Chapter Ten
Cord
The breathing exercises worked without me fighting them.
Twenty minutes of meditation on the cabin's front porch, watching morning light filter through oak leaves, and my mind stayed mostly quiet.
Not silent, no, that wasn't how this worked.
But manageable. Like someone had switched the radio from static to actual music, something I could follow instead of noise that made me want to put my fist through a wall.
Processing emotions instead of white-knuckling through them was strange. Like learning to swim after years of barely treading water.
“Four counts in, hold for four, out for six,” I murmured, watching a mockingbird hop between branches. The rhythm came naturally now, my lungs cooperating instead of fighting me.
When my mind started spinning toward worst-case scenarios—career over, money running out, everyone talking about the quarterback who lost his shit—I could pull it back. Not every time, but enough that I wasn't drowning.
“Looking zen as hell out there,” Dusty said from the doorway, coffee mug in hand.
His hair was still mussed from sleep, catching the morning light.
Everything about him suggested self-reliance, from the way he'd built his career to how he handled his art supplies to the careful way he discussed his gallery plans.
Like someone who'd learned early not to depend on others.
“Feeling pretty zen, actually.” I stood, rolling my shoulder. Still stiff in the mornings, the damaged muscles protesting after hours of immobility, but the sharp edge of panic that usually accompanied the pain had dulled. “That's new.”
“Progress.”
He handed me a mug, and we settled into the two mismatched chairs Vincent had left on the porch. The silence between us was comfortable, the kind you couldn't force or fake.
My phone sat silent on the cabin's kitchen counter where I'd left it that first night. Three days of ignoring the outside world, and the world hadn't ended. Ruben was probably losing his mind, but that was his problem. For once, other people's urgency didn't feel like my emergency.
“Can I ask you something?” I said, watching steam curl from my coffee.
“Shoot.”
“When did you know you were gay? And when did you actually come out?”
Dusty's eyebrows rose. He took a long sip of coffee before answering, like he was organizing his thoughts. “About myself? Since I was maybe fourteen, fifteen. Started noticing I was watching the boys' swim team for different reasons than my friends were.”
“What finally made you ready to come out?”
“Got tired of pretending I was someone else.” He leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking.
“Tired of dating women and feeling like I was lying to everyone, including myself. My senior year of high school, I took Ashley Hart to prom. Sweet girl, gorgeous, everyone said we looked perfect together. And I spent the whole night wishing I was slow-dancing with her brother instead.”
The image made me smile. “How'd your family take it?”
“My mom was okay with it. Think she already knew, honestly. She just hugged me and said she wanted me to be happy.” His voice softened with the memory. “My dad had passed by then, so I never got to tell him. Sometimes I wonder if he would've understood.”
“And your brothers?”
“Sam was protective, wanted to fight anyone who gave me shit about it. Jake just shrugged and asked if this meant he had better odds with the ladies now that I was out of the running.” Dusty grinned. “What about you? I know the media story, but what's the real version?”
“Since college, probably. Maybe even high school.” The admission felt easier here, with October morning air crisp around us and no one to perform for.
“But I was good at compartmentalizing. Football, family expectations, the whole Catholic guilt thing… easier to just focus on the next game, next season.”
“Until it wasn't.”
“Until I hit twenty-six and realized I was living someone else's life. My ex-wife deserved better than a husband who was acting a part. I deserved better than hiding who I was.”
We sat with that for a moment. A warm breeze stirred the oak leaves, carrying the scent of cedar and that earthy smell Texas mornings had. Normal sounds—birds, insects, the distant murmur of the creek behind the cabin. The kind of peace I didn't know I was missing until I found it here.
“How'd your family take it?” Dusty asked, though something in his tone suggested he already suspected the answer.
And there it was, the question that still made me . “About like you'd expect from a Catholic family in New Mexico. Lots of prayer circles and suggestions that I needed to 'work through this phase.'“
“That must have been hard.”
“The hardest part was my dad.” The words came out rougher than I intended, old pain resurfacing.
“He coached high school football for twenty years.
Had this image of his son the quarterback, carrying on the tradition.
When I came out, it wasn't just disappointing him. It was destroying his picture of what our family was supposed to look like.”
Dusty was quiet, not trying to fix it with platitudes. Just listening. That was one of the things I was learning to appreciate about him. He didn't rush to make everything okay with advice or empty reassurances.
“What about teammates? Other guys in the league?”
“Mixed bag. Some guys were cool about it, said it didn't matter as long as I could throw the ball. Others started acting like I might hit on them in the locker room.” I shook my head, remembering the subtle ways the dynamics shifted. “But Kris Lowry, the guy who took me out? He was different.”
“How so?”
This was the part I hadn't talked about with anyone. Not the therapist, not Ruben, not even the investigators who looked into whether the hit was intentional. But sitting here with Dusty, morning light warming my face and nowhere to hide, it felt like time to let the poison out.
“He made comments to people knowing it would get back to me.
Nothing you could report, nothing direct.
But jokes about 'watching your back around certain people,' questions about whether gay guys should be playing contact sports. Little digs that let me know exactly what he thought about me sharing a field with him.”
“And the hit?”
“Wasn't random. I was already going down when he dove for my shoulder.
Had to change his angle to hit me that way.
You don't target someone's throwing arm with that kind of precision by accident.” The memory made my shoulder ache, phantom pain mixing with real tension.
“He smiled at me afterward, when I was on the ground. Just for a second, but I saw it.”
“Jesus.”
“The league investigated, but what are they gonna do? No one wants to admit hate crimes happen on national television. Easier to call it 'aggressive but legal contact' and suspend him for four games while I get surgery and wonder if I'll ever play again.”
“That's fucked up.”
“That's football.” I set my mug down, surprised by how steady my hands were. “But saying it out loud, I realize that's bullshit. That wasn't football. That was bigotry hiding behind the game.”
Dusty reached over, his fingers brushing against mine where they rested on the chair arm. The contact was warm, grounding. “I'm sorry that happened to you.”
“Yeah, me too.”
His phone buzzed from inside the cabin, and he glanced toward the sound with a slight frown. “Probably the gallery stuff. Realtor's been pushing for final paperwork.”
“When's that supposed to happen?”
“Soon as I get back and can handle the documentation in person.” He shrugged, but there was tension underneath the casual gesture. “Lot of moving pieces when you're starting a business.”
Another buzz, followed by another. He ignored them both, but I could see the way his shoulders tightened with each notification.
“You don't have to stay here for me,” I said. “If you need to handle business stuff.”
“I'm exactly where I want to be.” Then he held out his hand. “Come here. I want to try something.”
I followed him inside to the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. The glass was old, warped at the edges, but clear enough to show us both. He positioned me in front of it, standing behind me with his hands on my shoulders.
“What do you see?”
“A guy who's been through hell and looks like it.”
“Look again. Really look, not at what you think you should see.”
I tried to follow his instruction, studying my reflection like I'd never seen it before.
The way I held my right shoulder higher than the left, protecting it even when it didn't hurt.
The lines around my eyes that had nothing to do with age and everything to do with stress.
The stubble I hadn't bothered to shave in days, the way my t-shirt hung looser than it used to.
But beneath that, I could see other things. The way my stance had changed over the past few days. Less rigid, more grounded. The color returning to my face. The way my jaw wasn't clenched tight for once.
“I see someone who's tired,” I said. “But not beaten.”
“What else?”
I looked closer, past the surface. “Someone who's been performing his whole life and forgot how to just exist.”
“Keep going.”
“Someone who built his entire identity around one thing and now has to figure out who he is without it.” The words came easier than I expected. “Someone who's scared as hell but starting to think maybe that's okay.”
Dusty's hands squeezed my shoulders. “What do you love? Not what you're supposed to love, but what actually makes you feel alive?”
The question caught me off guard. I'd spent so long focused on what I was good at, what was expected of me, that I'd stopped asking what I actually wanted.