Chapter 3

After they hang up, Damir sits in the quiet of his apartment for a long moment. The city lights are twinkling outside his window, and somewhere below, life is happening --- people going about their evenings, unaware of or uncaring about hockey fights and media circuses and the strange, complicated reality of being exactly who you are in a world that constantly wants you to be something else.

His phone buzzes again. A DM from a faceless account.

Against his better judgment, he opens it.

You're a disgrace to the sport. Hope you're happy with yourself, fag.

Damir deletes it without responding and blocks the number. Then he deletes the next one, and the next one. There are always more. There will always be more.

But there are also the other messages. The ones from fans saying thank you. The ones from kids saying he's their hero, even if he insists he's not. The ones from other players --- some out, some not --- saying they saw what happened and they're glad he didn't back down.

Those matter more.

Damir gets up, goes to the kitchen, and pours himself a vodka. Just one. He's still got morning skate tomorrow --- even though he's restricted from playing, which is bullshit --- but one drink won't hurt.

He takes his glass back to the couch and pulls up the video one more time. Watches himself drop the gloves. Watches the fight. Watches the aftermath.

The cocky smirk is still there. The raised hands. The crowd going wild.

"Still me," he mutters to the empty apartment. "Still fucking me."

His phone buzzes.

Graham: Drinks tomorrow? You're buying since you're not playing.

Damir grins and types back: Fine. But you're getting cheap beer.

Graham: Deal. And good job today. Someone needed to do it.

Damir: I know.

Graham: Modest as always.

Damir: It's not modest if it's true.

Graham sends back a middle finger emoji, and Damir laughs, alone in his apartment, hand throbbing, heart lighter than it's been all day.

He's not soft. He's not nice. He's not anyone's idea of a perfect role model.

But he's Damir Zaitsev, and that's never going to change. Not for the league, not for the media, not for anyone who thinks coming out means he owes them a different version of himself.

The only person who gets that is Nash, and Nash already has it.

Everyone else can deal with this version: sharp edges, split knuckles, cocky smirk and all.

The locker room smells like sweat and disappointment, which is funny because they won. Not by much --- a single goal in overtime, courtesy of one of the rookies --- but a win is a win, even if Damir didn't factor into it.

Three games now. Three games without a point. Three games of hitting posts and missing passes and watching shots sail just wide of the net. His shoulder is screaming every time he raises his stick above his head, but he's not about to tell the media that. Let them think what they want.

Except apparently what they want to think is that he's washed up at thirty-one.

Damir is sitting in his stall, still in most of his gear, when the reporters swarm in. They always do this --- give the team just enough time to catch their breath before descending like vultures. He can see them clustering around the guys who scored, the rookie who got the overtime winner, but there's a group heading his way too.

Great.

"Damir, can we get a few words?"

He looks up. It's Gallagher from the Ironwood Star, flanked by three others Damir doesn't recognize. Gallagher's been covering the team for years, and he's usually not an idiot, but the look on his face today suggests he's about to ask something stupid.

"Sure," Damir says, leaning back. His shoulder twinges. He ignores it. "Few words."

"Three games without a point," Gallagher starts, and yeah, here it comes. "Are you concerned you're in a slump?"

Damir raises an eyebrow. "Three games is not slump. Three games is Tuesday."

One of the other reporters --- young guy, probably new --- jumps in. "But for a player of your caliber, going three games without contributing offensively is unusual, isn't it?"

"Da, is unusual. Because I'm very good." Damir says it flatly, matter-of-fact. "But sometimes puck doesn't go in. Is hockey."

"Do you think there's any particular reason for the dry spell?" This from a woman Damir's never seen before. She's got her phone out, recording. "Any distractions in your personal life that might be affecting your game?"

Oh. Oh.

Damir's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "What kind of distractions?"

"Well," the woman continues, and she has the audacity to look sympathetic, "this is your first season playing on the same team as your husband. Nash Everett signed with the Citadels over the summer, and while that's wonderful for you both personally, some people are wondering if having him in the same locker room might be ... distracting."

The locker room has gone very, very quiet.

Damir can see Nash across the room, frozen in the middle of unlacing his skates. Blake is next to him, and both of them are staring in Damir's direction with identical expressions of dawning horror.

Damir laughs.

It's not a nice laugh. It's the laugh he gives when he's about two seconds away from dropping gloves, the laugh that makes rookies nervous and opposing players back up a step. It's sharp and cold and carries across the suddenly silent room.

"Distracting," he repeats. "You think Nash is distracting me."

"I'm not saying that's definitely the case," the woman backpedals, "but it's been noted that your production has dropped since he joined the team-"

"My production has dropped," Damir interrupts, his voice deadly quiet, "because four games ago, against the Rangers, I took a hit that fucked up my shoulder. Temporarily," he adds, because he can see Dr. Bishop hovering at the edge of his vision and he looks ready to intervene. "Is fine, will be fine, I'm still playing. But raising my stick? Hurts like bitch. Kind of makes shooting harder."

The reporters are scribbling frantically. Gallagher looks uncomfortable now.

"But you're still playing through the injury," another reporter says. "Doesn't that suggest-"

"Suggests I'm tough," Damir snaps. "Suggests I don't quit on my team because of little pain. What you want me to do? Sit out? Let them play without me?"

"No, of course not, but-"

"But nothing." Damir stands up, and even though he's still missing his chest protector and skates, he's imposing enough that the cluster of reporters takes a collective step back. "You want to know if I'm in slump? Fine. I tell you. Three games without point is not slump. You know what three games is? Is statistical blip. Is noise. Every player in this league --- every single one --- goes through stretches where puck doesn't bounce right. But because I'm Damir Zaitsev, because I'm one of best players in the world, suddenly three games is crisis."

He's on a roll now, and some distant part of his brain knows he should probably stop, should let Tessa step in and do damage control, but fuck it. He's tired, his shoulder hurts, and these idiots think Nash is the problem.

"You want to talk about distractions?" Damir continues. "Fine. Let's talk. Nash signed with Citadels in July. Since then, training camp, preseason, fourteen regular season games. In those fourteen games, before shoulder injury, I have nine goals and seven assists. Sixteen points in fourteen games. That's more than point per game. That's elite production. But sure, yes, Nash is very distracting." The sarcasm is thick enough to cut. "So distracting that I was leading team in scoring until I got hurt."

Gallagher tries to get a word in. "Damir, I don't think anyone is suggesting-"

"You are suggesting exactly that," Damir says. "You are standing here, in front of my teammates, asking if my husband --- who is one of best players in PHL, who just played twenty-eight minutes of ice time tonight, who had two assists in this game we just won --- is making me play worse. You think I'm worse player because I'm married to Nash Everett?"

"That's not what I said-"

"Is what you meant."

Nash is standing now, and Damir can see him starting to move toward them, but Blake grabs his arm. Smart. This is Damir's fight, and Nash jumping in will only make it worse.

"I'll tell you what," Damir says, and his smile is sharp and mean and absolutely not friendly. "I make you a bet. All of you. I bet that I finish this season with most goals in the league. Not just on this team. In entire PHL. Most goals."

The young reporter who spoke earlier frowns. "That's a bold claim considering-"

"Considering what? Considering I'm thirty-one? Considering I'm bisexual? Considering I have husband?" Damir's voice is rising now. "I am Damir Zaitsev. I have scored fifty goals in a season six times. I have won Golden Blade Trophy twice. I have been to All-Star Game eleven times. I am future Hall of Famer. And you think three games without point means I'm done?"

He laughs again, and it's somehow even less pleasant than the first time.