Chapter 30
CHAPTER 30
TAHEGIN ELLINGSWORTH
“ What the hell is going on? ” I sign to Hendrix. The Treasures’ offense is on the field, so both of us are on our respective sidelines, standing at either end of the same thirty-yard line.
Hendrix gives me the universal sign for “I don’t know”—i.e. shrugging his shoulders, eyes wide.
Don’t get me wrong, the Treasures are a decent team, but with our coaches throwing in the new players—me—and the plays in serious need of TLC, we aren’t doing that good. Certainly not well enough to be ahead by two touchdowns and a field goal before halftime.
The official’s calls have been . . . questionable, to put it politely. The Rubies have been getting penalized for shit that wouldn’t hold up on a replay, and it’s all against their offensive line. Pass interference, intentional grounding—come on, Aleks was in the pocket!—and an “incomplete” pass, which they challenged and won.
On the next turnover, I head out to my spot on the field, checking the Rubies’ offensive setup to ensure I’m in the best position for what I’m anticipating their play to be. My eyes catch on Aleks, who winks, then Kit behind him, the small guy looking pale like he’s seen a ghost or maybe he is sick. As the play clock winds down, my gaze lands on the receiver lined up across from me.
Oh.
“Mathis put you out here?” I ask Hendrix as nerves fill my gut. He’s been on the sideline most of the game so far while the newer receivers had their turns to show what they are made of—preseason testing and all that. The few plays Hendrix has been in, I have, thankfully, been on the other end of the line or on the bench. This is our first matchup.
“Coach is trying to save— face —” His words are interrupted as the ball is snapped, and he dashes past me.
I curse my inattention and run as fast as I can to catch up. The late notice actually comes in handy when Hendrix fakes one way before turning the other. I don’t lose precious time correcting myself, instead darting straight to where I know his target position is.
The ball ends up in the tight end’s hands, and he reaches their ten-yard mark before he is tackled.
A yellow flag lands on the Rubies’ backfield. Hendrix and I exchange confused glances, which we then share with our other teammates. A familiar-looking judge takes a moment to speak with the referee before the latter turns to face the stadium.
He places one foot behind the heel of the other. “Tripping. Offense number forty-two. Fifteen-yard penalty.”
In the Los Angeles stadium, there is no shortage of Rubies fans, and they make themselves known by loudly booing the officials. Meanwhile on the field, the player at fault— Kit —begins to cause a scene with the familiar judge.
“Seriously, Larson? I did not trip him! Is this because?—”
Aleks closes in on him at the same time Hendrix and I do. “Come on, buddy,” Aleks says, pulling Kit’s arm. “Let’s go take a knee for a minute.”
As their replacements come out, Hendrix and I take our places again, and it is all I can do to keep my focus until the second quarter ends.
When we return after halftime, I finally pull my head out of my ass and work Hendrix over like I would any other receiver—except for the way my eyes linger on his bulging biceps and the athletic tape he is wearing from wrist to elbow to shoulder, which he didn’t use last season and hasn’t told me about during any of our daily phone calls.
“What’s with the tape?” I ask him next time we line up.
Hendrix looks side to side, making sure he’s in the correct position. “What?”
“The tape,” I point at his arm. “You okay? Did something happen?”
“T—” His head turns to me briefly, then goes back to watching his teammates.
“Why didn’t you tell me?—”
“Shit!” Stumbling back, he moves as if to be in motion during the snap. I realize his curse is due to the fact he missed the quarterback’s signal to run when a chorus of whistles sound from the officials.
“Delay of game,” the referee announces.
The Rubies call a time-out, but Hendrix circles back to stand so close to me he’s about to give away our relationship. At least, that is what I think until I register his tense shoulders and clenched fists. “What the hell, Tahegin? Did you do that on purpose?”
I hold my hands up, palms out in a gesture of innocence. “Do what on purpose?”
“Distract me!”
“ What ?”
“Guys, separate. Let’s go.” A judge shoulders their way between us, mistaking our close proximity for a fight—or is he not mistaken? A wary glance over Hendrix’s reddened face and down to the official’s hand shoving at his chest has me wondering exactly how angry Hendrix is about the penalty. Yes, I’d asked him a question, but it wasn’t to intentionally distract him; I’m simply curious about the athletic tape, is all.
The Hendrix standing in front of me isn’t the Hendrix I spent last night in bed with, naked legs tangled and wandering fingers ghosting over exposed skin. This is Sour, the scowling walk-on from last year who hated every fiber of my being. His grey eyes, clouded with storms. His broad shoulders, trembling with anger as his hands open and close into fists.
God, I forgot how hot he is when he’s mad.
The fact that he’s mad at me ? Slightly less appealing.
“Rix—” I whisper his name, but what else can I say? The things I want to say—to do —to him are impossible in front of this official, our teams, our fans, and national television. “I’m sorry,” I finally settle on saying. “It wasn’t on purpose.”
I see it then—the flash of my Hendrix beneath the hurricane in his eyes. His shoulders loosen slightly as the fog clears in his head. It’s a fog I know well, one that sits among the hormones in my body, waiting for the day I slip up and miss a dose. The difference is Hendrix has a reason—even if it comes from the heat of the moment, at least there is a moment—whereas mine, when it attacks, has no motive or instigation. It just appears. Even with the different origins, I know that anger, and because of my familiarity with it, I know that, given time, Hendrix will come to see what happened earlier for what it truly was—an accident.
Having struggled and lived with tumultuous emotions for most of my life, I’ve grown to naturally be the type of person who doesn’t overreact, spew words laced with feeling rather than wisdom, or let the heat of a situation guide my actions—most of the time. In some cases, like when other players try to rile me up by spewing hateful words about my heritage, my trained calm demeanor is a blessing. In others, it has been a curse. My last ex hated how composed I remained during an argument. She wanted to scream and yell, wanted me to shout back so she could accuse me of treating her poorly and make herself the victim. The traps never worked in her favor, and she left me to search for another professional athlete to get the perfect drama-filled relationship she wanted. I have had boyfriends and girlfriends of all types—some more manipulative than others—but never once in any of our arguments did I feel as powerless and vulnerable as I do now, standing only feet away yet feeling as if I am behind impenetrable, bulletproof glass.
For a long time, Hendrix and I stare at each other, me desperately trying to tell him with my eyes how serious I am—trying to tell him that I would never sabotage someone, least of all him.
We stand, barely a foot apart, an official wedged between us, for so long that a whistle blows and a yellow flag lands at our feet.
“Unsportsmanlike conduct. Taunting. Offense number thirteen.” The umpire calls Hendrix’s number for no good reason. He did not taunt me.
Appalled, I look away from Hendrix to follow another official on his path to retrieve his yellow flag. I watch as his gaze searches the Rubies’ sideline, and when he finds who he is looking for, a self-satisfied smirk spreads across his face. Following his line of sight, I’m met with Kit’s gaunt expression, face an alabaster pale as he sees that smirk.
Larson’s smirk.
In the wake of the penalty, Hendrix and I are swept apart, but when my eyes catch his across the field, I quickly sign to him. “ It’s Larson. He is the reason all these penalties are being called. ” Because, seriously? Hendrix and I may have been close —may have been stretching the time allotted for players to back away from each other—but he definitely hadn’t taunted me. If anything, we both should have been flagged. “ Look at Kit, ” I sign.
Hendrix glances at his teammate, and when he sees the pallor on our friend’s face, it all clicks into place for him. Tugging Kit’s shoulder pad until he finally looks away from Larson, Hendrix pulls Kit into a hushed conversation, their ruby-red helmets pressed together. Their lips move, first Hendrix’s, then Kit’s—whose don’t stop for what feels like an entire quarter, but is really only the end of the time-out. Back on the field, Hendrix lines up in front of me, inching as close as the scrimmage line allows. “Kit broke up with Larson,” Hendrix mutters under his breath so only I can hear. Then, his hands quickly spell “retaliation” in ASL.
We run our play, neither of us quite in it as we wait for our next chance to speak. It isn’t until we’re grappling in the red zone for a deep pass that the ball is called dead on the field after I bat it away, and we get a moment without other players in earshot.
“We have to tell someone,” he hisses as we half-ass our hustle back to the line of scrimmage.
“Not yet,” I mutter back. “This is serious, and we don’t know what exactly went down between them. First, we finish this game. Second, we sit Kit down and talk to him.”
“And then?”
I meet his grey eyes, their depths once more a raging storm, and give my God’s-honest truth. “I don’t know, Rix. But we have to help him.”
? ? ?
“You aren’t a part of this team anymore, Ellingsworth,” Coach Mathis politely informs me, one finger pointed at my face as his other hand attempts to cover the chalkboard at his back. It would be too little too late if I could actually make sense of the new play being drawn, but unless someone decides to give me a verbal explanation of all those Xs and Os, it will remain the Rubies’ secret for now.
“Oh, I am quite aware of that, no thanks to you,” I grumble, maybe still a little salty from hearing the news from my then-agent as opposed to my then-coach of four years.
Mathis shrugs unapologetically. “Nothing personal, just the name of the game. Standard procedures and all that—which this isn’t, by the way. Why are you here?”
I toss my arm over Kit’s much shorter shoulders and pull him in close. “Moral support.”
The Rubies’ coach eyes our entourage and considers my words before gesturing to the door beside him. “I guess we should have this conversation in my office?”
“Probably for the best.”
Kit and I follow Mathis into his office, Hendrix and Aleks in our wake. With only two chairs in front of the cluttered desk, I instruct Kit to sit and take a stance behind him with my hands resting comfortingly on his shoulders. Aleks takes the other seat, and Hendrix leans his back against the closed door, arms crossed and scowling.
After the game on Saturday, we’d asked—more like insisted—for Kit to come to my house, where we convinced him to tell us about Larson. The truth was . . . shocking, and none of us were sure what the best course of action would be. We’d ultimately decided to confide in Mathis as soon as possible. I’d suggested first thing Monday, but Kit wanted me to come, so we’d settled on our off day since Mathis is always here.
“I have to say, guys,” Mathis begins, his brow furrowed and eyes on my hands comforting my friend. He looks from Kit to Aleks to me. “This is rather concerning.”
I raise an eyebrow in question.
Mathis clears his throat before continuing, still looking at us. “Three queer players showing up in my office?—”
“Four.”
We all glance over at Hendrix’s gruff word, each of us wide-eyed. I hadn’t known he was planning to out himself to his coach, much less while stuffed in a small office with the rest of us. The temperature in the room rises, either due to the amount of bodies inside or the tension growing bigger the longer we sit here.
“Huh.” Mathis gives Hendrix a once-over, head to toe. “Didn’t see that coming.” And then he points at Kit and me. “Or this. You two together or something?”
“No—”
“Would it be a problem if we were?” I interrupt Kit with the challenging question.
The Rubies’ coach gives me a meaningful look. “Uh, yes? A defensive player dating an offensive player on another team? The league would be a laughingstock. There might be riots. Fans boycotting and protesting. Two words: PR nightmare .”
“Good thing they aren’t dating,” Aleks jumps in, casting a glare in my direction. “We’re here about something else. Kit, go ahead.”
Kit’s knee starts bouncing like mad, and he gnaws on a fingernail so harshly the entire office is full of the sound. I give his shoulders a reassuring squeeze, urging him to begin. “Um, okay,” he whispers. “Right. My turn. I-uh . . . I have been in a . . . relationship since last year. Well, until this summer, actually. Really, it only lasted a few months?—”
“Kit,” Hendrix rumbles from the door to urge him back on track.
“Okay, okay,” Kit hisses, then sighs in defeat. His next words come out more clearly, even if his other knee begins to bounce just as fast as the first one. “I’ve been having relations with Larson Richards.”
Mathis stares unblinkingly. “The judge?”
“Yes.”
“The one who kept throwing flags on Saturday?” By the reddened of his face, I assume Mathis already knows the answer.
“Yes.”
“Because you two were dating and are now broken up ,” he rages.
Kit winces. “Yes.”
“I need to report this.” Mathis reaches for the phone on his desk, but a chorus of “ No !” from all of us has him pausing, hand still in the air. “What do you mean ‘no’?” He eyes each of us.
This next part is why we are all here to back Kit up—because he is vulnerable, and Larson is a complete and total douche canoe. It’s also why we aren’t sure how to handle this situation. There are delicate matters at hand.
“He has . . . pictures a-and videos of me.” Kit sniffs softly. “In compromising?—”
Mathis holds up his hand. “I get it. He’s blackmailing you. We’ll contact the police.”
Kit wrings his hands in his lap, legs bouncing harder. “I can’t do that either. This stuff . . . It will ruin me if it gets out. If the police investigate, those pictures are going to get leaked.” He looks at Aleks. “We all know what the press will do with gossip like that.”
“O-kay.” Their coach raises his hands in defeat. “Last option. Kit Alexander, you have violated the terms of your contract by engaging in relations with a league official. This is grounds for termination?—”
“You . . . can’t do that either,” Kit butts in.
The look Mathis gives him is all annoyed disbelief. “And why not?”
Kit goes quiet now, his nerves and embarrassment striking him mute, so I fill in the rest. “Some of the pictures Kit sent Larson had incriminating backgrounds. Things the Rubies don’t want getting out.”
“Like what?”
“Like drinking on the team plane. Like hired girls in the players’ suites at away games. Players gambling on games. Stuff we all know goes on but that we all keep quiet about. You think the league would scandalize players in a relationship? See how badly this will go.”
Mathis rubs his eyes wearily. “Why would you send those things in a picture, Kit?”
“I’m sorry,” my friend whispers brokenly. I squeeze his shoulder to remind him that I’m here for him.
“So, what are we doing here, boys?” Mathis asks. “You have tied my hands.”
I sigh because, “We don’t know. Larson won’t do anything while he thinks he still has a chance with Kit. In some sick way, I think he does care about Kit, which is why he would out the team if y’all fire him. He’ll out y’all if we report him, too. We need time to figure out what to do. We just . . . wanted to tell you why the Rubies got all those bad calls during the game on Saturday.”
Dragging a hand down his face, Mathis groans, suddenly looking aged beyond his years. “So as long as Kit keeps leading him on, he won’t release the pictures. And as long as the Rubies don’t wrong him or Kit, we won’t be outed. That right?”
The four of us nod.
“Fine. I’ll look into this. Kit, just keep doing what you’re doing. And Ellingsworth? Go back to your side of town. God knows the tabloids are going to have a field day with the pictures they got of you walking in here.”
“There weren’t?—”
“Yes. There were. The paparazzi are everywhere, boys, and they catch everything . Keep that in mind.”