8. Low Key Icons
8
LOW KEY ICONS
Beck
Here’s another thing that’s different in San Francisco compared to Los Angeles.
The stadium is packed.
I don’t know if the Mercenaries ever sold out a single game. But as I stare down the tunnel before kickoff, ready to run onto the field in my first game as a Renegade, all I see are fans decked out in blue and gold.
Filling every seat.
The decibel level is insane, and somehow it cranks impossibly louder when the announcer warbles my name. “And now, your new starting quarterback, number nine... Beck Cafferty.”
My stomach jumps, a last warning shot of nausea. But the second I put one foot in front of the other, it vanishes.
There’s only football in front of me. I run out to the field and put all my nerves behind me.
Game on.
Three quarters later, we still have the lead, and I come out of the huddle ready to take the snap.
The crowd might be even louder now. I’m not sure anymore because I’m like Zach Galifianakis playing blackjack in The Hangover . Nothing else matters. I scan the field, assess the coverage, and make a decision. The play we planned won’t work.
But this one will.
I throw to Carter, he connects, and three plays later, we pad our lead with another touchdown.
Carter hoots and claps me on the back, but I keep my head down.
I can celebrate later. Football comes first.
At 7:43 that evening in the Renegades stadium, our defense fends off Miami one last time. I watch from the sidelines, my heart climbing into my throat as the clock winds down to zero.
Carter’s next to me, and the second the word final flicks on the scoreboard, registering my first Renegades win, he grabs me in a bear hug.
“You’re the man! The new fucking man! I knew it!”
I can barely speak, I’m so psyched. But I’m even more relieved.
I want to point out that he scored two touchdowns, that he’s the man too. But all I can choke out is, “This was a great game,” and hope Carter doesn’t catch all the emotions in my voice.
Thankfully, the din of the stadium drowns out the gravel in my tone. Coach Greenhaven jogs over to me, offering a hand to congratulate me.
“Good job, Cafferty,” the man says.
“Thanks, Coach.”
I steal a quick glance to the stands, wishing my brother were here, but knowing he’d be proud of me. Not for winning. But for giving it my all.
The kicker, Hayden, swings by, patting my shoulder. Isaiah, a tough linebacker, follows and high-fives me. More players congratulate me, and it’s overwhelming in the best of ways.
But it’s only one game. I need to keep doing this every Sunday.
I head along the sidelines, and the team’s PR guy meets me, congratulating me on the win. I met Ian earlier this week—a stylish man dressed today in trim charcoal slacks and a purple button-down.
He ferries me through a few post-game interviews. I’m still in a happy daze, which makes it easier to answer questions from the reporters. But I’ve also made a ton of progress with handling the press during the last year, thanks to Jason’s advice that night at his house. Find your shtick , he’d told me.
I chose to be the thoughtful quarterback, focusing on strategy as I answered questions, and it’s worked well. I should thank him next time I see him, but I’m still a little irritated at his assumptions about me.
And I’m also still hot for him.
It’s fucking annoying, these warring emotions—desire, frustration, admiration.
When I’m done with the interview, Ian flashes me an I’ve-got-a-good-secret smile. “You’re not done yet. The owner wants to see you.”
I flinch. “Wilder Blaine?”
“That’s the one and only owner.”
I gulp as we head into the tunnel. At the end of the corridor, the billionaire who owns the team waits for me, looking like, well, like a billion bucks in his Tom Ford suit, tanned skin, with a hint of ink on his wrists.
Wilder’s smile is electric. This is a man who loves you when you win. I hope he loves me forever. “Cafferty, nice to have you on the team.” He extends a hand to shake.
“Thank you for, um, having me.”
“Listen, I have a favor to ask,” he begins. “There’s a weekly podcast launching tomorrow, and I pulled some strings with the station to get you on it too. I’d love to have you out there with the fans and the media. This town loved Cooper, and we want them to love you too.”
There’s only one podcast he could mean. Monday Morning Quarterback launches tomorrow. The show is getting some serious pre-launch buzz, and it’s co-hosted by none other than media darling Jason McKay.
Shocker. Our paths are crossing again; what an extraordinary coincidence.
“Of course, I’d love to do Monday Morning Quarterback with McKay,” I tell Wilder.
The owner thanks me and leaves, and I let out a deep breath. Ian smiles, then pats my arm. “It’s like being called into the principal’s office when you were a kid, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I agree, but that’s not the only reason I’m catching my breath.
Ian nods toward the corridor. “Let me know if you need anything before tomorrow. I’ll text you the address and meet you there in the morning.”
That’s exactly what I need. A buffer before I face Jason again. “That would be great,” I say, then his phone buzzes in his hand.
Ian peeks at it, then back at me. “That’s my hubs. The kids are going to bed. I need to call and say goodnight to my littles.”
With a wave goodbye, he heads down the hall, phone to his ear, a happy bounce in his step.
I stand in the corridor staring after him, thinking about how casually Ian mentioned his husband. So smoothly it feels like his orientation is a fact I already knew.
Jason’s words from last week walk up behind me once again, whispering in my ear.
Your journey .
I don’t want to be on a journey.
But for the last five days, I’ve been noodling on Jason’s assumptions about me.
At first, I hated it. But I realized I’m only irritated because he’s onto something—something I need to deal with sooner rather than later.
I’m not ashamed of who I am. But, and I hate to admit this, I can see why Jason thinks I’m in the closet. I can see why others might too. The last person I dated was Rachel, my college girlfriend.
I wish I didn’t have to think about how people view me. But I’m a visible player in America’s favorite sport.
I grit my teeth, pissed I didn’t see it sooner.
Fans are going to assume I’m straight. The team is going to assume the same. Or, on the flip side, they’ll think I’m closeted.
Whether I like it or not, I’m in the public eye, and the public will try to tell my personal story.
If they tell it the way they see it, I look like a liar. Like someone ashamed.
I need to say something and to say it soon.
Just like that, that weirdly unfinished feeling that’s chased me these past few days starts to fade.
Thirty minutes later, I’m getting dressed at my stall, weighing what to say and how to say it when Carter jumps onto a bench in the locker room. He cups his mouth, making a megaphone. “And now, in the time-honored tradition of the best damn football team this city has ever seen, we’re taking our new QB out for... wait for it... the city’s best-kept secret!”
Isaiah groans, tossing a jersey at Carter. “No way, man. Can’t we go to a bar to celebrate Caff?”
“Or a restaurant?” Hayden suggests, patting his stomach. “I’m so hungry I could eat... ten seared salmons.”
“Dude, you kick ,” Isaiah says to Hayden with a scoff as the kicker buttons his dress shirt. “Try tackling and blocking.”
Hayden arches a how-dare-you brow. “I kick well, and I rarely miss. Is that what you meant to say?”
Isaiah waves a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah. You score the most points. But the job doesn’t make you hungry enough to eat ten salmons. Also, what the fuck? Who craves seared salmon?”
“There’s a new fish place I want to try,” Hayden grumbles defensively as he reaches for his tie in his stall.
Their conversation is like a good tennis match. As I slide on my suit jacket, I can’t tear my gaze away from their need to one-up each other. It’s, admittedly, a welcome distraction from the plans rattling through my head.
“Ah, the truth comes out,” Isaiah taunts. “Hayden the Foodie wants to try another one of the fancy-ass restaurants that he researches when he’s on the sidelines most of the game .”
Carter blows out an annoyed breath, then whistles. The shrill sound breaks up the rhythm of their argument. “We’re getting ice cream. And anyone who doesn’t like ice cream is officially a monster. Plus, they have burgers, you numbnuts. Now, who’s a monster here?”
Carter pins his gaze to Hayden, then Isaiah, then Miles, the center, then Evan, the left tackle, daring them to defy his ice cream plans.
I like Carter. He’s made me feel welcome on the team. If I say yes to ice cream and burgers, everyone else will go along. They won’t give Carter a hard time, even in jest.
“I’m not a monster,” I put in.
Carter punches the air. “Boom!”
About ten or fifteen starters pile into cars, and we caravan to the shop. Carter claims me, so we cruise through the city in his Audi, blasting a Taylor Swift breakup anthem, an odd choice post-game. But hey, he likes what he likes, so I don’t give him hell as he sings along at the top of his lungs.
We turn onto Fillmore, and he points to a small-batch ice cream shop on the corner—The Sweetest Spot. Looks like we’re the first guys here. He pulls over and cuts the engine.
“This place is my church, and I need it after today,” Carter says, stepping out of the car.
That doesn’t sound like a dude who’s thrilled we won. As we hit the sidewalk, I turn to him, worried he’s not doing okay. “What do you mean? Why do you need it?”
He frowns. “My girlfriend dumped me Friday night. Only a bucket of ice cream will soothe my broken heart.”
“Then we’ll get you the bucket of your dreams,” I say, and I give him a sympathetic smile as we head to the door. “Sorry to hear about the split, man.”
“Yeah, me too. I was seeing her for the whole summer. But it’s her loss. I am a stellar boyfriend.” He lifts his chin defiantly. “So there. But still, I need some burgers, fries, and two scoops of chocolate popcorn potato chip fiesta to make it all better.”
“Sounds like if anything will do the trick, that will.” But when we reach The Sweetest Spot, the sign says closed, and the lights are dim.
“Um, Carter, I hate to break it to you...”
“Watch this, bro! It’s magic!”
A bespectacled man in a leather apron scurries through the shop, flicks on lights, and unlocks the door. Abracadabra indeed. The man swings open the door and gestures like a butler inviting guests. “Welcome! Free ice cream anytime for Renegades,” he says.
Holy shit. This town is the motherfucking best.
Carter winks at me. “Stick with me, QB.” Then to the man, he says, “And thank you, Shep.”
Soon, the other guys pour in. Hayden and Isaiah join Carter and me on stools at the counter while Miles and Evan grab tables.
Shep and a few staffers serve us food and dessert. I thank Shep for the ice cream, then dig into a cup of dark chocolate with cinnamon.
Carter tastes his everything ice cream, then gives a satisfied sigh and hoists his cup victoriously. “And with one bite, I’m over Izzy.”
The other guys chime in with hear-hears, and you can do so much better . “But I’m getting back on the apps,” Carter says. “Like, tonight.” Then he turns to me. “What about you, Beck? Are you seeing someone?”
The place goes weirdly quiet. I half wish I could live off the radar. Get a little cabin somewhere, fish all day, read all evening, and cook a gourmet meal.
But these guys are my teammates.
When I was in Los Angeles, I didn’t get up on the bench in the locker room and announce my orientation, but I didn’t hide it either. It came out in conversations, the way it always has for me. I’m not the only queer pro athlete in San Francisco. I hope no one has a problem with it, but if they do, that’s on them.
As the guys look at me, waiting for an answer to an innocuous question, that unfinished feeling swims up once more.
But the only way to complete a pass is to throw the ball.
“Nope. I haven’t dated in a while. A woman or a man,” I add.
Carter pauses, spoon in midair.
Isaiah knits his brow, maybe connecting the dots.
Then Hayden flashes a grin. “Same here,” he says, his smile growing even wider.
I blink. Wait. Our kicker is bi?
“Yeah?” I ask the wiry, curly-haired guy who rarely misses the goalposts.
“Yes,” he says, then picks up his burger and takes a big bite.
I try to hide a grin, but I have little luck with that. “Cool,” I say.
“Totally cool,” Carter seconds, then clears his throat. “Also, did you know ice cream cures everything?”
Including nerves. I finish the dark chocolate, and it’s delicious. It tastes like a reward.
The team is just the start. But for now, I’ll let myself enjoy that important step.
Shep won’t let us pay, so I stuff several big bills into a tip jar when he heads to the back to clean up. When we leave a little later, I glance at the street sign on the corner.
An address flashes through my head, thanks to a photographic memory.
Jason lives on Jackson Street.
I can picture his house perfectly.
I can feel, too, how much I wanted to go back there a year ago. Maybe how much I still do.
When I hop into Carter’s car, I hope he has to take this route to drive me home.
I rein in a private grin as he turns onto Jason’s street.
As soon as we hit his block, I’m stealing peeks to the left. Once his home comes into view, I catch my breath. A light shines in his living room. The blinds are down. But he walks past the window, and I can make out the shape of his shoulders, the silhouette of his strong body as he moves through his house.
Later, I picture the rest of the scene once I’m home alone.
I’m naked in bed, under the covers, imagining another silhouette in Jason’s window—me on my knees, him on the couch, his hands wrapped tight around my head, his noises and grunts guiding me home as I make good on our bet.