Grant nodded slowly. “What do you want me to say? How do you want to... introduce this?”
“I don't know yet.” I rubbed a hand over my face. “I already told them I'm gay. That part's done. But telling them about us? About you?” I paused. “That's different.”
“Because I'm your coach.”
“Because you're important.” I met his eyes. “And because if they see the headlines before they hear from me, they'll think the worst.”
Grant was quiet for a moment. “Jace, the photos broke a while ago. They've probably already seen them.”
My stomach twisted. “I know.”
“Have they called?”
“No.” That was the part that had been eating at me. “Not once. Not my mom, not my dad, not even Leah.”
“Maybe they're waiting for you to reach out first.”
“Or maybe they're pissed. Maybe they saw the headlines and decided they don't want anything to do with it.” I stared out the window at people passing by on the sidewalk. Normal people having normal days. “My dad's never been great with this kind of attention. And my mom—she always worried about my reputation, my career. This is exactly the kind of scandal she'd hate.”
“You don't know that's what they're thinking.”
“I don't know what they're thinking at all. That's the problem.” I rubbed my face. “The silence isn't a good sign.”
He reached across the table and took my hand. Just for a second, then pulled back when he remembered where we were. “Then we go there. We tell them the truth before anyone else gets to spin it for them.”
“What if they already believe the worst?”
“Then we prove them wrong.” His voice was steady. “But you can't know what they're thinking until you talk to them. And waiting longer just makes it worse.”
He was right. I'd been putting this off since we got back from Calgary, telling myself I was waiting for the right moment, the right words. But really, I was just scared. Scared of the silence. Scared of what it meant.
“We should bring something,” I said finally, needing to focus on something practical. “Can't show up empty-handed after ignoring this for so long.”
“What do they like?”
“Mom loves those raspberry-filled donuts from the bakery next door. Dad pretends he doesn't care about flowers but he always comments when Mom has fresh ones.”
Grant stood. “Then let's get both.”
We walked next door to the small bakery, the bell jingling as we entered. The woman behind the counter smiled at us, completely oblivious to who we were or what buying donuts together might mean to anyone with a camera.
“Dozen donuts, please,” I said. “Mix of raspberry-filled and chocolate glazed.”
While she boxed them up, I found myself watching the door, waiting for someone to walk in with a phone out, ready to capture us together. But nobody came. Just normal people getting coffee and pastries.
Grant paid before I could pull out my wallet. “I've got it.”
“You don't have to?—”
“I want to.” He took the box from the counter woman and handed it to me. “Come on. Flowers next.”
The corner shop had a small selection, mostly wilted carnations and tired-looking lilies. But there were white roses in the back cooler, fresh and clean.
“Those,” I said, pointing.
The shopkeeper pulled them out, wrapped them in brown paper with twine. Simple. Classic. The kind of thing my mom would put in a vase on the kitchen table and pretend wasn't a big deal even though she'd rearrange them three times to get them perfect.
Grant paid for those too, ignoring my protests.
