KNIGHT
Chapter Ten
Deep in a Reddit thread about celibacy, I’m lowkey pissed at my parents for not making me more religious. I asked my mom one day why we didn’t go to church, and she said something like “We don’t think you need to go to church to prove you love God.”
But she also never talked about loving or believing in God, and neither did my dad or sisters, so I was left to form my own opinion.
It must be way easier to believe in God when you’re surrounded by other believers one to two days a week and getting regular lessons on it, because out here in the secular world, I have to say, there are a lot more reasons to doubt than there are to have faith.
Social media alone makes it damn near impossible to know what the hell to think about anything.
There’s so much bullshit out there. So many made up miracles and brushes with divinity.
And while all of that’s going on over there, science is over here making so much sense.
I’m not prepared to say I don’t believe in anything, but thinking of my body as some sort of divine vessel for God doesn’t resonate with me.
Some dudes say they feel smarter when they abstain from sex, and some just sound superior about it—like they’ve risen above this mortal coil already, and they deserve all of our admiration for it.
The gay celibacy internet rabbit holes I find all feel like they’re trying to recruit new members.
Some guys claim to be so much more at peace when they simply removed the possibility of sex from their lives.
Others—the religious ones—say their relationship with God leveled up once they finally stopped giving into temptation.
I don’t even know what that means or how a relationship with an invisible deity could get better.
Better than what? Nothing? Like the conversations you’re having in your head get deeper?
Football is my god anyway. It determines my happiness, my path.
Maybe I could deepen my relationship with the game by focusing on it and nothing else. That wouldn’t be so bad.
There are a lot of really strong opinions online about celibacy as a lifestyle—even from some monks who I guess have access to the internet, but I can’t even imagine being at a monastery. Guaranteed I’d find someone else just as hard up as I am, and we’d work something out.
But if I wanted to be a monk, who are supposedly the happiest people in the world, that would solve all kinds of other problems. It would mean I could be gay. It’s out here in the world I want to live in that I can’t.
“Bro—you wanna come play some cricket?”
“It’s not cricket,” I tell Dillon. “It’s croquet.”
“What’s cricket?” he asks.
I sigh. “The thing you knock the ball through is called a wicket. Cricket is a game they play in the UK and Australia that’s kinda like baseball.”
“I wanna learn that,” Derek says from behind him.
Their auburn heads crowd my doorway as I lie on my bed with my phone now flipped screen down on my chest. “I don’t know how to play cricket.”
“You just said you did.”
“I didn’t,” I tell them.
“Wicket then?”
My eyes roll back in my head. “Croquet.”
Dillon, sounding frustrated, says, “I thought croquet was something you did with yarn.”
I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. “That’s crochet.”
“Okay, Einstein. Ass off the bed. Time to go touch grass.” That’s Dillon.
I sit up and am about to set my phone aside when it buzzes in my hand. “That’s not what touching grass means, bro.”
“Hey—school’s out for summer.”
I look down at my phone and see Sullivan’s name.
“You guys go ahead. I have a call I need to take. I’ll be out in a minute. Don’t move the wickets. They’re supposed to be in those spots.” The last time we played, they plucked them all out of the ground, thinking the winner got to rearrange them and design the next round.
They’re like wrecking balls, these two.
“It’s gonna get boring,” Derek says as they wedge themselves out of my doorframe.
“It won’t.”
Dillon asks, “Who’s calling? Is it a girl?”
“Nope. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Is it Coach?”
“Fuckin-A, Dildo. Can I get a minute here? I’ll be down. And we’re gonna play football. You guys both swing a mallet for shit.”
They chuckle and finally head down the hall.
I open the message as soon as they’re gone. My breath catches when I try to inhale. My heart is already working overtime.
Sullivan
i got my first algebra assignment. it’s four chapters and i already have a headache. can i give you my login?
Me
or I could help you learn algebra. its not totally useless
Sullivan
who do I need to blow to avoid that?
I put my left hand over my hardening dick and type out a response with my right.
Me
not sure how well that would go over at my kitchen table.
Sullivan
Do you not have a room at your mansion?
Me
what makes you think I live in a mansion?
i mean, I guess some people would call it a mansion
and yes, I do have a room but no one has any boundaries here
Sullivan
mansions don’t have locks?
Me
bc that wouldn’t look weird asf
Sullivan
u realize Im being serious right??
I blink several times and have to grab another breath out of the suddenly very thin air.
Me
can I at least try and teach you smthng?
Sullivan
in terms of my technique?
Jesus fucking Christ, just thinking about his technique—the feel of his throat on the crown of my cock—has me gripping my shaft.
Me
algebra. fuck.
Sullivan
i mean u can try. can I try teaching you a little Rachmaninoff tune on the violin? or the cello. your choice. nothing too complex.
I laugh.
Me
when do you need the lesson done by?
Sullivan
accelerated course. wednesday.
Me
did you want to come over?
Sullivan
i want to work out an arrangement
Me
i assume that’s not a musical reference
Sullivan
correct
Me
there’s a house on Broome. it’s fully furnished. staged, but nicer than the one on the lake.
Sullivan
im interested
Me
meet me there at nine? 801 Broome
Sullivan
i’ll be there. ready to “learn”
I close the phone before I say something truly desperate.
After the twins and I played fast and hard with the football out back until both of them were begging to take a break, I ran sprints until I wanted to puke, then I showered and settled back into bed to watch an old Super Bowl. It wasn’t the first one my dad played in, but it was the first he won.
I don’t know how many times I’ve watched it.
I wasn’t even born when he played this game, but I do remember him showing it to me for the first time.
He was proud of how he’d played and with good reason, but what really stands out about the game is the way the team works together.
It was the thing I think he was always trying to get me to admire about this particular Super Bowl when I was a kid, but now that I’m a quarterback, I understand what he means.
Back then, I was too mesmerized by my own father, and now that I have a deeper understanding of the game, and the fact that a quarterback is only as good as his offense, I notice the smaller things.
The way he pats someone on the ribs as they move into position, the way the other players orient themselves around him like they actually care about him and not the win.
A team like that isn’t just a well-oiled machine.
It’s a family, and the character of its leader is more important than anyone’s individual talent.
At practice and on the sideline, the coach leads, but out there on the field, it’s usually the quarterback, the one calling the plays and making the decisions about whether to go with the original plan or default into another attack.
I told Gabe this before I moved out of the dorm—that his weird, forced fun UNO night was the catalyst for our group of freshman ballers to becoming a family that can win championships.
Gabe cried at the compliment, and definitely needed a hug afterward, but I wanted him to know that these days it’s not always easy for guys to drop their guards and be themselves around each other.
Especially guys like me. But we’re all better, stronger, and closer for it.
He confessed he’d been nervous, never having lived in one of the athlete dorms before, and that made me respect him even more for trying.
I’m so ready to play ball this season. I’m ready for my dad to see that I learned what he was trying to teach me.
I’m ready to become a part of a real team—a family, and I’m ready to show the world what I can do—what I’ve trained my whole life to do.
Football is the only thing outside my family that I’m allowed to love with my whole chest. And yeah, going down in history as one of the greats—that would make up for a lot.
If I can’t live the life I want fully, then at least I’ll be able to help make it possible for someone else, especially if all they need is a hand up and not a full culture shift.
Tonight, however, it’s the life I’ll be missing out on that I’m thinking about as I pack to spend the night in the house where I’m meeting up with Sullivan. As the hours tick by, thoughts of him crowd out even daydreams about football.
I get to the address before eight. The house is a craftsman, which I’ve decided is my favorite style with its natural wood molding and built-in shelves.
This one has a big fireplace in the modest living room and a traditional layout with lots of doors and hallways.
All the rooms are furnished with decent-looking, if not cheap pieces.
The couch is a three-seater facing the fireplace, flanked with two club chairs around a simple coffee table.
The kitchen table across the living room from the foyer is a rectangle of wood, already set with four place settings. The updated kitchen has green cabinets, gold fixtures, and a white quartz countertop, overly marbled through with gray.