Page 76 of I'm Your Guy
“You are a sneaky fuck.” He bites the cap off the pen and signs the jersey. “If you get busted for this, I’m gonna say you forged my signature.”
“Yeah. Fine.”
He chuckles and hands back the pen and the jersey. I tuck them back into the bag and then toss it into the backseat.
When we’re finally on the road, I ask my phone to send a message. “Siri, text to Carter Flynn.”
“What do you want to say?”
“Tell Rigo I got him a special jersey for his man. But there’s a catch. It’s an embargoed design. He can’t share it on social media until after Christmas. It’s signed by me and Hudson Newgate. No charge by the way.”
“Message sent.”
We ride in silence for several miles. But then Newgate says, “Hey, I think I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“For getting in your face that time and asking you if you had a problem with me coming out.”
“Eh. I was being weird that day.”
“Hmm.” He’s quiet for a moment. “DiCosta—you’re not actually homophobic, are you?”
“Fuck no.”
He laughs. “See? I’m sorry. I got defensive, which is awful, because you were really just trying to caution me.”
“Nah. Just forget it.”
“But maybe I shouldn’t.” He takes a breath. “I’m going to do this—the decision is already made. But when you voiced a valid concern about the game against Trenton, I refused to hear it. It’s like I’d decided that it would all go fine, because that’s how I need it to go. Even though I’ve put this off for years, for a reason.”
This hits way too close to home for me, so I say nothing.
“Like, I need to keep telling myself there won’t be any real ugliness. That it will be a lifetime highlight reel clip.”
“A what?”
“You know—a clip for the highlight reel of your life. We can’t just play hockey, you know?”
“I don’t know anything,” I tell him. “You shouldn’t listen to me about this stuff.”
“You say that now. But I think you know exactly who’s going to be a dick to me, yeah?”
My neck prickles. “I might have witnessed some really bad behavior in the past.”
“Right. Okay.” He sighs. “Part of me doesn’t really care. Sticks and stones, etcetera. I don’t give two shits what other people think. But here’s my nightmare scenario—a bunch of our games turn into bench-clearing fights. And it’s all because of me.” He swallows. “Could be a very long season.”
“It won’t be like that,” I insist.
Except I’m exactly the wrong man to reassure him. He must know it, too, because he gets quiet again. Then he asks, “You know who’s not too worried, though?”
“Who? Coach?”
“No—Gavin. My boyfriend. He’s been an out gay athlete his whole life. He says people suck, but most of them don’t, and you just get on with it.”
“He ought to know.” And I want to believe him. Now more than ever.
We’re almost home when my phone announces a new message. I take my chances and let Siri read it aloud.
