19. Jordan

NINETEEN

I findCoach in the video room, watching tapes of yesterday's game. It was a pretty sure bet he'd be there, since that's what he likes to do every Sunday. His wife's a nurse who deliberately works weekend shifts, since he's busy every Saturday and a lot of Sundays anyway, so he does a lot of stuff on his free Sundays and takes off another day during the week to spend time with her. It's sweet.

He must have radar or something, though, because even though I'm quiet, I've barely stopped in the doorway before he turns around and says, "If you're about to tell me you got arrested last night, you'd better start running."

"Me? I had dinner with my dads last night," I protest. "If I'd gotten arrested—which I never have anyway—you'd already know, because their yelling would have been heard by the whole county."

Snorting, he hits Pause on the tape. "What can I do for you, Marks? If your dads want to take the team to JU for spring break, I gotta say no. I don't want the media calling the team spoiled rich kids again."

I hadn't heard that one, and it makes me wince. Though I guess it's true, for me at least. It's not like we have a mansion and private plane, but I've never had to worry about things like college loans or anything. I had a part-time job in high school, but that was because Uncle Luke thought it would be good for me, not because I needed the money. I'm kind of the definition of privileged. "That's not it, Coach. It's, uh, it's not bad news, but the responsible thing is for me to tell you. So… I am. Telling you."

The dread on his face is terrifying. "Tell me what?"

I take a deep breath. "The thing is… I'm bisexual and I have a boyfriend. I don't want to come out, but some people know, so… if news gets out, now you already know."

He blinks at me in silence. Then, "Is that it?"

"Yes." I nod.

"You weren't photographed underage at a gay sex club?"

What? "No. I've never been to a gay sex club." Is there even one here in San Luco?

"Your boyfriend, is he legal?"

"He's older than me."

His gaze sharpens. "How much older?"

"Uh… he's twenty-three."

"Is he a bikie, gang member, or otherwise involved in crime or a criminal organization?"

This is starting to get weird. "He works at a menswear store and wants to design costumes for TV and movies. Coach, are you feeling okay?" How do I ask if he's having some kind of mental break without potentially making it worse?

"So what you're saying is that you're dating a law-abiding, age-appropriate, ordinary man, but you don't want to make any public statement about it?"

"I don't know about ordinary," I object. "Blaise is pretty special."

Coach nods, then chuckles. "Of course he is. Marks… are you sure you don't want to come out? Keeping a relationship secret is a pretty big thing."

It's so far from what I expected him to say that for a minute, I don't know how to answer. I sit down in one of the chairs grouped around the screen. "Our closest friends know," I admit. "And my family. I don't like the idea of sneaking around, like Blaise is something to be ashamed of, but… I'm not planning a career in baseball, Coach. Why bring all this attention that neither of us want, when in a couple of years, we can be open and nobody will care?"

"It sounds like you've thought this through. You're a sensible kid. I know what your ex-teammate did this year has made things more difficult, but if you change your mind and decide you want to come out…" His face gets a pained expression, but he pushes on. "I and the athletic department would support you."

"Even though it would bring down a media shitstorm that isn't focused on our game?" I'm only half teasing—part of me can't believe he actually brought himself to say that.

"Even though. My players matter, Marks."

Aw. "Thanks, Coach. I don't think we'll change our minds on this, though. I just wanted you to know so you wouldn't be surprised if it somehow gets out."

"Thank you. I appreciate that."

I stand to go, and I'm nearly to the door before he calls, "Marks?"

"Yeah, Coach?" I turn back. He's watching me closely.

"You're having a killer season so far, and you're only a sophomore. Are you really sure you don't want to consider the pros?"

"Positive," I say confidently.

He nods. "It's just… I had a call about you last week."

I frown. "A call?"

"It might be nothing. Like I said, you're still only a sophomore. But if you keep playing like this, people are going to show interest."

"People?" I don't get it.

Coach sighs exasperatedly. "Scouts, Marks. There's a chance you'll be scouted."

Whoa. "Me? No way." I'm not that level of player.

"There aren't any definites. But if playing pro ball was ever something you wanted, it might not be out of reach. Think about it."

"I don't want to go pro," I tell him, but for the first time in years, I'm not sure that's completely true.

That conversation is still circling through my head when I park outside Blaise's place. It's early—he won't be home for another half hour, at least—but I'm too restless to go back to my dorm, and if I call my friends, I know we'll end up talking about this. Which I don't want to do yet. Not until I get my head around the idea myself.

I really wish my dads weren't currently on a plane heading back to Georgia, because this is the kind of thing they usually talk me through. I could call Mila, but there's a good chance she'd just call me an idiot a few more times, and I'm not in the mood for that today. Sisters can be harsh, man.

A couple of Blaise's neighbors that I recognize are standing at the entrance, talking, and I decide to see if they'll let me in. Sitting on the floor outside his door won't be more comfortable than my car, but it'll be a change of scenery. Besides, sitting in my car outside a residential building for too long makes me feel like a creeper.

Sure enough, as I near them, one of the women smiles at me. "Here to see Blaise?"

"Yeah. He's due any minute—mind if I wait for him inside?"

They both shrug, and one swipes the door open for me. "Knock yourself out."

I take the steps two at a time, then slide to the floor in front of his door and lean against it. There's something almost therapeutic about letting my head thunk against the wood, so I do it three more times. Thunk, thunk, thu—whooooaaaa!

Blinking, flat on my back, I stare up at the blond stranger looming above me.

"You're not my Chinese food," he observes. "Not unless you forgot the food and plan to offer something else instead."

What the fuck? Oh, shit. "You're the roommate," I realize, scrambling to my feet. Crap, what's his name? I'm sure Blaise told me at some point. "Uh, hi. I'm Jordan, a friend of Blaise's."

"He's not here right now," the roommate points out, folding his arms across his chest. He doesn't look pissed off, though—kind of amused, actually.

"No, I know—he's at work. But he'll be home soon, so I thought I'd wait." God, that must sound so weird to someone who doesn't know we're boyfriends, and I don't know if Blaise would tell him or not.

"You were going to wait in the hall? Like this is some made-for-TV rom-com?"

Ouch. "I felt like a creeper waiting in the car," I excuse weakly.

He nods sagely. "Yeah, I get that. Waiting in the hallway outside the door is so much less creepy."

This isn't going well, and I think the smart thing to do right now is say buh-bye. "So, I'm just gonna…" I gesture vaguely toward the stairs.

Roommate smiles. "You don't happen to be the owner of the green Vans sitting in the middle of my living room, do you? The ones that are two sizes too big for Blaise and way more worn out than he'd ever let them get?"

I don't know why, but heat rises from my neck all the way up to my hairline, and I know I'm blushing. "Uh, yeah, those are mine. I was going to wear them last night, but Blaise made me change…" I trail off. I doubt he even cares.

He laughs. "I'm totally messing with you, Jordan. Blaise told me about you—come in and wait for him." He holds the door wide, and I manage to smile as I walk past him.

"I'm Drey, by the way," he adds, closing it once I'm inside, and memory floods in.

"Oh sure, I know. Dreyton Langtry the third," I say casually. I can't believe I forgot that—I even cracked a joke about how pretentious it was when Blaise told me. The way he smirks tells me he knows I forgot.

"I'm glad we got a chance to meet," he says, waving me toward the couch, and it's kind of awks. I'm used to just flopping down like I belong here, but I guess I'm a guest? So I sit like I'm visiting my grandmother, except I never had a grandmother to visit and I just end up feeling hella uncomfortable and out of place. "I got in this morning and I'm leaving in a couple of hours, so I didn't think we would. But Blaise mentions you almost every time we talk—apparently you're the reason my Pop-Tart stash now lives in my room instead of the kitchen?"

I gasp and sit bolt upright. "What? Oh my god, all he had to do was say they were yours! I wasn't gonna eat someone else's food." I can't believe Blaise did me dirty like that.

"He said that," Drey agrees, sitting in the armchair opposite me, "but he also thought having them where you could see them would be like waving crack under the nose of a recovering addict."

"I have a will of steel," I protest indignantly.

One blond eyebrow rises. "Oh? Want one right now?"

Fuck. I really, really do, but this is a test. There's never been a more obvious test in the history of them. If I say yes, I fail. If I say no, I'll be proven victorious… but I won't have a Pop-Tart.

Damn Drey and his wiliness.

"No, thank you," I say, and even to me it sounds sulky.

He laughs again, then asks, "You like Chinese food? I can order more."

"Isn't it already on its way?"

Drey shrugs. "No idea. I just assumed thumping on the door meant food, but I only ordered it ten minutes ago, so that could just be my brain being in a different time zone." He hauls out his phone and taps the screen. "App says it's still being made. Let me call—what do you want? I already got enough for Blaise."

He updates the order, then leans back in the chair and studies me thoughtfully. "Just so we're both on the same page, I know about you and Blaise," he says. "We've been friends for a long time. I can keep your secret."

"Thanks. It's not that I want it to be a secret," I feel compelled to add. "I just don't want it to be a circus."

He nods. "I get it, man. I work for a private charter company, and that means sometimes flying with athletes. I've heard all the dramas that come with the press. The thing is…" He leans forward, his piercing blue gaze pinning me. "Blaise is an amazing guy. Best friend anyone could have, will always step up for you if you need him. You wanting to keep this under the radar short-term is fine, but if it turns into a permanent thing…"

I meet his gaze dead-on. "He met my dads last night. It doesn't get more serious than that for me."

He nods. "Good."