Page 61 of Brushed and Buried
I watch him carefully as he continues.
“Then she started talking about how Mitchell collected local artwork, how he had this passion for commissioning pieces for his home in Orange County. She even mentioned he was staying at the Marriott for an extra night before flying back.”
My stomach tightens as the pieces start falling into place.
“I thought if I could get to him, if I could approach him about commissioning something, it would give me a chance to talk about giving you another opportunity.” Adrian’s voice grows quieter. “The woman made it sound like he genuinely appreciated art, and I thought my portfolio might be the key to opening a door that had been slammed shut.”
I struggle to breathe. “You were trying to help me?”
“I thought it might make a difference. You deserved every opportunity.” His voice softens just enough to let something real slip through. “We were friends.”
The wordfriendshits like a punch to the chest. Because even now, even after everything, he’s protecting me from the truth of what we were, what we might have been.
He stares at me for a long moment, and I see the exact second he decides to stop protecting me. The careful mask falls away, leaving something raw and tired in its place.
“I’ve never told anyone the whole story, not even my parents.” He leans back against the wall, suddenly looking exhausted. “Icalled the hotel that day after the game. I told the front desk I was a local artist interested in discussing a commission with Mr. Mitchell before he left town. They connected me to his room, and when I explained that I’d heard about his interest in the local art scene, he seemed intrigued. He said he had some time the next evening before his flight.”
Adrian’s hands shake slightly as he continues. “I spent all day preparing my portfolio. Some of my best pieces from senior year. Sketches, paintings, work I was proud of.”
He takes a shaky breath.
“I got there and spread out my portfolio on the desk by the window. I started walking him through my pieces, explaining my process, and what I could envision for his space. He nodded along, asked the right questions about technique and vision. When we started talking about compensation, I plainly brought you up, thinking I might as well get straight to the point. I talked about how much raw talent you had, and how that one game didn’t represent who you really were as a player.”
His jaw tightens. “That’s when everything shifted. He closed the portfolio without looking at the last few pieces, studying me like I was something he was considering purchasing. He said he knew your father from way back, that he was well aware of your talent and potential. But he couldn’t be seen recruiting some hothead who couldn’t control himself. Then he brought up the ‘rumors’ about you hitting another player over a guy. And that’s when he put it together. That guy was me.”
The words hit me like a cold wave. I can see eighteen-year-old Adrian in that sterile hotel room, realizing too late that he’d walked into something he couldn’t control.
“He made it clear the artwork was secondary. I have talent, yes. But he said there were other ways people in my position could demonstrate their commitment to someone’s career. He said that coaches appreciated loyalty, especially the kind that showed real sacrifice.”
Adrian’s breathing becomes shallow. “When I told him I didn’t understand, he spelled it out. He said boys like me, who cared that much about their boyfriends’ success, usually found creative ways to show their appreciation. That if I really wanted to secure your future, I’d prove just how far I was willing to go.”
Something clenches in my chest, not just at what Mitchell suggested, but at the realization of how calculated it all was, how Adrian’s earnest hope had been twisted into something predatory.
“I felt like the walls were closing in. All that confidence I’d walked in with, thinking I was some promising artist who could somehow help your scholarship situation, it just crumbled. I was just some stupid kid who’d stumbled into a trap.” His voice cracks. “When I tried to leave, he grabbed my arm, said we weren’t finished talking yet. I had to pull away hard enough that my portfolio scattered across the floor. I scrambled to gather everything while he stood there watching, like he was enjoying seeing me on myhands and knees.”
I feel like I am about to throw up.
Adrian’s hands shake as he touches his upper arm unconsciously. “I finally got out of there. Walking out of that corridor, I knew I hadn’t just failed to help you. I’d probably made everything so much worse.”
He pauses, his breathing unsteady.
“Were you there?” he asks quietly. “Did you see me?”
I nod once, the memory bitter, the guilt sits heavy in my chest. “My father brought me there.”
His eyes land on mine, sighing. “I know what you must have seen then. I looked like I’d done something shameful because I felt shameful. I’d brought it on myself by being so arrogant, thinking I could waltz in there and change anything with a few paintings. I should have known better.” His voice drops to barely above a whisper. “The timing of it all…you being there right when I came stumbling out. It felt like someone knew exactly when to bring you by.”
A chill runs through me as the threads start weaving together in ways I don’t want to examine too closely. My father’s insistence on that meeting, and the perfect timing of my arrival at the hotel corridor. It all feels less like a coincidence and more like deliberate orchestration.
Raw pain flickers across his features. “From that day forward, I swore nobody would ever put me in that kind of situation again.”
His words settle heavily between us. I find myself understanding things about Adrian I never wanted to piece together. The way he carried himself during our bachelor party weekend, the control he maintained even in situations that seemed chaotic. It all takes on a different meaning now.
The corridor tilts around me. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in harsh, sickly shadows. Adrian stands there, shoulders shaking slightly, and I see him as if for the first time. He’s not the person I thought I knew, not the betrayer from my nightmares, but just a kid who’d walked into hell trying to help.
“You couldn’t tell me.” The words come out rough, scraped raw. “Because you knew what I’d do.”
Adrian’s hands tremble as he grips the clipboard. His knuckles are white, and when he speaks, his voice cracks. “You would have gone after him. You would have destroyed everything you’d worked for, everything your father wanted for you. Your dreams. I couldn’t let that happen.”
