Page 49 of Blitz
“What?”
“Media shit.”
Suddenly, I wasn’t ravenous anymore.
SEVENTEEN
Trick
I was still in shock.
Dinner had been good—so good it felt like a dream I didn’t deserve. Tom and Ty had cracked jokes across the table, slinging friendly insults about football versus hockey while I laughed more in an hour than I had in an entire month. Paula was simply delightful. Tom had sat close, his knee brushing mine under the table, and I hadn’t moved. Not even when he reached past me for the pepper grinder and his hand landed on my shoulder, light as a whisper.
It was nothing.
It was everything.
That single point of contact meant more than it should have. Not because it was overtly romantic or intentional. But because it was him. Tom. And for a breathless moment, it felt as if hesawme. Not the player, the problem, or the one carrying a secret like a curse. Just me. And I wanted to lean into it. Into him. Into something that didn’t feel like shame. I imagined we could navigate this world and still keep our privacy, but I’d been naïve. Those fucking photos made itsomething. I shouldn’t have looked. But I did. When I was in Tom’s car heading back to hisplace, I read some of the comments. Each word hit like a punch to the gut. My throat tightened as I scrolled, hands trembling, the screen swimming in the dim light. I could hear my pulse in my ears, feel the heat rise up the back of my neck as if I’d been caught doing something shameful. It wasn’t only the words—they were cruel, yes—but it was the knowing. The confirmation of every fear I’d buried under years of control. That people were watching. Judging. Picking apart my life like vultures with viral hashtags and gossip.
My chest clenched. I felt like I was sixteen again, staring down a Bible and a punishment I never deserved. I should throw the phone across the car, but instead, I kept reading. Like a masochist.Tomrickwas trending.
“Tom and Trick’s gay love?”
“Abomination.”
“What’s in the water in Harrisburg?”
“No wonder Atlanta traded his ass!”
It didn’t matter that I wasn’t out and had done nothing to warrant the comments. A couple of photos. A couple of smiles. That was all it took for people to start drawing lines and assumptions and dragging me out of a closet I’d boarded shut. I’d built that closet with blood and bone. Brick by silent brick. And now it was splintering under the weight of someone else’s camera lens.
Tom drove us back to his place in silence. His jaw was tight, his eyes on the road, his shoulders coiled as if he were waiting for a blow. He had every right to be worried about himself and what this might mean for the peaceful, quiet life he’d only just begun to reclaim. This was my fault—my mess, my ruin, bleeding into his fresh start. I’d been so young when my father had dragged me into that place with soft lighting, softer voices, and promises wrapped in prayer. They said I was confused. Sick. Possessed. They said I could be saved. What they really meant was, they’dbreak me into pieces and call the splinters healed. When I’d finally gotten out—after handing over a signed NDA and half my fucking future income—they’d smiled. Told me I was fixed. I’d walked away empty. Hollow. As if love had been surgically removed and shame stitched into its place.
I will come out. One day. When it’s safe. I’m sure pieces of me will survive. But the world was watching. Judging. And I was cracking under the weight of trying to hide.
Tom’s street blurred into view—and so did the flashing cameras. People clustered at the gate like wolves in designer jackets. We rolled through, then the gates closed behind us, but the flashes kept coming. I turned my face, ducked down, nausea clawing up my throat. When the garage door shut and sealed us inside, I stumbled from the car, my knees nearly buckling.I can’t breathe.Panic surged—raw, blinding. My chest heaved as if my lungs had forgotten how to work. I backed up, shaking, my hands trembling at my sides. Tom moved toward me. Slow. Careful.
He touched my chest, right over my heart—and I shattered. Just from that. Then, his mouth was on mine, a kiss in the dark, desperate and trembling as if we were fugitives clinging to a moment of stolen peace. When I pulled back, I was breathless. Broken open. I couldn’t stay. I climbed into my car and left. No glance back.
I didn’t blast music. Didn’t speed. I drove with both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed on the night, trying to outrun the ache. Somewhere outside Harrisburg, I pulled into the shadowed corner of a fast food parking lot and killed the engine. The silence felt like drowning.
“God made man and woman in His image…”
“What you’re feeling isn’t love…”
“You’re not special. You’re sick. But we can help you…”
And fuck, Ihadwanted help. After Mom died, when it was only him and me left, I wanted to be loved. I wanted to beenough. It was easier to let them fix me than to keep breaking. So, I let them baptize me again. Not because I believed them. Not really. But I was so desperate to feel clean again, to be something they could love—somethinghecould love—that I let them drown me in holy water and call it healing. Part of me had hoped it would work. The rest of me had simply wanted to survive. Wanted the silence. The approval. Even if it came at the cost of who I was. I sat in their circles. I spoke the words they wanted. I nodded, smiled, and signed my future away just toescape.
My phone screen lit up, and it snagged my attention—only two people were on this chat, Rebecca and Tom.
Rebecca: Are you there?
A string of messages. Growing more anxious. More real. I wiped my face, then hit call, and she answered instantly.
“Trick?” Her voice cracked. “Thank fuck! Just ignore it all. It’s just noise.”
I didn’t know her well enough yet, but in that moment, I felt I did. I imagined growing up with her instead of with sermons and silence—a life with a sister instead of a doctrine. Maybe then, I wouldn’t be so goddamn broken. My head dropped to the wheel. And I sobbed. The kind of sobs that broke loose from somewhere deep and ancient. My chest caved in with the force of it, and I couldn’t catch my breath, couldn’t stop shaking. I gasped through each jagged inhale, fingers clawing at the steering wheel like it could anchor me to something real. My whole body ached—not from pain, but from the sheer release. Years of holding it together had finally ruptured in the safety of that one moment.Rebecca talked me through it, stayed on the line, her voice steady.
