Cliff held out his hand. Dell knew what time it was.
Secret handshake time.
He slapped Cliff’s hand so hard that heat inflamed his fingers. They slid back and did the end snap, Dell more exaggerated than usual, like he was about to throw his body to the floor. To his own surprise, doing the handshake made Cliff feel more confident for tonight. He was part of a team. He thought about his dad sitting in this same locker room decades ago, psyching himself up.
Dell was on his way to the next player, but he turned on his heel back to Cliff.
“What time did you get home last night?”
Cliff immediately felt a dip in his stomach. “What?”
“I knocked on your door before I went to bed, but you weren’t there.”
“Oh? What time was that?” Why was he asking Dell about the time? It would only make him more suspicious.
“I think eleven.”
“That’s late. I was asleep by then.” Cliff brushed nonexistent lint off his shorts to avoid looking at Dell. It was a plausible lie, he told himself. He could be a deep sleeper.
“You didn’t hear me knocking?”
“I slept with my earbuds in.”
“What were you listening to?”
“A meditation playlist. Helps put me to sleep.”
Dell considered it for a moment, then nodded. “Cool. I’m glad I didn’t wake you then.”
“What were you doing up so late?”
“Couldn’t sleep.” Dell cracked a smile.
“You should’ve called your friends back home. They would’ve been up.”
“True true. Let’s go get it tonight.”
They gave each other a nod, and Dell moved onto his next target.
Cliff breathed an epic sigh of relief. His stomach unknotted itself, but the experience left him feeling like a shitty friend. A part of him wished Dell would’ve caught him in a lie. He hated how easily he was able to shoot out untruths, how quickly he could spin a believable story. It was an unfortunate superpower of being in the closet.
He thought about what Brennan said this morning about being openly gay. And maybe Dell would be cool with it, but if he wasn’t? The truth might leave them in this weird gray zone, where Dell didn’t do anything outright homophobic to him, and was still “friends” with Cliff, but their friendship was no longer the same.
Coach Trainor whistled through his fingers to get everyone’s attention. He was flanked by two men; one looked like a mob boss with his imposing frame, crisp suit, and shiny bald head. The other was a middle-aged pastor, instantly recognizable with his collar peeking out from his coat.
“Men, tonight’s a big night. Another season. Another year to prove why this team has the goods. Because you do, all of you. Mr. Wyndham has stopped by to wish us luck on our first game.”
A few of his teammates eyed the Coach, who gave a quick shrug and let his stern expression slip for a moment.
Mr. Wyndham stepped forward and paced while pressing his fingertips together. Cliff recognized him from pictures in his mansion. “I have been a fan of the Whitetails ever since I was a student. Coming here for games was one of my favorite experiences. I’ll never forget when we won the championship. I think I was drunk for three straight days.” The players chuckled in response. A few hooted and clapped like rowdy patrons at a low rent comedy club. “You all have what it takes to be champions. Do it for every student out there, every alumni, every former player before you. You are leaders. You might not think of it, but kids look up to you. Your classmates, your teachers, kids in town. You are setting the example of what good, clean young men are.”
Cliff gulped at that last sentence. What he did with Brennan was definitely not becoming of a good, clean young man.
The pastor made them gather in a circle on one knee and said a prayer for their season. “And Lord, please keep these men morally straight, keep them proud members of your order away from sin, so they can focus.” Cliff thought they should focus on their education, not just basketball, but he kept his opinion to himself.
Cliff cringed at the prayer, his insides crinkling with disgust at himself. It reminded him of years of attending church growing up, years of being admonished not to sin, years of church gatherings where families played an unspoken game to one-up each other with how perfect they were. Browerton might have had lots of openly gay students and even more allies. But Cliff was still a small-town Wisconsin boy at heart living in the hyper-masculine world of sports. Both environments were infused in his morrow.
His mind instantly went to having his wrists bound, flopped over Brennan’s lap as he was spanked and fingered until he almost came. Shame slashed through the memory. He doubted anyone else on the team did anything like this. He was mortified by his secret, but like any addiction, it also consumed him.
