Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,86

than just something that was second nature. It’s also probably why Crash behaving in a similar fashion never phased me. I, literally, grew up in a house with people like that.

Thoughts of him propel me to the closest leather seat at the curved island bar. My bag hits the ground next to my feet, and the sound shakes loose the restraint I had been holding onto so desperately.

Dad being trained to deal with people in emotional distress simply allows it to happen.

He sits in the seat beside me.

Leans his arm onto the marble countertop and listens to me silently cry.

Streams of tears pour out of me alongside headshakes and grumbled curse words. I release all the animosity about the mistreatment from earlier in the evening and from my boyfriend for the past couple of months. I dispense tears for the grievance of a hobby lost. Of humiliation. Of misconceived notions. The weight of hateful words from strangers as much as the hateful words from the person I love the most bear down on me until I collapse forward onto the countertop to bawl harder.

At that point is when Dad delivers a loving rub to my back. “It’s okay, son. It’s okay to cry.”

I was fortunate growing up.

I never once received the outdated speech of “real men don’t cry”.

My dad is a firm believer in the opposite, and so is my mom.

Both believe keeping pent-up feelings inside can, and does, lead to physical manifestations that are more harmful than giving yourself a few minutes alone to release those emotions. Early on in their college days, they both wrote papers about it, and later in graduate school ended up reading one another’s during a nerdy second date. They used to tell me about ulcers caused by stress and anxiety and that healthy outlets were important for a healthy life.

Hockey was one of those outlets.

And now, it’s gone, leaving me no other options.

Nothing.

Eventually, having my face pressed to the cool counter, helps calm me down and ease some of the strain. The tears caked onto my complexion slowly start to dry, and I feel slightly lighter. A little freer. It still hurts to breathe, but less.

Dad’s hands fall back into his lap as Mom drags a chair to be in better view of me. “This is about the root of you not playing in tonight’s game.”

I swallow, allowing my silence to be my admission.

“Your sexuality.”

The end word shuts my eyes.

“You have no reason to be ashamed of who you are, Hugo,” Mom quietly chimes in. “We never once raised you to believe you did. You are our Ferdinand, and as you know by the number of times we’ve referenced that piece of literature that there is nothing wrong with being who you are, regardless of what the world wants to make you into. And, whoever it is you decide to be with in your life, whoever you decide to love is nothing that should ever make you feel shame, sweetheart. If anyone should feel shame, it’s those judging that one aspect of someone’s life as opposed to them as a whole.”

“You are more than whatever label someone in society wants to stick on you,” Dad takes over the speech. “Your entire worth and character are not based on who you sleep with, son. You are and will be defined by what it is you choose to do with yourself. If you choose to be nothing more than your sexual preferences that’s your choice. People choosing not to see anything else is theirs. And, you know you cannot make other people’s choices for them, which is a good thing, because it also means they can’t make choices for you.”

“And, what happens when someone does?” I shift my stare to meet his. “What happens when someone you love makes a choice for you without your consent?”

“You hold them accountable for their actions,” Dad immediately replies without missing a beat. “Being in love with someone doesn’t mean giving them a permanent ‘Get Out of Jail Free Card’. It means being there for them when they’ve gained their freedom.”

“Crash told everyone you’re gay,” Mom bluntly announces.

“I’m bisexual, but…more or less,” my shoulders bounce, “yeah.”

“This was something you didn’t want others to know,” Dad casually states rather than asks.

“I don’t care that people know,” I grumble in defeat. “I care that it wasn’t my choice to tell them. That I didn’t get to properly end my relationship with hockey. That it’s just over and I…” another sense of