7. Arnaz
ARNAZ
“No Trespassers”
Sky-tall electric fences, overgrown thickets, guarded patrols.
Pray they keep you from the vacant rooms of my soul.
I n a perfect world, each NBA team is a strong contender, which makes clinching a win challenging.
In reality, there are games we go into knowing the win is in the bag for us because the team poses weak opposition.
Such is the case with this season’s Detroit roster.
They hung their one shot at glory on their star point guard, who ruptured his Achilles tendon in the third game of the season.
Coach benched our starting lineup after halftime.
The score is 104-75 with less than three minutes on the game clock.
“Want to hit the weight room after?” I ask Sid.
“Can’t,” he replies, nibbling on his bottom lip. “Need to dip.”
That’s right. Ty gets home today after a stretch of road games.
“I can already see the hickey,” I joke. They seem to cover more surface area these days.
He smirks. “No word from Salem yet?”
“Who?”
“I forgot that’s dead.” He rests his palm on my bouncing knee. “But why, again?”
“You know why. He’s not my type.”
He snickers. “All types are your type.”
I fight a grin.
“You know, it took backbone to do what he did in front of the world. I think you?—”
“Yurp!” We both fly out of our seats and yell props to Wes, who just swished a freak shot.
“At least the press has finally moved on.” I crash back into my chair. “Well, most of them.”
“Fuck Darius and Todd,” he says, pulling my arm until my fingers drop from my teeth. “Let one of us run up on them in person. See if they question our manhood then.”
Ten toes down, I know Sid has my back. He uses his considerable platform to fight homophobia, and checks anyone who gets out of line on the court.
He’s a real one. No doubt. But he and Ty aren’t out to the public yet, and though they have every right to be offended, it’s my name that’s getting dragged.
Mine and Salem’s.
“Yo! Special delivery for you,” Nick calls over his shoulder as I enter the locker room.
“Give it to Ussef,” I toss back as I cut through the circle.
“Uh,” Ussef replies. “You might want to keep this one.”
Heat flushes over my scalp as a tall, cream-colored box with a dark-red bow atop a server cart comes into view.
Johan hands me an envelope with my name on it, and I tuck it into the front of my shorts.
“Open it.” I nod to him.
“Uh-uh.” He backs away. “It looks fancy.”
Christ.
I reach for the ribbon, then pause to blow on my hands before pulling and following the handwriting on the box along the edge that reads open here.
Gasps ping-pong around the room as the walls hinge down.
“What is it?” Nick asks.
“A 3D model of a building,” Johan replies.
Sid cuts through the crowd. His eyes widen. “That’s stunning.”
“Yes, but what is it?” Nick asks.
“A cake,” Sid and I answer in unison.
“What?” Wes scoffs. “It’s too tall.”
“Bruh.” Jamie pats Sid’s arm. “Tell me it’s not like the fancy hotel you recommended in Miami near Ivy’s.”
“Yeah, the Art Deco one,” Ussef agrees, stroking his goatee.
Nick tilts to take in the angles. “Shit’s cold. This Salem?”
“What do you think the accordion folds represent?” asks Jerry, my favorite assistant coach, who I keep pleading with not to leave us in a few weeks for a head coach gig in Houston.
“‘Accordion folds.’” Wes smiles. “That’s good. I was thinking it’s like poured stone.” He points to the three middle layers. “But then check it, the bottom layer is the foundation, so like cooled stone, or maybe a light and dark marble ’cause it’s so smooth.”
“Nah.” Johan shakes his head. “I think the top three are like sandstorms.”
Nick snickers over his shoulder. “Yo, call MoMA, tell ’em to come get their critics.”
I pull the envelope from my waistband and clamp down on the inside of my lip to stop the pounding in my chest.
Blue,
Do you remember the last time you clocked me? I headbutted you, and then you choked me.
Do you remember the first time?
I don’t know how to explain what happened to me that day.
Or why a three-minute scuffle led to 1,895 days of unrelenting palm, neck, and chest sweats whenever I think of you.
You’re probably wondering what’s in the large box.
Well, it’s you, or rather what I think of when I think of you. Five tiers for all 1,895 days.
The mixed gray concrete-inspired base, while a nod to your East Coast roots, reminds me of your strength in being the first out player in the league. Standing alone couldn’t have been easy.
You inspired me to come out.
Thank you.
You ever met someone and sensed immediately that they have layers?
Layers that don’t unfurl for just anyone?
Everyone with their labels wants to reduce us to one thing, but I know underneath that gorgeous package and I’ll-feast-on-your-corpse swag lies someone very few of us will be lucky to know.
Back to the cake…
The dusty-peach textured tiers with alternating cream satin panels run counterpoint to each other. Shielded underneath is a Genoise sponge cake brushed with rose water.
Did you know rose helps with depression?
The filling is a vanilla and cardamom-infused crème patissière.
Why cardamom?
Well, it’s known to enhance pleasure.
In case none of this is clear, I’ll speak plainly.
I want you in all the ways I can have you.
You have walls, and that’s okay.
Walls, too, are part of a home.
I’ll stand outside on devotional guard, so you don’t have to work so hard to protect them.
Put me out of my misery.
Go on a date with me?
Salem
P.S. It’s dairy-free. Catharine wouldn’t give me your number, but she shared that you’re lactose intolerant. Full ingredients on the card in the envelope.
P.P.S. Why are you so beautiful? You turn a sidelines chair into a throne. You do know you minding your business on a bench is how this started?
“Cade, you want to weigh in here? Are we cutting the cake or not?” Coach asks, pulling me away from reading the phone number scrawled at the bottom.
“You good?” Sid nods to the letter.
My chest thumps so hard, they’ll hear it if I open my mouth.
“Yo,” Sid calls out. “Can we get a bottle of water over here?”
I stare at the rust-colored leaves and cream flowers emerging from the base of the cake.
How does he know I struggle with depression?
A bottle of water appears.
I tuck the letter back in my waistband and then down the water.
“Wes is gonna fall into it if we don’t cut it soon,” Nick says.
“We can’t cut it. It’s like slashing through an Amy Sherald painting,” Johan protests.
Sid’s head snaps back. “That’s dark, bro.”
“We aren’t eating it?” Wes looks to me. “We have to.”
“Agreed.” Nick nods. “It’s an immersive experience.”
“Ah, I mentioned my depression in my coming out article,” I mumble.
“He’s talking to himself.” Johan nudges Sid.
“Hey,” Sid says. I look up, and he snaps a photo. “To show your kids one day.”
“Fuck off.” I step back and pull away from the crowd. “Do what you want with it.”
“Ay.” I nod to Shane. “Not this one.”
He lowers his camera.
I snatch the weight gloves from my station and then head to the weight room.