Page 20 of Blitz
He pulled away, brushing himself down, glancing around as if he was worried someone had seen, but I smiled at him. The PR lady arrived, handed him a tee, and then pushed us around the field until we were standing under a goal post. Trick, much to my enjoyment, also donned his BoltFuel tee. The man had abs and then some, although the way he got dressed was weird, as if he was trying to hide what he had. The photographer, a skinnywoman with bushy hair and glasses, told us we were far too bulky for her tastes, but went ahead to take a few million shots of Trick and me holding cans of energy drinks. Then, there were some of us snarling at each other. Something he did naturally but I kept giggling and screwing up the supposed rivalry.
“Cut it out, asshole,” Trick warned, half-serious, glancing at our PR lady, who looked like she was one awkward pose away from snapping a clipboard in half. Definitely not vibing with my giggles. Pity people couldn’t enjoy a day in the sun with a handsome man to flirt with. I personally was having a ball. “She looks ready to rip our balls from our body and punt them through the uprights.”
“You used football terms!” I patted his dark head.
He ducked away and threw me a look of dismay. “Stop touching me,” he warned, and yep, he was being super serious now.
“Sorry, my bad. I have a lot planned for us today.”
Trick sighed as if he carried the weight of the world on his broad shoulders. I clamped down on my giddiness until the shoot was over. As soon as we were cleared, I yelled thanks and goodbye to the BoltFuel folks, then grabbed Trick by the shirt. He balked. I yanked. Hey, I wasn’t touchingskin, so that was okay, right?
“I have a reservation at Calamity Katie’s Putt-Putt Golf for us in an hour. Then, we have tickets to the museum of art. After that, we have a reservation for a dinner cruise along the Delaware River for seven. Then, if you’re not too tired, I thought we could check out a club that I know of over on Locust Street.”
He blinked at me. “I’m here for three days. We don’t have to do it all in one afternoon.”
“Oh no, I know that. Tomorrow after practice is the tour of Independence Hall, then the Liberty Bell, and then, zoo. The day after that is a day off so we can visit the waterfront.”
“Are you always this way?”
“Mostly, yeah. So, let’s go. I’ll drive. You follow. We’ll go to your hotel, let you park, and then, I’ll drive us around. Chauffeur Tom at your service.”
He huffed as if putout, but when I bowed like a proper chauffeur would, I thought I saw a smile. We split up then, him climbing into his hire car, me into mine. He was staying at the Four Seasons. Very swanky. A valet took his keys after taking a selfie with me. Trick stood to one side, half-shadowed by a pillar, the brim of his cap pulled low, trying not to be noticed. His arms were crossed, his body angled like he was ready to bolt, and he kept adjusting his sunglasses as if they were a shield. There was a stiffness in his stance, a tension that said being here cost him something. Once checked-in, he ran his bag to his room while I waited in the lobby chatting with the reservations clerks who were huge Puma fans. When he returned sans the BoltFuel tee, we thanked the staff and made our way to my truck. Several people spotted me, so we had to take a few to sign autographs and snap more selfies.
“Okay, sorry. That’s pretty common, as you know,” I said as we climbed into my 4x4 and took off for Cottman Avenue.
“Yep, happens to me all the time back in Harrisburg.”
I picked up the sarcasm but let it slide. Something deep down in this beautiful man made him this defensive. And who better than a man who specialized in defense to figure it out? No one, that was who. I changed the subject, and once he relaxed a bit, he began to lose that crusty exterior. I didn’t push for anything personal as we played our nine holes. I wanted him to let those walls down a little. So, when he won the game with one fewer strokes than me, I shook his hand and called him the winner. He basked in that until we stood at the bottom of those famous steps outside the art museum.
“Rocky statue,” I explained with a wave of my hand to the statue of Rocky Balboa off to our left. “Rocky steps,” I added as I motioned to the iconic stone steps. “Yo, Trickster, you think you got the cojones to run this with me?” I asked in my best Stallone imitation.
“God, that was terrible.” Trick gagged a little, then took off like a rocket. The shitter. I laughed out loud as I took off to catch him. Never quite did. Guess my extra bulk slowed me down just enough that the hockey player beat me to the top. Winded slightly, and more than a little sweaty, Trick threw his arms into the air, red-faced, triumphant, as if he didn’t care who saw him, and he was completely fucking beautiful in his excitement.
“Two wins. Two. Two!” He waved two fingers in my face.
“Yeah, yeah, I know.”
“This is good,” he said, glancing over as other folks ran up to do their own Rocky celebration. He hid himself then, but there was no way he could hide himself when this was a huge tourist draw. I nodded at the men as I turned Trick around to get a picture of us with the museum behind us.
“I don’t want a photo,” he said.
“Tough,” I teased.
He leaned in close to view the pictures. I thought about dropping my arm around his neck and had an overwhelming urge to kiss him. I didn’t of course, because first, I didn’t know if he was into man lips on his. And secondly, I was in the closet and this place was packed with people. With a rush of regret, I once again cursed myself for not coming out years ago. I took the photo and showed him, expecting him to demand that I delete it, but instead he went very quiet.
“Trick?” I asked gently.
“Nice photo,” he murmured. “Send me that one where you’re looking spent and I’m all young and vibrant. I’m totally sharingthat one with the hashtag beat the old man.” Wait? Was he teasing me?
I yanked his cap off his head, then ran down the stairs with him in hot pursuit. When we arrived at the waterfront, I was now in possession of a Railers hat. A small token from him to assuage my wounded pride being trashed by a hockey player in two macho events. The young lady seating us didn’t look too thrilled to see a couple of jocks in tees and shorts, but she seated us anyway after the chef ran out to pump my hand.
“He’s on the board of the local LGBT community center. Good guy. Great cook,” I whispered as we made our way to our table on the upper deck of the cruise ship, in a quiet corner, as Trick suggested. We sat, thanked the girl in the sleek gray dress, and sat back. The night was cooling down now that the sun was setting. The wind off the river was refreshing. I removed his cap, then tried to give it to him, but he refused.
“Consolation prize,” he said as he scanned the menu. I was too busy watching Trick to read the meal suggestions. There was something about the way he held himself that appealed to me in some deep way. His dark eyes lifted from the menu. “You do a lot of stuff for the queer community?”
And there it was. Shit. I glanced around the deck. We were a little early, so the tables weren’t filled yet. Only one couple was seated across the way, and they were too far and too into each other to eavesdrop. Did I dare tell him? If I wanted this to possibly move into something more, then someone would have to confess their secrets. It was a big step.
“Yeah, I do. I’m gay.” There. It was out. Now two people knew. Trick nodded as if not surprised by that news. “No one other than my best friend knows though. So, yeah, if you could sit on that, I’d appreciate it.”
