“You gotta ask me a lot nicer than that, pretty boy,” Jared shot back and hit him in the head with the controller.
A few days later, Lane handed Jared a stack of tickets. “Here you go.”
“Thanks. I’ll sell these, and we can afford a bigger bed.” They were tickets for all of Lane’s Marlies home games.
“I got three seats for all season. If, by the middle of the season, they’re still empty, you can sell two of them. Do we have any chips?” Lane tried to change the subject, which he was terrible at, so Jared ignored the attempt.
“The other two were for your parents. Yeah?” Jared knew Lane had talked to them a few times since they’d moved into the apartment. They hadn’t visited, though admittedly, it was a small space where two guys lived. It’s not like there was anything there super exciting, unless you liked Dr Pepper and video games.
“Yup. I told them that I’d sent them tickets for seats twenty and twenty-one, and the guy in twenty-two was my boyfriend.” Lane shrugged, his jaw tightening. “I don’t know if they’ll come or not, but what can I do?”
“If you want me to sit out a game—” Jared scowled. “Wait. No. Fuck that. I’ll sit in another seat, but I’m not missing your games.”
“You’re not sitting in another seat.” Lane’s voice was flat, his eyes as cold as Jared had ever seen them. “Hockey is part of my life, and so are they. And so are you. And if they can’t sit next to you at a game, I don’t want them there anyway.”
Jared wasn’t sure about that, but he let it go. Lane would figure out if he didn’t mean that soon enough, and it
was
nice to hear Lane standing up for himself.
Lane started the season on the third line, and Jared could tell he was trying to get accustomed to the quicker pace of the game, the faster skaters, and the more physical play. Jared went to the rink with him a few times, giving him a few pointers. “I was always having to keep up with you whippersnappers,” Jared told him, leaning against the boards and watching Lane race around. This was great. He really hoped one of those coaching jobs panned out.
Lane flipped him off as he skated by, but he did listen to Jared and integrated some of his suggestions in his training. When Lane scored his first goal, Jared decided to totally take credit for how Lane flew down the ice. Obviously Jared was some kind of hockey genius and should be hired immediately.
If he weren’t, he was going to wake up one morning and find Lane eating the pillows for nutrients.
Jared’s old coach from Savannah made some calls, and Jared met with the coaching staff of the Markham Waxers, a junior hockey team about thirty minutes from Toronto. Jared hit it off immediately with the staff, who took him for a beer and didn’t blink an eye when Jared said he’d moved there with his boyfriend. Nor did they badger him for information about Lane after they asked “What does your boyfriend do?” and Jared answered, “He plays hockey.”
They loved that he was an Avalanche fan just to annoy people from his home state of Michigan, and used words like “inspirational” to describe his last season in professional hockey.
Jared knew he had the job before he answered the phone, but it was still a relief to get the call.
He’d been with the Waxers for two weeks when, at one of Lane’s home games, he went to take his seat and saw a woman sitting in seat twenty-one. She had Lane’s eyes and his mouth, and was wearing a Marlies T-shirt. There was no one in the seat next to her.
Jared was so happy, he almost hugged her. Instead, he went very Midwestern, smiled politely, sat down, and decided to just let her say something first. She was Lane’s mother. It was probably inevitable.
“You must be Jared,” she said, not looking at him, her gaze focused on the ice where Lane was taking warm-ups with his team.
“Yes, ma’am,” Jared answered. That was the end of their conversation, as the game started up.
By the second period, the game was tied, and Jared wondered what it would have been like to have his mom watch him play hockey like Mrs. Courtnall watched Lane. She leaned forward, she muttered, she
yelled at bad calls the refs made
. Jared wished she would like him, just on principle.
A few times during the second period, Jared could tell she was looking at him and trying to be surreptitious about it. She was about as good at it as Lane. He smiled once, and she did something that was
maybe
a smile back before she turned her attention once more to the ice.
The game was still tied, heading toward five minutes remaining in the third, and Lane got the puck and went racing down the ice. Both he and Mrs. Courtnall leaned forward expectantly… and then Lane made an ill-advised drop pass and had the puck stolen off his stick.
“Lane, stop trying to do a drop pass. Just shoot the damn puck,” Mrs. Courtnall muttered.
“
Thank
you,” Jared said, looking at her. “I told him that yesterday too. He thinks if he just keeps trying it, maybe his winger will suddenly be better at
not
turning the puck over.”
“He’s been doing that since he was ten,” Mrs. Courtnall told him. “The only thing that’s going to stop him is losing a Stanley Cup game seven… and even then.”
“He’d just do it again, in another game seven, to prove he could,” Jared nodded, sighing. “It’s not even him. He’s good at passing.”
“It’s that he doesn’t communicate.” Mrs. Courtnall nodded. She gave him another considering look, then held her hand out. “It’s nice to meet you, Jared.”
Jared shook her hand. “You too, Mrs. Courtnall.”
“Michelle, please,” she said and sighed. “I’m sorry I haven’t been to meet you before this.”
“It’s all right,” Jared said, uncomfortable. They both watched the teams line up for the next face-off.
“It isn’t, but it’s nice of you to say so.” She leaned forward in her seat. “If my son weren’t playing in a tie game, I’d ask you questions. Right now I have to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”
Jared grinned. “If you learn that trick, could you share it?”
She gave a soft, quiet laugh. There was something going on with Lane’s parents, but the game started back up, and Jared didn’t have time to think about it.
The Marlies lost by a goal. Jared knew Lane would be pissed about the drop pass, and when he said this to Michelle Courtnall, she crossed her arms and gave Jared a look that was
very familiar
. “He should be. Maybe if we both tell him, he’ll listen.”
Lane did indeed look like he was in a bad mood when he met Jared after the game. But the second he saw his mom standing next to his boyfriend, his eyes lit up like stars, and all the irritation vanished from his face. Jared’s heart flipped over in his chest.
“Mom. You’re here. Hi. I’m sorry we lost.”
“Yes. I’m here. You looked so fast out there, Lane. But Jared and I agreed you needed to stop those drop passes until you know your wingers better.” Lane’s mom gave him a severe look. “We’ve had this discussion about your passing decisions more than once, Lane.”
Lane’s smile would have lit up Ricoh Coliseum in the event of a power outage. Jared knew he’d be annoyed about their collusion in a few hours, but he was clearly thrilled. “You guys agreed, huh?”
“Yes. I would like to take you both to dinner, Lane, if you don’t have plans already. If you do, that’s all right. Maybe the next time.”
“Nah. It’s fine. Hey. I gotta go get something, though. J, is the car clean?”
Lane had made plans for after the game and was clearly going to cancel them. His mother was clearly aware of it too. These people were terrible at lying. “Clean? I didn’t drive it through the mud, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“No. Like, is there shit in the back?”
Jared hit him upside the head. “Watch your mouth. That’s your
mom
.”
Lane’s mother patted Jared on the shoulder. “I’m glad you have manners.”
“Were you worried because I was a hockey player?” Jared asked. And oh, the look on Lane’s face. Jared wanted to hug Michelle Courtnall just for putting it there.
“No. Because you’re American,” she said, absolutely deadpan, and Jared laughed.
It was going to be okay. She did not look like a mother who wanted to disown her gay son. She looked like a mother who was maybe as bad at feelings as her son, and thought her son was mad at her, and had no idea how to fix any of it.
They went to dinner at a sports bar down the street from their apartment. Mrs. Courtnall ordered a Molson. Lane had a Dr Pepper. Jared ordered a Coke, trying to make a good impression.
“You usually drink beer, J. Are you not feeling okay?”
Jared kicked him under the table, but Lane just asked him why he did that. Out loud.
“He’s trying to make a good impression, son,” Michelle said, smiling.
“That’s why he should order a beer. It’s Canada. I’m, you know. Playing. So I can’t have one.” Lane gave
him
a look that clearly said, “Don’t rat me out.”
Right. Like that was going to work. “I didn’t know Dr Pepper
made
beer, Lane,” Jared said innocently, eyes wide. “Why did you just kick me?”
Michelle patted Lane on the hand. “You can drink all the beer you want when you retire. It’s all right. But stop drinking so much of that Dr Pepper and drink some water.” While Lane regressed to a fourteen-year-old for a moment—that clearly happened to everyone, everywhere, with their parents—Michelle asked Jared about his family, his hockey career, and what he was doing in Toronto.
“Living with me,” Lane reminded her. “Remember?”
“Hey. Back up, Mr. Important Hockey Player. I am not just living with you. I have a job. I’m a coach,” Jared told her. “A new assistant coach actually, with the Markham Waxers.”
“And where are you from?”
“Michigan. Ann Arbor.”
“Not a Red Wings fan, are you?” Michelle gave him a suspicious look. “We have a lot of those in Chatham. Bad parenting.”
That made him smile. “Nope. I’m an Avalanche fan.”
“Jared’s really contrary,” Lane piped up. He sounded proud because he was demented. “That’s why he doesn’t like the Wings. And his favorite player is Patrick Roy.”
“Yes. I seem to recall you have a fondness for playing goalie,” Michelle murmured. She looked at her son pointedly. “Hesitating with an open net? Lane.”
“I
know
, Mom. But the scout for the Leafs said I showed character.” Lane sat up straighter. “Because I didn’t beat Jared up or anything for that.”
“You didn’t…? He tried that, you know,” Jared informed Lane’s mother. “Beating me up. I feel like I should apologize for hitting him.”
Michelle took a calm drink of her Molson’s. “That’s not necessary.”
Lane threw a coaster at him.
“Lane Edward Courtnall, you have better manners than that,” his mother chastised, giving her son a disapproving look. “And I better not hear about you starting any more fights. You’re not a fighter. You’re a goal scorer. Leave the fights to the gentlemen who are better suited.”
“Can you adopt me?” Jared asked her, charmed. No one had ever referred to his position in hockey as being played by a gentleman who was better suited for it.
“No. Because then we’d be related, and that’d be weird,” Lane announced. “Mom, Jared’s parents have never been to any of his hockey games and don’t like sports.”
Michelle Courtnall looked like Lane had just informed her that someone ran over Jared’s puppy, then turned around and came back to run over its mother too. “Why haven’t they been to your games? They didn’t even watch you when you won the
Kelly Cup
?”
“My parents aren’t sports people. My dad actually was an administrator at the University of Michigan, who thought all sports programs should be abolished.” Jared smiled wryly. “My friends’ parents hated him. They were all raving U of M football fans.”
“Jared borrowed his sister’s figure skates,” Lane interjected. “Why was that okay and hockey wasn’t, J?”
“I guess my parents thought that was art, and hockey was just institutionalized brutality.”
Michelle made a sound. “Your parents, Jared? Are they… still
like
that?” She looked so horrified, Jared wanted to comfort her and lie, if it made her stop looking so
sad
.
“Well, no. Because your son made a DVD of my season highlights and sent it to them.” Jared wasn’t mad about that anymore. And, in fact, he thought it was kind of sweet. Which was why he kicked Lane under the table again. “Jerk.”
Michelle was looking at her son with obvious approval. “I can’t imagine not going to any of Lane’s games. How strange.”
“You didn’t go to the ones before this one,” Lane pointed out. “And Jared’s parents are weird, but they called me his life partner and don’t care that he’s got a boyfriend.”
That killed the conversation for a little while, and Jared couldn’t tell if Lane regretted saying it or not. He knew Chatham was three hours away from Toronto, but he also knew Lane’s parents had traveled farther than that for games when Lane was living at home. He reached under the table and rubbed a hand over Lane’s knee.
Lane grabbed his hand like it was a life preserver.
After dinner, Lane’s mom asked to see their apartment. Jared could tell it wasn’t that she wanted to see it, but that she wanted to say something to her son. Lane, because subtlety was his mortal enemy, looked really confused and asked her why.
“Is our place clean, Jared?” Lane asked as they made their way to the car for the short drive.
“Hey, I work now too, Prince Courtnall. Pick up your own clothes.” Jared tossed Lane the keys.
“What about the whole kept-man thing? And the supermodel threesomes?” Lane winced. “Sorry, Mom.”
“I can pretend not to hear things,” Michelle said from the back. Jared had tried to get her to ride in the front, both to the restaurant and to the apartment, to no avail. “You lived in my house for eighteen years, Lane Edward. It’s fine if you haven’t had a chance to shove your dirty laundry under the bed.”
Jared laughed again. He couldn’t help it. It was fun hanging around with someone who had Lane’s number. It really was.
“You think this is funny. Wait until Christmas when I laugh at stuff your family says,” Lane muttered. “Oh yeah, Mom? I thought you and Dad might disown me, so I said I’d go to Jared’s for the holiday.”