44. You Had One Job
44
YOU HAD ONE JOB
Jason
Practice is sloppy. Devon misses throws. Xavier drags. Andre misses a couple easy tackles.
When it mercifully ends, Coach calls the starters to the edge of the field. He stalks to the left tackle. Andre has six inches on Coach, but the guy who protects my blindside looks like a kid when Coach stares up at him.
“You miss those on Sunday, your QB goes down,” Coach barks at Andre.
“I know, sir. Sorry, sir,” Andre says.
“Sorry doesn’t cut it on game day. Your job is to protect the quarterback. You have one job ,” Coach says, and I cringe inside. Andre is such a gentle giant when he’s not on the field. This has to be killing him. “And you need to do a better job at your job.”
He wheels around to Elroy and Johnson, pointing at them. “Same for you two. Are we going back to the mistakes you made at the start of the season? I have no patience for that.”
“No, sir,” Elroy says.
“We’re not, sir,” Johnson seconds.
Then, Coach strides over to the new guy, singling out Xavier. “And I expect better of you. You came here in September strutting on the field like a peacock, but you need to keep your head in the game. Are you all distracted from the auction last night?” Coach whips his gaze to Devon next. “Was it just too exciting ”—he stops to sketch air quotes—“when you went for a higher bid than you thought?”
Are you kidding me? He’s on our case because we did a charity event?
Before Devon can answer, I step out of the circle, closer to Coach, prepared to take the heat. “It’s not Sunday, Coach,” I say. “It’s Friday. It’s practice. Andre shows up in every single game. So does Devon. So do Elroy and Johnson and Xavier. So does every single guy here. We all do.”
Coach jerks his gaze my way, staring sharply at me. “And yet you’re all playing sloppy today. Gee, I wonder why? Half of you were parading around on-stage last night for dates.”
Are we supposed to live, eat, and breathe football twenty-four-seven? “That was a charity fundraiser. The owners wanted us to do it. We did it for sick kids.”
“And yet you still need to show up for practice like it’s a game.”
“It’s practice,” I repeat. “We don’t always have great practices. No athlete does.”
“But you should. I ask for one thing. Focus and excellence.”
Well, if we’re splitting hairs. “That’s actually two things,” I point out like an asshole. But fuck him. I’ve had enough.
Coach steps closer, breathing fumes on me like a drill sergeant in a war flick. “You want to correct me, McKay? You want to keep on doing that? Go right ahead. You’re the most distracted of them all, with your show, your media bits, and your archrivalry. You better not let it distract you in the postseason. You hear me?”
I seethe, wanting to rip him to pieces, but I hold back. He’ll blow his fuse in, oh, twenty minutes when I tell him I’m seeing Beck.
Better to leave something in the tank. “Yes, sir,” I say.
“Hit the showers, go home, study the playbook, and be ready for Sunday. We can still get home-field advantage in at least one game in the postseason. Maybe two.”
He marches off the field, leaving us to chew on his cruel words.
In the locker room, the mood is sullen. This would be the worst possible time to jump on a bench and shout, “Hey, remember me? Your gay quarterback? Guess what? I’m in love with the bi quarterback across the city.”
Gritting my teeth, I take a quick shower and then change at my stall, keeping to myself as I consider a new plan of action.
Nate’s next to me, and he catches my gaze. “You okay?”
I just nod. He knows Beck and I got back together. I told him before practice. He knows too, I planned to tell the team now.
“Tomorrow works just as well, buddy,” he says, reading my mind.
“Thanks,” I say, exhaling at last.
As I zip up my jeans, Andre comes over to me and claps a hand on my shoulder. “Thank you for that. You know I have your back,” he says.
“I know you do, man,” I say, trying not to get choked up.
Emotions can suck it.
As Andre retreats to his stall, Elroy swings by. “Some people are just never happy, Jaybird,” he says sympathetically.
“Truer words,” I say.
I grab my polo shirt and tug it on, resigning myself to telling them tomorrow. Today is all wrong. As I’m about to go, I check my reflection in the mirror in my stall. I’m wearing the sky-blue shirt I wore to the photo shoot.
When Beck confessed he knew all my shirts.
It’s just a shirt.
Like the eggs were just eggs.
Like the coffee was just coffee.
But they aren’t just anything. They’re everything, and every boba tea, and every meal, and every night I spent with Beck drove me to where I am today. When I leave work in a few minutes, I’m going home to see my boyfriend, and if I want to go out to dinner with him tonight for the first time, I will.
Beck is worth it. I’m worth it.
I turn around and clear my throat. “I have something to tell all of you.”
Across the room, Xavier turns and meets my eyes with curiosity. The guys on the D-line look at me. Devon buttons up his shirt but angles his head my way.
“You guys may not like this, but I’m okay with that. You’re going to find out sooner or later. I’m in a relationship with Beck Cafferty, and I have been for most of the season. If you have any issues with that...” I stop myself. What am I offering them? A forum to discuss their issues? No way. It’s my fucking life. No one gets to decide who I love.
I reroute my impromptu speech. “If you have any issues with it, so be it. That’s life. I’m here for you every day, and every time we hit the field. Who I love has nothing to do with that.”
Nate grins so big I swear he’s going to break out clapping. I know he’s not on my side because he’s gay. He’s on my side because he’s a friend, and I’m damn grateful for that.
But when I stare down the line of my teammates, I have no clue what any of them are thinking.
Elroy’s eyes are wide. Johnson blinks. Orlando’s face is impassive. Devon frowns like he’s trying to do complex math in his head.
Andre breaks the silence. “That’s cool, man,” he says with a smile.
“Thanks,” I say, and he’s only one other guy, but his support is a lifeline right now.
Devon scrubs a hand across his jaw. “You don’t talk to Beck about our plays and shit, right?”
“No,” I say with a scoff. “I don’t.”
Devon shrugs. “So it’s no big deal.”
Thank the Lord. Two down.
Xavier unfreezes, scratches his chin, and rubs his ear. “McKay. What the fuck? Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously,” I bite out. Do not fuck with me now, X-Man.
He whistles, long and low, like a warning. “Coach is gonna lose his shit, bro.”
As if I don’t know that.
“Yes, and now I’m going to tell him.”
I leave and head straight for Coach’s office. A minute later, I rap on the open door. He’s at his desk, head bent over his iPad. When he looks up, his face is made of stone. “You come to apologize, McKay?”
You wish.
“No,” I say.
He lifts a brow as if to say how dare you . “Then why are you here?”
Whatever is going on with Coach isn’t my issue. It’s his. But it’s clear from his comments that he monitors our social media. Someday, I’ll post about Beck. The prison warden should hear it from me now .
“I’m in a relationship with Beck Cafferty,” I say.
His eyes turn into torches. “Is this some kind of a joke?”
“No.”
He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and shakes his head. “I hate distractions.”
That’s coming through loud and clear. But I came here to say my piece, then get the fuck out. “I don’t share plays with him. I would never do?—”
“The show wasn’t enough?” he interrupts. He stands and stalks around his desk. “You couldn’t just do Monday Morning Quarterback with him? You had to get involved with him too?”
“I didn’t have to. I wanted to,” I spit out.
“Well, maybe you should want home-field advantage instead,” he says.
“Who I love has zero impact on whether I want home-field advantage.”
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t go all ‘love is love’ on me. That’s not what this is about.”
“Then what is it about?” I ask, reining in my anger as he tries to play a reverse psychology game on me. But it won’t work.
“It’s about you being the center of attention on this team. We are a team. But this season, it’s been all about you,” he says.
Holy shit. That’s his issue. He’s jealous of me. That’s what this is about. He hates the attention I get as the quarterback. Well, too bad, Coach.
“And management isn’t going to be happy about this. Good luck with that,” he adds.
I fight off a grin. I swear I do. But I fail because he comes back with: “What are you smiling about?”
“Nadia knows, and she’s cool with it,” I say.
It’s like watching the air leak out of a balloon but infinitely more satisfying.
Then, Coach scrambles. “Your teammates won’t like it.”
I cross my arms. “You may be right. But I told my teammates already. They know too.”
“Fans will be pissed,” he adds quickly.
Like Grandma Sarina? Like the bruiser lady? Like the fanboy? I don’t know anymore. I think they might like Beck and me together. We’re on fire in every way. We drove attendance, ratings, and excitement this season.
But that’s not the point I want to make to the man who hates everyone and everything except perfection.
I square my shoulders. “But the fans don’t get to police who I date. Who anyone dates.” I take a beat, staring at him, man to man. “Do you have any other questions, Coach?”
He grinds his jaw. “No.”
Some people are homophobic assholes. And some people are just assholes.
I leave the boxing ring, bloody and bruised, but having won that round. As I head for the parking lot, I drop my shoulders, but I can’t shake off the day entirely. Then, when I reach the row where my car is parked, I’m surprised and a little baffled to see Devon, Orlando, Nate, Elroy, Johnson, Andre, and a bunch of other guys gathered around my blue Tesla.
Xavier is nowhere to be seen.
Curious but wary, I walk to my car. One by one, the guys come up to me, clap my shoulder, pat my back, high-five me, or tell me it’s all good.
My throat tightens, but I don’t give in to the emotions swirling inside me. I just mumble a thanks I feel deep in my soul, then I get in my car and go home.
For the first time in ages, when I slump down on the couch, my cat jumps on me, curls up, and purrs.
“Well, you got what you wanted,” I tell him. “Beck will be here later.”
Taco purrs louder.
“Fine, it’s what we both want,” I say, then I pet the cat, and he lets me.