Out of Position (50 page)

I know what I’m going to say to Lee. I’m still feeling pretty good about myself, so I dial my parents first, plugging in my earpiece on the way to the team bus. It’s parked just outside the stadium.

“You were terrific,” Dad gushes. “You just had to shut out all those signs. Bastards. I tell you, anyone from Aventira comes into the shop, they’re gonna get charged for a whole mess of crap.”

“Great, Dad,” I say. “Just don’t get arrested for fraud.”

He laughs. “You can bail me out. Starring for the Firebirds! Jerry went out and bought a Firebirds pennant. We put it up in the shop.”

“If I score a touchdown, will you wear the jacket I got you?”

“Hey, we just saw that press conference. What’s that guy’s deal?”

I get out to the lot. Some of the guys are milling around talking on their own phones, some are already on the bus. I pick an isolated spot and lean against a wall. “He’s got issues.”

“Ha. I’ll say. Didn’t he see the game?”

Colin, talking to one of the wideouts, spots me and walks abruptly onto the bus. Normally I’d let the comment go, but watching Colin and feeling as good as I do makes me chippy. “What’s that have to do with anything?”

He doesn’t seem to notice. “Give it time, keep making those picks, the rumors’ll go away.”

Charm gives me a thumbs-up as he gets on. Beyond him, Brick isn’t paying any attention to me, but he didn’t run onto the bus. “What if they don’t?”

“Look, Dev, your family knows they’re lies, and your team does too. That’s what counts. Don’t worry about what they think.”

“You know, Dad…” I try to pull my courage together, but this isn’t the time, not over the phone. “There’s, uh, there’s a guy on the team. He came out to me in private. Because of the rumors.”

He laughs. “Who is it? It’s Aston, isn’t it?”

“Dad. I’m just saying, he’s a good player. What does that have to do with him being gay?” I keep my voice down, now. There are a couple canids nearby with their ears perked. Not at me, but still.

“Nothing, nothing,” Dad says. “Look, it’s perfectly fine for some fox or even a wolf. I’m just saying, people trying to say that a tiger is… like that, I mean, and one of my boys?”

He pauses. I step into the silence. “Yeah?”

His tone gets sharper, more serious. “I’m not worried about that, Dev, I mean it. I don’t even want to think about it. You just keep doing what you’re doing, and nobody will think you’re abnormal.”

“Jesus, Dad, you do know it’s not 1950 any more, right?”

“I don’t understand why we’re even having this discussion.”

In the background, I hear my mom saying, “What discussion, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” he says to her.

She sounds plaintive. “Is this about that phone call? Tell him — “

“It’s not about that,” he snaps. “I don’t even know what this is about.”

That last seems to be back to me, so I say, “I have gay friends, okay? I don’t want you badmouthing them.”

“Fine.” He settles back on his side of the line, wary. “Just don’t ever tell me who they are. I don’t wanna be thinking that when I watch a game, okay?”

Fisher taps me on the shoulder. I look up and notice that almost everyone’s on the bus. “I gotta go, Dad. Thanks for the call. Take care, okay? Love to Mom.”

“Proud of you, son,” he says.

I hold the phone in my paw and snap it shut, without answering. Fisher’s got to see my expression, but he doesn’t say anything as we get on the bus and take a pair of seats near the front. I know I should call Lee, but there’s no real opportunity until we get to the airport. I end up brooding maybe more than I should, until a couple of the guys thank me for the day off tomorrow—that’s a team tradition for the guy who helped win the game.

I get about ten minutes to call Lee, but he doesn’t answer. That bothers me; wouldn’t he want to talk to me after my big game? He left a message and everything. I tell him I’m getting on the plane and when I’ll be landing. On the plane, my nagging doubts start to smolder and itch, until, to my surprise, Brick grabs the seat next to mine. He ropes me into replaying the game, how that Aventira stallion was fuming by the end of it. I tell him more than once what a great hit he laid on him and he says something about the lippy motherfucker deserving it. It takes me most of the three-hour flight to realize that in his roundabout way, he’s trying to feel out whether I’m okay, whether all the crap that went on is affecting me. Fisher, Gerrard, and Carson join in, going over key plays. Of course, Gerrard brings up things we could’ve done better, things he wants to work on for next week. We make fun of him and call him a suck-up to the coaches. Good times.

I catch Brick alone on our way out of the plane, having spent the last hour working out exactly the words to ask what I wanted to know. “Uh,” I say, “so, we cool?”

He looks me up and down. “Just cause we talk game don’t mean I want to do nothin’ else with ya.”

“Oh, get the fuck over yourself. You’re not that hot.”

His eyes widen. He opens his mouth to say something, reconsiders, opens his mouth again. Bears aren’t the quickest thinkers in the world. I wait as we walk.

Finally he comes up with, “I don’t want you lookin’ at me in the shower.”

“Well, I don’t want you lookin’ at me, either,” I say.

He snorts. We walk in silence for a while, ’til we get to his car. I hang out for a second while he opens the door. “Hey, I appreciate you, y’know, taking out that stallion.”

“He called you a faggot,” he says. “That ain’t cool.”

I have to suppress a laugh. “Coming from you? ‘That ain’t cool’?”

“Ain’t nobody else’s business,” he growls. “You’re
our
faggot.” Then he gives me a sideways look, daring me to be offended by what he said. Strangely enough, I’m not.

Another of the tackles interrupts us as Brick’s getting into his car. “Hey,” he says, “a bunch of the guys want to go to Mick’s. You two coming?”

“Sure,” Brick rumbles. I’m still all caught up in the part-of-the-team feeling, so I go along. I call Lee on the way, to tell him I’ll be around to talk later, and get his voicemail again. I don’t leave a message, this time.

While I’m getting mildly buzzed on beer and testosterone, a couple of the guys take it on themselves to give me advice. They echo Brick: ain’t nobody else’s business. Just deny the rumors, they say, and it’ll all fade out. It feels weird to me, everyone knowing and talking about it, but I can’t rule out the possibility that it’s just the beer. I dunno, I’d be okay with all of that if not for one thing. Or, rather, one fox.

I start to dial Lee again in the car on the way home and then I think, hell with it, he didn’t call me all night, he can call me back when he’s ready. I’m starting to think about what I’m going to say at the press conference tomorrow, if I’m even going to show up. But of course I will. There’s a message on my phone from Caroll saying she’s got a flight out in the morning to be there. Besides, Ogleby will already have called all the reporters and all that crap, and it’ll look worse if I don’t show. I figure as long as I keep playing like I did today, the team will live with me. I can deny everything in public, and things will maybe die down. Never completely, but at least somewhat. Brian’s not getting any more believable with his stories.

But I need Lee. I think about how I felt when I saw him at the game — hell, when I just convinced myself he was there. Without him, I’d be adrift, like playing on the mud up in Hilltown. Okay, that wasn’t ‘adrift,’ that was more like slogging. The point is, it wouldn’t be as much fun. And I can’t imagine that Lee’s gonna be okay with me standing up in public to tell the world how straight I am.

Well, I think, unlocking the door to the apartment building, maybe I’m not okay with him spending tons of time with his BFF Brian after all. Even if he did claim it was for me. That angry justification doesn’t sit any better with me than the idea of the press conference itself did. It feels like lining up across from a familiar play and knowing where to go and who to cover, only there’s one player out of position and it nags at me, because I don’t know if he’s making a mistake or if I’m missing something. I hate that feeling. I’m gonna have to start drinking better beer.

I can’t stop thinking about Lee, though. Even the elevator smells like him. The slow ride up makes me pace back and forth. Why would he send me that text, lead me to believe everything was okay, and then disappear afterwards? Was it some kind of lesson, that he wanted to show me that I’d be okay on my own? It’d be just like him to show up and pretend he was supporting me, a kind of after-school special “the magic was in you all along” kind of bullshit. What if he’s decided he’d rather be with someone who’ll let him be out and open, and he just felt sorry for me? I can’t keep both Lee and football, it looks like. Either I come out and have a boyfriend, or I disavow him and keep my career. If it comes right down to it, what would I pick? They’re both parts of my life.

I can’t imagine getting up on a fall morning and not having a game to prepare for.

I can’t imagine never getting up in the morning next to him again.

And the elevator seems to crawl while I’m thinking this, the beer no doubt contributing to the slowness of time and my thought process. Every time I’m on top of the world, something comes along to knock me off. And if something doesn’t, I can count on my own stupid brain to come up with it. I take out the phone. I’m gonna have to talk to Lee tonight, even if I leave a rambling message on his answering machine. At least I’m still sober enough to make sure I dial the right number this time.

The elevator doors open on six. I get hit with his scent, strong and vulpine, creeping into my nose and brain like part of a jigsaw. He’s sitting with his knees drawn up, or he was; he’s now in the process of standing. A small overnight bag sits next to him on the hallway floor. He brushes down the front of his tight yellow rugby shirt, hooks his paws into the waistband of his tight jeans, but there’s nothing tight about his smile or the easy waving of his tail. “I thought you’d be home sooner,” he says.

“The guys went out to Mick’s,” I say, standing in the hall like an idiot. Football seems an age away now.

“You were great.” He ducks his head. “I had some frequent flier miles…”

Standing there in the hall looking at him, warmth blossoms in my chest. It amazes me that I can have two such incredible life-affirming moments in one day as my first big-league interception and this moment right here. I can’t say anything like that, of course. For one thing, I can’t speak well enough to do it justice, and for another, even if I could, I’m not a soppy new age faggot. I’m a tough studly jock faggot.

So I say to my boyfriend, “Come inside.” It’s not very romantic, but I like to think the rasp in my voice is.

“Nice Bogie,” he says, as I unlock the door.

“Been practicing,” I say, pleased that he noticed. I close the door behind him. “I should get you a spare key.”

“I don’t expect to pop in often.” He chuckles and slides up to me as soon as the door is locked.

I wrap my arms around him. “Maybe you should.”

He sticks his muzzle under my chin. “That mean we’re okay?”

“I dunno. Did you fly down just to see me?”

His sigh sends warm ruffles through my fur. “I thought tomorrow I could go over to Brian’s, try to talk him out of disrupting your press conference.”

I push him away, but he clings to me. I stare down at him. “You couldn’t lie to me? Just for a bit?”

He’s got big, blue, trusting eyes when he wants. “Not any more.”

I grumble and stop pushing him away. He presses closer and goes on. “I booked the ticket just to see you at first. Then Brian called to tell me to make sure to watch the press conference because it was going to be, quote, fireworks. He said this conference is going to be you telling the world how straight you are.”

I stop pushing, apprehensive. “Yeah,” I say. “Something like that. Uh, Ogleby called it. I haven’t really decided if I should go.”

His paws rest on my hips, his eyes on mine. “Why would you not go?”

I expected him to tell me what I should do. He never ceases to surprise me, my fox. “Well, I guess because… I haven’t decided what I want to do.”

He presses up against me. “I think I know. But I bet you mean about tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah. There’s no question about tonight.” I squeeze his rear. “Not any more.”

“Any more?” He tilts his head.

Stupid mouth of mine. “After we left… I just wasn’t sure… I mean…”

“Yeah, I wasn’t either.” His paws work slowly on my shirt, untucking it. “I mean, the way you left. But it was my fault too. I always think I know what’s best.”

I look down at his paws, then back at him. “You usually do.”

A flash of a smile. “Don’t boost my ego.”

“But I’m glad you’re here now.”

He’s got his paws in the waistband of my pants. He pushes them down further. “Good,” he says, as if he couldn’t tell. “So tell me again why you wouldn’t go to the press conference?”

“I’m not so sure I can act straight.”

He laughs. “Well, not when your boyfriend has his paws on your sheath, I guess.”

I shiver, leaning over to nuzzle his ears. “Hopefully you won’t be doing that during the conference.”

“Seriously,” he says. “Would you not go because of me?”

It’s getting a little hard for me to form coherent sentences. I shove my paws down the back of his pants to cup his bare rear. “Uh, well, not specifically because of you, but, sort of?”

He squeezes, making my whole body tense. “I think you should go.”

I gasp. My tail wraps around the back of his legs. “I think I’m gonna come, first.”

His paw slides up and down. His muzzle finds mine, and he doesn’t argue with me. It feels so good to be holding him again, for our lips to be together, our tongues sliding back and forth, the familiar taste of him, his scent, overwhelming. While we kiss, his paws are busy, pushing my shirt off my shoulders, then sliding down my sides to lower my pants while I finish wriggling out of the shirt. I push his pants down, but we have to break the kiss to get his shirt off over his head.

He stands with his shirt dangling from one paw, looking at me. I return the favor, taking in the sleek lines of his trim body, white fur curving from the fluff of his chest in to his stomach, down to that beautiful V between his legs. I look up to his muzzle, slender and slightly parted, to the large peaks of his ears, and finally down to his eyes, twin sapphires now meeting mine. He reaches out a paw. I take it, and we walk together to the bed.