"Dwayne...Dwayne, I know."


My head shoots up, and I swallow nervously.


"You know? You know what?"


"I know how you feel. I know that you're..."


"Please!" I cry out, closing my eyes briefly. "Don't finish that thought."


"But I know," Adam says firmly. "You're gay." I can't open my eyes. "You're gay, and you're in love with me."


I double over, my breath is suddenly gone. I gulp soundlessly, trying to suck air into my lungs, trying to breathe again, trying to live. I look up at Adam, who stares down at me, a soft gleam in his eyes.


"It's okay...it's okay..." He grabs my hand and entwines our fingers. His hand is smooth against my rough, callous palm. "It's okay, I feel...I feel the same way."


He pulls me close to him, close enough that our chests are touching and our lips are inches apart...and then he kisses me gently but forcefully.


"I love you. I lovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelove..."


I wake with a start, snuggled deep under my blankets. I am not worried and afraid...I'm not sweating or breathing heavily, I'm not crying.


But these dreams are worse than the others. Because my happiness, the warmth pooling in my stomach...is gone the moment I open my eyes and am cold and alone and it's the middle of the night. And it's the most heartbreaking, gut-wrenching feeling in the world.


I roll over and pull my blankets over my head.


It's a long time before sleep comes to me again.


**


"Dwayne..."


I mumble and swat lazily at the air. I'm in no mood to get up now, can't this person see that I'm sleeping?


"Dwayne..."


The person starts gently shaking my shoulder.


I roll onto my back and slowly open my eyes. As they adjust to the light and the details of my room (and my visitor) come into focus, I let a smile cross my face.


"Adam!" I say quietly.


He smiles briefly, and I blink up at him, too dazed and awed to say or do anything.


"What time is it?" I ask.


"It's only about six-thirty, but we have practice in half an hour. You slept right through your alarm."


"Oh. Oh!" I sit up. "Thanks, Adam."


"No problem."


And then he does the strangest thing...he runs his hand through my hair and laughs a little. "It's sticking straight up, you know."


My face immediately feels twenty degree hotter.


"We'd better go," I mumble quietly, climbing out of bed.


I change from pajama pants into jeans, comb my (apparently unruly) hair, and brush my teeth. Adam and I are out the door in ten minutes.


Yes, Adam and I are roommates. Because that's the way my life always works out. It's that law...Anything that can go wrong, will. Someone's law...it begins with an "M," I know that.


Adam would know. And so I ask him.


"Murphy's Law," he tells me as we enter the practice arena and head straight for the locker room. "Why?"


"Just wondering."


The others (sans Connie and Julie, of course) are gathered in the locker room already, in various states of undress. Not that I notice or anything.


"Hey, Banks. Hey, Cowboy."


I nod my head as a greeting, not feeling like talking much this morning, and walk to my locker. My gear's neatly lined up, and I change quickly - I am lacing up my skates and sliding the blade guards into place by the time some people are just pulling on their jerseys.


With the expertise of someone who has been skating since the age of five, I walk (rather than wobble) out of the locker room.


For some reason, I am not in the mood to interact with anyone. I offer small smiles to Connie and Julie when they greet me and head immediately out onto the ice. I skate a few slow, lazy laps, lost in my thoughts, which, as they invariably always do, turn to my roommate, my (surprisingly) closest friend on the team, my...what should I call him? "Crush"? No, that's much too mild. "Love-interest"? Perhaps. Or...maybe just Adam. My thoughts drift to Adam.


...I've kind of always known that I'm gay.


I'd never been completely sure, had never known why I felt so...different than anyone else. There was something there...er, rather, something not there, something missing...and I was so frustrated, was never able to quite put my finger on what...and all I desperately wanted was to fix whatever it was, so I could feel whole, so that I could feel the same as everyone else.


But I'd had my inklings. They began to slowly solidify when I was thirteen.


After the Ducks beat Trinidad in our first Goodwill Game, when Connie-and-Guy had been having problems and Connie had pulled me back in the locker room as they all were leaving...when Connie had told me that she was just wondering, had wondered from the moment she'd seen me. When she silenced my "Wondered what?" by pushing me against the wall by the door and pressing her lips to mine...I hadn't felt a thing, and I'd wondered. And I'd had to let her down very, very gently and feel my heart break watching the disappointment and embarrassment and hurt flash across her pretty features. And I'd had to console myself in knowing that if I'd let it continue any further, it would be her heart that would break.


And after the Italy game, when we were leaving the locker room, when Guy was reenacting the "totally awesome shot" he'd made during the game...he'd raised his hands in victory, and his shirt had ridden up just a bit, exposing a small slice of stomach. I'd found my gaze lingering, and I'd wondered. And I'd had to tear my eyes away and explain that the reason that my face was so red was because I was hot and I'd been playing hockey for the past two hours, that I was tired and worn-out. And I refused to go out afterwards and retired alone to my room, just to make it look believable.


I remember these moments so vividly...they flash before my closed eyes as if I were running a movie projector in my brain. I remember Connie's look as if she were before me now. I remember the contours of Guy's body, the curves of his waist below his jersey.


I swallow thickly and start to speed up. I make it twice more around the rink before,


"ROBERTSON!"


I slide to a stop. "Coach."


"That's the third time I called your name, Robertson," Orion says sternly, before he lets his features drop into a concerned look. "Everything all right?"


"Just a bit preoccupied," I reply after a moment's hesitation, purposely remaining vague.


He catches my reluctance to answer, as I should have expected he would. He skates close to me, rests a hand on my shoulder. "You need anything, Dwayne?" It's a rare moment when Orion uses first names. It means he's notices something's wrong, and he wants his players to know he's willing to listen. We've all learned his quirks in the past two and a half years. This year, our junior, when the Ducks were moved to Varsity, we'd brought Orion along with us. Coach Wilson retired at the end of our sophomore year, and Orion was promoted. I think the school feared another courtroom-esque-scene if they protested.


"Robertson!" Orion's directly in front of me. I've spaced out again. "You're out this practice."


"Naw, naw, Coach, I can - "


"You're out." Orion says softly, but there is no mistaking the seriousness of what he is saying.


I lower my head and skate off the rink. I pass all the other Ducks, clustered near the exit closest to the locker rooms. They are all looking at me with concern. The last in line, Adam (of course,) grabs my elbow. "What's wrong?"


I shrug. I really, really don't know. "Just...in a mood."


"You can talk to me," he says.


Orion blows his whistle, and the Ducks skate toward him to get their instructions for today's practice. Adam doesn't move.


"You can talk to me," he repeats.


"Except I can't," I say, before I can really stop myself, and he's looking at me, and he doesn't understand, and I'm not sure that I really understand, but I know it all comes back to him anyway, it always does, and so I'm certainly not going to elaborate. "You've gotta get to practice, Adam."


He turns to the team, to Orion, who's waiting for him.


"Remember the Goodwill Games?" he says. Of course I do, of course. "You were there for me, Dwayne. When no one else really was." I lower my head even further. My chin rests against my chest, and I refuse to meet his eyes. He leans in closer, he's boring holes into the top of my head. I can't resist any longer and look up. His eyes burn into mine, bright blue lasers, and I can't look away, not now, not ever. "Let me be there for you."


I don't say anything, and he skates off to join the group.


I walk into the locker room and take off my gear. When I'm back in street clothes, jeans and a t-shirt, I line up everything in my locker, make sure everything's in its proper place. I thread my belt through the loops of my jeans as I walk through the door, my bag tossed over my shoulder.


I don't make it all the way down the hallway before my legs give way under me. I hit the floor; it doesn't hurt, I'm numb, I'm numb.


Of course I remember the Goodwill Games. Of course I remember being there for Adam. Of course I remember the moment I fell in love.


**