Chapter 12
“Wow, this place is so great.”
Delia turned around, taking in the whole apartment that they’d found for them. A sublet from an old friend of Lane’s, who’d played for a season for the Blue Jays and now rented it out to various acquaintances who also played sports or were affiliated with any professional athletes.
It had been a great find, and Trevor could see how much she liked it.
It wasn’t much different from so many of the other places the guys he knew rented—not that much different than the condo that Lane owned, either.
Small but well-designed, but very modern, with a lot of shiny gray and white, all windows, with all the modern conveniences.
Very different from her and his dad’s house in Arizona, but maybe different was good.
“Lane, you’re a wonder, finding this so last minute,” she said, pulling him into another quick hug again. She looked over at her husband. “Don’t you think? The rentals I found were all so dark and dingy and overpriced.”
“I keep telling you we should buy something like this here,” Trevor’s dad said, leaning against the kitchen counter, smiling at her. “We need to be closer to our boys.”
“Is that why you keep trying to remodel the house?” Trevor asked, because that felt like a safer conversational topic than apparently their parents starting to spend at least a portion of every season in Toronto—or the momentary panic that had flitted across Lane’s expression when Tom had said it.
He believed that Lane would eventually be ready to tell them the truth, but until then, Trevor couldn’t fully relax, because even though their relationship had only really been developing since early January, it felt like navigating through a particularly thorny set of assumptions.
“Sure,” Tom said. “And also Delia deserves nice bathrooms, don’t you think?”
“Then God, Dad, hire a fucking contractor,” Trevor said with exasperation.
“It’s going better this time around,” Delia said staunchly. “The tile looks nice!”
Trevor knew when he eventually had to look at pictures of the tile work, because his dad would show him, it would not look particularly nice.
He looked over at Lane, who just shrugged, a glimmer of a smile on his face now. They both knew how it really looked, but neither of them was going to be dumb enough to say anything.
“I’m sure it looks great,” Lane said, just the barest amount of sarcasm. Barely detectable, but Trevor still heard it. Trevor couldn’t miss it. Not now, anyway.
And that, really, Trevor realized, was something they’d been doing for awhile now.
Sharing in these little inside jokes, teasing their parents about their PDA, about his dad’s tee time and Delia’s various hobbies.
It had always been good, to think of he and Lane as being on the same side, but now it was for certain, immutable.
Maybe they’d never been brothers, but they were something better, now.
Trevor felt a wave of longing to tell their parents now. To say, with wonder and excitement, look at what we’ve found. Look at what we’re building. Isn’t it great? I’m so fucking happy, and can’t you see how Lane’s glowing now? Looking easier and freer than you’ve ever seen him?
But they’d agreed to wait until Lane was ready, and Trevor wasn’t going to do anything to screw that up.
Tom sighed. “No faith from my own sons,” he complained.
And while it was good that their parents had never pushed the brother angle, not once, at least never around Trevor, he did love hearing that his dad considered Lane a son, just the same as Trevor.
He felt zero jealousy about it, only relief and happiness that Lane might have a share of his dad—who while absolute shit at tile, was really great at a lot of other things.
And even Lane didn’t tense up then. He only smiled. Slung an arm around Tom and leaned in. Like he liked that.
“I have faith you would be really great at hiring a contractor,” Lane said, grinning.
There’d always been flashes of this. Tantalizing glimpses of possibility. But it had never lasted. Now Trevor knew why, and he knew, he hoped anyway, that would change now. Because Lane was being honest with himself. Being honest with Trevor. And soon, being honest with their parents.
All the secrets would get laid out on the table, and they could just be like this.
Lane, Trevor thought, would probably tell him he was oversimplifying. That he was being optimistic. But he couldn’t help it. It was going to be so good.
“Boys, stop ganging up on Tom, he’s trying his best,” Delia said with faux sternness.
“Ouch,” Tom said, wincing. But when she passed by him, she pressed a quick kiss against his lips.
Trevor glanced over at Lane, and the satisfaction and pleasure he felt that their parents were so happy was reflected in Lane’s expression.
Delia waved Lane towards her, and they headed down to the bedroom, to look at something she’d brought for him, leaving Trevor and his dad alone together.
“You doing okay, kid?” Tom asked.
Trevor rolled his eyes. “We text all the time. And I’m sure Delia gives you updates every time I talk to her. So you know I’m good.”
“Still enjoying staying with Lane?” Tom asked, and there was an additional layer of studied casualness to his question that pinged something deep down in Trevor.
Did his dad know? Did his dad suspect?
Just two days ago, Trevor had argued strongly in favor of telling their parents what was going on right away. But now, faced with the possibility that his dad might have already guessed, Trevor couldn’t help but freak out a little.
Maybe Lane had the right way of this, after all.
“Yeah, of course. Lane’s . . . ” Trevor swallowed hard. Lane’s great. Lane’s spectacular. Lane’s hot as fuck. I think I might be in love with Lane. “Lane’s Lane.”
Tom raised an eyebrow over his wire-framed glasses. “Lane’s Lane?”
Jordan had told him yesterday after practice that he was embarrassingly down bad, and that he didn’t know how the whole team hadn’t guessed already that they were fucking.
And that was only because he and Lane had been running routes together, and maybe, maybe, Trevor had glanced over at Lane a couple of times in a totally normal way!
A way he’d been doing from the beginning.
After all, Lane was supposed to be teaching him to be a better receiver, wasn’t he?
Was Trevor not supposed to pay attention?
“I mean, you know how he is.” Trevor shrugged awkwardly. God, he was fucking this up.
His dad’s eyebrow rose even further. “Not as well as you at this point,” he said mildly.
Trevor choked on freaking air. Jordan was right. He was embarrassingly transparent.
His dad looked at him more closely. “Because you’ve been living with him for over six months?” he continued.
“Right, right, of course.” Trevor wanted to die. He was sure his dad knew something. Had he told Delia? Was that why they’d come? To confront them about the fact that they’d hidden this from their parents?
For someone who had very recently been fiercely on the let’s tell them right away side, Trevor knew he was freaking out way more about this than he should be.
What if Lane had been right this whole time? What if—
“Are you sure?” Tom asked. “You seem . . . off.” That was a very diplomatic way for his dad to suggest that he was suddenly behaving like a lunatic.
“Um, just a hard week of practice, you know how it is.” Trevor wasn’t sure his dad would buy it. It wasn’t particularly convincing and not only was Tom Thompson kind of brilliant, he was an expert in Trevor. Always had been.
“You know you can tell me anything,” Tom said.
There was a part of Trevor that just wanted to blurt it out, to say it and be done with it, once and for all. Not done done, of course, but to have his dad know the truth. But he’d promised Lane that they’d wait until he felt ready.
“I know,” Trevor said, and realized suddenly that while he couldn’t tell his dad everything, he could at least tell him the part that belonged to Trevor and Trevor alone.
He hesitated, and he hadn’t thought that would be enough for his dad to prompt him with another knowing look, but apparently it was.
“Trevor, you can tell me anything,” Tom said, like he already knew there was definitely something Trevor needed to tell him. Oh boy, if he only knew how many confessions Trevor needed to make.
“There was actually something.” Trevor swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat. “You know how I dated Sophie back in college.”
“I know you cared about her a lot, but if I’m being honest, Delia and I didn’t like her very much.” His dad said this like it hadn’t been abundantly clear that they’d never been a particular fan of her.
“Me either, actually.” Trevor laughed nervously. “And part of that was who she was, definitely, and how it felt she pressured me into—”
“Pressured you into what?” Tom asked sharply.
“Um, just being serious, making things serious, committing to each other. That kind of thing.”
“She saw you as a golden ticket,” Tom guessed.
It stung, sure, even thinking about it now, and also hearing how obvious it had been to everyone around him.
“I think so,” Trevor agreed. “But that isn’t the only reason I don’t think I like her as much as I wanted to.
I just . . . I think I thought I should like her.
Not that I actually did, and that made the relationship hard.
” He wasn’t going to go into how it had made sex routine and perfunctory.
How he’d been going through the motions.
His dad didn’t need to know all those details.
“Was that the only reason?” his dad asked softly. Like he’d already guessed the second half of it.
“I mean, I do like girls. But I like guys too. What matters most is that I actually like them. Like I care about them, feel things about them.”