Which, for them, it probably is.
At practice, it becomes background noise.
“You see the new pics?” someone asks during warm-ups.
“Damn,” another replies. “That dude pulls.”
“Good for him,” someone else says. “Living the dream.”
Marco shakes his head and calls out, “You’re all a bunch of gossips. What’s with all the celebrity stalking?”
I stretch, breathe, focus on my body, on the familiar burn in my calves and the rhythm of movement. I tell myself this is nothing. That this is just the cost of proximity to someone whose life is louder than mine.
But proximity without acknowledgment is its own kind of absence.
Marco catches my eye once during drills. His expression is careful, checking in without asking. I give him a small nod. He accepts it, for now, and I try not to think about how he knows something is off with me.
Later, in the locker room, Kirk brings it up again. “Guess your rock star friend’s really leaning into it,” he says, voice pitched for the room. “Can’t open my phone without seeing his face.”
I don’t respond. I don’t even pretend not to hear this time. I keep my head down, methodical in the way I move through my routine. Shoes off. Socks rolled. Hands steady. If I stay precise enough, maybe I can outrun the way my pulse is starting to thud in my ears.
“That actor’s hot, though, apparently. My wife won’t stop going on about him,” someone adds, careless, like it’s just commentary. “Can’t blame him.”
A ripple of laughter moves through the room.
Kirk smirks, leaning back against his locker like he’s settling in. “Yeah. Guess that explains the fanbase.”
Something sharp twists in my chest.
He doesn’t stop there. “Isn’t your friend into both dudes and chicks, though?” Kirk goes on, voice louder now, more confident. “So why’s he throwing a guy in everyone’s face like that?”
My hands curl into fists before I can stop them.
“What?” he continues, scoffing. “Is he trying to prove something? Or is this just some publicity shit? Because I don’t get it. Pick a lane.”
The laughter is thinner this time. Less sure.
“Man,” Smith mutters, uneasy. “That’s not?—”
Kirk waves him off. “What? I’m just saying. Feels performative. Like, cool, we get it. You’re ‘edgy.’”
The wordedgylands wrong. It sounds cheap and dismissive. I swallow hard. I stare at the floor, at the scuff marks near my feet, at anything that isn’t the way his voice keeps pressing in on me. I should say something. I know I should. Every part of me is screaming that this is the line, that silence here isn’t neutrality—it’s permission.
But my mouth won’t open.
Marco’s towel hits the bench hard. “Dude,” he says flatly. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
The room stills.
Kirk looks surprised, like he genuinely didn’t expect anyone to push back. “Relax. I’m allowed to have an opinion.”
“Not when your opinion is just you being a homophobic asshole,” Marco replies.
Kirk scoffs, shaking his head. “Whatever. Didn’t realize this was a sensitivity seminar.”
I finally look up. Our eyes meet for half a second. There’s something in his expression then—curiosity, maybe. Testing. Like he’s trying to figure out why this bothers me so much.
I look away first, and the shame of that choice settles deep in my chest, heavier than any weight I lifted today.
