Page 16 of Blitz
And there it was. Another lie I’d backed myself into. I tossed my phone onto the couch and paced around my barren place. The only furniture was what had come with the place. I hadn’t done a fucking thing to make a home.
I sat on the couch beside my phone, staring at the ceiling. What the hell was I supposed to say to Tom now?Oh yeah, I volunteer at a dog shelter even though I’ve been in this city less than a month and haven’t even unpacked my shit.
My phone buzzed again.
Idiot Ball Chaser: Crap, sorry if I’m being nosy. Just cool to see a sports guy doing community stuff that’s not just photo ops or throwing money at things.
I sat up. Something about the apology bugged me. As if Tom thought I was this good guy who cared about one-eyed dogs when I was trying to cover my ass for a lie.
And now I was thinking about Wink again.
“Fuck,” I muttered, grabbing my phone.
Me: Not adopting.
Idiot Ball Chaser: Aww, but Wink wubs you
I had to reread that a few times to make sense of it. Wub… love… what the hell? Wink didn’tloveme; he saw a man who would scratch his ear, that was all.
Whatever Tom said, I wasn’t fit to care for a dog.
SIX
Tom
Emergingfrom the tunnel for our first preseason home game was always a gas.
Today even more so because somewhere in the stands Trick was chilling incognito. And didn’t I find that too fucking funny? Smiling to myself as the team headed past fans being held back with fencing but still reaching out for high fives, I stopped to give a small boy of about six a high five. That was when his father—or I assumed the man to be, as he was holding the boy’s slim shoulders protectively—told me to kick those fairies from Baltimore’s asses. I got a nudge from another player jogging out behind me. Shocked and sad to see someone saying that kind of slur in front of their impressionable child, I followed Tyrese onto the field. We were clad in full gear, not planning on hitting each other too hard. Itwasonly preseason.
The sidelines were packed with media, staff, and the coaches. The temperature was a chilly eighty-one degrees, and the humidity was thicker than the fog in Satan’s jockstrap. But that was all part of the game. Every damn eye in Philly was here it seemed, right down to some senator and his son who weren’t at the top of my donation list. This particular politician was solidlyagainst marriage equality, and if he thought he was going to get me to stand at his side, thumb up and smiling like a moron, he was wrong. I’d sooner dip my nuts into boiling coconut oil.
Which brought me back to that dad and son. That kind of shit perpetuated the myth that gay men were sissies. And that pissed me off to no fucking end. It also added another reason for me coming out. If young kids, fans and players, could see a queer man playing this game hard and with power, that would wash away those stupid stereotypes. Or at least it’d help. Or would it? I did a few stretches—kicking my legs out and then, to the sides to loosen my hips—as I mulled over whether announcing I was gay would really change anything. This was always a damn seesaw of emotions. Come out now. Come out after you retire. Don’t come out at all. Fucking A, it was mentally exhausting. I was still chewing on it when the game started. Lyle Grange, the QB for Baltimore, was an old college friend of mine. Nice guy, great arm, graduated a year or two after me so we’d only played together for a year maybe.
“You look like you chewed steel for breakfast,” he teased as we gathered for the coin toss.
“I chew steel and spit out bullets,” I joked as the ref dug around for his custom flip coin. Seemed everyone was a little sloppy for the first game of the season.
“You take it easy on me, okay,” Lyle said as we made our way off the field after Baltimore won the coin toss.
“If you dawdle, you go down,” I teased, stuffed my mouthguard in, and went to line up facing my old college chum.
Lyle wasn’t scared. This was all mainly for showcasing talents and building team chemistry. No one wanted to hurt their QB before game one. The first audible was easy to read. The offensive line had holes in it resembling Swiss cheese. My job was being as generally disruptive as I could be to the quarterback and the men defending him. The coaching staff wasall eyes as we lined up at the scrimmage line. Nose guard lined up at center and the others took places depending on what play we thought Lyle was going to call. Me, I was on the end, in a three-point stance, ignoring the rookie on the other end who was vying for my spot. Let the kid try. My knees might creak, and my back seize on occasion, but this old horse still had some giddy-up in him. Also, Trick was here somewhere, so I had to perform well, or he would never let me live it down.
Lyle was ready for the snap, his quick mind analyzing the defense looking for the blitz he knew I was going to try to hit him with first. As soon as the ball was snapped, I charged into Ryan Pinner, a solid left tackle, who should have zigged instead of zagged. His grapple attempt on me failed, opening up a slot that through which I charged like a raging bull, my sights locked on Lyle. The QB shuffled back to try to scramble, but my arms came around him in a bear hug. I lifted him up, then placed him gently on his back in the turf.
“You’re too old to be that fast,” Lyle shouted as I jogged backwards while blowing kisses to the stands.
Way up at the top in the nosebleed seats sat a person all alone. Had to be Trick. Who else would perch that high up? Did he think he was Clint Barton or something? I’d have to tease him about that. When the ref came over to admonish me for picking up the quarterback, I nodded along as if I would change one damn thing, but my sight lingered on the dude in the ballcap, and shades humped up like a dog pooping on a thistle. Did he ever not seem like he was ready to rumble?
“Sorry, man, I’ll make sure to ask him to lie down himself next time,” I told the ref and got a warning about being close to an unsportsmanlike conduct call. I backed away with my lips pressed tightly shut. We stalled the other team in its tracks and jogged off to allow Ty and the offense to take the field. A young woman in a Puma tee handed me a water bottle. Hydration waskey. I emptied the bottle, then raised it to the man in the rafters. He raised a hand, but from this distance, I couldn’t tell if it was a middle finger. I assumed it was. Chuckling to myself, I strolled over to sit beside the rookie. “Nice try. Remember to read the line. If they back up, it’s probably a pass. If they push in, a run. Lyle is sneaky, though, and will audible line shifts so you got to know that quarterback well. Also, start watching musicals.”
I got the oddest look from the rookie. That was my sage advice for the youngster for the day. He would either use it or not. I gave the stands one final glance, then settled in to watch my team cream Baltimore. It was nice to grab a win, even if the fans weren’t in heavy attendance. Someone real important to me was here, and that was everything.
“You knowthat hockey player you’re doing the marketing gig with?” Ty asked, slinging a towel over his shoulder as we walked off the field after the game. Not to brag, but we’d trounced Baltimore. I’d gotten a sack or two, which I was sure impressed my visitor.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“What’s he like?”
