5. Arnaz
ARNAZ
PRESENT DAY
R emove the twenty thousand echoing voices, lights, and music, and the main court is my favorite spot in the arena.
Dropping into a bleacher chair, I stare up at the jerseys of legends that came before me.
Sid wants the Royals to be his home for the rest of his career.
Me? I’m not sure. My teammates are my boys, and the current management is cool enough, but…
I don’t know. LA forever? I don’t see it.
Still, I can’t deny the questions that hang in the air whenever I’m here—Will my name be up there one day?
And if not, will it be because of my game or because I decided to come out?
I’ve only ever been good at a few things.
Football, which I quit early out of spite.
Singing, at least from what people tell me, though I haven’t felt like singing for a while.
I enjoy writing songs, and I guess it doesn’t matter if I’m good at it, because the world will never hear them.
Then there’s playing the piano and guitar, which feel more natural than playing ball.
I’ve had to work hard at basketball every single day. Joining the Royals alongside Sid took my game to the next level, but it still takes work. More work than most would believe.
My phone buzzes.
I slide it out of my pocket and answer. “Hey, Cat.”
“Oh, great! I caught you.” The voice of Catharine, my agent, filters through. “How’s my favorite client?”
“I know you say that to all of us.”
She laughs. “Have I given you a reason not to trust?”
“Never.”
“Exactly. This a good time?”
“Yeah.” I climb to my feet. “Leaving practice.”
“Coach Derek in a good mood?”
“Ha.”
“That bad, huh?”
“We had to run penalty 17s and suicides because a rook showed up late.”
“Ouch. I just had a client benched for a week for rocking a player who caused extra 17s every practice.”
“I heard about that. Dallas?”
“Just ’cause you’re my favorite doesn’t mean I’ll break client confidentiality.”
I smirk. “Keepin’ all of our secrets.”
“Until the grave. So listen, I got you out of the CBS interview like you requested. As of today, your PR calendar is completely cleared. Well, actually, not quite. I confirmed the column for Sports Illustrated , but it’s strictly about your game this season.”
I dap Nick, who’s also heading to his car. “They know no?—”
“No Carter or coming out questions. Just ball.”
“Cool. Thanks.”
“You bet. So…” She clears her throat. “Salem’s a client.”
“Ah.” I unlock my car, then open the door and throw my bag across to the passenger seat.
“One of my clients publicly expressing romantic feelings toward another of my clients is a new one for me. How can I support you?”
Romantic. I shake my head as I tuck in. Is that what that was?
“Yeah.” I stare out the window. “1.8 million views.”
“The video?”
I grunt.
“Hmm. I know that kind of attention is the last thing you want right now.”
My head drops to the headrest, and I close my eyes. I need to eat soon, or I’m gonna pass out. Feels like I’m gonna pass out anyway.
She’s quiet, which means she’s racking her brain to figure out a way to fix this. We can’t. It’s out there now.
“Did you know he was gay?” I ask.
She sighs. “You know I can’t answer that.”
Yeah, I know. I’d have wanted her to answer the same way if someone asked that about me after I came out. She did know. Not at first, but eventually.
“How about this—I can add Salem and the press conference as off-limits in your media clause.”
“Thanks.”
“You know, if you are interested in him, Salem’s a good guy.”
I stab the temperature button to turn up the heat, then open the window.
“Honest to god, the kind of man you can take at his word. And he’s charitable too—not just a throwing-money-at-the-problem type of guy. Like you, he dedicates his time.”
I close the window and switch to the AC.
“You still there?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“You’re quiet. Have I overstepped?”
I kill the AC, then put the car in drive. “Nah. Just tired.”
“Okay. I emailed you the contract and details for next week. I’ll send over the amended agreements with the updated media clause shortly.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, hey, I didn’t get your RSVP for my birthday shindig.”
“I’m there.”
“Wonderful. Call if you need me.”
“Thanks, Cat.”
“A-actually, wait?—”
“Hmm?”
“I’m guessing you don’t plan to respond to the viral post where a fan started asking about your favorite dessert?”
“Nope.” I put the car back in Park. I don’t even have a favorite dessert. If it’s good, I’ll eat it. “I don’t need more shit showing up in the locker room.”
“And you don’t want me to pass it along to Salem in private?”
“Cat.”
“Okay, okay. I had to ask.”
“What?” I ask after she’s silent for a few breaths.
“Nothing. I’m going. Call?—”
“What, Cat?”
“Nothing, really. Well, except, I’m sitting here wondering, how?”
“How what?”
“With his press conference, charm, and objectively good looks, you’re telling me you feel nothing?”
“No.”
“No.”
“Yeah. No. I don’t find him attractive.”
“Pfft. Not attractive . You want to come over here and man the phones? The Rake , Vanity Fair , Essence , Out , and GQ all want to know about his skin care routine, what he eats, and when they can meet his parents.”
I hear her rummaging through papers.
“Calvin Klein wants his abs for their new campaign, Oprah wants him for—I don’t know what she wants him for, but her office called.”
“Okay. I get it.”
“Agh. I just have to ask again. What’s with you two?”
“Meaning?”
“You can’t be on the court together without it ending bloody or with more fouls than any other game. Why?”
“He’s a dickhead.”
“I’ve seen him simply look at you, and you go scorched earth.”
“Not true. That was before. It’s been chill this season.”
“He was out for most of the season.”
I shrug. “Ask him.”
“I have. He said, ‘That’s just how Blue likes it.’”
“How I like it?” I’m not the one who fucks with the other every game. “What part of my fist in his face screams ‘I like it?’”
“What’s the story behind the nickname?”
“Hell if I know.”
She sighs. “Okay. You sure you don’t want to come work here? You keep more under lock and key than I do.”
“I seriously don’t know. I’ve asked, and he never answers.”
“Blue. Hmm. Maybe it’s your broody nature. Or maybe you remind him of the color. Oh, crap. I’m late for my meeting. Let me run.”
“Aight. Later.”
“Hey, do what you want with this unsolicited advice, but maybe you should get to know the guy you hate. You might be surprised at what you find.”
I’d rather eat through my arm than get to know Salem fucking Jones.
Mr. Anxious-For-No-Reason strikes again, and sleep drifts off without me. Picking up my laptop from the nightstand, I head to my favorite hookup site, but somehow, I’m staring at Salem taking a seat at his press conference.
2.3 million views.
The nausea from this morning returns.
Directing an I’m-friendly-for-now glance around the room, he settles into the chair.
The camera zooms in.
If autumn was a face…
Deep honey-brown eyes. Warm with an underhanded edge. Nothing like the unwanted inheritance of my murky, dark moss.
You can tell a lot about someone from their eyes. Like, how many words it’ll take to get my point across. His tell me I’d use fewer words, and they may even read my silences.
God, I hate dimples. And plump top lips that curl up. And extra-as-fuck sharp cheekbones.
I roll my eyes as the reporters dick-ride his return.
A tat peeks out of the unbuttoned collar of the blue button-down hugging his chest and biceps. I make and then immediately delete a mental note to look for a full picture of it.
He thanks them.
So polite.
When his gift baskets start to pour in, he’ll probably sit down at night and pen heartfelt thank-you notes.
A sheen of a winner’s glow spreads over his brown skin and its undertones of gold—the same color of his small nose hoop. Stubble outlines a tapered V-shaped jawline. Like his crew cut, it’s all so neat.
Yeah, the gift baskets will definitely be rolling in.
Fucker.
I hope he chokes on them.
A cover photo of him in a rust-colored sweater and dark blue jeans standing in front of a stoop covered in snow has me hitting play on the pop-up video titled “Inside NBA Star Salem Jones’s Sophisticated Brooklyn Brownstone.”
“Welcome to Brooklyn! Come on in,” he says, widening his glass front door. The video plays a montage of shots from the foyer, kitchen, dining room, wine cellar, and movie theater.
My mother would trade in her overpriced decorator if she saw this.
“This is Simba, my best friend,” he says, bending down to pet a large, brown, shaggy-haired dog with a foggy gray eye. “We rescued each other three years ago.”
Simba limps over to the camera and offers his toy.
“We’ll play later.” Salem pets him.
Simba’s probably rented to capture the perfect thirst trap shot.
He climbs up and offers his forelimbs for a hug. Salem pulls him in, accepting a neck lick.
Okay, maybe they are best friends.
The camera pans the forest-green foyer as he talks about designing the place with intention, honing in on function, blah blah, textures, blah blah.
“My parents on their wedding day,” he says before a large black and white portrait of a couple.
His dad’s don’t-fuck-with-me stature radiates from the photo.
His kind—or whatever—eyes and high cheekbones are from his mom.
Deduct ten points for unearned good looks.
He blah blahs about imported Congolese grass pendant lights that remind me of a sculpture Ana?s broke once. Mom was brutal about it. Listening when Ana?s yelled for me to get back in the room still litters the room of my regrets.
I fast-forward past the exposed brick in the living room, large float sofa, fancy art, blah blah.
I rewind. “… reclaimed terracotta tile, a 1,200-pound carved-stone sink…”
Damn . That smile.
So, the kitchen is his favorite place in the house.
I should’ve chipped those perfect teeth during our last rumble.
I fast forward, then pause on a room with a leather Eames-style chair.
The blue, almost-black walls are intensified by the glow from the metal and glass chandelier.
Simba stretches out across a midnight-blue rug in front of the fireplace as Salem crosses his arms and leans against the side post of the canopy bed with serial-killer crisp bedding in burnt gold.
I’m not fooled by the cream fur throw strewn across it. This dark sophistication can’t belong to someone with vanilla fantasies.
And, damn, those pants are tight.
Heat skitters down my chest. I stare at the swell forming in my briefs.
Fuck, no.
I slam the laptop shut and blow out a breath.
Ain’t enough meds in the world to make that make sense.
Scrubbing my face with my hands, I then reach for the half-burnt joint on the nightstand and light up. Plucking up my acoustic guitar, I return to the piece I’ve been struggling with for weeks. Leaving form and structure behind, the song’ll find itself in the chaos.
The night air breezes in, mixing with the vapors.
Brooklyn’s probably getting snow soon.
I’d kill for snow.
World Building
I’ve traveled millions of alien worlds alone.
Hoping that one day my ship will recognize its home.
Space Travel
I’ve traveled millions of alien worlds .
Growing familiar to everyone except myself.
Homesick
I’m scattered amongst unknowable worlds.
Hoping my ship will recognize its home.