I looked at myself in the mirror this morning, so I know what he sees. I desperately need a haircut, my facial hair is past light stubble and into beard territory, and I’m wearing navy sweatpants and an old San Diego hoodie that’s seen much better days. I guess I realize I’m attractive, but it’s not something I think about when I roll out of bed in the morning. And if I’m attractive, then Tucker is a supermodel. I kind of think the pink hair just makes him even prettier, makes him stand out in a crowd. I think Tucker should always stand out in every crowd.
“I am uncomfortable with this turn of conversation,” I say in desperate hopes he’ll change the topic.
“Of course, the hunky quarterback is shy about his looks. Another tick in thehe’s perfectcategory.”
“I am not perfect.”
“Oh yeah?”
“My knee,” I remind him with a pained wince.
“Whatever, dude. Anyway, I’ll let you know what time the weekend powwow will be. I’ll make sure Tucker is there.”
“Well, I’ll see him tomorrow for my next lesson.”
“Hmm.” River shoos me out of the coffee shop, and I go with a confused smile. One of the wooden light poles has a flyer of Tucker’s still hanging on. Only one strip of paper remains at the bottom, which I hope is a sign that maybe business is picking up for him.
As far as I know, Tucker isn’t much younger than me, maybe just a few years. I don’t have much of a type, as I spent much of my career in the closet. I’ve never really had a coming out moment actually. I’ve just stopped caring that maybe it should be a secret. There have been out players inthe league now, and many out players after their retirement. My sexuality was an open secret on my team, and I was always very lucky to have management and most players on my side. Turned out a majority of the men on the team didn’t give a shit if you were leading them to the playoffs. Much of my life was focused on one thing, getting out of Nebraska, and then getting championship rings. Now feels like the time to focus on me, figure out what I want to do for the rest of my life. I know for sure that I want to settle down with someone, have a gentle, quiet life. Rafe might think football isn’t done with me, but I’m pretty done with it, unless a dream opportunity presents itself.
I head back home for the evening, thinking too many big thoughts. When I get home, the box of things I’d ordered the other day is sitting on my front step. At least there’s something to look forward to. The internet search I’d done had said I’d need all new cookware, and I’d also need to clean my oven just in case I want to bake something. I’d also bought a cookbook of gluten-free recipes because I hate looking up recipes online. I mean, I want the recipe, not a story about how your cousin tore your family apart by deciding to take up astrology on her downtime.
So, a cookbook is the way to go.
Maybe tomorrow night I’ll cook a gluten-free meal. That seems simple enough actually. Mind made up, I decide that tomorrow morning I’ll run to the mainland to get all the supplies I’ll need for a gluten-free pizza.
Clouds blotthe sky as Friday evening approaches. I have Tucker’s number taped on the fridge and think about callingas I finish the pizza, but a crack of thunder rends the air just as a fist raps against my front door.
“Shit,” I swear, hastily wiping my hands on a towel as I scurry toward the door. Cupcake beats me there with a bark, so I shush her and pat her head.
Tucker stands at the front door, soaking wet, and every protective instinct in me lights up. “It’s raining,” Tucker says plainly, like I can’t see for myself. I grab the edge of his soaked shirt and tug him inside the safety of the warm house. He shivers slightly at the change in temperature. Jesus, what the hell was he thinking?
“Sorry,” Tucker apologizes, looking anywhere but at me. “It was fine until halfway, then the heavens let loose on me.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
Tucker looks down at his feet, drips of water surrounding him. “I’m getting your floor wet.”
“That doesn’t matter.” The timer in the kitchen goes off, and I swear for the second time in moments. Tucker’s eyes are big and round, bright like the sky after a storm. “Just stand right there for a second. Okay?”
“Sure.”
I sigh at his easy reply, then wander into the kitchen to take the pizza out of the oven. Once that’s done, I return to Tucker and nod toward the other side of the house. “Let’s get you into some dry clothes.”
“I can stay in this.”
“Absolutely not. Come.”
Tucker at least listens to me. Unsurprisingly, Cupcake stays with Tucker. She’s a very nurturing dog, which is why she’s always worked well with me. The game could get into my head sometimes, but Cupcake always brought me down toearth and made me feel very loved. Tucker seems to need some of that right now.
I flip the bedroom light on, feeling the weight of Tucker’s stare as I search through my drawers for clothes that won’t slip right off of him. Although I’m only a few inches taller than him, my shoulders are broader, so all my shirts will surely swallow him. I try to contain my reaction at the idea of Tucker in my clothes. A shiver rolls through me at the idea.
Tucker stands staring down at Cupcake when I return to him with an old pair of sweats and a San Diego T-shirt, because it seems that I only have branded clothing for hanging out around the house.
“Here.” I gently wrap my fingers around his forearm and tug, pulling him toward the master bathroom. Grabbing a towel from under the sink, I stand back up to find Tucker looking around like he’s in a museum. “Dry off and get changed, then we can eat dinner.”
“I told you already, I can’t eat what you cook,” Tucker says with an air of grumpiness, but he takes the clothes from me regardless.
“It’s gluten-free.”
