Chapter 32
SEBASTIAN
An oversized calendar was tacked to the wall with "Election Day" circled in bright red ink. Every time I glanced at it, I felt a tightening behind my sternum and popped another Tums.
We could do everything right and still lose.
We’d know one way or the other in five days.
In the meantime, there was work to be done.
Like walking a regional coordinator through our final get-out-the-vote push.
I switched my phone from my right ear to my left, reaching for a folder at the corner of my desk containing the specific tactics for her district, when David barreled around the corner and into my office.
I held up a finger in the universal gesture for “gimme a minute,” but he shook his head, his eyes wide and his face leeched of color.
In the months we’d worked together, I’d never seen him like this.
“I have to call you back,” I told the woman, hanging up before she could respond.
“Conference room,” David gasped. “Now.”
“What—”
“Now, Sebastian.” He turned and walked briskly back from the way he’d come, clearly expecting me to follow.
I launched out of my chair and chased after him.
What the hell was going on? Had Merrick conceded? Or worse—pulled some new stunt that would cost us the ground we’d gained?
Through the conference room's glass wall, I could see Michael and Maya standing in front of the TV, their eyes glued to Senator Wyatt Hastings, who stood behind a podium under the giant U.S. flag at Rowes Wharf in Boston.
Behind him, just off to the side, was Celine. Since I last saw her, Celine’s dark hair had been lightened to a shimmery blonde, and despite it being early December in New England, she was tan and glowing.
David held the door open, his eyes fixed on me rather than the television.
“What’s going on?”
“My friend at the State House just texted. The rumor is Hastings is about to—”
He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before Wyatt cleared his throat and thanked those assembled before him for being there on such short notice.
He continued offering platitudes and smiles, sounding witty, charming, and in complete control of himself and the situation—in other words, the exact opposite of the mean, manipulative drunk who’d shown up on my doorstep last week.
It was the persona I’d helped shape. Had coached, really, in the early days when Wyatt had a tendency to talk too fast when he was nervous and swallow his consonants.
“This was a decision I’ve thought about for a long time," he said, his voice smooth and commanding. "I want to be honest with the American people about who I am, because I believe that’s what this moment requires.”
On screen, a murmur rippled through the crowd.
I knew Wyatt’s rhetorical patterns and tells better than anyone. Not just the words he spoke, but what they really meant—what secret meanings and hidden truths he frequently hid just underneath. And those two phrases, stacked together like that, meant he was about to drop a major bomb.
Holy shit.
He was going to do it.
He was actually going to do it.
My eyes flicked briefly to Celine. She wore an expression that said if she was going to be made a fool of, she was going to be the most photogenic fool anyone had ever seen.
I gripped the back of an empty chair in front of me.
“For several years,” Wyatt continued in that rich baritone of his that always sounded so good in sound bites, “I was in a relationship with a man. A relationship I kept private—not because I was ashamed of him, but because I understood what that disclosure would cost me. It’s a decision many queer people have wrestled with.
One that weighs on too many of us because we live in a society where who we love can be the difference between life and death, work and unemployment, a supportive, loving family and being disowned.
But I refuse to hide my truth any longer. ”
I was aware of David quietly saying something under his breath next to me, but I didn’t really hear him.
My eyes were locked on Wyatt’s face—on the gravity in his expression—cataloging the slight pause he used where he let his words sink in, and the way he stared resolutely into the camera so it would catch his practiced sincerity.
I knew every beat of his performance because I’d once been the architect of it. Had helped him perfect it late at night in his living room with a bottle of bourbon passing between us.
“With the full support of my loving wife, Celine—” He turned to her, tipping his head toward her and pressing his hands together in front of his chest in a gesture of gratitude, his face set in an expression that looked, for all the world, like adoration.
He held the pose long enough for every camera present to capture it before he turned back to the podium, gripping its edges tightly.
“—I also stand before you to announce my candidacy for the President of the United States of America.”
A collective gasp went through the room. Maya’s hand shot to her mouth, and Michael took a step backward, knocking into a chair and falling into it.
On screen, Wyatt began taking questions. A reporter near the front asked for clarification about the relationship he’d referenced—the revelation about his sexuality apparently more salacious than his political ambitions—and whether he’d be willing to share more about that.
Wyatt gave the man another one of his smooth, camera-ready smiles. “I’ll only say that he was my best friend, and it was one of the defining relationships of my life. But he’s not out, so I must ask that you respect his privacy.” He cleared his throat. “Next question, please.”
It took everything in me not to scream at the television. Respect my privacy? Wyatt had practically handed my identity to them on a platter and begged them to dig deeper.
Michael’s eyes cut to me. “Did you know about this?”
Did I know your political hero sucks dick like a champ? That he likes it rough? That he needs to dominate his partners. Yes. Yes. And yes. Did I know he was going to tell the world he was queer? Not even a little bit. Did I know he was planning to run for President this cycle? Absolutely not.
“No.”
He adjusted his glasses. “I have a hard time believing he never mentioned it, or that you weren’t somehow involved in this.” He pointed in the general direction of the TV.
I released my grip on the chair I’d been white-knuckling and nudged it under the table. “Hastings and I aren’t as close as we once were,” I said, turning to leave. I didn’t owe him any more explanation than that.
Back in my office, I yanked my coat from the rack. The fabric caught on a hook, and I jerked it free with enough force to make the stand wobble.
Before I could shrug into it, David appeared in my doorway again.
“You okay?”
“Fine.” I grabbed my bag off the shelf next to the coat stand, knocking a few books to the floor. I kicked one of them into the corner with a muttered curse.
“Sebastian.”
I turned to him, my expression no doubt pleading. “What do you want me to say?”
“Nothing. Just ... I’m here if you want to talk.”
I didn’t want to talk, but I felt like maybe I had to. I was pulling apart at the seams, frustration and anger and rage leaking out of me. I wanted to be with Taylor right now, but he was at the arena, preparing for tonight’s game against Boston.
David was my next best option.
My desk creaked as I perched on it, the edge digging into the back of my thighs. The hallway was empty behind David, but this wasn't a conversation I wanted anyone to overhear.
“Close the door.”
David slipped inside and clicked it shut behind him.
“Wyatt showed up drunk at my apartment last week.”
I could instantly tell that wasn’t what he had expected me to say by the way his mouth literally dropped open, his eyes going wide. He looked like a cartoon depiction of a surprised person.
“What happened?”
My fingers trembled as I raked them through my hair. “I was sitting there enjoying my evening for once when, bam, there he was banging down my door.”
“Isn’t that place supposed to be secure?”
David sank onto the couch, his elbows pressed into the top of his thighs, his fingers forming a steeple beneath his chin.
“That's what it says on the brochure.”
“Fuck. So how’d Hastings get in?”
A hollow, cynical-sounding laugh shook loose. “He flashes those fucking dimples and doors magically open for him. In this case, quite literally.”
I debated whether to share my suspicions with David. I’d trusted him with a lot of confidential information, but he’d known Michael for years.
His brows furrowed. “Wait. How’d he know where to find you?”
I lowered my voice. “I think Michael might have told him.”
David’s head swung toward the door as if he could see Michael through it, then back to me. “What?”
“You heard him in there.” I lifted my chin, gesturing in the direction of the conference room.
“Sometimes he talks like I’m an extension of Wyatt who’s only here on loan.
I’m not saying it was malicious or anything if he did do it, but you know as well as I do he’s a Wyatt Hastings fanboy.
If he showed up out of the blue and asked Michael where he might find me, he’d probably draw him a goddamn map. ”
“Fuck.”
“Yup.”
David leaned back and let out a sigh, scrubbing his hand over his mouth.
"But you don't know for certain it was Michael? You didn’t ask Wyatt how he found out where you lived?
I shook my head, slipping my hands into my pockets and crossing my legs at the ankles. “He didn’t really give me a chance to. He just barged in and started making demands.”
“What kind of demands?"
David knew about Taylor and had kept that confidence. That wasn’t nothing. In this business, it was actually everything. I could trust him with this.
“He said he'd divorce Celine if I went back to him.”
David had the good grace to look scandalized. “No.”
I nodded and slid my hands from my pockets, scratching the bridge of my nose. “He told me he loved me. Incidentally, in case you're wondering, that was the only time he'd ever said those words to me.”
I felt my cheeks get hot. The fact that Wyatt thought that ploy would work on me filled me with so much shame. How gullible did he think I was?
Very, apparently.
“Holy shit,” David whispered. “Does … does Celine know about you two? That you were together?”
I couldn’t stop the genuine laugh that erupted out of me. “Oh, she knows.”
“Fuck,” he said again.
For a few long seconds, we just sat there, staring at one another. Then I blew out a breath and said, “For what it’s worth, I really didn’t know about his announcement. Either of them.”
“Oh, I know,” David said, his mouth tipping to one side in a half-smile. “You looked like you were about to have a heart attack.”
“I did feel my soul leave my body there for a second.” I chuckled, dropping into my chair and appreciating that I could find some humor in my life imploding.
David’s expression turned serious. “Tell me you know it’s not going to take long for people to put two and two together."
"The instant he said 'best friend' I knew I was fucked." "I’m surprised your phone isn’t already ringing off the hook.”
“I turned it off,” I said, planting my feet on the ground and swinging back and forth.
I'd briefly considered flushing it down the toilet, but then I'd just have to get a new one. It's not like I could change my number.
“You want my professional advice?” David asked, sitting forward.
I stopped swaying. “Actually, that'd be great.”
There was something almost funny about it. I’d spent years being the person other people called when faced with a professional crisis, and now here I was, needing someone to tell me what to do.
“You’re the expert after all.”
He smirked and waved me off. “Oh, stop.”
And then we got to work.
Three hours later, I shut down my computer, gathered up my belongings, and left the office.
Stepping into the Marauders’ lounge, I approached Lavoie’s wife, Gabi, who was standing toward the back of the room, her son asleep in her arms.
“What a game, huh?”
“Unfortunately, I just got off work, so I only caught the last two minutes.”
“Oh no. That means you missed Taylor’s bank pass in the second period to set up Cally’s buzzer-beating goal.”
Her son stirred, making a small fussing sound. Gabi bounced to keep him settled as the doors to the locker room swung open and the first wave of players streamed in.
Taylor was the last to appear, his face tipped forward as he stared down at his phone, his fingers moving quickly over the screen.
My phone chimed, and his head shot up. He searched the room, and his eyes landed on me. He shoved his phone into his pocket and, in five long strides, was in front of me.
He started to reach for me, but stopped short, his arm dropping limply to his side.
After Thanksgiving, I had no doubt that if it’d just been his teammates and their families in this room, he wouldn’t have hesitated, but there were a handful of men I recognized as team executives, surrounded by several people I didn’t recognize, and a photographer with a lanyard around her neck.
“Congratulations.”
He beamed up at me. “Such a great fucking game.”
“That’s what Gabi said.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, his brows furrowed and his head tilted slightly to the side. “You were here.”
I shuffled my feet. “Can we get out of here? We need to talk.”
“You okay?” he asked under his breath, confusion giving way to concern.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The second I opened my mouth, everything was going to come tumbling out, and we absolutely could not have this conversation here.
He stared at me for a beat, then gestured for me to go ahead of him. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”