Chapter 7
Seven
I Don’t Want to Wait
Ryan
I shoulder open the steel door, the plastic tub of pastel macarons pressed against my ribs. The locker room smells exactly as you’d expect. The team headquarter and training compounds facilities are much worse than the game day stadium.
I nod to a couple of the offensive linemen and fist-bump Beau, Marquis, and Nate—my three best friends on the team. Marquis flashes his easy grin. Nate, the blondest of himbos, pumps his brows at the container in my hands.
I set the tub on the bench in front of my locker, then slide my bag off my shoulder and let it drop. Nate saunters over, pointing at the container. “What treats did you make us this time, Butters?”
I lift the lid. “These, my good bros, are macarons,” I say, tilting it to show them six dozen perfect petite confections. Two dozen each of lemon, raspberry and pistachio.
Beau doesn’t wait for invitation. He just shoves his hand in and grabs a fistful, shells cracking between his fingers.
He’s a Viking of a man and one of the messiest humans I’ve ever met.
We roomed in college. That lasted one semester.
I don’t know how Lexi deals with it. What am I saying?
This is Lexi we’re talking about. I’m sure she has him house-trained.
“Hey.” I laugh, swatting at his arm. “Leave some for everybody else. Three each.”
I hold up three fingers, turning to Nate. “That's this many, Nate.”
“Ha ha. Very funny.” He reaches in and plucks three, lime green and delicate. “Just give me my treats.”
Marquis, my quiet, gentle friend, takes one and says thanks with just a smile. One by one, the guys filter over, grabbing their share, the locker room filling with the sounds of appreciation and shit-talking.
The macarons disappear fast, six dozen becoming three dozen becoming a scattered dozen left in the tub.
Then Pete Jablonski appears.
He grabs three, pops one in his mouth, and chews with his mouth open, lemon filling smeared on his lip. He swallows and smirks at me.
“Better be careful baking all these dainty lady treats, Butters.” His voice carries, just loud enough to turn heads. “People will start to think you're some kind of fairy.”
I swallow hard over glass in my throat, forcing my face neutral while my heart kicks against my ribs.
This isn't the first time. It won't be the last. I don't think there's been a single practice where Jablonski hasn't made some derogatory comment about the queer community—some casual cruelty tossed out like it's nothing.
I hate that I don't have the courage to say anything. The fear of them seeing right through me keeps me frozen, keeps me from doing the right thing and calling people like Jablonski out on their shit.
And I really hate that they all know who my dad is. They know his very public opinions, his disgusting posts on social media spewing bullshit about how being gay is unnatural, how people are born the gender they're supposed to be, how Pride month is just a parade of perverts.
It makes my blood boil. People assume I share those views. And if I made it known I don't, there's no end to the hell my father would cause for me.
I still love football. I do. But this whole business of hiding, of being under my father's thumb, it's exhausting. I'm not sure how much longer I want to do it.
When do I get to live?
My father wants me to follow in his political footsteps, harasses me endlessly about it, and I want nothing to do with that life.
Even if I did, his party's values don't align with mine.
It would just be more hiding, and it would feel even more fucking gross than what I deal with in this locker room.
“Why?” Nate's voice snaps me back, sharp and cutting. “You looking for a boyfriend, Jablonski?” Then he steps forward and plucks the remaining two macarons from Jablonski's palm. “Assholes don't get treats.”
Beau steps up behind Nate and glares at the homophobic prick, ready to back-up our bro.
Jablonski shakes his head, then grabs his junk through his trainers, sneering. “Suck my dick, Harlow. Or do you only do that for Buterbaugh?”
Beau lunges, but Nate stops him, then gets right in Pete’s face.
“If I did suck dick, Jablonski, I'd be a big ol' size queen.” He looks down at Jablonski's crotch, then back up, deadpan.
“So yeah, I'd be gobbling on Butters' big hog like Thanksgiving dinner before going anywhere near that thumbtack you call a dick.”
Then he pops a macaron in his mouth and chews it slowly, right in Pete’s face.
Jablonski shakes his head and walks away, muttering under his breath. “Fuckin’ homos.”
“Say that again and I’ll put you through a wall,” Beau barks at him.
I just blink at Nate.
A silent pause, then Marquis bursts out laughing, loud and genuine. Beau and Nate follow, and I join them, the sound echoing off the lockers.
I hate that anyone ever has to deal with this kind of shit. But at least I've got my bros in my corner. Sure, they don't realize they were actually defending me in that moment. But they make it a lot easier to handle people like Jablonski.
Still, as the laughter fades, I think: I don't know how long I can keep this up. I don’t want to wait much longer to be myself.
I set the container down and strip off my shirt, reaching for my practice gear, the weight of the morning already pressing down on my shoulders.
After a long day at the facility, I push through the door of my penthouse and let it swing shut behind me with a quiet click.
Home.
The place is bright, the setting sun spills through the tall windows across the living room. The city hums below—traffic, neon, the distant pulse of music from somewhere down the block.
I drop my keys into the ceramic bowl by the entry and toe-off my shoes. “Good practice,” I mutter to no one.
I trudge the few steps into the living area and collapse onto the couch that faces my kitchen, spreading out like a starfish for a second before letting out a long breath.
I love my place.
For the most part.
My gaze drifts around the spacious home. Clean lines, warm lighting, and dark wood floors. Neutral tones with just enough contrast to look like something out of a design magazine. I mean, it basically is, but I didn’t pick any of it.
When I bought the place, I’d taken one look at the blank walls and empty rooms and immediately called Beau’s wife, Lexi. She’s a professional interior designer.
“Here’s the key,” I’d told her. ”Surprise me.”
And she had.
Did you know a person cannot have too many throw pillows? Me either. There are at least twelve of them in here and I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to actually touch any of them.
But she nailed it. The place looks incredible—which only makes the glaring flaw even more annoying. My eyes slide to the kitchen and I scowl.
“Fucking tragedy,” I say to the empty room.
Because no amount of interior decorating can make up for the fact that the kitchen is… lacking.
Sure, it’s sleek. Stainless steel. Marble countertops. Fancy cabinets that close with that quiet little soft-click thing.
But functionally? It’s a joke. One oven. One.
What kind of psychopath designs a luxury penthouse kitchen with a single oven? Only four burners on the gas range. Barely any prep space. Storage that looks nice but isn’t really functionally practical.
For a guy who likes to cook the way I do, it’s borderline insulting. At the time, though, it was the best place on the market, and I’d really wanted to live downtown.
Most of the guys on the team live in these sprawling developments way out in the suburbs. Massive houses. Gated communities. Cul-de-sacs full of kids riding bikes and dogs chasing balls.
I didn’t need all that space. Plus, if I’m being honest, being surrounded by all those happy couples would just be a constant reminder of something I’ll probably never have.
Because of who I am.
Because of who my family is.
My phone vibrates on the coffee table. I glance down and groan. Speak of the devil. I pick it up and unlock the screen.
Dad: We need to talk, Ryan. Stop avoiding me. You need to be ready to run for my seat when I announce. These things take years of making inroads. We agreed going pro was just a vehicle to get votes. I'll give you one, maybe two seasons, then it's time to exit your football career and focus.
I stare at the message for a moment—then I scoff.
“The fuck I will.” I shout.
I toss my head back against the couch cushion and let out a humorless laugh. Even if I had the slightest interest in politics—which I don’t—I wouldn’t go anywhere near my father or his band of merry hypocrites.
The man has floated more harmful legislation aimed at immigrants, women and the LGBTQIA community than you can shake a dildo at.
Honestly, that’s probably what he needs.
I snort to myself at the thought.
I firmly believe, that if every straight man on the planet got their prostate pegged at least once a month, the world would be a better—and significantly safer—place.
I’m still snickering aloud when I swipe to close the message thread without responding. But before I can, my phone lights up again.
Incoming video call.
The name on the screen flips my mood entirely. I grin and tap accept. “Hey, Cricket!”
Long blonde hair and green eyes like mine fill the screen. Her makeup is flawless, her gray chenille sweater looks soft enough to sleep in, and a delicate sterling silver necklace catches the light at her collarbone.
“I can't believe you still call me that,” she sighs. “We're not kids anymore, Ry.”
I grin wider. “Oh, would you prefer I use your real name?” I ask innocently. “Hm?”
Her eyes narrow. “Don’t.”
I lean closer to the camera, lowering my voice dramatically. “Maybe serve it up with a side of fava beans and a nice Chianti… Clarice.” I drag out the name and finish it with my best Hannibal Lecter slurping sound.
Cricket rolls her eyes and I burst out laughing.
Growing up, my other sister, Harper, and I had given her absolute hell about her name. We still do.