19. The Guy with the New Name
19
THE GUY WITH THE NEW NAME
Jason
On Wednesday afternoon, Whitney commandeers me the second I walk into the LGBTQ Alliance.
The tall teen with black braids grabs my arm. “Jason!” Her face is the picture of good news.
“What’s up, Whit? Wait . . . did you finally pull the trigger and ask . . . don’t tell me . . . the cute math geek to homecoming?”
She bounces. “I did and she said yes!”
I grin and hold up both hands to high-five. She smacks back, bouncing with excitement. “I swear, if you’d told me a year ago, or even a few months ago, that I could do this, I’d have said it would never happen.”
Moments like this are almost as good as a touchdown. “And look at you. You did it.”
“Because of coming here,” she says, pointing to the floor of the Alliance. “This place. You . This gave me the guts.”
But she chose to come here. She chose to seek community. “Nah, you had the guts all along. This is on you,” I say with a smile.
“Did you go to prom or homecoming with a guy?”
I shake my head. “The guys at my high school were not my type. They were boring . Also, there were maybe two other queer dudes,” I say, still lamenting the slim high school pickings nearly a decade later.
“What’s your type?”
I immediately picture Beck. “Smart. I love a brainy guy,” I say. “Someone who has a big heart. Who’s not all wrapped up in himself. And someone who understands what football means to me. My last boyfriend did not,” I say. “But that’s why Wyatt is history.”
She growls at my ex on my behalf. “Football is your passion. You need someone who understands what it is to have a passion.”
“Exactly.”
“Is there anyone you’re into now?” she asks without agenda—in the way you ask when you’re in like, and you want everyone else to be in like.
But the guy I like is off-limits. Instead of telling her the truth, I do something I detest. “Nope,” I lie, then gesture to the hallway. “Want to play shuffleboard?”
“I do,” she says, and she’s floating the rest of the afternoon as we face off in the game room.
I’m happy for her. At least that’s not a lie.
That evening, I’m on my way to the gym to meet Nate and some of the other guys for a light workout when I catch sight of a familiar figure coming my way on Fillmore—the strong shoulders and broad chest of the man who spent the night in my bed earlier this week.
Pleasure curls traitorously in my stomach at the sight of Beck. He hasn’t noticed me yet—he’s bent over his phone, tapping away at it.
He’s smiling too, perhaps amused by the conversation. Is he texting with someone? Maybe a hookup who will give him the rest of the experiences he wants?
Desire twists into envy.
What the fuck? How did I go from zero to sixty?
Oh, right. Fucking emotions.
I pull the brakes on the jealous train. But I do pace myself, so I arrive at the same time. I’m not above stealing a little moment with Beck if I can get it.
When we reach the door at the same time, he looks up from his phone, eyes wide as he nearly collides with a cardboard cutout of a super-fit gym rat.
I want to smile, but I school myself, caution winning over as I whisper a careful hi . For a few hot seconds, his eyes roam over my frame before he adopts a cool expression.
“Hey, McKay.”
“Hey, Cafferty.” I follow suit with the last name. We’re about to see our teammates, so I better get into character. “How’s it going?”
“Great. Everything’s great.”
“Good. Good,” I say when what I want to say is come over again and let me show you all the other things I can do with my tongue.
“Did you see the pictures?”
“The photo shoot ones?
“They just sent them.”
“No. How do they look?”
“I just got them. You’re copied.” Then he drops his voice, going a little flirty. “They look good.”
I frown, worried. “Good as in . . .?”
Shaking his head, he fights off a smile. “Good as in... no one can tell...”
He’s inviting me to finish, and I jump on that opportunity so fast. “...that we spent the night together?”
“Yeah. That,” he says, a little breathy.
I should not talk to him like this, but I’m getting a thrill out of how we tease at our secret. I just hope no one can tell I’m into this guy.
Someone booms from behind me: “Are you fucking kidding me?”
I straighten, recognizing Xavier’s voice. Is my teammate going to lay into me for talking to Beck?
I slap on my game-day armor, then spin around to face the X-Man, who stares back, his phone in his hand like he can’t believe the evidence either.
“This is bullshit,” Xavier shouts, enraged. The fearsome player holds his arms wide, staring at me, then Beck. “I can’t fucking believe my eyes.”
The hair on the back of my neck prickles. I scramble for a plausible cover-up by focusing on the facts. No one has ever seen us touch. No one saw the stairwell kiss. No one saw him leave my house.
I’m unsure of how to even begin my defense, but I give it my best shot. “We?—”
“I lost my streak.”
I swallow my denial in one gulp. “What streak?”
Xavier fake sobs. “My Wordle streak. Dammit. I had a sixty-eight-day streak,” he says, then walks to the glass wall of the gym and bangs his head against the window. “I wanted sixty-nine,” he says forlornly.
I breathe a city-wide sigh of relief that turns into a laugh. When I steal a glance at Beck, he’s laughing too.
“Tacit, dude. Tacit,” Beck says.
Xavier glares at the other quarterback, red clouds of rage billowing from his eyes. “I know that now. Thank you very much.”
Beck shrugs. “My streak is ten months.”
Xavier growls. “You think that makes me like you?”
Beck smiles wider, shaking his head. “No, but the Renegades intend to leave you in the dust come February, so I figure there’s already no love lost.”
Xavier rolls his eyes, unintimidated, but Beck saunters into the gym like a badass motherfucker.
A few minutes later, I’m in the gym too, ready to pump iron. I fill my water bottle and head to the weights to join Nate. Along the way, I open my texts and send a quick one to Beck.
Jason: Damn, that was hot.
Beck: My Wordle streak or my mic drop?
Jason: Both, you cocky mofo. You’re on fire today.
Beck: It’s the residual effect of those multiples from Monday night. By the way, what did you think of the pics?
I should check them out and give my approval too. Weaving past the Nautilus machines, I click over to my email and open them. Damn, number nine is so deliciously broody. So inscrutable on the surface. But I feel like I know some of the secrets behind those dark eyes. The pics are perfect for the press shots.
When I look up from the screen, Nate’s stretching his hammies next to a weight bench. “Let me guess. Someone sent you a cat video?”
“Yes, Nate. I’m smiling at a cat falling off a windowsill meme,” I say. Then as I assess the field here at the gym, I call an audible. The gang’s all here—Nate, Xavier, Orlando, and Devon from the Hawks with Beck, Carter, Hayden, and Isaiah from the Renegades. The best way to act like you have nothing to hide is... to have nothing to hide. I shove the pic on my phone at Nate. “It’s the press shot for Monday Morning Quarterback . Reese is asking for my approval.”
“Ooh, hold on! I need to give my approval too.” Carter racks the dumbbells he was lifting and joins us, pulling Beck over, so he’s right next to me. “I want to make sure my QB looks better,” Carter adds.
“Won’t happen,” Nate says.
“Number Fourteen is tougher too,” adds Xavier, who’s swaggered over to join the crowd checking out the publicity shots on my phone, but Beck and I are front and center. I’m shoulder to shoulder with my rival again, catching those final notes of his aftershave, his scruffy jaw too damn close, making me a little dizzy.
Nate points to one of the three options Reese sent. “What if we Photoshop in a cartoon bubble around Beck’s mouth that says... Hawks rule?”
“Just try it,” Beck says with a snort, but before getting another word in, Carter clears his throat and shows off his Super Bowl ring from earlier this year. Hayden goes next, then Isaiah.
Carter points at Nate, Orlando, and me. “How many of you have one of these babies?”
The answer is none of us .
But Xavier snickers. “Two, motherfucker. I got two rings.” He grabs my shoulders and squeezes me possessively. “And at the end of this season, it’s gonna be three. We’re taking the Hawks all the way.” He jerks me away from Carter, but my phone bounces in my hand, heading for the floor.
Yes, my phone is locked, but there are texts between Beck and me. I dive for it, covering it on the gym floor.
That earns me both claps and guffaws. “Nice fumble recovery,” Nate hoots.
“Bet Jason’s been sexting with someone,” Orlando teases.
My face burns from the almost truth of that. But I pop back up, phone safe in my hand.
And, thankfully, still locked.
Time to bluff. “You figured me out. I’ve been sexting this new guy. I’m gonna get on the treadmill and send him a dick pic while I run. Because I’m good at multitasking,” I say drily, and I don’t risk meeting Beck’s gaze. I’m not that good of a poker player.
They laugh, and my distraction ploy worked.
I drop my phone securely into my pocket and hit the weights. The Renegades move to the other side of the weight area. For the next thirty minutes, I focus on lifting and talking about anything but hookups.
When I’m done with my workout, I take off with Nate, not bothering to say goodbye to Beck, even though I want to, and I feel a little dickish just leaving.
Nate tosses a glance back at the gym. “You seemed a little irked. Was Orlando right? Did you meet someone?”
I scoff. “No. Definitely not,” I say, then shift the focus to him. “How are things with Oliver?”
He winces, and that’s answer enough.
“It’s not going well?”
Nate shrugs. “He never did like the limelight, you know?”
I nod, patting his shoulder. Nate and I are tight for a million reasons. Besides the obvious—we’re teammates—we like a lot of the same things, from golf to smart comedies to fun times with friends, but we also carry the same scars. I’m not asking anyone to break out the violins for us, but we both know what it’s like to be with guys who don’t gel with our jobs. That’s Oliver for him and Wyatt for me.
“Yup. That is true,” I say diplomatically. I have my opinion on his hubs, but I know better than to share. Nate’s too soft in the heart sometimes to see the shitty side of people.
“Sometimes relationships just suck,” Nate says with a sigh as we near a sushi joint we like. “But sushi doesn’t.” He smiles eagerly at the posters of raw fish tantalizing him in the window.
“My treat,” I say, glad there’s something small I can do to lift his spirits.
Nate smiles, and we dart inside. We grab a quick dinner, catching up over hamachi and seaweed salad about the game this weekend, the newest episode of Privilege , and a playlist TJ sent to me.
We don’t talk about guys, and I suspect it’s a break we both need.
Once I’m back in my home a little later, I grab bubbly water from the fridge and then settle onto a stool at the counter. Finally, in the safety of my kitchen, I take a chance, looking at my phone again. It feels like a defused bomb.
I reply to Reese, approving the photo Beck likes too, then go to my texts. A new one from him blinks at me. My stomach flips, and it’s annoying that I react so strongly to him already.
Beck: I’m going to change your name in my phone. In case anyone ever sees our convos.
Jason: Good idea. What’s my new name?
Beck: King of the Couch.
I laugh, but then I put on my thinking cap. This is my chance to show I’ve got game in the naming department.
King of the Couch: I’m going to call you Streaker. But I’ll have you know I did consider Cat Charmer.
Streaker: I like both. Also, Dick Charmer works. (That name works for you too.)
Impulsively, I change the vibe of the conversation.
King of the Couch: By the way, I talked to my agent today. I told her to turn down Zena’s offer.
I hit send, then reread my declaration. When I said I wasn’t taking Zena’s deal, I meant all that the no implies—I’m not dating anyone. Including Beck, for that matter, unfortunately. Still, I want him to know I’m a man of my word.
Streaker: Awesome. More sponsorship deals for me then. She corralled me in the alley, and I already said yes.
I growl, narrowing my eyes at the phone as I type.
King of the Couch: You better not have said yes.
Streaker: Aww... are you trying to protect me from business partners who want to take advantage of the new guy? That’s sweet.
King of the Couch: Yeah, that’s the reason, smartass.
Streaker: No need to worry. Carter’s even going to help me write a profile. He’s been dying to put me on the apps.
King of the Couch: You’re killing me, Nine.
Streaker: By the way, you said at the gym you were sending someone a dick pic, but I don’t see one on my phone. Better not be another guy you’re sexting.
I smile, digging his declaration too. Beck’s jealous side is so stinking cute.
King of the Couch: Is that your way of saying you want a dick pic?
Streaker: I mean, I wouldn’t object to one.
King of the Couch: I’ve created a monster.
Streaker: Ha. That is probably true.
I hop off the stool, head to the second floor, and conduct a thorough search. I snap a pic of Taco napping on the floor of my shower and send it along.
King of the Couch: Here you go. He’s a dick.
Streaker: I have so many questions. Starting with—why is your cat in the shower?
King of the Couch: What came before the big bang? What is dark matter? What makes us human? I dunno, dude. He’s a cat. Any other questions?
Streaker: Yes, as a matter of fact. How big is your shower?
I lean against the sink, smiling.
King of the Couch: Big enough for two.
Streaker: So, you and the dick, then?
Rolling my eyes, I laugh, then reply.
King of the Couch : Yes, for me and my cat.
I’m enjoying the flirting so much. Maybe too much. I tell myself just one more note.
King of the Couch: Or, for me and a cat charmer.
I fire that off, a little amped up. But my phone is quiet for a minute. Maybe that’s the end of our convo. Too bad. Then, because the universe sometimes delivers, my phone dings.
Streaker: If you asked, I’d say yes.
I sigh with too much longing. I love it when he’s direct. But I love it too much.
King of the Couch: You know I want to ask. But I have to say good night.
Streaker: Good night.
I turn off my phone. Whether he’s a dick charmer or a cat charmer, I’ve got to resist the temptation of the guy with the new name.