3. Arnaz
ARNAZ
“Winter”
Spare me the shiftiness of autumn, where even the trees can’t decide what color to be.
“ W ould someone turn that off?” I grumble as a warm body tucks in closer to my chest.
My elbow hits soft flesh as I turn, shooting my eyes open to two heads sandwiching me in. I scan their matching wedding bands, and fragments of last night start to piece together.
“Loud,” the one with the bun groans in his sleep.
Ack. That’s my alarm. Disentangling myself, I climb over the one with the fade.
The room spins once I’m vertical, and I end up stumbling toward my phone.
Damn, what did I take?
Condom wrappers, poppers, and little empty baggies litter the floor. I had to have taken something to have stayed the night.
“Shit,” I hiss as my foot lands on the underside of a beer bottle cap. Snatching up my phone, I kill the alarm.
“Stahp…spinnin’,” I groan, pressing my forehead to my palm.
The demented ringtone blares again. “What?”
“Where the hell have you been?”
“Ana?s?” I pull back the phone to check the caller ID.
“Where are you?”
I rub my eyes. “Hooked up…wherever.”
“You don’t know where you are?”
My stomach gurgles. Seriously, what the hell did I take?
“Arnaz!”
“What?” I whisper-yell.
“Where are you?” The concern in her voice overpowers my annoyance.
“Hold on.” I trudge to the window and separate the curtains.
“Never mind, I’m checking the app.”
Recognizing a favorite hand roll sushi spot across the street that I quit dining in once I realized it’s a go-to spot for insufferable first-daters, I grunt, “Downtown.”
“Are you okay?”
I sniff my pits. Yeesh. “You still tracking me on your phone like a stalker?”
“One of us needs to know where you are. How dare you not call me as soon as you saw the video.”
“Wh-what video?”
“Salem Jones.”
The fuck he want?
Whatever I took thrashes inside my stomach and tries to kick its way back up. “Lemme hit you back.”
I climb into my shorts. Patting the pockets, relieved to feel my car keys and wallet, I throw on my tee. I scan the room for my watch and spot it on the nightstand along with my shades.
Creeping over to swipe them up, I freeze for a second when one of the guys shifts, eating up the space I occupied, and burrows against his husband.
My shades slip to the floor as I reach for them. After neither of them stirs, I pick them up, set them on the nightstand, then pick them back up again. I start to turn when my legs lock in place.
Two more times or you’ll lose tomorrow’s game…
My fingers grip the sides of my shorts, forming a tight fist.
I step back and flinch as a cold wall presses against my back. I take another step back, and the cold spreads all over until I feel enclosed in an ice cage.
Staring up at the ceiling, I will myself to keep going. Just this once, not to give in. I take another step back, and the blunt voice cuts in again.
Two more times or you’ll be the reason for a ten-game losing streak …
This is stupid.
Everyone will blame you because of your article.
My fingers curl around the lens until the bridge warps from the pressure.
The low zzzz between my jaw and ears fades, and the cage bars recede as I step forward and place them down in the same spot.
Coward.
I repeat it again, snatch them up, then race toward the door.
My phone buzzes as I leave the building.
138 text messages.
My stomach clenches.
Thirty-two missed calls.
The fuck?
I click on the first text at the top with a link to a video. One glance at the headline and I’m bent over the railing, emptying my stomach into a bush.
I nod to Jo, a security guard, on the way into the arena.
“Well, what is it?” he asks.
“Huh?”
“Your favorite dessert?”
I shrug, clenching my stomach.
“I want an invite to the wedding.”
I keep it moving.
“You the man, bro,” Wes, always speaking on top of tens of thousands of people, whether it’s game time or not, hollers at me as I enter the locker room.
“For fuck’s sake.” I pick up the card attached to the gift basket in front of my locker.
“Tell him I get the cologne this time,” Johan demands, towering over the entire team at seven-foot-four.
“Nah, bruh, you got that old tequila last time,” Ussef fires back.
“It’s aged ,” Johan corrects, “And that’s only ’cause Jamie, the asshole, skipped my turn and stole the Hermés watch.”
Ever since my coming out article was published, this crap started rolling in from every dude who’s read it and wants to bone.
“One to ten. Pick,” I say, plucking a protein bar from Sid’s stash.
“Five,” Johan replies.
Ussef crosses his arms. “Eight.”
I nod to Johan.
“Yeah, boi!” He fists the air.
“Bullshit,” Ussef complains.
“It’s always five, bruh,” Johan replies, returning a middle finger.
“Yo,” Sid starts as he walks in, “you got dudes propositioning you on national TV now?” He stares at my chair. “And more gift baskets?”
“That one’s mine,” Johan says, swiping it up.
“Enough, Shane.” I glare at our PR cameraman.
He lowers the camera. “Sorry.”
I still don’t get why these gift baskets are interesting for the Royals All-Access series, but Shane swears viewers eat this shit up.
“Bruh.” Sid scrunches his nose. “You need?—”
“A shower. Yeah, yeah. I’m going.” I polish off the protein bar.
“What Salem did was dope.” He drops his bag. “I can connect you with my jeweler if y’all skipping dating to go straight to the altar.”
“Drop it,” I grunt.
“Salem’s my homie, but he’s on my shit list,” Nick calls from across the room. “Cam’s dropping hella hints for me to propose on national TV.”
“What’s up?” Sid asks me, ignoring Nick.
“I got messed-up last night.”
“Because of Salem?” Sid’s gaze darts past me. “Ay, let’s give him some space. Johan, you stop recording too.”
“We don’t all got a half a billion followers,” he whines. “Let me have this.”
Three seconds of Sid staring at him, and he’s killing the feed.
“What happened to you?” Sid asks, turning back to me.
I shrug. “Hooked up with a couple and took something, I think.”
“You think?” He raises an eyebrow.
“I wasn’t going to wake them and ask.”
I got two rules. Don’t stay the night if I can get home in one piece, and if I have to stay the night, be out by first light.
“So this isn’t about Salem?”
“He’s not the first dude who’s wanted to bone me,” I grumble.
“I think ol’ boy wants more than that.”
I snatch up a towel.
Like I give an ounce of a fuck about what he wants.