Chapter 21 Connor #2
“Yo, Connor!” Dane’s endearingly bro-y voice captures my attention—the tone and cadence that used to remind me of my friends but now just makes my cheeks warm.
He jogs like a gazelle, shielding a yellow cocktail from sloshing out of a plastic cup.
“I was getting worried about you.” And the genuine worry pinching Dane’s brows is more adorable than anything.
“Sorry, I—”
I’m cut off by Nico’s enthusiasm, telling Sam, “Babe, give him your email. I want to include this in our Christmas cards.”
Sam trades me my beer for my phone, open to the Contacts app.
“Woah, are you guys gay?” Dane asks, a wide grin stretching across his face.
“We sure are,” Nico answers easily.
“That’s awesome.” Dane slings an arm around my shoulders, holding me to his side the same way Sam keeps Nico close.
“Connor is super talented. He’s gonna be famous for his photography one day, swear it.
He takes a lot of photos of shirtless dudes, too, in case you two have a pool house that needs decorating, or something. ”
Both men laugh as the temp beneath my face skyrockets.
“I—I don’t just take photos of shirtless dudes,” I object.
Smirking, Sam says, “Hey, there are worse things to dedicate your talents to than half-naked men.”
“That’s what I tell him,” Dane says.
“I wanna be a sports photographer,” I interject.
Nico chimes in, saying that Sam works in the back office for the Los Angeles Football Club.
“What?” Dane and I ask in unison. We share a wide-eyed glance before staring in awe at the taller man in front of us.
“Like, the LAFC?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Sam answers, chuckling through a proud grin. “I’m their marketing director.”
Dane grips my shoulder and rattles me around. “Connor is literally a College Cup champion. He was on the Sac State team last year.”
“For real?” Sam eyes me with genuine intrigue. “I watched that match. It was pretty awesome. Rowan Hughes was on that team.”
“Yeah, he’s my friend,” I answer casually, like it’s no biggie I’m friends with a superstar athlete.
“You know who was also on that team?” Dane says. “Connor Whitlock. Number 7. Midfielder.”
He knows what number I wore?
“Have you looked into applying for an internship?” Sam asks.
“LAFC is taking applications now for interns across the board. You could submit some of your work and maybe get on the marketing team or the broadcast team. Mention my name when you submit the application, and it’ll go a long way. Trust me.”
In awe, I stammer, “Th—thanks. That’s, like, super generous. I don’t live in Los Angeles, though.”
“Where’s home?” Sam asks.
The question trips me up more than it should. “Sacramento, I guess.”
“I have contacts up there, but you’ll have to send me some more of your stuff before I go to bat for you. You have a portfolio?”
“Totally. I’ll send you whatever I have. Thank you so much.”
Nico strokes his husband’s arm. “Sam is always saying we need more queer representation in men’s sports, on the field and behind the scenes.”
Dane’s arm tightens around me. “Oh, Connor is very queer. I can attest to that.”
Before Sam and Nico wander off, the latter touches my arm and says, “Don’t forget to email him that photo. I’m serious about putting it in our Christmas cards. His mother is going to faint.”
Dane’s star-struck gaze follows the couple until they disappear into the crowd. “I love seeing gay husbands out in the wild. It’s like finding a double rainbow.”
Tickling his side, I say, “You’re a double rainbow.”
He tickles me back with the hand not holding his drink.
I flinch, laugh, and swat his pesky hand away. I drink my beer, feeling feather-light and happy. Staring at Dane, all feels right in the world, but a faint bruise on either side of his neck gives me pause.
“What’s that?” I reach up and graze one mark with my fingertips.
“Probably your hickeys.” He tosses back a few swallows of his drink, making his pronounced Adam’s apple bob. “You know, we could be a double rainbow. It doesn’t have to just be a fantasy.”
“Sleep, fuck, and play video games?”
His half-confused, half-elated chuckle is music to my ears. “Yeah. Exactly.”
The vibe in the venue shifts, and the speakers rev with the start of a raucous concert. Dane chugs the rest of his drink, shoots the empty cup into the nearest can, and tells me to move my ass. “C’mon. It’s time to dance.”
After one last gulp of my beer, I drop it in the can and race after Dane until we’re deep in a thicket of bodies.
We find a spot close enough to the stage to see what’s happening, but far enough away to maintain a modicum of personal space.
Just enough breathing room to make our own atmosphere out of.
Electronic music ravages me from the inside out while Dane and I hop and dance like the sand is on fire.
I don’t know, or care, where Dane’s teammates went off to.
As the opening set winds down, I sling my arms around Dane’s neck, put my mouth to his ear, and tell him I love him.
Not just as friends or even best friends, but as the singular force consuming my heart and soul until nothing in the world matters more than him.
His sweet hum as he holds me flush cures me of my internalized fear, and the self-acceptance is a glorious feeling.
Then I say it again, just to make sure he hears it.