We graduated. We graduated. I passed math class with a C+, and I walked down the stage after Veronica and took my diploma and shook the principal's hand and I graduated. Sam graduated. He won some awards, too. I don't know. Mom cried. Tom was there. God. We did it.

I've never been to New York City before.

"I've never been to New York City before," Sam says.

"Me neither," I say. I turn to look out the window as the buildings get smaller and smaller, thousands of miles below the airplane. We pass through a cloud and turbulence gently shakes the plane, and my grip tightens on the armrest.

Sam takes my hand, his warm fingers intertwining with mine, and rubs his thumb into my palm. "Do you think Tom is okay?"

I glance over at him. "Yeah, Tom is okay," I say. "Don't worry."

A nurse is staying with Tom for a couple nights while me, Mom, Veronica, Hailey, and Sam are in New York. 

Sam bites his fingernails with his free hand. "Okay."

I lean in closer to his ear, smell the sweet, clean shampoo that he always smells like. "You don't have to worry," I say again, quieter. "Tom is totally fine."

He smiles softly. "Okay, Cameron."

"Okay, Sam."

From across the aisle, Hailey leans as far out of her seat as possible. "Hi, Sam!" she says loudly, even though the aisle is narrow and they can't be more than four feet apart.

"Hi, Hailey," says Sam. "Are you excited?"

"Yeah!" She grins widely. Her hair is in two French braids, and beside her, Veronica and Mom flip through magazines. 

The airplane is cold and filled with the constant murmur of chatter, yawns, and a baby that's crying in the back. Sam's blue eyes blink up towards the ceiling, a row of buttons and air vents. 

New York City. I've never been to New York City. But that's where the NHL draft is this year. Shit. It's here. 

For some reason, I feel like crying. But I just clear my throat and look out the window, at the pale blue sky and sprawling acres of green below. Because Sam is going to Harvard in the fall.

He waited until the last minute to decide. Last minute meaning two weeks ago. The conversation went something like this: 

Sam: Shit.

Mom: Don't swear, Sam. Cameron is rubbing off on you.

Sam: I can't do this. I should put it off for another year or two, stay here.

Tom: I want you to do this, Sam.

Sam: But, Tom -

Tom: Sam, you can't turn down a full scholarship like this. I'll be fine. 

Sam: I don't know. What do you think, Cameron?

Me: I think you should do it, Sam.

And that was hard to say. One of the hardest things I've ever said. My chest got all tight and my heart hurt a lot.

I mean, I know I'm right. I know Sam needs to go to Harvard. He's so smart. He's going to work at NASA. He's going to do something crazy important - way more important than play hockey, that's for sure. 

I like Sam. I like Sam a lot. I mean - you know what I mean. I don't know how I'm going to live without him. I didn't even know who I was before him. I didn't know I could like - I mean - you know what I mean - someone like this. I wish I could tell him these things. But I'm not as good with words as he is.

God, the hopeful part of me thinks that maybe the Boston Bruins will draft me. Maybe I'll play hockey in Boston, Sam and I can get an apartment together - god - he can tell me all about school and astronomy and he can watch my hockey games and we can watch old movies together. But I can't think like that. 

"Cameron?" He squeezes my hand. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just tired."

"Me too."

Eventually, he falls asleep, his breathing deep and steady, his chest rising and falling slowly, twitching in his sleep every once in awhile. I wonder what he's dreaming about. The sky turns to a deep shade of blue and purple, lazy clouds swirling in the distance. Everything is so pretty up here. A part of me never wants the plane to land.

The intercom dings on. "This is your pilot speaking. We are beginning our descent into New York City, please return to your seat and strap into your seatbelt. Thank you for choosing to fly with us today, and have a great rest of your evening."

Sam stirs awake. 

The plane lands.

~

The hotel is nice, one of the nicest ones I've stayed in - the NHL paid for it. The lobby is filled with fancy people and it smells like smoke, and elevators are fast.

We're on the twenty-first floor.

"Like your number, Cameron," says Hailey, bouncing excitedly in the elevator. She clutches to her small floral suitcase.

We have three rooms, because in Mom's words, "Over my dead body are you and Sam sharing a hotel room. Good lord." Veronica and Mom in one, Hailey and I in another, and Sam gets the third one to himself.

Hailey immediately flops on the bed and makes snow angels on the fluffy white sheets. "It's so comfortable!" she shrieks. "Lie down on your bed, Cameron, feel it!"

"In a minute," I say, and instead go to the window. The city blinks up, lights flashing through the glass, people walking and smoking and laughing on the street, cars honking, a siren wailing. 

Then Hailey throws a pillow at me, and so I pull away from the view and swing a pillow back at her. We fight until her hair is all messed up and she's laughing so hard she's nearly crying, which I think means I won. 

There's a knock on the door and I pull it open. It's Sam.

"Hey." He smiles, pulls his sweatshirt sleeves over his hand. His hair is damp and he smells clean, like he just got out of the shower. "Thought I'd say goodnight."

"You want to come in?" 

He steps inside the hotel room and laughs when he sees Hailey sprawled out exhaustedly on her bed.

"I just beat her in a pillow fight," I explain.

She sits up quickly. "You did not beat me!"

"Hailey, go shower in Mom's room."

"Why can't I shower here?"

"Cause - cause I said so."

She jumps off the side of the bed and walks past me, shaking her head. "Fascist," she mutters.

When she's across the hallway, I shut the door behind her and smile, glancing back at Sam. "Did she just call me a fascist?"

"I might have been talking to her about government systems the other day."

God, I just want to kiss him. So I do. His soft, warm lips press against mine, his heartbeat pressed against mine. His skin and muscles are hard and smooth under the cotton of his sweatshirt.

I've never kissed Sam like this before. Like I need to keep kissing him to survive. Maybe I do. Like it's the last time I can kiss him like this. Maybe it is.

I push my hand into his damp hair, press my hand against his neck, his chest, feel his heart underneath my fingertips. I want to yank his sweatshirt off. I don't know where to stop. I don't think I want to stop at all. 

"Cameron." He blinks his eyes open.

I'm breathing heavy and my heart is pounding. "I'm sorry."

"No - it's not that." He smiles. "It's just - can I tell you something?"

"Yeah."

"I think I kinda love you."

Love. I don't think I know what that means. Is this what love feels like?

"I think I kinda love you too," I say. 

"That's crazy."

"Yeah. We're fucked."

He laughs. I rest my hand on his neck.

Sam. I really care about you. You made me a better person. I'm sorry for a lot of things. You're so nerdy and smart and hot. I want to make out more. God, I really kinda love you right now.

All these things I want to say, and I don't.

"I should go to my room before Hailey gets back," Sam says softly.

"Okay."

"I'll see you in the morning."

"Goodnight."

He kisses me again, soft and slow like honey, and then he's gone. Hailey gets back in a few minutes, smelling like strawberry shampoo and wearing her princess pajamas.

She falls asleep fast. I don't sleep at all.

~

In the morning, the five of us sightsee the city. We see the Statue of Liberty, we go down Times Square, we buy street hot dogs, we walk around Central Park. There's a nice breeze that rolls in from the water, and trees are blooming with flowers. 

By the late afternoon, we start getting ready. I put on my nicest suit and my favorite blue tie, and splash on cologne.

We meet in the lobby. Hailey, Veronica, and Mom all look beautiful. Hailey in her purple dress, Veronica with her straightened hair and shiny lip gloss, and Mom with her silver cross necklace that she only wears on special occasions. 

And Sam. Yeah, Sam looks beautiful too.

The convention center is packed with people, the stage set up nicely and tables sprawled across the floor. I lose my family in the crowd as I'm pulled away for pre-draft interviews.

Something like hope pounds in my heart. It's me and a few other players that are the top runners for first pick - an American, another Canadian I've played against a couple times, and a Swedish player. It's anyone's game, that's what everyone is saying. It's not impossible for me to be drafted by the Boston Bruins. 

As evening rolls around, we take out seats. Sam on my left, Mom on my right. I know there are cameras pointed towards me - I can see them out of the corner of my eye. I recognize other players in the seating around me, say hello to a few people I know. 

Mom leans in close to my ear. She smells like clean perfume and rain. "No matter what happens tonight, I'm really proud of you," she says. She squeezes my arm. 

"Thanks, Mom," I say, and I feel like crying again and I don't know why.

God, it takes forever for the event to start. So many reporters are down on the floor, speaking enthusiastically into cameras. I don't even want to know how many people are watching. 

"Sam..." I lower my voice. "Can I do this?" I'm nervous. I'm so nervous.

He smiles. "You can do this."

"Are you sure I can do this?"

He turns and looks right at me, so I soak up every detail of every freckle, every eyelash, the curves and edges of his face, the blue of his eyes, no more bruised skin. "I'm absolutely sure you can do this."

If there weren't thousands of people and dozens of cameras around me, I just might've kissed him.

"Okay," I say, smiling. "If you're sure."

"I am."

"Alright."

He smiles too. "Alright."

The minutes count down towards the start of the draft. If I could freeze time, I think I would now, just for a little bit. 

God, the NHL. That's crazy. I blink up towards the bright lights and sigh, trying to steady my breathing. The sound of ice. The trophies that line my shelf. George. Coach. My favorite hockey stick. Black eyes. Blood. Church. School hallways. Letters. My pre-calculus textbook. Hospitals. Ethan. Cancer. Snow that sticks to eyelashes and melts against freckles. Cemeteries. Sweatshirts. Matthew. Leo Tolstoy. Black and white movies that hum through speakers. Dreams. Mom. Fevers. My father. Sam.

Sam squeezes my hand. "It's about to start. You good?"

I blink quickly and breathe sharply. "I'm good. You?"

"Yeah."

I would like to play in Boston. But I don't have a choice in the matter. Just like I didn't have a choice about getting a math tutor back in the fall. Can you find a tutor or something? Do so. Immediately. Or you're benched tomorrow. 

The draft officially starts. The lights dim, and Sam squeezes my hand. I don't even know if I'm breathing. I'm so aware of the plastic seating, Sam's hand in mine, the fit of the suit over my skin, the men that shuffle to the stage, the excited murmur of the crowd.

An older man taps the microphone and slowly clears his throat. God. "For their first-draft pick, the Toronto Maple Leafs are proud to announce, from St. Anne, Canada, Cameron Beckett." And then that's it. And then it's all over.

I stand up as lights flash around the convention center, finding me in the crowd. Mom bursts into tears and hugs me. Hailey is jumping up and down. Veronica hugs me, whispers, "I love you, little brother." Sam hugs me, not long enough.

I walk to the stage and shake people's hands and pull a Toronto Maple Leaf jersey over my suit, and pull a Leafs baseball hat over my head, smile. Things are happening way too slowly way too fast. I'm a Toronto Maple Leafs player. What the fuck is happening? The crowd is on their feet, cheering. God, I'm so happy. I'm so sad. But I'm so happy.

As I step down from the stage, adrenaline coursing through my veins, a reporter pops up beside me. 

"Cameron, congratulations on being the first pick! How excited are you right now that you'll be playing for Toronto?"

I smile at the journalist, pull my hat lower on my head. "It's crazy. I don't even know how to explain how I'm feeling right now. Toronto is such a great city, and I've been a fan of the Leafs since I was little."

"Cameron, this makes you the first openly gay player to play in the NHL. What does that mean to you?"

"So much. I hope I do my best in representing the community."

"Cameron, thanks so much for speaking with us. Congrats again!"

I don't even know what happens after that. More interviews, asking similar question. So many pictures. So many handshakes. Mom appears and brushes invisible dirt off my shoulder, straightens my tie, smiles up at me. Hailey shrieks and jumps into my arms. Cameras follow me.

The draft goes on. After a couple hours, in an empty, back hallway of the convention center, I find Sam. I pull him into a hug so tight, breathe into his hair.

"I'm so proud of you," he says in my shoulder.

I'm trying not to cry. It's not really working. "Sam."

"Cameron."

"Toronto to Harvard is a nine hour drive. Less by train. Shit."

"Cameron." He pulls back, looks at me. His face is perfect. "I'm so proud of you."

I don't want to let him go. War and Peace. Story of my life. What part am I in now, the war or the peace part? If Sam was a book, I would read it forever. "Sam. I'm so proud of you too."

"We did it."

"Yeah, we did it."

"Cam, I kinda love you."

"Sam, I kinda love you too."

He smiles. I smile, too.

Is this what happiness feels like?

Maybe.

I think it is.

~

~

~

The End

A/N too much to say go to next chapter for author's note