Chapter 2
Wil hands over the AirPods finally, offers Oliver his signature wry smile before turning away.
"The kid reminds me of you," Wil says to Marcus in Moravian, startling Oliver. Wait, is Victor talking about him?
He can't be.
There's no world where Oliver is comparable to Marcus Fucking Thorne. "When you were his age, I mean.
He never gives himself a break.
Not that you do now, but you're getting better, I think.
Always getting better."
"Victor, I'm sorry, my brain is so fried, I'm only getting like ten percent of this," Marcus says.
"I know, sweetheart." Victor drops a kiss to Marcus's temple.
"Is for me."
Well.
At least Oliver's horniness goes away, replaced by the sweet sensation of guilt.
*
The problem is, there are no other Moravians on the team besides Victor.
There was one, but Cyril Vane was traded two seasons ago, which still gets Oliver's grandmother all fired up.
Of course Wilcox thinks no one understands what he says to his husband at practice.
And after games.
And when they're out for drinks.
And in one notable, horrible instance, in the shower.
Honestly, Oliver sometimes doubts his own understanding.
Sometimes when Wil speaks Moravian it's relatively tame, thank God, but just as confusing.
"Did you call the lawn company, my turkey?" Wil says one day after practice.
Oliver frowns.
Maybe he needs to work on his Moravian.
He should really call his grandma.
Marcus just nods and whispers, "turkey?" and Wil pats him on the shoulder.
It's a game, Oliver comes to realize.
Wil calls him a random word in Moravian, Marcus translates it.
Simple.
Except it's not always that simple.
Sometimes, it's like the November day when Marcus drops down for a push up at the gym and Wil shouts across the room in Moravian, "You're always so pretty on your knees, my vacuum."
Marcus flips him off, muttering, "You were the vacuum this morning."
Oliver is thankful he has the exercise bike to blame for his blush.
*
"It's not funny!"
"It's pretty funny." Nolan is doubled over, practically hyperventilating.
Graham reaches a hand out and pats him on the back.
"I can talk to them for you," Graham says.
"No!" Oliver reaches a hand up like he's going to physically stop the wall of muscle that is Graham Holt.
"You can't.
It gets worse.
I mean, them not knowing I know gets worse."
Nolan stops laughing, probably because of the panic now reaching Oliver's eyes.
"I'm listening."
*
It's not that it gets worse, necessarily.
It would be more apt to say that it gets more personal.
Sure, most of the time Wil is just describing what he wants to do to Marcus later in frankly excruciating detail.
Oliver has gotten really good at zoning out and daydreaming about puppies.
But when December rolls around, Victor starts talking about how hard it is, this time of year, with everyone's families coming to town.
How hearing all this talk about home reminds him that he doesn't have one anymore.
How he misses his mother and hates that he can't miss his father.
How sometimes he thinks of her lonely grave and prays she doesn't rest her head there, doesn't wonder why he never visits.
How some days, he's so tired.
Tired of hockey, tired of living, tired of a brain that won't right itself no matter how much he begs it to.
How he can't wait to retire, to have children.
How he hopes they're nothing like him and everything like Marcus.
He says it so quickly, Marcus doesn't seem to understand most of it.
Oliver wishes he didn't.
He thinks of so many responses, in Moravian and in English.
I hear you
and
I see you
and
I'm sorry
and
I don't think you see the way Marcus looks at you, or you'd know for certain you have a home.
Oliver wants to say that sometimes, he goes back to his stupidly big apartment and nearly collapses with the realization that no amount of goals or wins or money will ever bring his father back.
That when Oliver heard his own name thrown around as an early Harrow Prize contender, his first thought was 'what's the point if he's not here to see it?'
Much like the confessions he practices saying to Felix before their weekly phone calls, they die in his throat.
*
Oliver knows he needs to say something though—that he needed to two months ago.
That's why he's here in Nolan's office when he'd rather be literally anywhere else not talking about this ever.
He doesn't share all the details of what Wil said.
It's too personal, too much to know, let alone share.
He'd forget it all if he could.
Oliver stands, pacing again, and says, "I mean, what do I do?
I can't tell them I know now.
It's way too late for that."
"It's really okay," Graham says far too optimistically.
"It's not that big of a deal."
"Yeah, you can say that because you're not the one who heard Victor tell Marcus he misses his slutty little mouth."
Graham's face goes bright red, but Nolan looks largely unphased.
"He misses it?
How?
He sees him all the time."
"Seriously?"
"I'm just saying, they're not even apart on the road.
It's unfair, really." Nolan casts Graham a heated glance.
Great, now Oliver is thinking about Graham's slutty little mouth.
Play for the gayest team in the PHL
, they said.
It'll be fun
, they said.
Oliver clears his throat.
"Anyways!" Nolan clears his.
"You need to tell them.
I promise it'll be okay.
They'll laugh about it.
Well, Marcus won't, obviously.
But Victor definitely will."
"Fine.
I...
I will.
After we win in Blackwell tomorrow." He can do it.
He has to do it.
Nolan is tagging along for this road trip, so he'll be there to make sure Oliver does it.
Besides, his mom's coming out to the game.
If this all goes to hell, he can just quit on the spot, move home, and never show his face in Veldmark again.
Nolan fist pumps the air.
"That's the spirit, my turkey!"