7. Scratching an Itch
7
SCRATCHING AN ITCH
Jason
I have a few free hours in New York on Saturday afternoon before our curfew at the team hotel that night.
There’s only one way to use that time—I plan to catch up with my brother first, then see some of our good friends for a behind-the-scenes TV set tour.
I’m stoked about both, but especially seeing Nolan. I’ve missed him, big time, since he moved to New York a year ago, settling into a new pad and a new life with his girlfriend, hosting a food show on Webflix. Before then, he’d lived with me in San Francisco, working his ass off trying to build up his YouTube show. Helping him out with a place to live when he needed it felt like I could finally say thanks for all he’d done for me in high school.
He’d been an awesome brother I felt comfortable coming out to at age fourteen, three years before I told anyone else. I’ve missed him more than usual in the last week, and I’m not entirely sure why.
This afternoon, I’m meeting him at a converted laundromat that peddles do-it-yourself quinoa bowls made on the fly in vending machines.
Only in New York.
As I head down the block in Hell’s Kitchen toward The Automat, I peer above the line of New Yorkers in front of me since I’m tall enough to get a peek.
I grab my phone to text Nolan when a hand lands on my shoulder. A Darth Vader-esque voice rumbles in my ear. “I see we meet again.”
I startle, ready to tackle whoever is breathing down my neck.
When . . . of course.
Brothers are such turkeys.
Nolan points at my expression, grinning like an evil six-year-old prankster. “Gotcha.”
“You’re such a dick,” I say, but I’m laughing too. Then I haul him in for a hug he doesn’t deserve.
Still, I don’t want to let go. “It’s good to see you, asshole,” I say when I finally separate.
“Aww, I love you too, shithead,” he says, and my heart expands.
He adjusts his askew glasses, then holds up a paper bag. “Already grabbed the food.”
We head to nearby Hell’s Kitchen Park and grab a picnic table. Nolan unpacks the bag, plunking my bowl in front of me. “I took the liberty of ordering for you. Quinoa, beets, kale, pumpkin seeds, and tofu. Boom.”
“It’s like you read my food diary.”
“I might possibly, maybe, miss cooking for you,” he says a little sheepishly.
I can’t resist stretching an arm across to mess up his hair, then I open the bowl and take my first bite.
As we eat, we chat more about his girlfriend, Emerson, and the places they’re checking out for upcoming episodes. It’s like swinging in a hammock, chatting with my brother. But even as we shoot the breeze, I feel that itch again, like there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask him. Or maybe it’s a question I want him to ask me. Met any guys lately?
I could tell Nolan about Beck. Not specifically, but generally.
But what would I tell him? There’s this guy, and I’m trying to play it cool with him and failing miserably. I’m still stuck on that first gym encounter and whether I handled the if you need guidance on your queer journey thing the best way I could.
Ugh. Probably not. I might have been too... poster boy .
I’m dying to ask Nolan’s advice, but I don’t want to reveal a shred of Beck’s identity. That’s not my story to tell.
So my brother and I talk more about his show and tomorrow’s football game, which he’ll come to.
When we finish eating, Nolan fixes me with a more serious stare. “How’s Dad doing? Will he be off the crutches soon?”
I sigh, still feeling like it’s my fault Dad broke his leg in the first place. “Supposedly, the doc says he can wear a walking boot in a couple weeks. But you know Dad. He’s working too hard. Trying to do it all. Not wanting anyone to help him.”
“So, the way he’s been since Mom left?”
“Gee, do you think the two events are connected?”
“Just a little,” Nolan says sarcastically, then his smile disappears. “He still thinks he has to do it all.”
After Mom took off when I was eight, moving to Florida with a new guy and becoming a summer-vacation-only parent, Dad worked damn hard to single-handedly provide for us. He started Mister Cookie, then grew it into a nationwide cookie franchise business. He wanted us to have everything we needed, from football equipment for me to pots and pans for Nolan. He’s basically Dad of the Year every day.
“He’s sixty-two. I want him to consider retirement a lot more seriously. But I’ve had no success convincing him,” I say, wishing our dad weren’t so stubborn. “I just want him to be happy.”
“That’s how you are with everyone,” he says, no judgement, just truth. Then he glances at the time on his phone on the table. “We’ll come up with something for Dad, but for now let’s head to the studio.”
Thirty minutes later, our friend TJ and his actor boyfriend, Jude, are taking us on a tour of Unfinished Business , Jude’s TV show that films inside a block-long concrete slab of a building on Tenth Avenue.
Once we’re past security, and inside the show’s studio, I gawk. Slack-jawed, I point excitedly to the brick exterior wall of Jude’s character’s building. “Dude, that’s where Jamie lives!”
With a delighted smile, Jude gestures to another area of the set. “If you like that, let me show you the infamous stairwell .”
Jude ushers us past a café set to the plain, white walls and concrete steps. “That’s where you and Zoe had your first kiss,” I say, sounding like a certified fanboy, and I don’t care.
“Good memory,” TJ puts in.
Then, Jude’s expression turns a little more serious. “But I hope what happened there this season didn’t taint your memory?”
Embarrassment crawls through me. “I haven’t seen the new season,” I confess. “When did it premiere?”
Nolan squeezes my shoulder, shaking his head like he can’t believe I missed it. “A month ago, Jaybird. Your favorite show premiered a month ago.”
“Shit, sorry,” I mutter.
TJ points to the door in a huff. “Leave. Now.”
I laugh to cover up how much I feel like an ass for missing my friend’s show.
The new episodes must be in my queue, but something keeps me from clicking.
Oh, shit.
The show reminds me of Beck. Did I really like the guy so much after one stinking date that I’ve been avoiding my favorite show because it makes me think of him?
The evidence adds up.
But I don’t want my friends to think I’m some jackass who ignores their work. “I’ll catch up on it, I promise. It’s not the show, Jude. I watched it a year ago with this guy, and then he never showed for our next date, and that kind of sucked,” I admit, feeling a little lighter as I get closer to the things I want to, but can’t, discuss.
Jude smiles sympathetically. “That twat didn’t deserve you.”
I appreciate the support, though that’s not the issue with Beck. He’s not undeserving. But I might have jumped to conclusions. Maybe I’m the twat.
I’m dying to unpack the Beck run-ins with Nolan or TJ and Jude. But there’s no way I can talk about what happened without saying why it was so messed up—because Beck and I play the same sport.
“Show me the rest of the set and I promise to catch up soon on the season,” I say to Jude with the same excitement I used with Nate when I ordered the mango smoothies.
I shove Beck out of my mind one more time.
The New York Rebels’ defense is predatory. I swear their linebackers have fangs.
But we’re only down by seven with two minutes left in the half. As the crowd stomps their feet and demands my head on a platter, I get in the pocket, take the snap, and scan for the tight end. But Orlando is swarmed, and so is Nate. As I hunt for a free man, I scramble away from a bloodthirsty Rebel hellbent on sacking me, and then the heavens part.
Nate escapes a cornerback trying to reroute him, and I have enough time and protection to fire the ball his way. The fast motherfucker catches it with outstretched arms, then spins away and takes off.
All the way down the field.
And into the end zone.
Yes!
We switch out, and I meet Nate at the sidelines to high-five him before he rips off his helmet. Our kicker evens up the score, and when our defense staves off the Rebels until the clock runs out, we head into the locker room at halftime, feeling like maybe things can go our way.
C’mon, c’mon.
I pace the sidelines. Jaw clenched, hope strung tight. All we need to do is hold the Rebels to a field goal, and then I can return to the field. Five minutes remain on the game clock, and the score is tied again, seventeen to seventeen.
When our so-called turtles show their mettle and stop the drive, I pump my fist. The Rebels kicker nails the field goal, and then it’s our chance to salvage this game on offense.
I’m not going to let my team start the season down two.
We take possession. With determination and a relentless focus on quick, short passes, we encroach into Rebels’ territory.
The crowd noise is deafening. But I’ve spent my whole life drowning out the sound and the fury from the stands.
When the center snaps the ball, I scan downfield. As Orlando dodges the coverage, I gun the football his way... and boom. He makes a beautiful catch five yards from the end zone, then scrambles out of bounds.
One play later, Nate runs it in.
Yes!
We hold them back for thirty-five seconds as the clock runs out, then we walk off the field with a hard-won victory.
I am ecstatic and so damn relieved.
This is the best post-game shower ever.
The best suit I’ve put on after a game ever.
The best high-five with Nate ever.
Fine, fine. It’s only one game, but we needed it. I’m pumped full of adrenaline when I find Nolan waiting outside the locker room. “Lucky charm!” I call out.
He smiles, thrilled we won too. “Thanks for the ticket.”
I’ve only got a few minutes, but I want to say goodbye before heading to the team plane. “No, thank you for coming,” I say, still riding the post-game high.
Nolan waves a hand like it’s nothing, then gives me a serious look. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I laugh in disbelief. “Did you watch the game? Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
He nods down the corridor, and we step away from the locker room. “I was just thinking about what you said yesterday when Jude showed us around,” he says quietly. “For you not to watch your favorite show because of a guy... that’s a big deal.”
My cheer drains away. I’ve stopped myself from talking about Beck and his situation enough already. I’m flying home in an hour, and I need to work through my situation.
I glance around the hall, checking for Rebels and Hawks, then duck to a quiet corner. My stomach’s in knots. I feel queasy even opening my mouth, but I’d feel worse saying nothing. “He’s another athlete,” I say softly, beginning a careful confession. “And I should not be so... out of sorts over a hookup. But the thing is—and this is vault—he plays football. And no, it’s not Nate.”
Nate’s separated from his husband, but he’s trying to work on the marriage, and I don’t want Nolan to think I’m interfering. I fully support my buddy and the effort he’s making with Oliver.
Nolan breathes a big sigh of relief. “Good. I mean, Nate’s a great guy, and I know he’s sort of available, but that’d be hard, being teammates.”
Try being rivals.
“Wait. Is it Luke?” Nolan asks, mentioning a friend of mine who’s a second-stringer for New York’s other football team—the Leopards.
Reasonable question since Luke’s out and proud. “No, not Luke Remington. But this guy — I think I might have been kind of a dick to him,” I admit.
That’s what’s weighing on me. I was so eager to do the right thing at the gym that I barely paid attention. I didn’t listen to what Beck needed to say—not like I listen to Whitney or Jonah or the kids at the center. “He seemed to want to explain why he didn’t show up for our second date, and I didn’t give him a chance,” I say, and I feel like shit about it no matter how cordial and happy-go-lucky I was the next day at the coffee shop.
Nolan smiles gently. “There’s a solution for that. Let him get a word in next time.”
Sounds easy, but I don’t know how to pry that conversation open at the gym. Or the coffee shop. Those places are public and not great for asking hey, about that queer thing...
But I’ll have to find a way because I’ll undoubtedly run into him again.