8. Vincent
VINCENT
I have never been more grateful to see my front door. After the overwhelming craziness over the last few days, I need time to just sit by myself and process, and now that I am home, I can finally do that in peace without worrying about what everyone else is thinking of me.
I guess the players mean well, but it is still obvious to me that they don’t see me as ‘one of them’.
And I’m not. I’m not on the field anymore, and I'm not a player. I’m the assistant coach, and I have to take that with a grain of salt.
Because even if they have all said positive and supportive things, what else would they say to their boss?
I’m more concerned about how they are going to treat Tate, and what will happen behind closed locker room doors there.
Not that any of them have given the hint at doing something so nefarious, but well, it's always the ones you don't expect, isn't it?
The ones who you thought were an ally or would be ok with seeing two men together, that suddenly are the most homophobic arseholes ever.
Take my parents, for example. I grew up thinking they were progressive people, they supported are ingrained in a lot of ‘movements’, always the pair to advocate for the little guy, to go on and on about people's rights, stood on equality and multiculturalism. But a gay son? Supporting that was a step too far. I was already playing professionally when I came out to them, and they were quick to shoot me down, telling me that I needed to hide who I am, so that I didn’t cause controversy—and like a gullible kid who just wants to please his parents, I listened.
I hid. I cowered. I didn’t live as me. I did it all as an attempt to keep them, to have their favour and their love—and it wasn’t enough.
After I'd come out to them, they started distancing themselves from me. Talking to me less, not coming to my games. Then, when I’d told them my team had found out, well, that was just the end of their patience, wasn't it?
They cut me off, and I haven’t seen them since.
I tried—hell, the hospital tried—to contact them when I had my career ending injury.
They were still my emergency contacts, but did they come?
No, they told the hospital to take them off my contact list and left me there alone.
That was when it really hit me that I wasn’t a part of their family anymore.
Then my team moved on without me, too. That was a truly dark place in my life, and it was only my sheer determination that got me out of it.
They never expected me to walk again, let alone be able to run, drive, and function normally. Sure, I definitely have some rough days and points of pain, but at least I’m here. No longer living my dream, but I am living a pretty good life, even if I have created a bigger mess for myself.
It gives me a small sense of satisfaction, though, to think of my parents seeing all the news headlines and articles going around about me and Tate, going around trying to damage control it. I’d love to be a fly on that wall.
Good luck trying to deny my queer arse now, Mum.
I have been home for all of ten minutes when there is a knock at my door. The last thing I want to do right now is people. I want to just relax and walk around in my boxers. I’m tempted to just ignore it, but they knock a second time.
What if it's something important? What if it is Coach Graham, or one of the other execs?
I don’t think anyone else knows where I live. I moved here when I accepted the role as Assistant Coach, and I don’t think I have told anyone else where I live. I certainly haven’t had anyone over to visit.
Shit. What if it’s paparazzi? I didn’t think I would be their target, but God knows with everything else going on.
Dread fills me as the person knocks for a third time, and I know that I can’t just sit here.
My anxiety won’t let me just leave them and wait for them to walk away.
I need to know what they need from me. It’s times like this I wish I had invested in a video door bell or something so I could see who was standing there.
Fucking solid wood doors with no peep holes will be the death of me, I swear.
Steeling myself, I crack the door open as the person on the other side knocks for a fourth time. Peeking through the small gap created, I see it’s just Tate.
“For fuck’s sake, Tate,” I growl, throwing the door open to glare at him. “Why are you here?”
“I thought you’d be happy to see your boyfriend,” Tate grins at me.
Ignoring the thrill those words jolt through me, I square my shoulders and stare him down.
“You didn’t answer my question, why are you here?” I growl.
“Well, you see...” he shuffles his feet and averts his gaze from me. “The thing is...”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Tate, spit it out.”
“I-can’t-go-home,” he blurts out, the words almost blending together.
“What do you mean?” I ask, a flash of dread flickering through me. “Have you got paparazzi around or something?”
I was worried about them coming to my place, but now that I think of it, it would be more likely that they would go to his place, as it is more well known.
“Ah, not exactly,” Tate continues.
“What do you mean ‘not exactly’? What happened?” I ask, my growing agitation lacing my tone.
“Well, Dad’s there,” he states with a pleading look in his eyes.
“And?”
“And what? I can’t go there.”
“I am so confused,” I state, finally letting him into the house.
“He doesn’t know about all of this,” Tate says, waving his arm between us. “I’ve never lied to my dad, I just can’t.”
“So, tell him?” I ask, still confused with what his problem is.
“Just flat out tell him what exactly? That you got drunk declared your feelings for me, the world caught on, the team confirmed our relationship before we could say anything, so now we are in a fake relationship PR disaster?”
“Well, you might not need to go into that much detail,” I say, blushing.
“He will dig for all those details, trust me. You don’t know Frank Stone.”
“I’ve met him a few times,” I defend poorly.
“Yeah, well, you weren’t raised by him!” Tate declares, stomping over to my couch and helping himself to my favourite seat.
“He doesn’t give me the impression that he would judge you or be homophobic or anything like my parents.”
“Your parents are homophonic?” Tate asks, his eyes blazing as they meet mine.
“That is not what we are talking about right now,” I say, trying to keep us on topic. “Why can’t you just talk to your dad?”
“Cause he would pry the truth out of me. And we can’t exactly tell him the truth, not if we don’t want everyone knowing.
I love my dad, but secret keeper he is not.
And did you see his face in the meeting the other day?
Pure disappointment and pain at the mere thought that I was gay and didn’t feel comfortable enough to tell him.
Like, I know this is first world problems compared to other people’s real life worries, but this is a real life worry for me. ”
“Well, what’s your plan then? To just ignore your dad for months? To never go home?”
“Not really. I was thinking back to what I suggested earlier.”
“Tate, it has been a long day—a long week—what did you say earlier?”
“I was thinking that maybe we could, um, ‘help each other out’.”
Oh. Fuck.
How had I forgotten that he said that? It’s such a bad idea. Saying no to him the first time was hard enough. Having him here, alone in my house, suggesting it again? I don’t know if I have the strength to say no this time.
“It’s a bad idea,” I say in a weak attempt to put him off. “How will that even help with the situation with your dad?”
“I kind of figured that if there was something going on, then I wouldn’t technically be lying to him.”
“So, you want to what, fool around, get off, then go home and tell your dad all about it?” I scoff.
“Not totally that, but it’s a benefit,” he admits, timidly not meeting my eyes.
“I can’t,” I find myself saying.
“You can’t?” Tate baulks.
“Fuck, I want to. You have no idea how much I want to. The things I have dreamed about doing—”
“Then tell me, tell me how much you want me,” Tate cuts me off, licking his lips. “Tell me what you want to do to me.”
“Tate—”
He cuts me off again, “Please, Vince, I want to understand.”
Those eyes, that voice. Holy hell. I’m not going to be able to hold back.
“I’ve thought about touching you. Kissing your body from head to toe.
I want to learn what pleases you, what gives you pleasure.
I’ve dreamed about fucking you until you pass out, rimming your tight arse until you cum all over my chest. I’ve thought about marking you, claiming you, owing you.
I’ve thought about being inside you, feeling the way you grip my cock, pegging your prostate until you cum hands free.
Tate, baby, I have thought about everything with you. ”
“Um, yes, please,” Tate pants.
“Yes to which part?” I ask, taken aback by his quick response.
“Any of it… all of it… I need…”
“What do you need,” I prompt when he trails off.
“I need you to touch me.”
Biting my fist, I look at him. Really taking the minute to run my eyes all up his body. Taking in the tent forming in his pants at my mere words.
Holy fuck, I’m going to do this.
“I won’t fuck you though,” I state, falling to my knees, unable to resist him any longer.
“Uh. Y-you want to do this r-right now?” He stutters out, his fiery gaze meeting mine as he reclines back on the couch, watching me as I crawl towards him, positioning myself between his legs.
I place my hands on his knees, his body jolting at the touch. “As long as you are sure you want to do this,” I ask, needing to know for sure.
“Uh-huh.” Tate nods, biting his lip. I want to kiss him. I want to taste him.
I lean in, going to do just that, but pull to the side at the last second, kissing his jaw instead.