Chapter 32 Luc
THIRTY-TWO
LUC
AJ has my arm in a vice grip. We’re on the sidelines, sweating beneath our pads. The tension in the Superdome is thick, the hum of excitement and anticipation practically vibrating the turf below our feet.
We’re in overtime. Our line was able to stop the Viking’s last drive before they made it too far past the fifty-yard line, but their defense has been just as effective. Monty just called for a long-range field goal as a desperate attempt to end this game.
Blane Kiff, our top kicker, hasn’t had the highest accuracy in the league this year, but he hasn’t had the worst either. We have faith in him. All our hopes for this game are riding on his shoulders.
“Come on, baby. Come on. End this thing,” AJ chants, squeezing my bicep hard enough that I’m starting to lose circulation.
The line moves. The ball is snapped.
Kiff’s cleat makes contact, and the ball cuts through the air.
For a heartbeat the entire Superdome is silent. Time stands still, the ball hovering in midair. On the sidelines, the coaches, players, and trainers all lean to the side to get a good angle.
It’s true.
It’s good. We all simultaneously turn our heads to the officials, who hold their arms straight up in the air.
IT’S GOOD!
The stadium erupts. Cyclone logos flashing, gold towels whipping through the air, a sea of white and gold letting out a roar that jars my bones.
We rush the field, a mob of crushing bodies, pads, and helmets clanking against each other.
AJ is screaming in my ear, laughing and wailing, “We did it!!!”
We’re going to the Super Bowl! For the first time in the team’s history, the Shreveport Cyclones are headed to the big game. The biggest game.
The biggest stage.
I want to call him. The locker room is a chaotic mix of sweat and celebration, but there’s only one person that I want to celebrate this moment with.
I keep glancing at my phone to see if Jesse has texted.
I know he was watching. He always watches me.
I know because I can feel his eyes on me when I’m on the field, or when the cameras pan the sidelines.
AJ spots me checking my phone for the millionth time and smirks. “Go quick while everyone’s distracted. I’ll run interference.” He gestures to a back office, a training room that’s still dark.
I duck my head and make a beeline through the chaos, smiling and thumping teammates left and right as I make my way across the room. My hands are shaking as I swipe my phone awake and hit dial.
He picks up on the first ring. “Hey.” His raspy voice settles me, and the happiness over the win finally sinks in.
There’s a lot of noise in the background where he is, too.
I forgot what they’re working on today. Are they in the studio preparing the new single they plan to debut at the Halftime show?
“Luc?”
I clear my throat. “I’m here. Sorry, it’s loud.”
“I bet. Congratulations.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. I should have video called so I could see his face. Everything feels muted without his green eyes on me.
“So I guess I’ll be seeing you at the Super Bowl.” I grin so hard my cheeks hurt. “I wasn’t sure if you saw. I wanted to call you right away. And I wanted to say I love you. We’re so close.”
Maybe I’m mistaken, but it sounds like he repeats my last words in an almost sarcastic tone.
“What did you say?”
“I love you, too, Luc. So fucking much.”
Something about his tone doesn’t sit right. My stomach twists. “Are you alright?”
“I’m good,” he says, too fast. “It’s just loud back here. Everyone’s celebrating your big win.”
I swallow the urge to press my gut feeling, and smile. “Tell everyone I’ll see them soon. Two weeks, baby.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I can’t wait.”
We hang up, and I stare at my blank screen saver for a moment.
Am I overthinking, or did something seem off?
I can almost hear Shawna’s voice in my head, telling me to quit worrying and allow myself to enjoy the good moments.
I shove it down and head back into the fray, to celebrate a momentous win with my teammates.
Morning comes early and brutal, sunlight slashing through the curtains and my eyelids. Ugh, my head hurts. Why didn’t I pull the blackout curtains when I finally made it home last night?
I blame everything on champagne.
I’m not a drinker. I’ll have a light beer on rare occasions, but I don’t think I’ve had even a sip of alcohol since Jesse and I got together in September. I feel a little guilty for getting as tipsy as I did, but those tiny glasses of bubbly snuck up on me.
My phone is buzzing out of control. I didn’t set an alarm this morning, since we don’t have to be at the field until after noon today, but my automatic bedtime settings prevent me from getting notifications in the middle of the night.
If it’s after seven, I’m getting all the notifications from our big win yesterday.
Damn, there’s a lot of them. I let the notifications load, and roll onto my back, smiling up at the ceiling.
Everything is coming together. My team has made it to the Super Bowl, and Jesse will be waiting for me after the game, ready to start a life together.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little terrified.
There are going to be a lot of people in my business speculating about Jesse’s leaked videos, but I’m ready to stop living in fear and finally allow myself to just let go and live.
I’m not sure my phone is ever going to stop buzzing. I talked to all of my family last night and got their congratulations in person, and it’s not like I have a ton of friends outside of the team. Are they tagging me a bunch, or what?
I hold my phone up and unlock it, nearly dropping it on my face when I see the first thumbnail.
New Year’s Eve. Jesse sprinting offstage, shirtless and glistening with sweat, grabbing me and kissing me like the world was ending. A kiss he teased the crowd with but never confirmed, and hid from everyone but his bandmates and manager, who was nearby.
This picture wasn’t taken from the crowd from a lucky angle. It was taken from backstage, close enough that you can see the love and lust radiating off both of us. There’s no mistaking what we are to each other.
I’m not mad about the picture. It’s beautiful in its own right. Something I’d probably save or maybe even frame, so I could look at it all the time and see our obvious love for each other radiating from a simple photo.
It’s the headlines that turn my stomach. I know I should stop, but I can’t help but thumb through each and every one of them, wishing more and more that I could bury my head in the sand and disappear.
Cyclone’s Defensive Anchor Caught In Steamy Photo with rockstar Jesse Moore
Shreveport’s Silent Star Outed as Jesse Moore’s Mystery Man
Mr. Colgate Caught On Camera With Lest Is Moore’s Frontman
Mystery Man In Viral Videos Outed
NFL Hero Shocks The World With Rocker Sex Scandal
New Year, New Power Couple?
From Sidelines to Stage: Luc Martín’s Secret Romance Goes Viral
Private Leaked Footage Goes Viral Again After Mystery Bottom Uncovered
Is Luc Martín’s Relationship Proof that the Super Bowl is Staged?
Integrity On The Line: Can Luc Martín Survive Scandal as Cyclones Head to Super Bowl?
Faith, Family, and Football: Did Luc Martín Betray the League’s “Good Guy” Ideal?
Conservative Critics Call for Cyclone’s Defensive Player Suspension
On and on and on they go, until I’m forced out of bed to hunch over the toilet. Last night’s celebration tastes twice as bitter on the way back up.
By the time I make it to the team facilities, there’s no question that all my teammates, coaches, and trainers have seen it.
I enter our usual post-game film and debrief meeting to wolf whistles and jeers.
Even if most of the reactions seem playful and teasing, not disgusted or hateful by any means, I’m still humiliated.
Every man in this room, every teammate with whom I’d found mutual respect, has seen me at my base, most vulnerable moments.
They’ve seen parts of me that no one other than Jesse should have seen.
I try to play it cool, laugh it off where I can. I keep my head down and speak even less than usual. Every phone in the room is buzzing and pinging with the trending news blowing up all over sports news, social media, music blogs, and political trash fires everywhere.
Unsurprisingly, the leaked photo and confirmation of my involvement in a major rockstar’s sex scandal overshadow our team meeting.
I’m excused from the mandatory press interviews that are supposed to take place this afternoon, but the story dwarfs the team’s accomplishment.
Our rise from the bottom to the biggest championship in American professional sports is diminished to a byline under the news of me bottoming for an international superstar.
I wait until most of the team is gone before braving the swarm of media waiting for me outside.
As soon as the doors open, I’m hit by a wall of flashing lights and shouted questions that range from stupid “Can you show us a smile?” to downright intrusive “How long have you been Jesse Moore’s gay lover? ”
The driver Jesse’s label hired to help protect me from the vultures is trapped inside the SUV, cameras and people pressed closely against the vehicle. The poor guy looks as panicked as I feel. There’s no clear path to get to the SUV, much less for Graham to get us out.
A firm hand closes on my shoulder.
“Come on, Martín,” Coach growls, pulling me back inside. “This way.”
I let him steer me away, pulling my cap lower as a member of the janitorial staff leads us through a service door and down a maintenance hallway. The shouts dull to a muffled buzz behind us.
“Thanks Jerry,” Coach calls to the janitor, who nods as he holds a door open to the loading dock behind the stadium, where a black sedan idles. “Get in before any of them get wise,” he orders, and slides behind the wheel.