momentarily vicious. “They weren’t even surprised. Oh, they pretended they were. But they knew.”

“So did mine,” Isaac offered. “They were just mad because I was going to come out to other people. What got them was how I wasn’t ashamed of it. That I’d dare tell anyone and be proud.” He stopped talking when he saw how visibly upset Xavier was becoming. He pulled him into a brief hug. “You did a good thing, X.”

“Thanks, Drake. You know, it’s not just this shit with St. Savoy. I mean, it was the reason why I came out, but you made me wish that I could have done it earlier. I think what you’re doing, being out in the league, I think it’s probably helping more people than you know.” Xavier attempted a smile as they pulled apart. “And not just guys who have a thing for piercings.”

That was good to hear. He never intended to make some kind of statement by being out. He just didn’t think he could pretend to be straight, and he’d never really wanted to—especially not when he was around as many hot guys as he was on a daily basis. But it was nice to hear that maybe it helped someone come to terms with their sexuality. The league wasn’t a hotbed of intolerance and bigotry—unless you played for the Ravens, and even that was more about the coach than the team—but fuck if he wasn’t sick of “fag” being thrown around as an insult.

The hearing took about an hour and a half, and Isaac and Max waited in the hotel lobby. Neither of them spoke much, and Isaac spent most of the time worried that Denis St. Savoy somehow got wind of the meeting and was on his way to stop it. Or something. It was a formless sort of worry, a general uneasiness that Isaac knew wouldn’t entirely abate until the entire thing was over and done with.

“What if—” Isaac stopped himself with effort. Max was reading a book, but he hadn’t turned the page once, so it must not have been very good. Or else he was an incredibly slow reader.

“Just say it,” Max encouraged. “It will make you feel better.”

What if Laurent tells them he threw those games last year? What if they take away our championship?

“I don’t think it will, but thanks,” Isaac said and slouched in the chair he’d finally settled into. He checked his phone again, though he didn’t imagine Laurent would be texting him from the meeting room. “I wish I could be in there.”

“I know, Isaac.” Max patted him on the arm. “But you can’t. And Laurent’s doing fine, I’m sure.”

Isaac raised his eyebrows but said nothing else. By the time Laurent appeared in the lobby, he was white-faced and wild-eyed, and his mouth was drawn into a sneer that meant he was feeling especially vulnerable. When he reached Isaac, Laurent looked like he either wanted to hug Isaac or hit him.

“Everything okay?” Isaac asked.

Laurent’s look was on the edge of scathing, and he gave an hysterical bark of a laugh. “Sure.”

“Hey,” Isaac said quietly and put a hand on Laurent’s back. “You want to be quiet?”

Laurent nodded.

“Okay,” he said quietly. The whole voice-restriction thing they did was a little weird, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to explain it to Max. Laurent had mentioned once that he talked about it to Liz, and she said it took away the pressure of “performing” and being good enough when Isaac did that. It allowed Laurent to relax. Isaac didn’t necessarily understand. He was just glad it worked.

Xavier gave him a little half-hearted wave as he walked past, and Isaac returned the gesture. Xavier looked about as drained as Laurent, but there was a defiant set to his shoulders. Good for him. It did no one any good to hide.

“Where’s Misha?” Max asked.

Isaac rubbed a hand over Laurent’s back and tried to translate it into a yes or no question that Laurent could answer. “Still in the room with the commissioner. Right?”

Laurent nodded and looked relieved.

“Why don’t you two get out of here,” Max said, clever enough to know something was going on with them and to not ask what it was. “I’m guessing you want to drive back with Laurent instead of us.”

“Seeing as how it’s my car,” Isaac answered.

“It’s mine, actually,” said Max. He smiled at Isaac. “I’ll sell it to you cheap, though.”

“Thanks. C’mon,” he said to Laurent, but Laurent pulled away and went to Max. He looked briefly at Isaac, as if waiting for something. Permission to speak. Isaac gave the smallest of nods.

Laurent held his hand out toward Max. “Thank you, Coach Ashford. I’m sorry for my behavior last year and earlier this season. I wish you and Coach Samarin could have been my coaches all along. I think I might have actually loved this game. I wish I could have.”

Max’s smile was so warm and understanding it made Isaac’s eyes sting. He shook Laurent’s hand. “I wish that too, Saint. You’re one hell of a goalie. One of the best I’ve ever seen, in any league.”

“Thank you.” Laurent said it without rancor or suspicion, acknowledging that it was a compliment. Then he moved back toward Isaac and picked up his bag.

He was silent until they climbed in the Jeep and the doors were closed. “Isaac? I need to tell you something.”

“Okay.” Isaac had a suspicion he knew what was coming.

“I’m not playing hockey anymore. I’m done. And I need to go to my father’s house and tell him. I need to be done with him too. I want to be done with all of it.” Laurent wasn’t looking at him, but was instead staring out of the window, as though he were looking at a future he desperately wanted to make real.

It made Isaac sad to hear that his suspicions were correct and that Laurent was going to quit playing. But hockey wasn’t the thing that kept Laurent swimming when the world tried to drag him under. It was just one more thing that tried hard to drown him—an inexorable tide controlled by his father’s influence. “I understand, Saint. Just tell me how to get there.”

LAURENT HELD
Isaac’s hand in a death grip when they arrived at his father’s house. It looked the same as ever, stately and impressive, colonial-style brick with immaculate windows and a perfectly manicured lawn. Laurent breathed out slowly and wished like hell it was over and they were on their way home to Spartanburg.

He turned to Isaac. “I want you to come with me. But not because I’m afraid of him. I
am
afraid of him. But I want you to come with me so you can be there when I end this.”

Isaac must have been just as nervous as Laurent, because he nodded and didn’t say anything.

Laurent reached in the back of the Jeep and grabbed a plastic bag, then got out of the car. He waited for Isaac to come around next to him, and they started up the drive together. The walk to the front door seemed to take both an eternity and no more than an instant, and once they were on the front porch, Laurent’s hand shook as he knocked on the door.

It probably should have made him sad that he was knocking on the door to his own house, but the place had never felt like home. The only home Laurent had was standing right beside him.

His father stood in the doorway, his eyes narrow and mean, and Laurent felt the usual churn of fear and anxiety that his presence always inspired and had to force himself to speak. “Father.”

Laurent wished it was like some dramatic movie, where his father would reveal they were not related after all and that he’d bought Laurent off the baby black market or something equally absurd. But he and his father had some physical characteristics in common—height, build, the same general coloring—and Laurent knew that, as much as he would like to deny it, he too had that core of viciousness inside of him. It was the reason why he had to quit playing. It was the reason why he needed Isaac. He wanted to be Saint, not St. Savoy, Jr.

He raised his chin. “I came here to give you something.”

“Unless it is an apology for your abominable behavior—”

“It isn’t.” Laurent did take a small satisfaction at how his father’s eyes bugged at that. Denis St. Savoy hated to be interrupted. Laurent pulled the thing he’d brought out of the bag and shoved it at his father. “Here.”

His father looked down on instinct and smirked at the way Laurent’s hands were so obviously trembling.

I’m afraid, but he’s a coward.

“Why would I want this rag, Laurent?” His father was one of the only people who said Laurent’s name like it was supposed to be pronounced, with the accent on the proper syllable and the correct sound at the end.

“This rag” was Laurent’s jersey. His Spitfires jersey, recently worn in the championship game when his team won the Kelly Cup.

“Am I supposed to be proud of you for winning a meaningless game with a team of fags?”

“Oh, whatever,” Isaac muttered next to him.

Laurent felt a spike of fear as his father’s gaze shifted to Isaac. He didn’t want Isaac to do anything stupid, because it was Laurent’s only chance to finish things by himself. He needed to take it. “Be quiet,
ange,
” he whispered under his breath.

But Isaac heard and fell quiet.

“All this time I thought all you wanted was for me to win. But it’s not that simple, is it? I have to play good enough not to embarrass you, but not too good that it might seem like I’m better than you.” Laurent swallowed the old hurt of “why can’t you love me”
rising up to choke him. “I never wanted to be a better goalie than you. I just wanted a better father. So here’s all you will ever have of me. I’m done.”

He threw the jersey at his father’s feet and said, “But just so you know—I
am
better than you. On the ice and off of it.” With that, he turned away, and blindly grabbed for Isaac’s hand as he walked toward the Jeep.

He expected some parting shot, some snide comment about his holding hands with a man. But the only sound he heard was the door slamming behind him.

Laurent did not turn to see if his jersey was still there, abandoned on the front porch. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter if it was or not. It was over. St. Savoy was gone for good, and Laurent could finally be exactly who he wanted.

LAURENT STOOD
behind the counter and neatly tidied up the various bits of paper his boss relied on to organize the comic shop. They were usually the names and numbers of issues he needed to order for a customer. Laurent worked on an Excel spreadsheet to keep better track of things, but getting his boss to use technology wasn’t easy. Usually he just stuck the papers to the computer monitor with bits of tape.

The jingle of a bell sounded as he finished with the stack. “We’re closed,” he called and tried to remember to use his “customer service” voice. Charlie was terrible with technology, and Laurent was terrible with customers. Luckily comic book readers had an okay tolerance for both.

“I know a guy who works here. He likes me.”