Page 60 of I'm Your Guy
The room is silent. Nobody wants to say it. Least of all me. This has nothing to do with me. And I don’t care about things like jersey designs. I never have.
But Jesus Christ. Does Tate have eyes?
I raise my hand. Then I lower it again. Because this isn’t my circus. These aren’t my monkeys.
Fuck it. I can almost hear Carter’s groan in my head when I look at that logo. I raise my hand again. “Tate, I don’t know, man. Those designs are kind of an insult to my eyes.”
The whole room snickers.
“DiCosta?” Tate snaps. “Why is it always you who has a problem with this particular event I’m planning?”
Every player in the room turns to look at me, and so does Coach.
Fuck. “Look, I’ll wear whatever jersey you hang in my stall. But those logos are ridiculous. I don’t think that’s what queer hockey fans see when they close their eyes at night.”
Tate drops the jersey on the podium and stalks in my direction. “Have you even met a queer hockey fan?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly. “I have.” And you’re looking at one, buddy.
Tate looks like he wants to kick me in the nuts. But then Newgate speaks up. “I’m with DiCosta on this. Some people might see that logo as too different. Maybe even insulting. Can’t we have the regular cougar on, say, a tie-dye jersey?”
“Yeah, that,” I agree. “Just make that.”
“Anybody else agree?” Newgate asks.
A room full of hockey players raises their hands.
Tate gives me a look that’s meant to incinerate me. “Fine. Okay.” He shoves both jerseys back in the bag. “Your opinions are noted.”
He stomps out of the room.
I could have just kept my mouth shut, I guess. But lately I’m no good at that anymore.
* * *
We win that night, and I don’t disgrace myself.
When I get home, though, my house is pitch dark, and it makes me feel a little depressed.
Worse, there’s a set of papers on the new coffee table for me. Carter’s made a carefully annotated print-out of every penny he’s charged to my credit card, and the letter that accompanies it says, Dear Mr. DiCosta.
Not Hey Jersey. Not even Tommaso.
There’s no video. No jokes. Just a stilted note asking me to approve another list of upcoming purchases, including guest-bath towels and a shower curtain. The guest quarters also need throw rugs, bedding, and a chair. Both bedrooms need dressers and bedside tables. He’s planning lamps for every room of the house.
There are questions at the bottom.
What about wall decor? It should be something meaningful to you.
I glance up and realize that my walls are bare. I don’t have cute family photos the way some other guys do. I don’t even have a potted plant.
The last question he’s asked me is about the screened-in back porch.
Do you want deck furniture? I mentioned it once, and you said we’d talk about it later. But I haven’t pressed you. It’s not that useful in December, but I could order it for you at any point. Just let me know.
Sincerely,
C. Flynn
