Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
There’s this guy from high school I fell in love with. There’s this girl from college who saved me.
BEAU
Everyone knows the feeling of people watching you. Most of the time, it’s no big deal. It’s a fleeting moment.
But today, millions are watching us make history.
It would almost be surreal, like I’m living in a dream, but I’ve been getting the shit sacked out of me during the first half.
So it’s very real.
It’s the Super Bowl.
We’re matched up against Philadelphia again. Although we’re favored to win, we’re down 14-24 at halftime, and the pressure is immense.
Everyone not only expects us to win.
Too many need us to win.
It’s not just the victory that matters to so many. It’s the legacy we’ll create for generations, for everyone like me and Colt.
I stand by the locker assigned to me, and I stretch, trying to breathe through the stress, the expectation that I’ll lead us there. I keep my muscles warm. That’s what I usually do during halftime, but the halftime of the Super Bowl is longer, and the extra minutes are torture.
We can distract ourselves. We can watch the halftime show on the flatscreens in the locker room.
I glance up at the screen to my left and watch as the lights drop in the stadium. The singer is about to take the stage.
It’s about to be an epic performance and not because the performer is the number-one-selling woman pop artist of all time who happens to date another NFL player.
It’s because she’s pulled off a last-minute wardrobe change. It’s because, in addition to her glittery Louboutin boots and signature Versace bodysuits, she stands in the spotlight, wearing a sparkling rainbow pride tailcoat.
Don’t ask me how she got it so fast, but she’s doing it. She’s taking the stage in strong support of me and Colt.
Of “The First Fourteen.”
That’s what they’re calling us—the first fourteen NFL players to come out as gay, bi, or queer.
Yes, a few have come out over the years, but not like this—not together, not as a movement, not before they play in the Super Bowl.
We waited until after our team’s morning at the hotel.
The Pact—that’s what Zar’s group informally calls itself—strategically selected ten reporters. They were invited, with their camera crews, to a meeting room rented in our team’s hotel.
Speculation flew as to what the impromptu, secret press conference was about.
Great lengths were taken to sneak the other players, who are not playing in the game, into the hotel and into the meeting room where reporters were waiting.
We wore black or white button-up shirts with black pants. No colors to signify teams or causes. Some suggested the pride colors, but we decided not today.
Today, we let our voices speak.
Nick went first and kept it short. Over the months, there will be more time to speak. We have group interviews, feature stories, documentaries, and more planned.
But today, it was simple.
The words were poignant and planned.
“There are almost seventeen hundred players, like us, in the NFL today,” Nick spoke into the microphone at the podium. “If our numbers match the world we live in, that means about one hundred men in the league are gay or bisexual. That means too many are in the closet. Too few are free. Until now.
“Today, we are the first fourteen players to say we are proud. We hope we inspire others to speak up, too. My name is Nick Barinov. I am one of many. I’m a football player and a proud gay man.”
Then, each player stood at the mic and proudly came out, too.
Colt and I went last.
“My name is Colton Hawke. I am one of many.” His voice didn’t waver. “I’m a football player and the son of a devoted mother. In her memory, I am proud to say I am a father and a bisexual man in love.”
Then I took the mic last. “My name is Beau Bronson. I am one of many.” I looked straight into the camera lens of the largest sports network in the world. “I’m a football player who’s always loved the game, and today, I’ll win the Super Bowl for everyone like me. For everyone proud of who they love. I am a bisexual man in a loving, committed partnership with Colton Hawke and Blair Monroe.”
Questions erupted.
We didn’t answer any.
We stood in line, broad shoulder to shoulder, our hands crossed in front. We lifted our proud chins and stood in solidarity, fourteen men out at once in the NFL.
That photograph, that moment, will go in the history books. We could feel it.
Then silently, we left the room, one by one, while Ruby became our spokesperson. It seems The Pact had been hiding her as their secret weapon all along.
Word, of course, spread like wildfire.
Colt and I weren’t even on our team’s bus, waiting to take us to the stadium for the game, before tens of millions knew, including our teammates.
I stepped on the bus before Colt. Under my black tailored Dior suit, I was sweating. But I lifted my chin, ready for hateful glares, cruel jokes, or disgusted eyes that wouldn’t even meet mine.
It was the moment I feared the most.
The one that kept me silent for so long.
But Malik Goodwin stood up and started clapping. Then David Martinez. Then Patrick Smith. Then Coach. The entire bus gave us a standing ovation.
Yeah, it fucking choked me up. Colt too. From our teammates, we got hugs and back slaps instead of hate.
But from others? We know what’s coming, too.
“Rise up!” Malik shouted. “And let’s win a motherfucking Super Bowl!”
We’ve been focused on the game ever since.
Should I be worried we’re ten down at the half?
Yeah.
All season, I’ve felt it in my heart. I’ve felt the joy and love on the field.
It’s just a game.
I tell myself when I’m in the pocket, and huge defensive linemen aim for me, trying to score a hit so hard that I’m on Injury Reserve or worse.
But hell, no, I won’t let them. I’ve fought too hard to make it this far. Ice baths with Colt. Heat therapy with Blair. Acupuncture and sheer will have me pushing my right shoulder to the limit. It feels like hot razors slicing my tendons every time I throw.
Still… I fucking throw, and we win.
But today, when we took the field, I didn’t know what to expect.
I saw a sea of sixty thousand people. And maybe it was all in my head because their noise usually sounds like a jet or a trumpet; it depends on the stadium. I’m used to the cheers and jeers, but this time, it sounded different. It felt different.
It was different.
It’s not just a game.
Atlanta’s flags and colors were smeared with Philadelphia’s. From where I stood on the gridiron, they filled the horizon. I expected that.
But then I saw the rainbow flags. Then I saw the cruel homemade signs. “brONSON BLOWS HAWKE.” “HAWKE WIDE RECEIVES brONSON.”
You get the idea.
No, it’s not just a game. It’s not just my last game.
It’s THE GAME.
It’s every rap song about owning one shot, capturing one moment. That song plays in my head on a loop—the proud burden pounding through every cell in my body.
Because if we lose, it won’t be blamed on missed blocks or mistakes or holding penalties. And it won’t be about our completions or our offense or defense.
It’ll be blamed on me. It’ll be blamed on Colt. It’ll be blamed on our love. On everyone like us.
But if we win?
We’ll change “America’s game” forever.
I can only imagine what’s being posted online—what fans, haters, and commentators are saying about me, Colt, and Blair.
We agreed that I’d reveal our relationship since I was the last to speak. I’d never out them without their permission.
Besides, who are we in love with?
Blair had a T-shirt made. She’s wearing it right now. It’s Atlanta’s colors. It’s white with a black infinity symbol proudly circling her breasts with BEAU and COLT in red over each.
Our woman’s so cute. She’s proud and shameless. That beautiful woman will put our love in your face until you feel it, too.
And you’re welcome.
Love like ours feels amazing.
Cameras keep cutting to her, cheering in the box suite with my family. We told them months ago. They’re in full support of us. Blair’s sister and father are here, too, along with Ruby, Zar, and Nick. Lots of our friends are here. We only surround ourselves with the people who love us.
Stretching my right shoulder, tugging it tight across my chest, the tension burns as I search across the locker room and find the other half of my heart, my other love, with his nose down.
Colt’s on his phone.
Usually, we put them away during a game. We need to stay focused.
Yep, no distractions.
But then, as if he senses me, Colt looks up and shakes his phone like, “Check yours.”
So I turn, digging through the front pocket of my backpack. I swipe my screen to our group text: Blair, Colt, and me.
KITTEN
New Rule: White football pants must be worn at home. You’re making my ovaries explode
COLT
New Rule: Black latex must be worn in bed. It makes my dick explode
KITTEN
New Rule: We wear it but don’t sleep in it. Talk about boiling in man-soup all night
I know what they’re doing, and it works. I relax, laugh, and chime in.
New Rule: We win and get matching tattoos of blue cocks
KITTEN
I worship your blue veined throbbers but I’m not erecting them on my skin
COLT
Erect blue veined throbbers? That’s going in my sleeve
Big blue gamecocks. Like for our galactic games
And we ink our names together
KITTEN
Rookie, that’s a jinx
COLT
True Story
No jinx
It’s good luck
We’ll get our cocks and names
KITTEN
Beau Bronson, if you tattoo my name anywhere on your hot body I will lick your ass
Colt looks up from his phone, smirking all sexy at me like, “Dayum.” So, I wink back before replying.
Kitten, LICK my ass, and I’ll tattoo your name right on it
KITTEN
Typo
I’ll KICK your ass
Too late
NEW RULE: Blair licks ass with her name on it
COLT
Spreading my cheeks for the ink now
KITTEN
New Rule: Win this Super Bowl and I’ll
Then nothing. No dots. No text.
What?
She’ll what?
I glance up at Colt again, and he shrugs. On the flatscreen, the crowd is going wild for the halftime singer and her final song about touchdowns and love as my phone vibrates in my hand with Blair’s answer.
KITTEN
I’ll write your names on my heart forever
That’s a classic Blair.
That’s the best line before we smile, tucking our phones away.
“Alright, goddammit,” Coach calls us into a huddle, and here we go.
In the third quarter, we orchestrate a heart-pounding, ninety-two-yard drive that ends in Goodwin scoring a touchdown. I’m feeling hopeful, confident.
We’re 21-24 going into the fourth.
When the offense takes the field again, we move to huddle as I catch Colt waving to the midfield. He spared no expense getting Forrest, along with Reese and Jake, seats to see our game.
“A-town. A-town. Coors. Sixteen,” I shout the call, the trick play where I’ll hand off to Goodwin, a Coors fan. Then he’ll trick defense and turn, passing to Colt, Mr. Sixteen Candles, who’ll be waiting.
And it works.
The crowd goes fucking wild for Colt as he struts across the end zone.
With the field goal, we lead 28-24. Victory is in our grasp. I can finally breathe.
But I’m lying to myself as our defense takes the field, and I stand on the sideline, trying to stay calm. I mutter, repeating my mantra, “It’s just a game. It’s just a game.”
But it’s not. Philadelphia’s offense can execute like ours. They look ready to kill our lead. I watch, cursing as they get their first down. They’re in our red zone and about to score.
And I feel sick.
And, oh fuck.
Coach storms my way with a fierce look I’ve never seen in his eyes. With his play sheet, he blocks his mouth. Cameras can’t read his lips as he growls at me, “I’ve never been so goddamn proud of you, Bronson, as I am today. And goddammit, I’m not just talking about this goddamn game. I’m talking about you. I’m talking about Hawke. That was some goddamn brave shit today. You’ve put it all on the line, so go win this game because you’re the best goddamn player I’ve ever coached.”
Goddamn, I’m shocked.
I just nod, smiling from ear to ear. “Yes, Coach.”
He marches away as I stare at the stands and the rainbow flags.
This time, I notice the signs that read “LOVE WINS,” and “THE FOURTEEN FOREVER,” and “YOU SCORED AN ALLY,” and “brONSON, WE LOVE HAWKE TOO!”
“Need your mom’s binoculars?” Colt elbows up beside me, catching me taking it all in.
“Yeah,” I answer, “I can’t find our Tufted Titmouse.”
“Oh, she’s in the box suite with your mom, hearing all about our love of Puffs Tissues.”
I chew my mouthpiece, laughing. “Nah, I’m still a Kleenex man.”
“Liar.” Colt slings his arm over my shoulder. “Kleenex ain’t got shit on me because you’re my man now.”
Players hug on the sidelines all the time. It’s no big deal. But this is, and we know it. I’m sure every camera is aimed at us.
So fuck it.
I turn to Colt with a smile and let the cameras lip-read the words I say to him. “Love you, too.”
“Love, love, love,” it repeats in my head like my new mantra as we take the field with fifty-five seconds remaining in the game. In the game so many people need us to win.
I can’t fail them.
Because Philadelphia scored and got the field goal, too.
We’re down 28-31.
We need a touchdown.
I scan our opponents and all defensive eyes are on Colt. Their aim, too. They won’t let him move a yard. Goodwin’s been suffocated by defense all quarter as well.
We’re running out of plays. We’re running out of time.
I scan the end zone, “Love, love, love,” chanting in my head. With my heart pounding, my vision tunnels to a girl with her parents. A smiling girl with black hair, wearing my number four Atlanta jersey, waving a rainbow flag.
Colt believes in signs.
So do I.
Smiling as we huddle, I call the play, “A-town flip. Raven. Raven. Birds Fly Home.”
To our offensive line, it’s code for what to do.
For me, Hawke, and Blair—it’s everything.
I take the snap and fall back, seconds running down. Inhaling, I hold the pocket one last time, acting like my right shoulder, all swollen and on fire, is twitching to throw to Goodwin on my left.
Then, I pivot right like I’m going to throw to Hawke instead, while Hawke and Goodwin run like decoys in opposite directions, drawing Philadelphia’s defense their way while our offensive line clears the way for me.
They clear the path for me to put my nose down, my nostrils flaring, my jaw clenched, my muscles exploding as I fly up the field, running home with the ball tucked in my grasp.
I sprint fourteen yards, smirking when I see a defensive tackle. I love this. With a front flip, I jump over him, landing in the end zone for the winning touchdown. It’s just a game. It’s just my old trick from high school. Pointing to the girl with the rainbow flag, I wave and pump my fist for her.
For everyone like us.
Then it’s a blur.
Players storm the field. We pile on. We celebrate. We hug, ripping off helmets and slapping pads. Then I find Philadelphia’s players and shake hands. A few seem to hate me, but I don’t care.
The press surrounds me. I’m ready for the after-game interviews. I know what to say and repeat it over and over.
“Man, it’s about our team tonight,” I huff. I smile and praise, “It’s about our players, our organization, and this incredible game. I’m proud to talk about the rest later, but let’s talk about how they crushed it tonight.”
I won’t answer questions about Hawke. He won’t answer about me. The Fourteen have spent too long planning and practicing this. We know what to say. We’re in control.
It seems like forever until, finally, I’m seeking Blair by the sidelines. Staff and security have her waiting for me.
Her smiling red lips. Her cute glasses. Her sexy black hair. Her T-shirt with our names on it.
That’s my woman.
I run to her. I pick her up, spinning her around, kissing her for all to see, just like I was dying to that night when she opened her dorm door to me.
When she opened my heart forever to her.
“I love you, Beau. I love you,” she shouts, tears welling in her silver eyes. Even though I’m soaked in sweat, she doesn’t care. She wraps her arms around my grimy neck as cameras surround us.
“I’m so proud of y’all,” she huffs against my beard, so I whisper in her ear, “It’s no joke this time, Blair Monroe. You have my devotion. I’m gonna love you forever, I promise.”
I kiss her pillow lips again and know we’ll share an incredible night and an amazing life together, but it’s not complete. Not until we turn, looking for him, and there he is, just as brawny, sweaty, and proud as me.
I hold my arms open for Colt. With our pads still on, we practically smush Blair between us, but she laughs.
Yes, when players win, they hug.
But Colt and I are more than players. We’re in love.
We waited forever for this moment, smiling nose-to-nose. Gently, I grab his neck, and he grabs mine. Our eyes lock before… we kiss, his whiskers soft against mine, his lips salty like mine.
It’s not long, but it says everything.
It changes everything.
Every camera captures it, and we hope they do.
Yep, this picture is going on our nightstand.
Then I feel Blair gently tugging my hand. Her warm hand, which I love so much and plan to hold every day, slips something smooth and circular into my grasp.
This was our game plan.
I’ve waited too long for this, too.
And I’m not talking about a Super Bowl win.
With my chin up, I lower to one knee before Colt. He’s shocked. Then, instantly, I see the dream fill his brown eyes, too. He knows what I’m about to do, what we’ve always wanted, and he lets me.
The camera shutters hiss. Microphones hover. People gasp, then freeze around us like they’re holding their breath as screams in the crowd erupt at the sight.
But they all fall away except for Blair, who Colt tenderly pulls into his grasp. He holds her tight under his right arm, her hand on his chest, while I take his left hand.
There’s this guy from high school I fell in love with.
There’s this girl from college who saved me.
“Colton Hawke,” I vow, “you never gave up on me. You never gave up on us. You always believed in our love, and now I’m asking you to always believe in me. Let me win your heart every day. Will you marry me?”
His thick lashes wet, his brown eyes welling with tears, just like mine, his voice dropping gruff. “Yes, Beau Bronson. Proudly, I will marry you.”
I slide the perfect gold band on his thick finger, knowing we’ll say so much later. But that’s private, and for us to share with Blair without the cameras and fans.
And I know that next week, after the three of us go to Disneyland, where I’m sure we’ll share many rides and pranks, we’ll go to Charleston.
Luca Mercier is letting Ruby organize the most lavish surprise takeover of his luxury hotel.
Five hundred white roses, along with five hundred paper roses made from Blair’s books, the ones inspired by our love, will fill the white marble lobby. Hundreds of flickering candles will glow in glass votives while all the lights will drop as I drop to my knee and propose to Blair, too, in front of everyone we love.
Yes, I already have the twelve-carat emerald-cut diamond ring, size five, by the way, for her. Yes, I’ll buy her any beach house she wants. Yes, she can have my bookshelves, but I’ll always control the remote, and Colt commands the thermostat. So yes, she’ll want to snuggle with us and have our babies, too.
And yes, I know Colt will try to outscore me.
He’ll orchestrate his lavish proposal to Blair and surprise me with one, too,
And that’s my new game plan.
I hope we never stop trying to win each other’s hearts… shamelessly.
NOT THE END