Page 21 of Blitz
“Thanks for trusting me.” He stared at me long and hard.
“Are you okay with me being gay?”
“Sure. I’m… sure.” He stopped for a moment. “Can I…” Again, a pause.
“Trick?”
The waitress set down water and took our order, then he leaned forward. “Can I trust you as well?”
“Of course.”
He bit his lip. Eyes downcast, the tension in his shoulders had to hurt. “I’m bi.”
Inner Gay Tom did a happy dance. “Bisexual. That’s good to know.”
“Is it?” He glanced up at me, his eyes bright with emotion, as if he was one step from crying.
“Do you want to talk?”
He looked horrified. “No.”
The small candles on the table flickered and danced.
“Your team is pretty inclusive, right?”
“Yeah.”
“But you’re not out?”
“No, and you’re not either?”
“No.”
I wanted to say more. Should have actually, but our drinks arrived, and so did a few more diners, and so any personal talk was shelved until after our cruise concluded. The meal was top-notch, the food divine, and the service stellar. After a while—maybe it was the beer—Trick relaxed enough that we talked nonstop about all manner of things ranging from sports to books to dogs—I pushed hard for him to adopt Wink because that dude needed a good home like yesterday—to cars. When the boat moored, we exited with the other passengers, bellies full, and took a stroll along the waterfront. The area was made for nighttime romantic walks. We watched the skyline come to brilliant light and took in the Ben Franklin Bridge as we enjoyed a refreshment at Morgan’s Pier. There were performersscattered here and there, some singers, some mimes, and a few who played violin for donations.
The trees were turning color, the leaves rustling in time to the notes of “La Vie en Rose,” which made me feel as if we were taking in Paris and not Philly. Overall, it was stupidly romantic, and he was smiling at me, and so I turned to Trick as we drank in the violin music and prayed my romance game was brisk, or whatever the word was the kids were using nowadays.
“Can I kiss you, maybe behind that tree?” I jerked a thumb at a fat maple and held my breath for his reply.
NINE
Trick
I’d been lulledinto a false sense of security that maybe Tom could be a friend. I was trying not to think about the press of his shoulder against mine, the way his hand kept brushing mine as if it were accidental. It wasn’t. Something snapped—sharp, fast, and violent, and my temper flared so fast and hot I barely knew what I was saying before the words were out.
“Are you out of your fucking tiny mind?” I barked, glancing left and right as if people were listening. I lowered my voice, and he leaned in. “What the hell, Tom? Were you born an idiot, or did you work up to it?”
His face fell, and I hated how good he looked even then. Hurt made him softer, but I wasn’t soft. I couldn’t afford to be. All signs of him being happy vanished. I’d done that. I’d taken his happiness and twisted it.
“You know what would happen if someone saw us? If someone took a picture?” My voice was a harsh rasp of disbelief. “You think I’ve got problems now? That I haven’t been skating on thin ice since Atlanta dumped me? This would finish me. And what about your golden-boy rep, and your smiling PR mask? You think the fans will love a queer on their team?”
My chest tightened like a vise, and I couldn’t breathe around the crushing pressure of what I’d done. Sweat beaded at my temples and slid down my back in a cold trickle, and my hands shook despite the heat blazing under my skin. My pulse thudded in my ears, and I felt nauseous as the panic wrapped around my lungs and refused to let go. I could’ve lived with the flirting. I was feeling slightly happy with the banter, the teasing, the warmth between us—so stupidly glad to pretend we were only friends.
But now, this? There was no denying what he wanted. And the moment I let it out—let myself want—everything else would unravel.
I could see it already. The headlines. The whispers. My fucking career in a trash can. My dad… fuck…
“Trick—”
