The Winner Takes All (Complete Collection)

46. The Chore List

46

THE CHORE LIST

Jason

Once upon a time, back in October, I wanted to take Beck to Lulu’s Diner. On Tuesday, a few days after Xavier’s visit, I do. After we order, I slide in next to Beck and snap a picture of us, then I return to my side of the booth and type.

I show him a draft of a post. Having breakfast with my favorite person . I add a heart emoji.

That should get the point across. “Are you good with this?”

“Very,” he says.

I click post.

Xavier was right. I don’t wake up the next morning to a feed full of rainbow flags and thumbs up.

But there are plenty of those, and they make me smile as I check my social media while I work out on the StairMaster. My boyfriend is on the treadmill a row away, peeling off miles. As I climb another floor, I scroll through more comments, my heart squeezing as I read the ones from queer teens and queer athletes, thanking us for being out and proud. I spread smiley-face emojis all over those, as well as the ones from sports reporters congratulating us. I hide the comments from dickhead bloggers who say nasty shit, whether it’s about us sharing playbooks or sharing beds. Fuck them. I don’t need that in my life.

But I do pay extra attention to the ones from passionate fans like Hawks14forever, who writes So cute, but this won’t affect how you play against the Renegades ? Or from HawksOrBust, who says You two are adorbs, but you better not help each other win!

I figured that would be a concern from some fans, though I don’t know how to reassure them without sounding like I’m dismissing them. As I read on, though, it turns out that most of the negative comments on my feed are from hardcore fans... of my boyfriend.

I give the finger to such gems as You still suck, McKay , and Whatever, just play the game , and How does it feel to be second best to your boyfriend? Renegades Repeat is coming to town!

When we finish our workout and leave the gym, I wiggle the phone at him. “Sweetheart, I don’t know how to break this to you, but you came to San Francisco and stole my fans,” I say.

He snorts. “Darling, let me make this clear. I’ve always had more fans.”

“You wish, you whippersnapper.”

Beck smirks. “When you’re good, you’re good.”

“So young, so cocky,” I say as we near Doctor Insomnia’s.

He points to the shop. “Want a Good Luck Morning Mango Smoothie? I hear it helps you perform at the top.”

I snarl at him. “I’ll take my magic blueberries, thank you very much.”

We go inside, and he orders. As we wait, I click over to my email next to get the lay of the land there. There’s a note from Cheyenne and Mitch, who won me in the auction, and I show it to Beck.

This is Cheyenne! You’re still my favorite, Jason! We can’t wait to take you out whenever it’s good for you. I know you’re busy with playoffs starting soon and your new boyfriend. Mitch and I are so thrilled you and Beck are together .

“Aww. That’s cute,” Beck says. “They probably understand falling for your rival too, since they’re a house divided.”

“Mitch loves you, and Cheyenne loves me.” That sparks an idea. “Any chance you’d want to get boba and play pinball with Cheyenne, Mitch, and me? You can say no and that’s cool. But they seemed really into both of us.”

Beck takes a beat before he answers, and I’ve learned this is part of his new skills. He likes to run through scenarios in his head. “I’m good with that,” he says as the barista slides us our drinks.

We thank him and grab our drinks. Then as we walk back to my place, I open the email from Reese: Try not to be shocked, but we have about 5,765 press requests.

I groan, read it aloud, then look to my guy. “I don’t know that I want to talk to the press about us.”

“So don’t. That’s my strategy.”

I furrow my brow. “Really?”

He takes a sip of his coffee. “If I’m good at anything—well, besides football and sucking you off?—”

“I taught you the latter, whippersnapper.”

“And you taught me well. Anyway, I’m really good at saying no. Rosemary has helped me with that. But you can also just ignore it. I’m the king of ignoring stuff I don’t need to see or hear. That’s why I’m not on social media.”

“Stop being so smart,” I grumble, then sip my smoothie.

He bumps his shoulder to mine. “You know I’m right.”

“I know you have enough time before you see your shrink to jack me off in the shower in, oh, say, about fifteen minutes.”

He laughs as we turn onto Jackson Street. “And you know I’m right.”

“You’ll probably even give me a combo blow job and handy J.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. I may even add a little something extra. But just say it, Jason.”

I stop, press my lips to his, and whisper against his mouth, “You’re right.”

But I’m right too. He takes me apart in the shower, so I don’t mind that he knows best sometimes.

The next week, in the pinball arcade in Hayes Valley, I attack the flippers on the Jurassic Park machine.

The game room is packed for a Tuesday night. It’s never been this crowded.

I’d bet a cool grand someone here tipped off a friend who told a friend who told a friend that Beck and I are here with the couple who won me at the auction.

So sad that my boyfriend sucks at pinball. It’d be such a shame if there were pics on social media tomorrow of Cheyenne and me destroying him and Mitch.

I stab the button on the right, sending the silver ball on a madcap race and padding our score. I sneak a glance at Beck, who’s double flipping.

Such a noob.

Oh well. I don’t have to share all my secrets with him.

A few minutes later, Cheyenne and I decimate Beck and Mitch, and I double high-five the bubbly blonde.

“Yes, we rock at pinball,” she declares, then taunts her husband with some kind of end-zone dance.

“Fine. I will do the dishes tomorrow,” he grumbles.

We take off for the nearby boba shop. Some people snap pics as we go. Out on Hayes Street, Beck reaches for my hand, and I thread my fingers through his.

Cheyenne and Mitch are a few paces ahead of us, so I lean close and whisper, “You doing okay?”

“I’m all good,” he says and squeezes back.

Before we left his home tonight for this date , he did one of his worksheets. It was adorable to see him at the kitchen table, outlining possible scenarios for tonight. That strategy gave him the confidence to know he could handle the eyes on us.

Now, we head into the boba shop, and I treat our guests to some tea and French fries. The four of us grab a table in the back, and Cheyenne and Mitch pepper Beck and me with questions about the playoffs, how we feel when we’re in the pocket, who our favorite receivers are to throw to.

On my turn, I ask them how long they’ve been together, their favorite games we’ve played, and who else they like to follow on the team.

Mostly, Cheyenne wants to tell us that they’ve upped the ante on the chore list they have at stake for the playoffs. If the Hawks win the Super Bowl, Mitch has to take out the trash every night for the next year. If the Renegades win, Cheyenne’s on kitty litter duty.

That’s brilliant. I turn to my boyfriend. “You’re so going to be on litter detail for the next year,” I tell Beck.

He laughs. “I can’t wait for you to handle the litter when the Renegades win.”

Funny, we don’t even live together, but we’re already divvying up chores.

In late January, the Hawks advance past the first two rounds of the playoffs and go all the way to the championship game for our conference. It’s my first time making it this far in the playoffs.

And for the first three quarters against the Denver Mustangs, we’re in striking distance of the Super Bowl.

But sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose.

I go home that night without a win, which sucks big time. My heart aches as I crawl into bed, wishing everything on the field had gone differently.

That’s football, though, and there’s always next year. I try not to dwell on the loss, especially since everything else in my life is pretty damn good.

Like this—my boyfriend is going to the Super Bowl.