Landon Reilly
Going to therapy sessions once a week wasn't something that really fit into my schedule, so it always made me miss at least the first half an hour of practice on Wednesdays. It was only a few minutes off campus, but the campus bus didn't go there, so it dropped me off at the shopping center near by and I had to walk the rest of the way. Which was fine when it wasn't freezing or raining, but it was both today. So by the time I got to Dr. Marshall's office, I was soaked, cold, and pissed off.
"Here, I'll turn the heater on," Dr. Marshall offered, moving to grab a small space heater near his desk. He placed it in front of me and turned it on then handed me a blanket which I wrapped around my shoulders.
Dr. Marshall got settled, pulling his chair over to sit across from me. I looked over at the clock. I had only been here for five minutes. Therapy was always the longest hour of my week. The longer Dr. Marshall took to get started, the better.
"Why don't we start by you telling me about your week," he began, crossing one leg over the other.
"It was alright," I said with a shrug.
I hated when we started like this. It was better when he asked me direct questions so I knew what to say, even if I didn't really know the answers he was looking for. He told me he wasn't looking for any specific answers, just my honesty. But somehow, I always felt like I was giving the wrong answers.
"How is school going?" he asked. "Do you feel like you're having trouble with anything?"
"No."
"What about hockey? How was hockey this weekend?"
"We won our game," I said in a bored tone. "I played on the first line. I got into a fight."
"Well, those are some positives," Dr. Marshall replied. "Besides the fighting of course."
He said it like he was making a joke, but he wasn't. It was a lighthearted start to the beginning of his analysis of me.
"Why did you fight?" he asked.
I shrugged again. "Hockey is a physical sport. It just happens."
I left out that it was against someone I knew, that it was a physical response to me being unable to control my emotions. He probably already knew that part anyway.
"But you fight out of anger, right?" Dr. Marshall asked. It was rhetorical. He knew that was the reason. "Something on the ice makes you angry, so you react physically. How does it make you feel when you fight?"
"I don't feel anything," I responded. "Just the anger."
"So, fighting is a product of your anger, to release it in a physical way. But it doesn't actually make that anger go away. It stays, it lingers."
I had no idea what to say to that. I never had any idea what to say.
"Remember how we talked about anger being a secondary emotion?" Dr. Marshall asked.
Of course, I remembered. It instantly made me angry when he said it because it reminded me of Wren and the way he liked to analyze me. He had said the same thing and I hated that he was right.
I nodded.
"What are some emotions that lead you to being angry?"
"Embarrassment. Shame. Sadness." Guilt. Fear.
Dr. Marshall nodded. "It's good that you can pinpoint those emotions. You know what's causing the anger, where those emotions come from."
I didn't say anything, so Dr. Marshall continued.
"Do you want to talk about where those emotions come from?" he asked.
Dr.Marshall knew my upbringing to an extent. He knew about my father, his abuse, and how he tried to send me away to some conversion camp. He knew about how I acted back in school, how I was mean and angry and resentful. But I never went into too much detail. Part of me knew that therapy would only help if I gave the effort, but the other part still wanted to keep everything locked away, not wanting to relive any of the moments with my father.
"Mostly from my father," I said, wrapping the blanket tighter around me like it would somehow shield me from judgement.
"He made you feel ashamed of who you are," he said. "And that shame is still there. That shame leads you to feeling embarrassed and sad and angry."
I hated being analyzed like this, even if it was coming from Dr. Marshall, who was doing it to help me, and not Wren, who did it to annoy me.
"I guess," I agreed.
"Do you remember when your father first made you feel ashamed?"
It was hard to think back that far. It brought on too many unpleasant memories.
My father probably knew I was gay before I even knew. It seemed like that anyway. He never wanted me being too close to any of my friends, didn't let anyone stay over or be in my room. I never understood why until one day I asked him about it.
*
"But why Dad?" I whined following him into the kitchen. It was Friday afternoon. Dad had just gotten home from work when I asked him if a couple of my friends could stay over. He immediately said no. I knew he would.
"Because I said so, Landon," Dad replied, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and filling it with water.
"It's just Micah and Elijah, Dad, please," I begged. I had stayed over both of their houses before, but Dad had stopped letting me. I thought it would be different if they stayed here.
"You think I don't see the way you look at Elijah?" he snapped, setting his glass down on the counter.
It felt like I had been hit with a brick. My eyes widened and I nearly stopped breathing. He couldn't mean what I thought he meant.
"Or the way you act around him at church and at hockey?" he continued. "You want all of his attention. I'm telling you right now that it needs to stop. I clearly can't trust you to spend too much time with those boys. You're too old to be having sleepovers anyway."
I was only eleven.
"I don't understand," I said, my voice quiet and shaking.
He gave me a knowing look. "Yes, you do."
*
He didn't bring it up again for a while, probably thinking if he just let it be that it would go away soon enough. But a few months later, he realized that it wouldn't when he saw me hugging Elijah one day after hockey practice. He was furious with me. That was the first time he explicitly brought up my sexuality.
*
Dad was fuming when I got in the car after practice. He wouldn't even look at me. He just silently stared through the windshield while I threw my things in the backseat before climbing into the passenger's seat beside him.
"I hope you're not too tired," Dad said, his voice low.
"I'm exhausted."
"Well, you still have training to do at home," he said. "I'm going to work you so hard you won't be able to stand when you're done. You know why?"
I stared at him with wide eyes. "Why?"
"Because you defied me!" he exclaimed, smacking a hand down on the steering wheel and causing me to jump. "I told you I didn't want you getting close to those boys, especially Elijah, and there you were hugging him right in front of me like some fairy! You are having gay thoughts Landon, I know you are. I thought if I just kept you away from them as much as I could, those thoughts would leave your head but they clearly haven't, so now you are going to work and work and work until they're gone. Do you understand me?"
All I could do was nod with a horrified look on my face.
*
That night he made me run until I threw up and could no longer stand. I was sore for days.
My father never let me forget how ashamed he was of me, how disgusting and disappointing I was.
I told this all to Dr. Marshall, who nodded with an even expression.
"It takes a lot to unlearn things that have been ingrained in us since childhood," Dr. Marshall said. "I want you to think of some goals that can help you think more positively of yourself. These can be anything from doing positive affirmations or just doing something out of your comfort zone that you wouldn't have let yourself do before. Then we'll discuss them next week."
"Okay."
"I know we've talked about your support system being Micah and his family and your sister," Dr. Marshall started. "But is there anyone closer to you here that you feel supported by? A teammate? Coach? Friends at school? A significant other?"
I contemplated that question for a moment. Coach Foreman and Rojas were supportive enough, but they weren't people I could see myself going to outside of hockey. Jess could've been my friend if I didn't snap at her when she was being nice to me.
And then there was Wren, the person I spent the most alone time with. It seemed like he knew everything about me just by looking at him, but I was still too much of a coward to let myself open up to him. I was too unsure of how he felt about me, confused by his mixed signals.
There were times where it did feel like he supported me, like when we went to that gay bar and when he brought me on drives to call me down. But then there were the times that he made it seem like he didn't give a shit about me. He was too much of an asshole to be consistent with me, and I was too angry to let myself be vulnerable.
"I guess there's some people," I muttered.
"Like who?"
"One of my teammates," I said. "And... I guess this guy I hang out with sometimes."
I didn't know what to call Wren. He wasn't my friend or my boyfriend, but he was more than an acquaintance. He wasn't a hookup either. It was something else entirely.
"Someone you're seeing?" Dr. Marshall asked.
My eyes widened. "No. No. Just someone I know from back home."
"But he's not your friend?"
"No. It's complicated."
Dr. Marshall smiled at that. "Okay, I know what that means."
My face heated in embarrassment.
"It's not–"
"Whatever he is to you, I hope that he's someone you can lean on," Dr. Marshall interjected. "I can't stress enough the importance of having people around you that can be your support system. It's vital in your healing process."
I didn't think Wren was someone I could lean on, but he was pretty much all I had.
The session ended soon after that and I left the office to walk back to the shopping center to wait for the campus bus. It was still raining, but it had lightened up a bit.
When I finally got to practice, my team was out on the ice doing drills. I stepped onto the ice wordlessly and nodded at Coach Foreman before starting to do my warmups. When I finished with warming up, I integrated into the group for some drills.
Practice ended, and I was glad. It was hard going there after therapy when all I wanted to do was go back to my dorm and curl up in bed.
I decided to just get changed and shower back at the dorm so I could leave here as soon as possible. As I was gathering my things, I felt that someone was looking at me. I turned to see Cooper and his friends were all looking in my direction, seemingly talking about me.
I was going to ignore them, but I was tired and frustrated and worn out from therapy, so I turned to them with a glare.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" I snapped. "Do you want to come say it to my face?"
Cooper looked at his friends before bringing his attention back to me.
"We were just saying how it's unfair that you get to show up late to practice all the time and still got the chance to be first line," Cooper answered nonchalantly.
"That's none of your business."
He shrugged. "It just seems like someone's playing favorites. Probably Rojas. Are you hooking up with him or something? Fucking your way to favoritism? We all know you like dick–"
I was seeing red. I started moving toward him, my fists clenched and ready to pummel his face before someone placed their hand on my shoulder and stopped me.
"Not worth it bro," they said. It was Shea, the one who's place I took on the first line when he was injured.
I let out a huff and stormed away, grabbing my things and leaving the locker room without looking back.
I was fuming as I walked back to my dorm. I opened the door to my room and threw my things inside before grabbing a towel and going back out to the bathroom.
Being in the shower did nothing to calm me. I stood there, my hand braced against the wall as the water sprayed down my body. I wanted to punch something.
Cooper had a lot of nerve saying that in front of his friends, or saying it at all. I wanted to strangle him.
I didn't know how long I was in the shower, but the water had started to cool down, so I quickly washed myself before getting out. When I left the bathroom, just a towel wrapped around my waist, I was greeted by Wren leaning against my bedroom door.
"You take long showers," he commented.
"What are you doing here?" I let out a sigh.
"It's really not good for the environment to do that," Wren said, ignoring my question.
"What are you doing here?" I repeated. I hated that he was looking at me while I was just in a towel. I wanted to get inside and cover up, and hide from his gaze.
"Well, you haven't been around since you had your away game this weekend."
"I was busy."
Wren stepped forward and took my chin in his hand, moving my head to look over my face.
"There's no bruise," he said.
"Why would there be a bruise?" He was so close to me. I was torn between leaning forward to kiss him and shoving him away.
"From your fight with Ian."
"How the hell do you even know about that?" I snapped.
Wren grinned at me, my chin still in his hand. "My brother is best friends with him, in case you've forgotten."
"And Fox told you that?"
"He just mentioned it."
We stared at each other for a moment. Wren's eyes moved from mine to my lips. I wasn't about to let him kiss me like this, so I backed up and took my chin out of his grasp before moving toward my bedroom door.
"You seem angry," Wren commented as he followed me into my room.
"I am fucking angry," I snapped, grabbing clothes out of my closet. I opened the closet door all the way so I could stand behind it as I changed, shielding myself from Wren.
"And why is that?"
I shut the closet door once I was changed and ran the towel over my hair to dry it. Wren was looking at me expectantly, sitting on top of my desk.
"It's none of your business, Wren," I muttered, throwing my towel into the hamper.
"Where's Kyle?"
"He has a lab until like nine."
"Hm," he hummed.
I was taking deep breaths, trying to get a cap on my anger. If Wren noticed it, which I was sure he did, he didn't say anything.
"So, why did you fight Ian?" he asked.
"Wren, drop it," I snapped, glaring over at him.
He motioned for me to go to him, so I did. I stood between his legs as he sat on my desk. I looked away from him, but he brought my gaze back when he placed both of his hands on the sides of my face.
He didn't say anything, which surprised me. Wren always had something to say, and he didn't care if it offended me or angered me. If he wanted to say something, he would say it. It was always so hard for me to read his expressions, but his gaze was softened and his eyes were so focused. He almost looked like a different person. I wasn't even sure that I knew who was in front of me right then.
"Stop acting like you don't want to kiss me," he said. There it was. That was more like the Wren I knew.
I didn't say anything back. Instead, I placed my hands on the tops of his thighs and planted my mouth on his.
The kiss was rough at the start of it. As soon as my mouth touched his, I put all I had into the kiss, all the anger, the frustration, and the embarrassment. My hands squeezed his thighs as I kissed him deeper, rougher. My teeth came down on his bottom lip without me realizing, and Wren let out a wince.
"Sorry," I said, pulling away.
He just pulled me closer. "That was hot."
And his lips were back on mine.
I laid him down on the desk, his legs wrapping around me and pulling my hips into his. Our lips moved together perfectly, quickly, and with urgency.
All that anger and embarrassment was forgotten in this kiss. They were changed into something else, something different and foreign to me.
This kiss was fresh and addicting.
It was all consuming.
**
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