Chapter 8
SETH
I woke up with Tanner’s back pressed against my chest and my arm draped over his waist, and for about ten seconds, everything was perfect.
Then my brain caught up to my body and reminded me that we’d kissed last night. That we’d agreed to quit pretending we didn’t feel the chemistry between us. That I’d promised to be patient while he figured out if he could handle loving someone who played the sport that killed his father.
No pressure.
Tanner shifted against me, and I felt the exact moment he woke up—his body going from relaxed to tense in the space of a breath. He didn’t pull away, but I could feel him thinking, processing, probably cataloging all the ways this was a terrible idea.
“Morning,” I said, giving him an out if he needed one.
“Morning.” His voice was rough with sleep. After a moment, he relaxed back into me. “What time is it?”
I lifted my head enough to see the clock on his nightstand. “Almost seven.”
“We should get up.”
“Probably.”
I pressed my face into the space between his shoulder blades and breathed him in—clean laundry, the generic shampoo he used, and something underneath that was just Tanner.
My body was responding to the proximity, to the warmth of him, and I had to think about defensive formations and injury statistics to keep from getting hard against his lower back.
“Seth?” His voice was muffled against the pillow.
“Yeah?”
“Are you sniffing me?”
My face went hot. “No.”
“You absolutely are.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “That’s weird.”
“You smell good. It’s not my fault.”
He made a sound that might have been a laugh, and some of the tension drained out of him. We stayed like that for a few more minutes, neither of us ready to face what came next.
“We should talk about this,” Tanner said. “But not in bed. That feels like too much pressure.”
“Kitchen?”
“Kitchen.”
He pulled away, and I let him go even though every instinct I had was screaming to hold on. We untangled ourselves, both aware of morning breath and rumpled clothes and the fact that we’d spent the night in the same bed without actually having sex.
Tanner disappeared into the bathroom first. I heard the shower start, and I made myself not think about the fact that he was naked on the other side of that door. Instead, I changed into clean clothes and headed to the kitchen to start coffee.
The routine was familiar—fill the pot, measure the grounds, wait for the machine to gurgle to life. I’d done this hundreds of times in the months we’d lived together. But now everything felt charged, the ordinary made strange by what we’d admitted last night.
I was pulling mugs from the cabinet when Tanner emerged from the bathroom.
His hair was damp, curling at the ends the way it did when it was freshly washed.
He was wearing soft jeans and a T-shirt that had seen better days, and he looked young and uncertain and entirely too good for seven in the morning.
“Coffee’s almost ready,” I said.
“Thanks.” He moved to the fridge, pulled out the creamer. We did this dance around each other—not quite awkward, not quite comfortable. When the coffee was ready, I poured two mugs, and we settled at the kitchen counter on our usual stools.
Tanner wrapped both hands around his mug like he was trying to warm them, even though the apartment wasn’t cold. I waited, letting him gather his thoughts.
“I’m scared,” he said.
“I know.”
“Not just about the football thing. About all of it.” He stared into his coffee. “I’ve never done this before. Never let myself want someone enough to try.”
“Neither have I. Not like this.”
His eyes came up to mine. “Really?”
“Really. I’ve hooked up with people. But nothing serious. Nothing that mattered.”
“And this matters?”
“Yeah. It does.”
Tanner’s throat worked. He took a long drink of his coffee. “What happens after this season ends? And I know we’ve talked about this, but I need to hear it again.”
“Grad school. Athletic training and sports medicine. Applications already submitted.” I reached for his hand, lacing our fingers together. “Six more games, maybe a bowl if we’re lucky, and then I’m done. No matter what.”
“And if you get there and realize you miss playing?”
“Then I’ll find a flag football league. But I’m not making decisions based on hypothetical regrets.” I brought his hand to my mouth, kissed his knuckles. “I’m choosing what feels right now. And right now, that’s building something that lasts longer than my knees will.”
The tension in his shoulders eased slightly. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I’m going to need you to keep saying it. Probably a lot. But okay.”
We moved to the couch with fresh coffee and got into the logistics—the unsexy but necessary conversation about how to actually do this without imploding.
“Who knows about us?” Tanner asked. “Specifically.”
“Hunter. John, since Hunter tells him everything. That’s it, unless you’ve told someone.”
“Just Hunter. He’s been getting updates since trivia night.” Tanner pulled his feet up onto the couch, curling into the corner. “What about your teammates? Do any of them know you’re into guys?”
“A few I trust. They’ve never made it weird.” I set my mug on the coffee table. “But being out to a couple of friends and being publicly out are different things. While I’m still playing, I want to keep it low-key. Not because I’m ashamed—”
“But because you don’t want it to become the story,” Tanner finished. “The media circus, the locker room dynamics, your family finding out through ESPN.”
“Yeah. Exactly.” I studied his face. “Is that going to be a problem? If we have to be careful in public for a few more months?”
He considered it. “Define careful.”
“No making out in the quad. No holding hands where teammates might see. When we’re out, we’re just roommates unless we’re somewhere safe.”
“And what counts as safe?”
“Off campus, mostly. Places where no one knows us. Hunter and John’s place.” I shifted close enough to touch his knee. “I’m not asking you to be a secret. I’m asking for discretion until the season’s over and I can control my own narrative.”
Tanner was quiet for a moment. “I can do discretion. But, Seth—I’m not going back in the closet for anyone. I spent too many years watching my dad hide his symptoms, pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t. I won’t pretend about this.”
“I’m not asking you to pretend. Just to be strategic about timing.”
“There’s a difference?”
“I think so. Pretending is lying. Strategy is choosing when and how to tell the truth.” I held his gaze. “After bowl season, I’m done being careful. I want to be able to hold your hand without checking who’s watching. I just need a few more months.”
He searched my face, looking for something. Whatever he found made his expression soften. “Okay. A few more months of discretion. But you have to promise that when the season ends, we’re done hiding.”
“I promise.”
“And I get to tell my mom when I’m ready. On my own timeline.”
“Of course.”
He nodded once, then uncurled from his corner of the couch and shifted closer until our shoulders touched. “This is very adult of us. Negotiating boundaries like functional humans.”
“Don’t get used to it. I’m sure we’ll find new ways to fuck it up.”
“Probably.” But he was almost smiling.
By mid-morning, we’d talked ourselves in circles enough that I needed to move.
“Get dressed,” I said, standing. “Real clothes. We’re going out.”
Tanner looked up from his laptop, which he’d been pretending to use for the last twenty minutes. “Where?”
“It’s a surprise. Trust me?”
He studied my face for a long moment. Then he closed his laptop and stood. “Fine. But if this is some kind of sports thing—”
“It’s not. I promise.”
Outside, late October had finally arrived in Alabama.
The air had that crisp edge that passed for autumn this far south, and the sweetgum trees lining the sidewalk had gone orange and red, their star-shaped leaves crunching underfoot.
Tanner grabbed a hoodie on the way out, but I didn’t bother.
After two-a-days in August, anything under eighty degrees felt like a gift.
Fifteen minutes later, we were standing outside Pixel Palace, the retro arcade two blocks off the main drag.
The place had been around since the eighties, wedged between a laundromat and a pawn shop, its neon sign flickering in a way that suggested electrical problems rather than aesthetic choice.
I’d walked past it a hundred times but had never gone in.
Tanner stared at the entrance. “You’re taking me to an arcade?”
“You spend half your free time gaming. Figured you might like the original versions.” I shrugged, trying for casual even though my heart was hammering. “Plus, it’s loud and dark, and no one gives a shit what you’re doing in there. Seemed like a good place for a first date.”
His head swung toward me. “A date?”
“If you want it to be.” I held the door open. “Or we’re just two roommates playing Pac-Man. Your call.”
The wariness in his face gave way to something warmer. He walked through the door without answering, but the tips of his ears had gone pink.
Inside, the place was exactly what I’d hoped for: dim lighting, rows of arcade cabinets glowing in the darkness, the electronic chaos of a dozen different games bleeding into white noise.
The carpet was the kind of aggressive pattern designed to hide stains, and the whole place smelled like dust and old pizza and the particular mustiness of electronics that had been running since the Reagan administration.
A few other people were scattered around—a group of high schoolers clustered around a racing game, a couple feeding quarters into a claw machine—but no one looked up when we walked in.
“Holy shit,” Tanner breathed, his eyes tracking across the room. “They have Galaga. And Donkey Kong. And—is that the original Space Invaders cabinet?”
“I have no idea. You’re the expert.”