I whipped my helmet into a cubby, not even sure if it was mine, then sat down to rest. God, I was tired. And sore. And a loser.
Again.
A low murmur moved through the men as the coaching staff entered the locker room.
Our head coach, Weston Hudain, stood tall and proud, his disappointment not evident, although we all knew he was busted up inside. We’d all had so much riding on this series. This was our year. We were sure of it. Boston had the same idea, though, and they worked just that much harder to achieve that goal.
“Okay, men, I know this is rough,” Coach said, strolling around the oval room as he did when he was speechifying. “We all worked hard. We all did our best. This year just wasn’t our year. We’ll come back in the fall and train even harder. This is a life lesson, men. What you take from this experience will shape you into a more dedicated player. It will instill a drive in you that will carry us through next season to the finals. That fire will burn bright. We will lift the Cup next year. I know this.” He thumped his chest. The other coaches nodded as he spoke. Coach Huddy gave great speeches. “I’ve come close so many times. I refuse to give up when the greatest trophy of all trophies is just within reach. I know it stings now, and it will for a while, but we will pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and regroup. I thank God every day for giving me a team filled with such professional and driven players. What you all did out there was out-fucking-standing. I mean it. Don’t you dare hang your heads. Be proud of how far we came because I know I’m fucking proud of each one of you.”
Then he made the rounds, shaking each player’s sweaty hand, dropping into a crouch to whisper to Phillippe, who I was sure was berating himself for not stopping that final shot, as well as a dozen others. Goalies were a special breed, deep and emotional. That Phil hadn’t mangled the pipes with his paddle after missing that shot spoke to just how drained he was, emotionally and physically. I shook Coach’s hand, said the right words, but inside I was hollowed out. Like the gourds my grandmother emptied out for bird houses. That was me. Cameron Chavkin, gourd birdhouse.
No one felt like congregating to rehash the loss. It was too fresh. So, we all showered and changed into suits because losers had to look good when they slunk out of the barn like whipped dogs. Press time had been particularly brutal. We all fielded some pretty stupid questions with all the grace we could muster.
How did it feel to lose in the finals again?
Doh, jackass, how do you think it feels?
It sucks. And it hurts. And it makes a man feel like crap.
“Are you okay?” Prez asked as we made our way to our cars, the few fans who weren’t pissed having met us at the players’ entrance. It was nice to get the love, even if it was strained, and hear them say they were still Storm Riders. One guy even broke out his cell to play “Riders on the Storm” by Snoop Dogg with The Doors, which a large group of our backers had adopted as their song. They had T-shirts and fluffy storm clouds with our signatures on them. Those same gray cloud pillows some of the fans had chucked at us after the loss. Good thing we weren’t the LA Bricks. Man, I needed some more Snoop and much louder to drown out the crud in my head.
“Yeah, sure, I’m tight.” I replied, giving Prez a weary half-smile. He studied me closely, his head tipping to the side, dark blond hair buzzed tight to his head, thick beard still damp from his shower. “Fuck. I have to shave now.” I reached up to finger my facial hair.
“Not a bad idea,” he teased. They all rode me about my measly beard. I noted the tiny light of humor in his blue eyes, which helped lift the funk. “You good?”
“Yeah, totally good. Just heading home to make a blanket fort where I plan to stay until locker clean-out day.”
That would have to be one big-ass blanket fort. “Sounds good. I’ll be in touch.”
“Hey, if you’re tripping the night fantastic, or whatever that saying is, mind who you take home, okay?”
I nodded. Great, now Prez was riding me about my sex life It wasn’t bad enough that my mother, my twin brother, my sister, and my grandmother gave me grief about being “too free with my favors” as Granny liked to say.
“I’m good.”
Prez gave me a nod that said he had doubts. I’d never once brought any trouble to this team in any way, so why everyone worried about my enjoyment of the fruits of my talents, I couldn’t say. It wasn’t my fault men and women wanted to be with me. Why the hell should I deny myself what they were offering for free on any given night? Starlets, young actors, musicians, directors, award-winning thespians, Hollywood movers and shakers. They all wanted to be seen on the arm of, or ice-side, with a Storm player. That was how the game was played out here in Tinsel Town. Sports stars were as sought after as movie stars.
“I’m good,” I repeated, then gave him a bump on his shoulder with the side of my fist. Personals bag over my shoulder, I made my way to my matte-blue Mercedes. I slid behind the wheel, then chucked my bag to the passenger seat, locked the doors, and let my brow drop to the steering wheel. Then, before the tears set in, I shoved the keys into the ignition, cranked over the engine, and made my exit with all due haste. I drove around LA for the longest time, unsure of where to go to burn off the funk sitting on my shoulders.
Prez would advise that we all go home, eat something, meditate, and then do yoga in the morning. He was a trippy guy at times.
Phillippe would be locked into his place overlooking the ocean, staring into a scrying cup or something as he tried to see where he could have done better in some mystical way.
My first line mates, Vinnie Boucher aka Booch, and Charles, our captain, were probably heading home, bummed as hell, to mope around. At least Charles had someone to commiserate with, given his little brother Michael, or as we called him Zeetoo, lived in another huge house just down from Charles. I knew they weren’t super close—their relationship was fractious at best, but at least they’d each have someone close by.
Yeah, sitting at my place alone, my head full of self-recrimination, was not for me. Nope. I was going to work through this crushing defeat with a bed partner or two. I was open to anything.
I turned off Glendale Avenue into the parking lot for Rumpus, one of the hottest LA nightclubs I’d yet to discover. Openly supportive of queers, the club was a smoky hot mix of gay burlesque, raucous DJs, and cocktails that were pricey but worth the ticket price simply for the array of beautiful people frequenting the place. I handed over the keys to the valet, then after paying the cover charge, I entered the broody club. The interior was dark mahogany and plush carpets. A mind-blowing mix of LA glam and old-time Hollywood glamour.
The bar was packed, as were the tables. A cabaret show was in full swing on the stage in the corner. I smiled at the redhead on stage. We’d hooked up about a month ago. Such an eager bottom and incredibly nimble. He could put his legs behind his head. Yeah, that had been a fun night. Messy, but fun. A server rushed over, smiling up at me, her eyes inviting.
“Hey, Choral,” I said beside her ear. “Can you get me a seat by the stage and a charred pineapple tepache?”
“For you, Cam, I’ll do anything.” She led me to a tiny table tucked into a corner. “I saw on the sports app that you guys lost. I’m sorry. I get off in an hour if you want someone to console you.” Long red nails danced over my chest.