Shutout

Chapter 32 - Kane

Logan looks absolutely out of his mind as he grips the steering wheel with all his strength. His eyes are big, and his hair is so cutely combed back in his attempt to make a good impression. He's even wearing a collared shirt, which he never wears outside of hockey suits. Arguably, he isn't in the right mind to be driving, but he insisted, and I can never deny my passenger princess status too much. 

"Babe, loosen your grip. You'll break your fingers or something," I pat his knee.

He glances down at his hands before flexing them and readjusting a now looser grip on the steering wheel, "I'm fine."

I roll my eyes at his stunt of masculinity. He's not fine, and we both know it. Last week, after a ton of coordination of schedules and whatnot, Mom asked Logan and me to come up for lunch one day. I, of course, said yes because I wanted to see my mom, and I wanted my mom to see my boyfriend. Logan was not as ecstatic at the idea, though. He tried to put on a good face and agreed. But I know he's beyond nervous. Purely on the fact that I know he never dated while he was in the closet, I know he's never met anyone else's parents, let alone a solid boyfriend's parents. 

It's obviously very cute that he's so worried about coming off as good enough for me. It's also nice that he has a new thing to distract him. It's been nearly two weeks since the article was released, so the media and the league have begun to leave it in the background. Offended at being called out, the league made some hasty, half-assed attempts to prove their gay love and allyship or whatever. It was now official that all teams—management through players through fucking janitors—have to take discrimination and diversity training during the preseason next year. This includes a call to all five queer NHL players to help teach and shape the course, which seems like a lot. Additionally, more teams, in their own attempts to be allies, have planned more pride nights and have incorporated LGBQT+ charities into their rounds of charity work. 

It's hard to say how long this will all last and if any of it will lead to long-lasting, foundational, impactful changes. But it's a decent start compared to my lingering fear that Logan would face additional penalties from his team and the league for speaking out. I laughed when Maine had to issue a statement that they weren't homophobic. The guilt got to them, I think. 

The bad news lately is that Porter is back in the starting goalie position. His homophobic ass doesn't deserve it but whatever. At Least Logan gets to rest a bit more. And if he stays next year, there is a good chance he'll become the starting goalie because word on the street is Porter is retiring after this season. 

After publishing the article, I've actually gotten a lot of work offers. So, while Logan gets to rest a bit more than usual, I'm working through more emails than usual. Strangly enough, a lot of them are requests to publish another series on hockey and sports. Some want a long-written series on hockey, while others are suggesting collaborating with other queer athletes. I'm not sure what to do or say to any of these requests. Logan thinks I should do it only if I want to and if it's something I'm enjoying. Otherwise, he thinks I should use my new written fame to pursue something else that interests me. I haven't decided, but I'll have to soon. 

It hasn't snowed in about a week, so the roads are clear except for insistent wind. Old, dirty snow hides in the forests that we drive past and in the fields of dead grass. Mom only lives about an hour away, so the drive isn't long. It also meant we didn't have to wake up at the crack of dawn—I didn't have to wake up. Logan still woke up early to do his yoga and workout. I could never have disciplined him, but I will attempt my best by eating on his diet. As long as it doesn't require me to break a sweat or wake up early. Neither Harold nor I are particularly morning people. We prefer to stay in bed where it's warm. 

The town Mom lives in isn't tiny, but it's considerably smaller than Indianapolis. It's one of those towns where the houses were either cute or trailer trash. I give Logan directions around the town to get to Mom and Kent's house, and each direction seems to grind on Logan's anxiety. Eventually, though, we park on the street in front of the yellow house that Logan's only seen in pictures or Facetime.