Page 45 of We Were Never Lovers
Sean had looked between them, noted the way Jorge clocked the reaction with surprise, with knowing, grinned with delight, and Sean had seen it unfolding before it happened—Jorge was going to torment Jack with this. For a laugh? Because he thought he had a shot?
Why the hell had Jack given him the in? A vicious part of him thought now Jack had gotten a taste of dick again, he was prepared to flash that neon sign like he was willing and available; he wanted to get fucked, he was gagging for it, hedidn’t give a shit who the dick belonged to, so long as he got some dick.
Sean had squeezed the dumbbells until his knuckles turned white. He was pissed off, but hurt too; he’d never fucked anyone like that, and alright, he was hardly about to propose because of it, but he’d have thought the dick in question might’ve been an important part of the equation.
Yet in the weeks that followed, Jack hadn’t asked him to do that again, please and thank you, and Jorge flirted while Jack blushed and fumbled and tried to make himself scarce, and Sean wanted to kill both of them.
“I think maybe,” Jorge said as Sean finished his lunges, hand weights dangling at his sides, chest heaving, “one more. Sí, uno mas!”
Sean swallowed down his groan, thought about the feel of the grass under his boots, the stadium around him full, the collective voices so loud they made no distinct sound, just a rising crescendo as he ran towards the goal posts. The leather of the ball caressing his hands before he dropped it to meet his boot, all eyes following it sail through for a perfect goal as the sound reached its peak, erupting around him as Jack swooped in and lifted him off his feet.
“Oh, hey, sorry,” Jack said as he came into the living area. “Thought you guys were done.”
“No,” Jorge said, turning his smile and glee on Jack. “How can we be done when I have not seen you yet, Jack? Sean is a prisoner to my goal.”
Jack laughed, head shaking, eyes down, his blush radiating up his throat as he excused himself and headed outside.
They both watched him as he scooped up Lola’s toy rope and flung it across the yard. She belted after it, his smile following in her wake.
“He is one… how do you say in English?” Jorge asked.
“Dunno,” Sean bit out and finished his reps.
“Stretch,” Jorge said absently, eyes still on Jack. He was leaning down to give Lola a big cuddle, celebrating her success with fetch like she wasn’t born to do literally that. It made Sean smile—secretly anyway—he liked celebrating everything she did too.
“Hmm,” Jorge said, tapped his chin with his finger. “Joder, que bueno estás, la virgen.”
He glanced at Sean. Sean hadn’t understood what that meant, but he got the gist from the tone. But in case he didn’t, Jorge went on, “Handsome, hot.”
Sean seethed, looked at Jack—he was tossing the rope again, Lola flying for it as Jack laughed, his white shirt stretching over his bicep as it flexed and released the toy.
“He’s a footy player,” Sean said, arm over his chest as he pushed down with his other arm, stretched his groin with spread legs, the bad leg twinging.
Jorge looked at him, head tilted in confusion. Sean hoped he wasn’t expecting an explanation beyond that. George and Finn, he’d learned, made this line of argument moot, but it was still the best defence Sean had, the only line of defence. He’d never even dared to dream he’d have a boyfriend—it’d be suicide.
But Jorge must’ve read something in Sean’s tone because he replied, “I have a boyfriend. Why do you think I’m living here?”
“Ah, for ya job?” Sean asked.
Jorge laughed as if this was a ridiculous assertion. “Is much better for me in Spain. I used to work for Barcelona. More money, much more. Big stage, much bigger. Injuries less colourful,” he gave Sean a pointed smile, winked, “but still. Much better.”
And well, Sean couldn’t deny that was true, so he said nothing.
“Sean,” Jorge said, his voice more gentle than usual, “I am just teasing your boyfriend.”
“Jack’s not my boyfriend!”
Now Jorge looked really surprised. He scanned around the house pointedly, then back at Sean and shrugged. “I will stop teasing.”
“No, it’s not,” Sean huffed. “What does your boyfriend do?”
Jorge grinned and his eyes lit up as he talked about his boyfriend’s job as a KC—King’s Council—which was still weird; the Queen had died? He had no time for the monarchy, obviously, they were public enemy number one to his people, but the old hag had been a fixture of life. Apparently, the boyfriend couldn’t retrain and work as a lawyer in Spain or give up this “wonderful position”, so Jorge had moved here. They’d met at a nightclub in Barcelona two years ago and “fell madly in love, as you say in English.”
Sean rolled his eyes, but did so more to hide how nice that sounded. He wouldn’t mind falling madly in love with someone; he’d thought he’d had that when he first met Jack. He was still pretty sure the only person who knew he was gay was Jack. And it wasn’t just being a footballer; he hated the thought of his Elders if not outright rejecting him, looking disappointed, askance, taking time to process it. Jayden. The brothers. His mob. Not to mention being a black and gay footballer.
He’d realised he’d liked boys when he was ten. Watching footy all weekend on TV had given him a hint he’d been appreciating more than their form on the field, but it was confirmed when a new boy came to his school—Harry Miller. The son of a divorced farmer, the missus had shipped the boy back to the farm to live with his dad because Harry didn’t like her new boyfriend, according to Harry. The first day, he’d turned around in his seat, one of the fourteen of them in the fifth grade, and asked Sean, “Hey, can I borrow a pencil?”, his curly blonde hair was shiny above his blue, mischievous eyes, and Sean had taken a secondto process the question. Mrs Campion had told Harry to turn around, “Eyes on the board”, before Sean snapped out of it.
He’d leaned forward, fingers outstretched nervously as he’d tapped Harry’s shoulder and handed over the pencil. Harry smiled over his shoulder, “Thanks”, and Sean had a pretty good idea that this explained why he wasn’t trying to look at any of the eight girls in their class. He murmured his agreement when Jayden said Sally Beattie was hot, her overdeveloped chest already encased in a white sports bra you could see through her shirt, but he didn’t feel anything other than pity for her—how much must that suck? How could you play sport with those things?
