Page 27 of Blitz
I shot Ty a warning glance, then took a step to close the distance between Tucker Jones and myself. My chest bumped his.
“Nope, I’m saving my fingers all for you, Jones.” I held up my beefy middle finger, then flicked his nose with it. That did not go over well. If not for Tyrese sliding between us, a royal rumble would have broken out. What ended it the fastest was the arrival of one of the Puma staffers at the open door. He stuck his head in, eyes wide when he spied two hulks squishing the team’s star quarterback between them like Ty was the bologna stuck between two pissed off slabs of white bread.
“Fulkowski, Coach wants to see you after you eat,” the staffer called out before dashing off to report back to Coach that me and Jones were flattening Tyrese.
Tucker mumbled something unkind about my mother. Ty gave him a shove toward the door before slamming it in Tucker’s scowling face.
Ty turned to look at me, shaking his head while chuckling softly. “You keep that kind of shit up and your streak of winning Mr. Congeniality will come to an end,” he said as I took a cleansing breath. “Got to say, that was a nice comeback. That guy is an asshole. If he points at the watermelon at the buffet while looking at me one more time, I am going to cross that table and shove a set of tongs up his racist ass.”
“I’ll hold him, and you tong him.”
We high-fived, then made our way to the meal, my head plugged up solid with thousands of different thoughts and worries about me, Trick, the future, and where Tom Fulkowski was going after this season. I wasn’t a terribly religious man, but if ever a soul needed divine intervention, it was me, and that time was right now.
Fortunately for Tucker, he kept his distance. I’d never seen that little exchange before. If I had, I would have jackhammered Tucker Jones into the ground and to hell with team spirit. Bigots. The world would be a much nicer place without all the unfounded hate.
I ate slowly, my appetite low, even though I knew I needed energy to fuel the machine. I picked at my food. The chicken and pasta on my plate sat untouched. The only thing that I dug into was some oatmeal for the comfort food vibe. Mom always made me oatmeal on school mornings. Man alive, what I wouldn’t give for a Mom hug right about now. She would know what to do. She always did. Moms had a way of untangling things, be they knotted shoe laces or raveled heart strings. I couldn’t stop thinking of Trick. The passion we had shared had been intense, fueled by fear and frustration and lots of want. But I’d been toopushy. I saw that now. I had let my loneliness and affection for the prickly puck pusher override my common sense.
If he ever spoke to me again—bigif—I needed to move more slowly. Take my time. Let him see that there was a future with me. That I would take care of him.
Someone jostled my chair as they passed. I got an apology from the lanky rookie with the gleam in his eye as he exited the dining hall to suit up. I looked at the guys at my table and excused myself to go talk to Coach. Ty gave me a wan smile that I managed to return before I ambled out into the corridor.
On my way to Coach’s office, I passed photos on the walls. Framed jerseys. I paused at the jersey of the most revered Puma of all time. Albert Wright. Quarterback in the early-to-mid sixties. Blond hair, blue eyes, all-American boy out of Wisconsin who rivaled Joe Namath in not only flash and pizazz, but in passing skills. Albert was Mr. Charisma, who posted a few four-thousand-yard seasons himself. Now he was close to eighty and living in a home as CTE claimed him day by day.
Staring at the dark blue and gold jersey, I asked myself what I wanted my legacy to be when I reached that age. What was I leaving behind for younger players to emulate? Albert had been one of the first white players to demand integrated rooms for all players in the early sixties. Albert had stood up for what was right. He didn’t back down or hide from the press or the haters back then. He stood arm in arm with his fellow players. I ran a finger over the glass to trace Albert’s iconic number seven before setting off to find Coach.
He was in his office, as always before a game, sipping some of that green tea that was supposed to do wonders for his digestive tract. Coach McNair was in his late fifties, slim as a beanpole and possessed the wildest red hair I’d ever seen. He kept it tamed with some sort of gel that smelled like mango and banana. He lifted sharp gray eyes from whatever he was doing on his laptopto motion me to enter. I did so, closing the door behind me, and made my way to an office chair that made me worry if it would hold me or not. When I eased into it, the thing groaned in agony.
“You wanted to see me?” I asked as I dropped my elbows to my knees. Both had scars from surgeries, stark white lines against somewhat tanned skin. I’d given more than my heart and soul to this game. I’d given up my body as well.
“I did. Rumor has it that you were seen coming into camp with a dozen donuts in hand.” Well fuck. I’d hoped I’d been sneaky enough. Guess it was hard to be covert when you were my size. I didn’t think Jerry the security guard had ratted me out, so that meant someone at the dorms or on the ground crew of the complex had run to Coach to snitch. Coach closed his laptop to stare at me with weary resignation. “I know you know the rules about junk food, Tom. And hey, I get it. I love a good jelly-filled as much as the next guy. You’re old enough to know how shit works here though. We like to focus on nutrition and performance. Not like this is your first year. God knows you’re not a young buck eager to rub the velvet off his horn every night.” Coach was a big hunter. What horns had to do with Boston creams I had no clue, but I just nodded along. “No more stops at Prangelli’s before a game. I do not need to have to listen to the team nutritionist reading me the riot act over some damned Dutch crullers.”
Ugh.
I let my eyes close for a long, long moment. Out of all the infractions I was capable of breaking, sneaking eclairs was pretty low on the list. But this whole donut thing was way deeper than a sweet tooth. I had binged because I was seeking comfort in food instead of looking for the solace my soul needed in the truth. I let it all sink in, the entire last twenty-four hours, and then, I felt a calm settle over me as what Ty had said washed back up like a wave on the shore.
You come out, and I will stand right at your side. So will most of the team, the staff, and the fans. We all love you. The city loves you. It’s time for you to love yourself.
Ty was right. How could I ask a man to care for me when I wasn’t caring for myself? I couldn’t. I’d never be happy,trulyhappy, until I was being me, wholly and honestly.
“I need to tell you something, Coach.”
He sighed as he braced himself for what I could only assume he imagined was me telling him I committed murder or held up a bank or was recorded smacking around a hooker.
“I’m gay.”
ELEVEN
Trick
Bean& Gone was a cramped little coffee shop tucked between a laundromat and a tattoo parlor, its windows steamed up from the AC running full bore. Inside, it was too bright, the overhead bulbs buzzing faintly, and way too loud, the clang of the espresso machine competing with indie folk music blaring from tinny speakers. The air was thick with the bittersweet scent of burnt coffee and heavy cinnamon, like someone had scorched a tray of sticky buns and decided it was good enough to serve. There was one wall of graffiti and boards with ads for sports teams and study groups, house shares, and a whole load of second-hand notices for everything from bikes to bedding—a student hangout and not something I’d ever experienced. Going straight from draft to team was what I’d wanted—a way to get out of my father’s control—but how much had I missed out on? Dorm room pranks, late-night pizza runs, debating life at three in the morning with roommates who turned into family. I’d skipped over all of it, charging straight into a world where everything had a price, including friendship.
Although second-hand bedding? Eww.
Or was that my privilege showing?
I picked the table at the back, where no one could sneak up on me, and ordered their strongest black coffee. I didn’t need sugar. I didn’t need milk. I needed to stay sharp.
Rebecca was already ten minutes late, and every time the door chimed, my stomach twisted. I was ready to decide this whole thing was a mistake and bolt; that maybe the paperwork had been a prank or a scam or some elaborate fucking joke the universe was playing on me.
