“Yeah. When we’re back in Tampa.” I was alreadypulling out my phone, like I could make it happen faster through sheer force of will. “I want to talk to him for real this time, ask him about FSU, about what happened, about—I don’t know, just talk to the guy.”
Murph’s whole head cocked. “Hang on. Let me get this straight. You want to go back to thegaybar in Ybor to fanboy over the barback’s college football career?”
“It’s not fanboying; it’s—” I heard myself and stopped. “Okay, fine, but the bar’s cool, the sliders are fire, and Jacks seems like a good dude. What’s the harm?”
Murph studied me for a second, something flickering in his expression that I couldn’t quite read.
“Sure, Cap,” he said. “Whatever you say. I’m always down for good sliders and supporting the locals, especially if they’re all about backing the team.”
“Sick. I’ll let Tyler and Erik know. We can make it a whole thing.”
“A whole thing,” Murph repeated. “At the gay bar . . . to meet the barback.”
“To meet my favorite college football player who happens to be a barback. Context matters, asshole. The local news might even want to cover this, show us doing our do-gooding, support the community, diversity-loving-team thing, ya know?”
“Uh-huh.” Murph was grinning now, that specific grin that preceded chaos. “Sure, dude. Context. Do-gooding. Sounds great.”
I ignored the suddenly weird vibe in our hotel room and grabbed the remote to flip channels, but my brain was already somewhere else. It was thinking about FSU football and career-ending injuries.
I wanted to know more.
I wanted to knowhim.
But this was fan stuff.
Totally normal bro things.
Just one dude liking what another dude did . . . or does . . . or didn’t do. Shit. Whatever.
I fell asleep that night thinking about what I’d say when I got the chance to talk to my football icon.
There was nothing weird about that.
Nothing weird at all.
Chapter 3
Jacks
Tuesdays at Barbacks were dead. Not dead dead—we had our regulars, the guys who showed up rain or shine because this place had become their living room and we’d become their weird, dysfunctional family; but compared to the chaos of weekends or watch party nights or Lightning game days, Tuesdays were practically meditative, which meant I had time to restock the bar without someone screaming at me for another round.
Small victories.
“—and then, I swear to God, Jacks, he asked if I wanted to see his collection.”
Benji was perched on a barstool, supposedly on break but really following me around and narrating his dating disasters while I tried to work. This was our routine. I didn’t hate it, but I’d heard so many of Benji’s stories that I could’ve predicted the bitter ending before he even began.
“His collection of what?” I asked, sliding a case of beer into the cooler.
“That’s what I said! I was like, ‘Collection? Sure, what do you collect?’ Thinking, you know, maybe it’s something normal like coins or stamps or vintage porn.”
“Vintage porn is normal to you?”
“Compared to what he actually said? Yes. Absolutely. Vintage porn would have been a gift.”
I straightened, wiping my hands on my jeans. “Okay, I’ll bite. What did he collect?”
Benji leaned forward, his eyes wide with the particular glee he got when sharing truly horrifying information.
