Chapter Three
Rip
Damn, I wanted Adrian.
Pacing the living room, I argued with myself. Why was I holding back? That pretext of him being akin to my little brother was as bogus an excuse as I could come up with fast.
Adrian wasn’t a kid. He was twenty-eight and a man. Neil and I were as close as brothers, but Adrian had always been in the background. All the time I’d lived with his family I’d barely noticed him. Hell, I hadn’t even recognized him tonight at first.
Standing outside the bedroom door with my hand on the knob, I momentarily contemplated joining him but dismissed the thought as quickly as it came.
Adrian was drunk. First, it wouldn’t be right, and second, it would upset Neil.
But none of that drowned out the temptation on the other side of the door, because touching Adrian had woken up the part of me that had died months ago once Denis proved to be a lying, cheating bastard.
Restless and unable to sleep, I went to the kitchen, and though I wasn’t drunk, I swallowed a ton of water to keep hydrated.
I had interviews with the local morning shows and sports networks, and I had to be on my game for the questions.
I didn’t need the distraction of sex. I’d had enough of that after my failed relationship became the subject of gossip and innuendo.
I couldn’t go anywhere without someone recognizing me and asking how I felt about the breakup.
When we’d split, I’d let Denis set the narrative.
As far as everyone knew, we’d parted because of irreconcilable differences, not because I’d caught his naked ass in our bed with Gordon.
I was too heartbroken and hurt to argue otherwise, and an ugly personal fight would’ve taken our concentration off the upcoming season.
The last thing I wanted was for a high-profile gay relationship to take center stage.
For the six months before we’d made it official and the two years we were together, Denis and I had been the face of the League’s Pride Nights, and I refused to let our failure as a couple define being out in sports.
We weren’t the only out players, but we’d lived together, played for the same team, and on our numerous nights on the town, the paparazzi had followed us.
Denis devoured attention, and New York loved us.
The league had been nothing but accepting as more players made the move to come out, but since our breakup, I chose to keep my private life just that.
Private. Sure, I’d had a few flings after Denis left, but while he and several other players paraded in the press with their boyfriends, I practiced discretion.
I tried and mostly succeeded in keeping out of the spotlight.
The random men I hooked up with were nothing more than a way to keep the loneliness at bay.
Tonight, I’d let go in a rare public display, but funny enough, I didn’t mind.
I stripped and got into bed. Tomorrow was another day, and I was ready.
Adrian and I could put this bizarre night behind us and forget about it.
In the morning we’d laugh over bagels and coffee, and I’d wish him well in his new job at the station.
That settled, I closed my eyes, but my phone buzzed and vibrated on the nightstand.
I checked the screen, my vision blurred and my head hurt, but not from the one beer and sip of champagne.
No, it was a Texas area code. Only one person called me from that part of the country, and I had no desire to speak with him.
Now or ever. I let it go to voice mail, and though I wished I had the strength to simply delete the message without listening and forget it, I couldn’t, and I hit the button to play the message.
“Ripley? It’s me. Saw you play tonight. Lookin’ good. Maybe this year’ll be the one.”
My jaw tensed. Fuck. Just what I didn’t need.
“I’ll try’n catch you tomorrow. Need to talk to you about some things.”
Making a face, I turned the phone to silent. Whatever things my father wanted to talk about, I had no desire to hear.
Growing up, I never knew him. My parents weren’t married, and seeing kids at school with a mother and father, I’d reached the age to ask why my daddy wasn’t ever home.
My mother had explained that he’d left before I was born and she hadn’t heard from him since—no child support, no birthday or Christmas presents.
After she died, family services looked for other living relatives, but no one stepped up, so Neil’s parents took me in.
Color me suspicious when, in my rookie year, a man claiming to be my father suddenly popped up, claiming a relationship that never existed.
A DNA test Neil’s parents insisted upon proved him right, but that didn’t mean squat to me.
He and I might share blood, but John Carver was a stranger to me, and I had no desire to hear any tales of why he abandoned his pregnant girlfriend to raise their child alone.
Instead of giving my deadbeat dad space in my head, I chose to focus on more pleasant thoughts. Like Adrian. I was looking forward to breakfast and seeing that shy, sweet smile again.
But in the morning, he was gone. And as relieved as I was not to have an awkward face-to-face over a cup of coffee, a pang of anxiety hit me that I’d missed a chance to get to know him better. I didn’t want to say good-bye.
“Idiot.” I laughed and shook my head at my silliness. “Time to get your ass in gear and out the door.”
**
“Good morning, everyone. Today on Wake Up New York City, we’re lucky to have the star center and captain of the Brooklyn Blades, Ripley Tremaine. Rip, congratulations on last night’s win,” Doug Benson, the morning anchor, began, his toothy grin so bright, it hurt my eyes, but I returned it.
“Thank you, and yes. It’s always nice to start out on a high note after the break.”
“What do you see for the Blades for the rest of the season? Who do you think are your biggest competitors standing in the way of the Stanley Cup?”
“I think this is one of the strongest teams we’ve had in years.
We have a great mix of rookies and seasoned players and the best coaches in the league.
We all work great together and respect the hell out of each other.
We’ll have to continue to play with the same intensity as we have from the beginning of the season, and I’m confident we’ll be in the thick of things when playoff time comes.
As for competitors, the Eastern Division is tough, with the Arctics and Nordics both playing well. ”
“How has it been working with Denis now that you two aren’t together? Any issues?” Natalie Wolf, the other anchor, asked. “It’s only been about six months since you broke up, and now he’s engaged.”
Damn. Was this prying into my personal life ever going to end? Mustering up a nonchalance I sure as hell didn’t feel, I answered with a shrug. “None at all. We’re both professionals, and we’re here to win games. What happens off the ice stays there.”
“I guess now that you’re in a new relationship, it’s easier,” Natalie said with a sly smirk.
“A new relationship?” Confused, I peered at her. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Last night, at a bar by the arena, where your team celebrated your win, you were seen getting very close with another man, who’s been identified as Adrian Hunt, our own Channel 8 intern. Are you two dating?”
My lips pressed together. Hard. “I’m not speaking about my personal life. I’m sorry.”
Natalie’s head bobbed. “Oh, I understand. It’s so new, so you want to keep it private.”
I opened my mouth to correct her, then decided to hell with it and remained silent. They’d gotten it into their heads that they had a juicy story to follow, but I refused to give them any ammunition.
Doug gave me a big-buddy grin, as if we were friends or something. “As a celebrity, it’s not easy to keep your love life to yourself.” When he realized I wasn’t going to elaborate, he changed course. “Do you think of yourself as a role model for gay young men who want to play professional sports?”
This was a question I had no problem answering.
“I’d like to think that as more players in sports come out, it won’t have to be a news story.
But right now, I hope I can be an athlete that queer people look up to, and show them that anyone and everyone has the right to play sports if we want to.
The game should be the focus, not a player’s personal life. ”
“Well said. It’s been great having you here today.”
They wrapped up the interview, thank God. I heaved a sigh of relief that I’d dodged a bullet.
“Thanks. I brought some stuff for you both and your staff.” From the bag next to me, I pulled out Blades caps and T-shirts and handed them to Natalie and Doug, who broke out in smiles.
“Wow. Thanks.” They each put on a ball cap, and Doug handled the finish. “See you at the arena, Rip. Hopefully we’ll be back here at the end of the season, celebrating a Stanley Cup win. Go Blades.”
“We’re gonna do our best to make that happen.”
The camera pulled away, and we were done. I unclipped my mic. “Thanks, guys.”
“Thank you, Rip. Mind if we take some promo pictures?”
“Not at all.”
For the next forty minutes, I recorded promos for the station and took pictures. When it was finally over, I waited by the elevator, scrolling through my phone. Neil had sent me multiple texts, asking me what the hell was going on with me and his brother and demanding that I’d better call him ASAP.
Not yet ready for that discussion, I shoved my phone into my pants pocket. The doors opened, and two men walked out.
“Rip?”
Adrian stopped in front of me, his brows quirked. An older man waited behind him.
“Hey, Adrian, how’s it going?”
“Rob DeVine, director, Channel 8 News.” The man stuck out his hand. “Great to meet you. Terrific game last night.”
“Thanks.”
“I just watched your spot on the morning show with Nat and Doug. Good work.”