He counted the cash from his first solo stage dance of the night. 164 bucks–good for this time of night. He rolled the bills and stashed them in his backpack. Before the night was over he would work the floor a few times, as well as join a few group numbers and perform another solo stage dance later. He’d have to tip out the staff at the end of the night, but he wasn’t worried about that yet.
Tyler had moved through his individual routine as he always did. The lights hot on his bare skin, the stage sticky under his hands and knees. He was on autopilot, engaged only enough to make eye contact with the blurred faces in the audience and draw them into the fantasy he was creating. Even though it had been years since he’d been on stage, the movements came back with ease, and Tyler used his time on stage to think through his to-do list for the upcoming week.
He needed to grab groceries–sponges, fuck.He needed some new sponges. Maybe when Rowan was napping tomorrow he’d have time to sweep, and he needed to check the coupons for what meat was on sale this week. Christmas was right around the corner, and Tyler had already been squirreling away time to work on a few homemade gifts for Rowan.
He was sewing a vest and a little backpack for Bunny out of an old, ripped pair of corduroy pants, as well as knitting Rowan a new hat with cat ears on top. He’d learned to knit and sew years ago, and it was both affordable and easy to work on during his breaks at work.
His mom would send them a package of goodies from Vermont, with thoughtful, handcrafted toys for Rowan.
Part of his motivation for picking up some nights at the club was to cover holiday expenses. This would be the first holiday he and Rowan had spent on their own, and he wanted it to be perfect. He wanted to create magic for Rowan.
He ran a towel over his sweaty hair, yawning.
“Troy, you’re up on the floor.” Freddy, their floor manager, poked his head into the dressing room. “George, you’re on stage in two.”
Tyler took a long drink from his water bottle and reapplied some clear lip gloss and deodorant. He pulled on the tiny pair of denim shorts the dancers wore out on the floor. He checked himself one last time in the mirror.
There he was. Troy, the alt-grunge, tatted dancer. For a moment, he wondered what Jamie would think of Troy. If his eyes would still darken, if he’d still say:I’d stick around,if he knew.
But there was no reason for him to find out. Even as Tyler got to know Jamie better, they were just two men who happened to meet, who now shared the connection of Jamie’s moms. Nothing more.
He stood up from his station, bumped his fist against Gio’s, and went back to work.
CHAPTER 11
JAMIE
BABA BARLEY
Jamie tugged at the hem of his red sweater, frowning at his reflection in the rearview mirror. He ran his fingers over his mustache, attempting to straighten a few of the stray hairs that refused to fall into place.
Fuck. He should have gone with the green quarter zip. Would Tyler think he was trying too hard? A sweater and black jeans felt casual compared to the suits Jamie wore to games.
They’d had a bit of milder weather, which had left only a few clumps of dirty snow at the base of the trees and exposed the brown grass in his moms’ neighborhood. Jamie dodged a crusted bank of ice at the edge of the sidewalk and jogged up the steps to his moms’ house.
He’d barely knocked on the side door when the interior door opened, revealing Tyler with Rowan on his hip, their brown mullets a mirror to each other.
“How’s it going, guys?”
Tyler’s smile was tired. “We’re good.”
Jamie held up a paper bag. “I brought presents. Can I show you?”
Rowan’s eyes got huge, and he squirmed out of Tyler’s arms. “Jamie, I want to see!”
Jamie had texted Tyler earlier, checking to see if he could bring them both some team gear to wear. Tyler had emphatically told Jamie he didn’t have to, but had ultimately agreed. Now, Jamie pulled out a kids-sized, green home jersey–one of his–and handed it to Rowan. “I was thinking you could wear this, if you want.”
Rowan looked up at him, breaking into a big, toothy smile. “Is this yours, Jamie?”
Jamie nodded, feeling his chest warm.
Rowan touched the number three on the back, then the stitched letters above. “What does it say?”
“It says Sullivan, and then my number: three.”
“One, two, three,” Rowan counted with his fingers. “Papa, put it on me, please?”
Tyler helped Rowan pull the jersey over the thermal shirt he already wore. “You look good, kiddo,” he said, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
