6. Vincent
VINCENT
Tate just sits there, eyes bulging and staring at me. Obviously, I said too much. Shit. I clear my throat, needing to change the subject.
“Well, Instagram statement. I guess we need a photo together then?” I say, looking away from him.
“Oh, fuck. I didn’t think of that,” Tate says, running his hands through his hair.
“We can use a few that we have together from the season, not that there are many,” I offer, “but we probably need at least one couple-ish one if we want the public to really believe it.”
“Ah... ok. What do you want to do?” Tate asks, his steady (colour) eyes boring into mine.
“What do you mean?” I ask. “Like where to go for the photos? I was just thinking here.”
“No, I mean, like, what do you want to do in the photo? Hug? Hold hands? ... Kiss?” Tate asks.
I want to joke around and say, “Hah, I wish,” but now he knows that I really do wish. And fuck if we want to appear coupley, we are going to have to kiss. Aren’t we? I feel flushed and scared, both feelings warring within me, but I don’t let either of them win.
“Uh. I guess we will have to. I mean, if you’re ok with that?” I ask, hoping he will say yes, dreading that he will say no.
“I mean… we have to,” Tate says, and I can’t place his tone. It's like a mixture of resignation and something else.
“We really don’t, we can go back out there and tell everyone the truth. That this is all me and has nothing to do with your feelings.”
“We can’t do that. You need to stop suggesting it because we can't,” he says resigned. “We have to run the play and see how this is going to turn out.” Tate runs his hands through his hair again, and I finally figured out the tone.
He feels obligated to do this—feels obligated to be with me.
Ah obligation. Just how every gay man wants to feel when the man he loves tells him he will have to be couple-y with them.
“If you had told me a week ago, fuck even yesterday, how today was going to go, I wouldn’t have believed it,” I say, trying not to let the pain I feel show. “I guess I should just be glad that I haven’t lost my job.”
“No, we are going to do everything we can to stop that from happening, so stop bringing it up,” Tate snaps. “Starting with making this Instagram official.”
Tate grabs my hand, scorching my insides with the warmth of his skin on mine.
For so long, I never thought I would get to touch him like this.
And while it may be fake, and he feels obligated to hold my hand—he is still doing it.
Something that I daydreamed about. Something that I never thought would be possible is now my reality.
Tate laces our fingers together and rests our hands on his knee. I fight the lust that shoots through me at touching him so intimately, my brain is half offline when I register that he has his phone in the other hand and is taking a photo of our hands.
“There,” he says, letting my hand go and turning the phone to show me the photo.
Whoever said that men can’t feel more than one thing at a time has clearly never been in my shoes. My hand has never felt emptier, even if I only held his hand for a few seconds, the bereavement that floods me as he drops my hand is enough to knock me off my balance.
“That photo is perfect,” I say, in awe of the image. Proof forever that this moment happened.
“Now, just to make the right caption,” Tate says, tapping away at his phone.
I look over his shoulder as he types the caption, ‘Finally found someone to hold on to. It might not have come out the way we had hoped, but I hope that you can all support us like the team and management have. It is something special when you find someone who doesn’t hold you back and does everything they can to support you.
I’m grateful that he managed to find me first.’
“Wow, that’s perfect,” I murmur, meeting his eyes. “You came up with that quickly.”
He chuckles, “Not really, besides it’s half true.”
I have no words.
This whole experience was just mind boggling to me.
One second, we were talking about kissing and pretending to be together.
But now that we stage the photo and he posted it, we’re back at opposite sides of the couch.
The old vine ‘chillin’ in a hot tub six feet away cause they’re not gay’ flashes through my head, and wonder if he is keeping distance from me intentionally.
Have I done something to make him feel self-conscious? Have I made him feel uncomfortable with me because of dumping all my emotions on him?
I open my mouth, wanting to ask him more, wanting to talk this whole situation over again, even if I know I’m not going to get anywhere productive—but there is a knock at the door.
Reluctantly, I get up, given that this is my hotel room, I probably should be the one to answer the door.
I am hit again with the thought that the hallway could be flooded with paparazzi or even angry team members, so I take a second to peek through the small peephole, grateful to find that it’s only Jonesy.
“Hey mate, how are you?” I ask opening the door.
“Better than you lot I am sure, Stone here too?” he asks.
I nod and wave him into the room, coming back to find Tate still sitting on the couch scrolling on his phone.
“Hey Stone,” Jonesy says, plopping himself down on the couch.
Resentment fills me as I realise he took ‘my’ spot, forcing me to sit on the armchair across from them both.
“Jonesy,” Tate says, looking up and giving him a bro-hi-five-hand-shake thing that I could never perfect. “What's up, man?”
“You’re kidding, right?” he asks, flicking his head between the both of us.
“Ah, so you’ve heard the news then?” Tate asks.
“Have I heard the news? Mate, I don’t think there is a person who hasn’t heard the news.”
“Are you sure? Surely, there’s some people in America or Russia that haven’t heard yet,” Tate says flatly.
“Seriously?” Jonesy replies, matching his tone. “I’m here to check on you both in the wake of this shitstorm you started, and you want to have a go at me about this?”
“Tate, chill. Jonesy, sorry. Thank you for coming. Have you spoken with any of the other players? I swear this wasn’t meant to happen,” I all but word vomit.
Where is the calm and collected assistant coach that I have been for these players for the last year? I don’t love this bumbling, pining version of myself.
I preferred when I had control of the situation, my self and my feelings. Well, I guess I haven’t had control over them for a while, at least where Tate is concerned. But I was able to give off the impression that I had my shit together.
“Ah, yeah. I have spoken with them,” Jonesy’s eyes can’t seem to stay still. Constantly glancing between me, Tate, and at anything else but us.
“Spit it out,” I say, a bit of authority seeping into my voice.
Apparently, it does the trick. Jonesy’s eyes meet mine. “Most were okay with it. Not going to lie, it definitely took us all by surprise that you are together. I mean… Some of us thought…”
“Oh, fuck.” I pant, dropping my head into my hands again.
Today has been too much. Is too much. I need air. I need a shot. Fuck, I need to go back to bed and wake up with all of this being some kind of nightmare.
What I don’t need is my subordinates having thoughts that I might have had a thing for the rookie player.
Clearly, I am not as in control of myself as I had thought.
I guess this whole situation is evident of that.
I’d have liked to blame alcohol. Blame that I was overcome with too many things last night, and releasing my pent up emotions was my brain’s way of coping with it. But I fear that it’s nothing like that.
Nope.
If it was, it would be more palatable. Not that I wasn’t ok with pining after Tate for the rest of well…
until I got over him. But I had thought that no one else knew.
I was ‘happy’ with that. I have locked down my emotions for the better part of my life.
It started when I knew I was gay and knew that in the sporting world that I shouldn’t be.
Reinforced by years of locker rooms, slurs, and the fact that when I told my parents, they shut me down.
I thought that the world had got to a place where being in the queer rainbow was acceptable.
Like, sure, you still a few of your religious nuts that were extreme in their beliefs, and all the power to them.
And who am I to tell them what to believe?
But that courtesy is not returned. Mum and Dad weren’t religious at all, but it was a sticking point for them that I just not be gay.
The day I came out to them was the same day that I left home, after being drafted to the AFL.
I was moving away for the first time, and while I knew I wasn’t ready to be out to the team or the world, I wanted to tell my parents.
They were pretty progressive with most of their beliefs.
Like they even voted for the Greens, were vegetarians and spent their free time completing community service work and giving back to those less fortunate.
I had thought I was just being paranoid. Nervous, like all people are when broaching that subject. But apparently, I wasn’t as prepared for the worst case scenario as I had thought.
That day was the last day I spoke with them.
I had hoped that with everything that happened with my injury, it might have been enough for them to reach out. To still view me as a son.
But it wasn’t. I haven’t been enough for a long time.
Not enough for my parents. Not enough to make it big and stay in the game.
Not enough to rehab my leg and get back on the field.
And now twenty two, in my back up career, I am not enough for the man I love.
Even if it didn’t come out the way that I had hoped, he finally knows that I love him, and that still isn’t enough for me to win the guy.
“Are you ok?” Tate asks, and it takes me a second to realise that he has moved to kneel in front of me, patting my arm softly.
It’s not exactly how I envisioned Tate on his knees in front of me for the first time, but beggars can’t be choosers.
And any scrap of affection—hell, even attention—from him is not something that I could ever say no to.
“Uh. Theres been a lot to process today,” I say, taking a deep breath to steady myself. Jonesy is still on his spot on the couch, and it’s not like I can say out loud everything that is going through my head. Not with us now in a… what… fake relationship?
Who am I and how did my life become so cliched?
“Well, it’s not over yet,” says Jonesy.
“Wh-what do you mean?” I stammer out.
“The press conference. It’s one of the reasons that I came up here. It starts in like,” he stops to check his phone. “Fuck, like fifteen minutes now. The whole team is waiting downstairs, then we have a team dinner after that.”
“Fuck,” Tate and I chorus.
“Theres no getting out of it,” Jonesy says, as if he could read my mind.
“Are you sure? I could say I have food poisoning or something,” I offer, but I know it’s a moot point.
There’s no getting out of it, especially not with the spotlight on me and Tate right now.
“I’m sure. I’ll wait here while you two go get camera ready,” Jonesy says. “And I don’t want to hear any funny business.”
Not that there would be anyway, but holy shit.
“You’re just going to… wait there?” Tate asks, (colour) eyes flicking between us. “Why would you do that?”
“Trust me,” says Jonesy. “I have heard my fair share of drama from my brother about his gay team mates and how they are always late when they share together.”
“Um. Stereotype much,” Tate scoffs.
“No, they are a couple, have been for a little while, and I always hear my brother bemoaning them. I know that sending you two in there to get naked is a recipe for disaster. So, I am going to wait here to ensure that we all get to the press conference in time. Which is now in ten minutes. So chip-chop.”
“Ugh, so bossy,” I grumble. “You know I am one of your bosses, right?”
“Not anymore,” Jonesy states.
Horror, dread, and a fuck load more emotions rush through me. “Wh-what?”
“Oh, shit, Anderson. Not like that. I mean that now you’re with Stone, you’re one of us. Oh my god… Does this make you a WAG?”
“Fuck no, I am a coach,” I state with pride.
“Damn right you are,” Tate beams at me. “But you don’t need to worry, Jonesy. All my clothes are back in my room, so no getting naked together.”
My heart and my head can’t keep up.
“Ah, of course. You guys were doing the whole ‘keep it under the radar’ thing,” he says, actually using finger quotes. Who still does that?
“Mate, did you just use finger quotes in a real conversation?” Tate asks, and I burst out laughing.
“I don’t know why that is funny,” Jonesy says. “But seriously, guys, times a wasting. Stone, kiss your man goodbye so we can head to your room.”
“Uh, um, you don’t need to do that,” I stammer, feeling the blush in my cheeks.
“Yes, he does. I know you were hiding it, but you don’t need to anymore. Y’all are together, and we’re gonna own that. So, kiss your man—no more secrets, and let’s get going. The media is only going to want to talk to you two, anyway.”
Tate looks like a deer in headlights, but still, he moves towards me. I stand there frozen, unable to do anything but hold my breath.
“See you downstairs soon, Babe,” he jokingly says and leans in.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
This is happening.
I wanted nothing more in my life than to kiss the man of my dreams. I have been fantasying about kissing him for months now.
About how he would walk up to me after a particularly gruelling practice or a game, call out my name in his deep and husky voice, grab my face in his strong, callused hands, then kiss me like there was no tomorrow.
Kiss me like he needed me to breathe. Kiss me like he loved me.
Tate’s mouth is firmly pressed against mine.
No room for misinterpretation. No room for doubt that he meant to kiss me.
He’s going for it, with Jonesy just standing there.
It was just a peck, really. No tongue, no open mouth, no lingering touches.
But fuck. It has changed my whole life. It probably went for zero point two seconds, but to me, it was everything. Confirmation that this is happening.
He pulls back, and my eyes open slowly, basking in the minute that was.
“Oh. Um. Yep. See you downstairs in a minute, Tate,” I say to an already closing door, as I just stand there processing.
Shit.
Skipping a shower, even though I should probably have one, I don’t have enough time. I all but drown myself in the good cologne I brought for events like this, chuck on a suit, and race to the elevator, all with my lips still tingling from that kiss.