Shutout

Chapter 17 - Logan

At practice, Porter is back but still looking a little rough around the edges as he continues to recover from the flu. I don't think it's his lingering illness, however, that makes him look more hostile towards me than ever before. It certainly does not help that the team cheers me on for my performance the past few games and even makes comments to Porter about it. They are supposed to be harmlessly expressing their gratitude for my performance and trying to reassure Porter that he can continue to recover in no rush. But I think it makes whatever time bomb in Porter get so much closer to going off. 

After practice with the goalie coach, where Porter and I barely look at each other, let alone talk, we're left to ourselves on one side of the ice while everyone else finishes on the other. I try to move silently and quickly to gather the equipment we used or practice, but suddenly, my back hits something, and my hand squeezes my shoulder. I barely feel it through my pads, but it's tight enough that when Porter wants me to face him, he can easily maneuver me.

"Listen here, you sick fuck," His eyes are red, maybe from tiredness but also likely from anger. In fact, his face is red that it shouldn't be, and that makes this whole thing that much worse, "I know you think you're some hot shot because everyone allows you to play even if you are a faggot. But remember your place. You're a good-for-nothing back of a goalie whose a faggot on top of it all. The team might act like they like you, but no one would truly want you to play on our team. We wouldn't have traded for you if we weren't in a tight spot. So I need you to back the fuck off and sit in your place."

I don't know if he can see the spit he's left on me, but I can feel it. He's taller than me, and with the pads, I can't look over his shoulder at the others. What would happen even if it could? Would I signal for help? Would I have to pretend like we're just talking? Would the others even notice? 

I make no movement and have no words, so Porter pushes me away enough that I stumble and fall back on the ice. That, however, does catch the attention of others as they start to skate off the ice. Bac, ever the social butterfly and good person, skates over, chuckling. 

"You're an NHL goalie, and you're still falling on the ice?"

Porter leaves as soon as Bac gets to us, patting Bac on the shoulder as if it were a silent message to me. I don't know what message, but I also don't want to know. Bac laughs innocently, helping me up.

"Hey, Toi, Hayden, and I are going to lunch later. Do you want to join?" Bac asks with a hand on my shoulder as we skate off the ice.

It's a home game today, so I convinced Kane to go out to lunch with me after practice. 

I cringe at that realization and slowly shake my head, "Sorry. I already have plans. Next time?"

Bac wiggles his eyebrows, "Plans? Okay, next time."

We part ways in the locker room as all the men are chatting while they strip off their practice gear. Porter doesn't look at me when I have to pass him to my own stall right next to his. I don't really believe his words because if the team as a collective didn't like me, they would make it known. There would be no reason to hide it. Only the minority has a reason to hide their feelings. 

But that doesn't mean it doesn't sit uncomfortably on my chest. That doesn't mean I don't feel uncomfortable in my skin, in my stall, in the locker room, with my number on the practice jersey on my back. The shower doesn't wash it away, but I manage to let it fall into the back of my mind when Kane slides into my car with a sky-blue cane and some story about his little sister. 

I chose a sandwich shop that is a little outside of the downtown area. Kane seems eager, so that's a relief. However, in the parking lot, there is a navy blue Rolls Royce and a black BMW, which is weird.