One

My name is Miroslav Satan and I’m gay.

I hate that sentence. I’ve never even said it aloud and I hate it. Who would I say it to? The guys on my team? They’d think I was a freak. Guys I pick up at bars? They should know that already. Not that I’m Miro Satan, of course. That’s why I can’t go to clubs in Buffalo—people will notice me. I have to stick to urban metropolises, like LA or New York, or places where no one knows about hockey that much, vis a vis Atlanta or Nashville. Not that I’m knocking those places, or anything. It’s just that—oh, never mind. I can only go out by myself, either. I’m starting to miss hanging around with the guys. But I guess it’s the only way to go. I can’t have my cake and eat it, too.

I can’t tell anyone about this, or it would be dovedenia, NHL. It’s been fun. And there’s nothing I want less than that. Except for maybe the knowledge that the man I love is dead or something along those lines.

For as long as I’ve known I was gay, I’ve been trying to tell myself I was bi. Why? Hell if I know. Maybe it’s some deep-down fear that was instilled in me as a kid. Whatever the reason, it’s weird. I know I’m not bi and yet I try to tell myself so. I was never able to talk myself out of anything, that’s why I never started to smoke or do drugs. I’d never get myself out of it. I always counted on my friends to do that thing for me.

Of course my friends won’t talk me out of being gay. Number one, that would entail telling them, and number two, I don’t want to be talked out of it. My only problem with being gay is that the one guy I love on this entire planet doesn’t know me.

I remember when they called me to ask if I wanted to be on the Olympic squad for Slovakia, and I said yes, yes, yes, absolutely yes. I’d wanted to have a gold medal almost longer than I’d wanted a Stanley Cup, and that’s nearly all my life. Then I asked the fatal question: Who else are you looking at for the team? I shouldn’t have asked it. It screwed up my whole judgment for the day.

“We’re looking at Pavol Demitra, Peter Bondra, Marian Hossa, and Ziggy Palffy, of course.”

Things in my brain rocketed over one another, half in Slovak, half in English, but both halves were screaming to be heard. HE would be there. HIM. The only ‘him’ in the world for me and he would be there right there with me for seventeen days or something like that well for a long time and we’d be sticking together and playing together on the same team and in the locker room together and oh god oh god what if they made us roommates I don’t know if I could stand it what would I do what would happen this was going to be a disaster no it would be fun it will be the best time of your life you’ll become best friends quit sounding like a story book he doesn’t even know me oh god oh god what do I say I have to say something they’ll think I’m dead I can’t let anything I say be weird or anything. Tens of thousands of thought muddled my mind and my understanding.

“Ahhh, OK,” I mumbled. I wished I could have sounded more coherent, but my brain was suffering from overload.

“Great, Miro. I’ll call you back tomorrow, alright? Goodbye.” The phone clicked off and all I could hear was the dial tone. It took me three and a half minutes to set the phone down. I wandered around my house, dazed, trying to tell myself that he might not even be there, might not even come. It didn’t work. I stayed in a funk until I had to rouse myself and get to practice.

I decided to park a ways from the arena and walk. I felt like walking, even though it was a cold day in November. I didn’t know why. I walked two blocks, and in the middle of the second block, someone had dropped a penny. I looked at it for a moment, then realized that it was heads-up. Good luck. It was an omen, it had to be. I picked it up and dropped it in my pocket.

Darcy Rieger came up to me after practice and talked at me about the Olympics. I say he talked at me because I wasn’t listening or hearing. It was just him talking and me thinking.

“And blah blah blah blah blah, etc., and yadda yadda, this that and the other thing, x, y, and z, etc., etc., etc. OK, Miro? Are we clear?” he asked. I snapped back.

“Um, yeah, of course,” I stuttered. Mr. Rieger smiled.

“Excellent. Good practice, see you tomorrow for the game.” Uh-huh, I thought. And won’t you be surprised when I’m skating like a zombie in the game. I had to snap myself out of this somehow, so I walked back to my car, only being mauled by a set of underage preteen puckbunnies once. One asked me to sign her bra. I didn’t, because that would be weird. Right? I didn’t know. I didn’t have much élan around fans, puckbunnies especially. Not like Dominik Hasek or others I had known, I was always awkward and kind of jerky. But I didn’t have to worry about that any more once I got home.

I opened the fridge and turned on the computer, praying I would see an email from HIM but knowing I wouldn’t. All I had in the way of food was some day-old pasta, so I ate that for dinner. The computer dinged as Alexei Zhitnik instant-messaged me.

StrongerThanYou44: Dude, Miro, you were skating around like you were dead out at practice? Are you OK?

OEvilOne: Yeah, I’m fine.

StrongerThanYou44: …

OEvilOne: Really.

StrongerThanYou44: Well, you could have fooled me.

OEvilOne: Sorry, I’ll be better for tomorrow’s game.

StrongerThanYou44: You’ve got to! Otherwise we’ll get crushed by the Isles. Suck it up, man. Get some rest, whatever.

OEvilOne: Whatever is right.

OEvilOne: No offense.

StrongerThanYou44: None taken. Shit, I have to go shower, I’ve got a date.

OEvilOne: Didn’t you shower after practice, like a normal person?

StrongerThanYou44: Ummmm….

OEvilOne: You disgust me sometimes.

OEvilOne has logged off.

It wasn’t his not showering that grossed me out, although that was pretty weird. It was his referral to his date. Of course it was a girl. It had to be. All the other guys on my team had wives or girlfriends or at the very least, puckbunnies, except for me. I had to stay home on Saturday nights, hooked up to the computer and wishing that somehow, HE would notice me. It was all a pipe dream.

I touched the lucky penny I had picked up that day and went over to my dresser, setting it down. Maybe I’d need it one day. I didn’t know. I hoped it would bring my luck.