Page 65 of The New Guy
“Then you keep playing and let the clock run down on your contract. This team is very shrewd. I’ll let them know that you want stability more than you want to auction yourself off to the highest bidder next summer. They’ll make you a reasonable offer. I’ll make sure of it. You can buy a condo. Get a dog. Put down some roots. All those things you’ve been missing.”
God, I want that so badly. I’m so tired of anticipating that tap on the shoulder—another trade. Another city. “So what do I have to do?”
He opens the leather folio that’s permanently affixed to his hands. “Let’s plan your summer training and nutrition regimen. You’ll come to L.A. immediately after your season ends. You’ll see my new favorite conditioning coach for a few weeks.”
“All right.”
He scribbles on his pad. “If Brooklyn goes deep into the playoffs—and there’s no reason to think they won’t—any vacation longer than a few days is really off the table.”
“Yeah. Okay.” I’m tired just thinking about it. But this is nothing new.
“Good man,” my father says. “Now let’s talk about nutritionists. A few guys are doing some interesting work on building up the gut flora.”
“Sounds cool,” I say. “Love talking about my gut flora.”
He doesn’t even crack a smile. “Excellent. I have two different guys in mind…”
Of course he does. This is my life. I chose this. And I’d be a fool to give up now.
* * *
I’m sitting at my own kitchen counter, drinking a protein shake before I head to the stadium. And texting with Gavin.
You okay?
You mean my wrist? Or my dad.
I mean both.
Fine and fine.
Nobody asked me, but I thought his apology was a little flat.
Agreed. But apologies from him are thin on the ground. So I grade on a curve.
I’ll shut up now. My parents have never apologized to me and never will.
You never mention them.
I’m dead to them. There isn’t much to say.
God, I’m sorry.
I’m over it. But there’s a reason I didn’t come out until I left for college. It wasn’t safe for me to do so. And that’s why I don’t judge you for making the decisions you make. I’m frustrated for you. But I don’t judge you.
I look up from my phone, thinking the same thoughts about him that I always have. I don’t deserve him. And I like him way too much.
Instead of replying to his text, I hit his avatar and call him. “Is this a bad time?” I ask when he answers.
“I’m making dinner, but talk to me.”
“I appreciate what you said. That you don’t judge me.”
“Because I really don’t.”
I fiddle with my straw. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did, though. It’s easier to listen to my father than to do the hard work of trying to come out again.”
“True.”
