I set the tub on the bench in front of my locker, then slide my bag off my shoulder and let it drop. Nate saunters over, pointing at the container. “What treats did you make us this time, Butters?”
I lift the lid. “These, my good bros, are macarons,” I say, tilting it to show them six dozen perfect petite confections. Two dozen each of lemon, raspberry and pistachio.
Beau doesn’t wait for invitation. He just shoves his hand in and grabs a fistful, shells cracking between his fingers. He’s a Viking of a man and one of the messiest humans I’ve ever met. We roomed in college. That lasted one semester. I don’t know how Lexi deals with it. What am I saying? This is Lexi we’re talking about. I’m sure she has him house-trained.
“Hey.” I laugh, swatting at his arm. “Leave some for everybody else. Three each.”
I hold up three fingers, turning to Nate. “That's this many, Nate.”
“Ha ha. Very funny.” He reaches in and plucks three, lime green and delicate. “Just give me my treats.”
Marquis, my quiet, gentle friend, takes one and says thanks with just a smile. One by one, the guys filter over, grabbing their share, the locker room filling with the sounds of appreciation and shit-talking.
The macarons disappear fast, six dozen becoming three dozen becoming a scattered dozen left in the tub.
Then Pete Jablonski appears.
He grabs three, pops one in his mouth, and chews with his mouth open, lemon filling smeared on his lip. He swallows and smirks at me.
“Better be careful baking all these dainty lady treats, Butters.” His voice carries, just loud enough to turn heads. “People will start to think you're some kind of fairy.”
I swallow hard over glass in my throat, forcing my face neutral while my heart kicks against my ribs.
This isn't the first time. It won't be the last. I don't think there's been a single practice where Jablonski hasn't made some derogatory comment about the queer community—some casual cruelty tossed out like it's nothing.
I hate that I don't have the courage to say anything. The fear of them seeing right through me keeps me frozen, keeps me from doing the right thing and calling people like Jablonski out on their shit.
And I really hate that they all know who my dad is. They know his very public opinions, his disgusting posts on social media spewing bullshit about how being gay is unnatural, how people are born the gender they're supposed to be, how Pride month is just a parade of perverts.
It makes my blood boil. People assume I share those views. And if I made it known I don't, there's no end to the hell my father would cause for me.
I still love football. I do. But this whole business of hiding, of being under my father's thumb, it's exhausting. I'm not sure how much longer I want to do it.
When do I get to live?
My father wants me to follow in his political footsteps, harasses me endlessly about it, and I want nothing to do with that life. Even if I did, his party's values don't align with mine. It would just be more hiding, and it would feel even more fucking gross than what I deal with in this locker room.
“Why?” Nate's voice snaps me back, sharp and cutting. “You looking for a boyfriend, Jablonski?” Then he steps forward and plucks the remaining two macarons from Jablonski's palm. “Assholes don't get treats.”
Beau steps up behind Nate and glares at the homophobic prick, ready to back-up our bro.
Jablonski shakes his head, then grabs his junk through his trainers, sneering. “Suck my dick, Harlow. Or do you only do that for Buterbaugh?”
Beau lunges, but Nate stops him, then gets right in Pete’s face. “If I did suck dick, Jablonski, I'd be a big ol' size queen.” He looks down at Jablonski's crotch, then back up, deadpan. “So yeah, I'd be gobbling on Butters' big hog like Thanksgiving dinner before going anywhere near that thumbtack you call a dick.”
Then he pops a macaron in his mouth and chews it slowly, right in Pete’s face.
Jablonski shakes his head and walks away, muttering under his breath. “Fuckin’ homos.”
“Say that again and I’ll put you through a wall,” Beau barks at him.
I just blink at Nate.
A silent pause, then Marquis bursts out laughing, loud and genuine. Beau and Nate follow, and I join them, the sound echoing off the lockers.
I hate that anyone ever has to deal with this kind of shit. But at least I've got my bros in my corner. Sure, they don't realize they wereactuallydefending me in that moment. But they make it a lot easier to handle people like Jablonski.
Still, as the laughter fades, I think: I don't know how long I can keep this up. I don’t want to wait much longer to be myself.
