Just as the sun breaks over the horizon, I close my eyes and make my wish.Love, I wish for again, real and true. The kind that I can’t run from, the kind that comforts me, the kind that saysthis is a safe place to rest. Like the island and my family home, but in a person.
“Made your wish?” Charles asks.
When I glance over at him, he’s watching me keenly, and I fight hard to not flush under his gaze. “Yep. You?”
“Yep,” Charles echoes. “You’re right. It’s a good way to start the day.” He stands smoothly, not bothering to dust the sand off his hairy calves. My gaze gets stuck on his thighs for a moment before lifting the rest of the way up to his beautiful face. “I’ll see you on Tuesday?”
“Yes,” I agree, voice thick and traitorous. “At six.”
Charles salutes me before returning to his run. I watch him, noting the slight limp in his run, no doubt the knee thathe blew out in his final Super Bowl. I lie back on the beach towel as the sun climbs up farther in the sky. Pinks, purples, and light blues, the familiar color of the sunrise that has equaled safety to me for so many years.
I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing, but at least for now I’m home.
CHAPTER SIX
CHARLES
Home has always been an elusive thing for me. I’d never felt at home in my childhood house with religious parents who spent years making sure the truth I knew about myself wasn’t something they’d accept. When I’d gotten the scholarship to college, I left and never looked back. The closest thing I’ve ever had to home was my long tenure playing in San Diego, since I signed with them right out of college. But it never felt quite right, despite the team and the mortgage I had.
But I’d say Hope Island is starting to feel more like home than any other place ever has felt. It’s Tuesday afternoon and I’m doing my best to clean the house in preparation for my lesson with Tucker later tonight. In San Diego I’d had a housekeeper, but that only made sense while I was working. Now that I’mretired, it doesn’t make much sense. I’ve always been pretty self-sufficient despite the amount of money sitting in my bank account.
My phone rings halfway through my cleaning session. Cupcake’s head perks up from where she lies by the fire, herhead quirked to the side. That shows how often I get phone calls these days. I’m not remotely surprised to see it’s my former agent.
I’m going to keep dodging that call for a little while.
I finish cleaning up the house while listening to a random playlist on my phone. My knee aches a little today, probably from pushing myself too hard on the run over the weekend combined with physical therapy on Monday.
Sometimes the disappointment of the end of my career being from an injury slams into me. Grief is a river, I have learned in time. It feels silly to feel grief over the loss of a career, but I guess it’s more grief that I didn’t get to go out on my own terms. Instead, I was taken out by an injury that I hadn’t ever expected. Could I train and return? Maybe. But I’m almost thirty-seven, which is practically ancient in football years. I’m not Tom Brady. I’m Charles Augustin, four-time Super Bowl winner and gay man who’s ready to live his life out of the spotlight. Despite Rafe’s previous call, I’m not too interested in coaching. Although it’s nice to be wanted, my football days feel very done to me at the moment.
I wonder if Tucker will eat something if I cook it? I’m hungry anyway, and it’s an hour until he arrives, so I spend a little while making sautéed vegetables and pork loin. Dinner is ready just as the hesitant knock at the door arrives. I prepare myself for Tucker’s pink hair so that I don’t look like an idiot this time. I wasn’t lying, it does look good on him. I just hadn’t expected it considering his cherubic blond curls were how I’d been picturing him in my head.
The pink is lighter this time when I swing the door open.
He’s got his guitar slung over his shoulder, that forest-green cardigan wrapped around himself again. Ink peeks outfrom under the collar of his T-shirt, but I can’t make out what it is from just that small snapshot.
“Sorry, I’m a little late. Pop was talking my ear off,” Tucker explains as he slides past me. He slips off his shoes on the mat, revealing rainbow socks that are far more endearing than they have any right to be. “Not that it matters.”
“I was cooking dinner, so I didn’t notice. Are you hungry? I made a bunch.”
Tucker looks disappointed and sad all at once. “No, I ate already. Thank you, though.”
Huh. Okay. “Well, I need to eat real fast, then we can start.”
Tucker waves me off and heads into the living room. I watch for a moment as he takes out his guitar, then sets it aside when Cupcake wanders over to him for pets. He’s far less hesitant now than he was the first time they met. His fingers are still exceedingly gentle as he scratches the top of her head. I wish I could see his face.
I hurriedly eat a plate of dinner, all the time wondering about the man in my living room. Tucker is still softly petting Cupcake’s head, who has her eyes closed and head tilted onto his knee like she’s in heaven. I hate to interrupt them, but we have to get on with the lesson or I’ll find an excuse to keep Tucker here, lesson or not.
“Sorry, guys.” I pat Cupcake’s back and smile as she curls up at our feet instead of returning to her bed by the fire. “Ready?”
Tucker clears his throat. “Yep. Have you been practicing your chords?”
“Yes, I’ve mastered a few of them.”
Tucker sends me a small, pleased smile. “Show me.”
I go through the handful of chords he’d tasked me with memorizing, using my thumb to strum the strings. Tuckerlooks happy when I glance back up, and I can’t help but return his smile. Pleasing him feels really good, and I can’t quite explain why.
“You did great! How are your fingers?”
