3. It’s A Small World
3
IT’S A SMALL WORLD
Jason
On Wednesday, I wrap up a visit to the LGBTQ Alliance by facing two bloodthirsty teenagers in an epic battle of table shuffleboard.
Jonah takes no prisoners as he fires the puck at the end of the table, hitting twenty-one points and winning the final round, beating Whitney and me.
The high school debater thrusts his arms in the air. “Geeks rule. Beat the pro baller and the track star,” he declares.
Whitney slugs his arm, shooting him a defiant look. “Maybe Jason let you win.”
I gasp like I’m so very offended. “After years of coming here, you think I can just check my competitive nature at the door?” I stab my finger on the table. “I gave it my all.”
Jonah smiles like a champion. “Exactly. That was fair and square. I officially rule at the Alliance Table Shuffleboard Games.” He gives a fist pump.
We put the pucks away, and once the game room is spick-and-span, Jonah says goodbye first, then takes off. Whitney hangs behind, and when we head into the hallway, she gives a grateful smile. “Thanks, again, for chatting earlier.”
“Always, Whit.” I’m glad we could grab a minute to talk about her plans to ask a girl to homecoming, a big step for her. “I can’t wait to hear how it goes.”
She crosses her fingers. “Me too.”
I was once one of these kids, and the friendships I made here helped me come out to my teammates in high school, then again in college, and again in the NFL. Seeing these teens grow and gain confidence means the world to me. I never want to miss the chance to offer a shoulder or lend an ear.
“See you soon,” I say, then head to the nearby parking lot.
I drive home to change for my afternoon workout, then set off on foot for the gym, checking my messages as I walk. I’ve missed a text from the team’s publicist. Reese’s note says to check my voicemail and then call because she has something “fun” to discuss with me.
Ugh. Please don’t let it be another media request asking how I feel about the Renegades’ chances with their new starting quarterback. Reese and I have already crafted a bland, stock answer.
I look forward to playing all the teams in the NFL and am thrilled the league has such a high caliber of talent.
The truth is I have no opinion on the new QB except that his dick is nice, and I’m certainly not going to say that.
As I walk along Jackson Street, I play her voice memo.
“Hey, Jay! So, I’m calling because Megan Choi’s radio station is launching a new podcast, Monday Morning Quarterback . It’s standard post-game analysis, and those tend to do well since fans generally want to hear from the quarterback,” she says, and a flash of black hair catches my attention at the next house. Zena Palladium sets down her watering can in her front yard and waves me down with an excited grin.
I smile back and point to my earbuds, so my neighbor knows I’m on the phone.
But Zena is undeterred. She mouths, Well ?
The tech goddess started a new dating app, and she’s determined to get me to give Date Night a whirl. I pause, smile, and say, “I’ll get back to you soon, Zena. I promise.”
I owe her a favor since she hooked me up with a new cat sitter after my last one failed to show up when I was playing in Phoenix. But I’ve been dragging my feet on answering her on her app, and I’m not sure why.
For now, I keep walking and play the rest of Reese’s message. “It’s once a week for the rest of the season, and naturally, we think you’d be great for it. Call me for the details.”
The show sounds cool, but the timing is odd. I dial Reese right away, and after we say our hellos, I fire away: “Isn’t it a little late to be lining someone up for this show? The season has already started.”
“They were going to have Trevor Washington do it, but he couldn’t do it this past week,” she says, then hesitates, like there might be more, before she adds cheerily, “And now they want you.”
There’s something unsaid in her pause. I almost don’t want to go there, but the question is welling up inside me. “Did Cafferty turn them down first? Am I the backup to the backup or something?”
Like hell am I going to be Beck’s sloppy seconds.
She jumps on my question as if it’s a grenade. “No!”
“Then what’s the story?” I like Reese. She’s a straight shooter. But I want her to be blunt with me.
“Look,” Reese begins like she’s leaning in to confide in me, “Nadia worked the deal with the station herself.” A request from the team owner doesn’t happen every day. Nadia Harlowe doesn’t ask much of me directly other than to win, something I didn’t do for her last year. “Nadia wants more press. She thinks putting you out there more will help with the team’s overall marketing, and that’s one of her big goals—more marketing to drive attendance. And you’re great at interviews and public speaking in general. You’re perfect for this. Also, from what I hear, they didn’t ask Beck.”
I rein in a laugh of schadenfreude. I shouldn’t gloat—even in my head—over being picked first for the show. I shouldn’t derive any glee from being better with the media. Beck’s with the better team, so life has a way of evening things out.
“I’ll do it, and thanks for asking me. Please let Nadia know I will not disappoint her,” I say sincerely as I reach the small-batch ice cream shop, then turn onto Fillmore.
I hang up, passing the familiar mix of high-end and hipster boutiques on this hilly street as I try to figure out why I don’t want to take Zena’s offer, besides the obvious—do I really want to be the face of a dating app?
As I debate that choice, I head into the gym, pop music blasting and weights clanging. The gym is huge, with row after row of machines and a faintly chlorinated scent drifting in from the adjacent pool. Smells like hard work and discipline: two of my favorite things.
Once I reach the weight bench, I pick some heavy dumbbells, and while I do bicep curls, I replay the handful of dates I had in the off-season. They all fizzled. Maybe that’s the real problem I’ve had with apps. I can’t spark with someone online. I’m a physical kind of guy. I work with my body. I like to use my body on and off the field.
Like with Beck.
The memory of that night flashes white-hot. Annoyingly so. His fiery mouth. His questing hands. His barrage of eager questions.
The guy was a fun puzzle, and he was also hot as hell.
But lots of guys are hot. And the whole encounter ended with more questions than answers when he didn’t show up for our second date.
Maybe I dodged a bullet, though, because he’s in the closet as far as I can tell.
When it comes to guys I date or hook up with more than once—I’m only into dudes who are out.
Because I’m out.
There’s no halfway as a pro athlete. Our job is in the public eye. If Beck were out, I’d know. Everyone would know. No shade from me on his choices. People decide on their own time when to walk out of the closet, and I’d never pressure someone.
But if that’s what he wanted to explain to me, he could have said that in his text. He didn’t need to wait to tell me in person. So, his I’ll explain later felt like the coward’s path to ditching me.
Just man up and say I didn’t want a second date.
Plain and simple.
I won’t let a guy walk all over me. Not after the way Wyatt, my ex, tried to manipulate me. We had a good thing going for a while until he gave me an ultimatum about my job.
That didn’t fly.
Football is my first love, and it deserves all my attention.
I’ll turn Zena down. I’ve got a busy season ahead. My dad to look out for. My volunteer work at the Alliance. And this new podcast.
There’s no time for dating. No time for sex. And no time to worry about Beck.
Eventually, I’ll run into him around town, and when I do, I’ll just smile and wave.
With that decided, I finish my weights routine and head for the cardio equipment, ready to claim a treadmill.
Then the door swings open to the gym, and Beck walks in.
What. The. Fuck? It’s like I just summoned him.
Rationally, it makes sense that our paths would cross in a gym, but holy shit. I was not prepared. For any of my reactions. Both the desire and the annoyance as I take in the sight of his chiseled jaw, his broody eyes, his broad frame.
I don’t wave. I don’t smile.
I do the opposite.
I clench my jaw and breathe out hard. My entire body is strung tight.
This is a big problem. With this powder-keg of irritation inside me, I can’t smile and wave at Beck.
If I were in the pocket and saw a play would fail, I’d call a new one.
Because . . .
What if there’s another reason Beck stood me up? What if he’s trying to figure out how to come out? I think of Whitney and Jonah, learning who they are and what they want. I think of my younger self and the angst I went through before I came out to my teammates.
I’ve got nine years of being out in public under my belt. Beck doesn’t have any, as far as I know. What if that was what he wanted to talk about when he texted me to explain?
Do the right thing.
I make a line of scrimmage decision as I cut across the treadmills to catch up with him.