I gesture. “You’re next to me,” I say. My hand lands on his chair, and I start to pull it out before I catch myself and awkwardly step back instead.
Orlando grins, not missing the moment. “Cool,” he says and takes his seat.
I sit next to him. What the hell is wrong with me?
A few other guests of the agency join us, and I do my best to host. Staff work the room in a flurry, and chatter fills the air, mixing with the live jazz as dishes clink.
“The Force is having a fantastic season,” Allen says, leaning forward to address Orlando as another course arrives, little plates of radish and greens and some sauce. “You’ll take one of the spots at CONCACAF for sure.”
“Thanks, I think so, too,” Orlando says with a confident smile. “But it means something special coming from the best sports writer in town.”
Allen chuckles. “Keep winning. It makes my job easy.”
I‘m tense, nervous that I already betrayed myself by starting to pull out Orlando’s chair earlier. There’s a sports writer sitting right across from us, for fuck’s sake.
I’m even more uncomfortable than I usually am at these things.
The conversation goes on, plates coming and going. The heads of the Coaches' Association make their way around, greeting the different tables. The other current pro at our table, Cheryl, gets caught up talking to Orlando, and I turn my attention to the rest of the guests, grunting occasionally in agreement while they talk.
“Excuse me, gentlemen?”
When I turn, an event photographer is there.
“A quick photo, if you don’t mind?” she asks.
I look at Orlando. “Fine,” I say, and he widens his smile.
Just great.
There’s nowhere for my arm to go, so when Orlando leans just slightly into my space, I stick it awkwardly down my side. I force a half-smile, almost a grimace.
No one knows about us. The camera feels like it’s exposing us, but it’s not. This is normal, and they’re taking pictures of everyone.
Across from us, I see the second photographer flashing an image of a softball player and her husband. They look relaxed and happy together, practically glowing, and it’s like a kick in the gut when I think about how different from that my arrangement with Orlando is.
Only time we look close to that relaxed is when we’re in the hotel together. But our situation shouldn’t look like a relationship, I remind myself. It’s different.
The camera flashes, and the photographer disappears into the crowd. Sweat is forming on the back of my neck, and I abruptly stand.
“I’m getting some air,” I say and walk away.
The hotel arrangement was supposed to make events like this easier.
Back in the quiet ballroom, I rub my hand over my beard, rehashing my talking points for Patel. I’m starting to consider that he didn’t show, but after people hurry by with trays of drinks, he crosses behind them and walks over to me.
Patel has already loosened his tie, and he has a cautious smile on his face, not like his usual personality, which is practically sunny.
“The man with the arm,” I say, skeptical but not showing it. “Beautiful passes last weekend.”
He manages a smile. “Gotta keep you interested somehow.”
“I’m interested.”
Patel’s smile falters slightly, just enough that I notice, and my face falls, too, as he glances over his shoulder.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
He turns back to me. “I think word might start to get around,” he says quietly, almost to himself, before raising his voice back to normal volume. “Sorry. I’m sure you’re trying to enjoy your night.”
