“It’s fine.” Everyone thinks I should move on, but I don’t know how to do that, not after everything. “I’m gonna hit the sack.”
Oakley opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. I say a quiet thank-you for that.
*
I’m completely inthe zone. It’s like my brain understands the assignment in a way it hasn’t for a long time and is able to compartmentalize Lucas as something to deal with after these four quarters of football.
We start out on defense, and unfortunately, Miami scores their first time down the field, then ends the play with the extra point, leaving us at 0–7. Adrenaline pumps through my body, making me feel jittery but also somehow laser-focused. I need this game tonight. I need to be able to play, despite the way I’ve royally fucked up my personal life.
I end up on the block for our QB as he passes the ball to our tight end, who barrels through the defense for an addition of seven yards. We run a similar play the second time, chipping at the yards, working our way down the field. Onthe third, there’s a long pass to one of our wide receivers, the ball slipping through his fingers, just slightly short. “Motherfucker!” I shout, not at anyone, but at the situation. Miami doesn’t let up, and we end the run with only a field goal.
The second quarter doesn’t go much better, with none of my teammates crossing the end zone again. Coach gives us a pep talk at halftime—all the ways we’re better than this, wondering where our energy is, and setting a plan for the second half.
Football is the only thought in my head right now. The need to win. The need to prove myself. Who the fuck I’m proving myself to, I have no idea, but I taste the need on my tongue.
We make a decent first run when we finally get the ball in the third. The second we’re in a quick huddle for the next play, my QB looks my way.
“We’re going to you,” he tells me, signaling which play to run.
“I got it,” I say, bouncing on my toes, skin practically buzzing.
It doesn’t quite go as planned, me struggling to lose the motherfucker who’s right on my ass. But I fake left, go right, then sprint ahead of him, knowing his speed has nothing on mine. I’m not where I planned to be, where the play called for me to be, but that doesn’t matter. One flick of the QB’s gaze in my direction, and I know the ball is coming to me. I swear it’s like slow motion as it soars through the air, landing in my waiting arms.
Go, go, go.
I break through two defenders, my sole focus on getting into the end zone. I can feel it happening before it does, like my shoes are on fire because of my speed. The hit comes once I’m jumping over the line. Refs blow their whistles, throwingout a penalty, but we decline it. I fucking did it. Touchdown, baby. We’re winning this game, and I don’t care what I have to do to make it happen.
And we do, only by a field goal, but that’s all that fucking matters. Miami didn’t let up the whole second half, but we pulled out the W, and I played another great game. But as we celebrate in the locker room, my teammates loud and boisterous, my mind returns to Lucas.
It’s only been a couple of games since we started our new routine, but somehow, it’s already embedded into my life, something I look forward to—messaging with Lucas after the game. Even when he wasn’t bringing up football, those texts gave me something I needed, and after playing an integral part in winning today, the only person I want to talk to about that is him. Did he watch the game? He’s been watching for me. Because he wants to support me? To be able to talk to me about it? None of this is making any sense, and yet it feels so natural.
We take the bus to the private hangar where our plane waits for us, and as soon as we’re back in LA and I pull onto La Cienega, I know exactly where I’m going. It’s late enough that traffic isn’t terrible, which gives me less time to talk myself out of it. No idea why I’m going or what I’ll say when I get there, but that doesn’t stop me from driving his way, fingers drumming against the steering wheel.
I’m so fucking tired of not letting myself feel good anymore,reallygood. Not just fucking random people or going to parties that aren’t my thing. That’s me in a way, but it’s also me searching for something. Who the fuck knows what. But it doesn’t bring me the calmness that spending time with Lucas does. Being with him is one of the few places I feel like I never have to pretend. I don’t have to pretend to be excited by football if I’m not, but I can love it too. I don’t have to eat aperfect diet, or talk about training and the off-season, or focus on new play concepts and the media. I can sit on a roof all night when I should be sleeping, or go on a hike when I should be in the gym. I can figure out what I really like outside of football.
My hands tremble as I get out of the car at Lucas’s. It makes me feel weak, which is fucking wild but the kind of thing that’s been drilled into me my whole life—not from my mom, but from everyone else. Men need to be strong, especially in sports, and especially me as an out, queer athlete. I’ve been determined to be myself from the start, but it’s rare that I let myself admit to being afraid. That feels like a failure.
It’s late, the middle of the night. Lucas should be in bed. I have no business coming over to his place this late, but that doesn’t stop me from standing outside the door, pushing the intercom button, and hoping he answers.
“This better be good,” he says, voice rough, like he’s either been sleeping, trying to sleep, or, hell, maybe he’s been up drinking and smoking until his throat is raw. Maybe he’s doing it because of me, because I let him blow me and then I blew him, before walking out on him and ignoring him for a week.
“It’s me. Hunter.” I want to bang my head into the building because of fucking course he knows my voice.
The pause goes on so long, I think maybe he walked away, maybe he’s going to show me what it’s like to be ignored, and I would deserve that. But Lucas doesn’t do that. The door buzzes, and he says, “Come up.”
I don’t remember going inside. One moment I’m outside the door, the next I’m upstairs, not even having the chance to knock before the door opens. He looks sleep-rumpled, in nothing but low-slung pajama pants, with no underwear band sticking out. Had he been sleeping naked? Pulled them onwhen I woke him?
Lucas runs his fingers through his hair, then lowers his arm, his muscles moving and tightening. “Hunt…”
I open my mouth to respond, even though I still don’t know what to tell him, but I don’t want to talk. As much as we need to, as much as he deserves an explanation, right now I just…want.
That’s it. I want.
Like the last time, I don’t think, simply feel, and the next thing I know, his face is in my hands, my mouth sealed to his. For a second, two, three, he doesn’t move, doesn’t kiss me back, and then his arms are around me, tongue pushing between my lips.
Lucas pulls me into the condo, shoving the door closed behind me as we kiss and stumble through the room. His hand slides between us, cupping my hardening dick through my track pants, before reaching around to grab my ass. I moan into his mouth, my body nothing but sensation, like I’m siphoning off good feelings from him and taking them inside me. He doesn’t stop kissing me, and I sure as shit don’t stop kissing him. We almost trip over the couch, then chuckle into each other’s mouths as Lucas keeps going, pulling me to his bedroom.
This is the first time I’m seeing it. He’s got a huge wall of windows overlooking West Hollywood, and in the center is a black king-size bed with dark bedding and flanked by black nightstands—one of them holding a water bottle, a pack of cigarettes, and lube.
