8. Jordan

EIGHT

Coach ison a tear at Tuesday's practice, and we all know why. At the hotel on Saturday, two of our players sneaked out after curfew to go to a party a couple of girls told them about. That would have been enough to get them in trouble, but the party they went to got raided by the cops, who found illegal drugs and plenty of minors… including the one who was sucking Hannaway off. He got arrested.

As if that wasn't bad enough, it somehow made it to social media and then the sports news headlines. The preseason friendly on Sunday sold out, but the crowd wasn't welcoming, even though the two players involved were suspended pending review. Hannaway's going to be kicked off the team—the breathalyzer and then blood test showed he had an obscenely high blood alcohol level, and he's only twenty. He'll lose his athletic scholarship and might have to drop out of school. He's also potentially facing charges for having sex with a minor, which is probably his bigger problem.

Timmins was also stupid-drunk, but he's twenty-one, and since he wasn't in possession of any drugs and wasn't caught dick-out with a minor, he didn't get arrested. He's still in trouble for breaking curfew and getting drunk the night before a game, but his suspension would probably just have been for a week if not for the media circus. Now, I don't think he'll be allowed to play again until the news dies down and will probably miss the season opener—his last one, since he's a senior.

So yeah, practice is closed because there's fucking reporters hoping to grab a sound bite from one of us, and Coach is so mad, we're all afraid to speak. He has been since he came pounding on all our doors Saturday night, checking if anyone else was out before he went to see what was going on with Hannaway. Fun fact I just learned: Franklin U won't bail you out if you get arrested, so Coach called Hannaway's parents to either send the money or come and deal with it themselves. They're locals, so they opted to come and tear their son a new one in person, and since Coach basically said he didn't want to see him, they took him home for a few days while they manage the fallout. I'm glad—it was awkward enough having Timmins moping around, hungover, all day Sunday.

The only good thing to happen since Saturday night—because of course we lost the game Sunday, and I got a barrage of texts from friends and family when the news broke, plus another call from Uncle Luke—was the text I got from Blaise this morning, asking when we can meet up. I've never answered a message so fast in my life, and I'm going straight there when I'm done here… if that ever happens. It feels like Coach is taking his rage out on the rest of us.

By the time we finally hit the locker room, I'm aching, dripping sweat despite the cold day, and glad Hannaway isn't here for me to give my opinion to. Spoiler alert: it wouldn't foster the spirit of teamwork.

A shower revives me, and I make sure to be thorough, since I'm hoping Blaise will want to get up close and personal with my parts. I'm mostly dressed and wondering whether texting him to ask if he wants anything from the McDonald's drive-through would be weird—I mean, I'm stopping there anyway and we're friends, it's not like I'm asking him on a date or anything, but I've never actually brought food over for a hookup before—when Coach comes in.

"Listen up! You all here?" The room falls silent, and his gaze skims over us, doing a mental headcount. "It's been a rough few days, and I wish I could say it's over, but it's not. I just heard that Hannaway's been charged, which means Franklin and this team specifically are going to come under heavy scrutiny. I know you've all seen the media outside and that some of you have been contacted directly for information. I'm going to make this very clear: The school's media liaison will be the only point of contact for any media inquiries. Do not stroll out there and give your own fucking press conference. If a reporter contacts you, your only response should be ‘no comment, talk to the media liaison.' Do not post about this on social media. Do not write emails about it, or text messages. I don't want to see screenshots online of your opinion. If your friends ask what's going on, tell them you know as much as they do and do not give an opinion, I don't care how long you've known them. We have a legal team and a PR team to deal with this shit; your job is to focus on the game. And your education," he tacks on as an afterthought. "Is that understood?"

There's a little silence while we digest all that, and he glowers. "Is that understood?"

"Yes, Coach," we chorus, but it's ragged.

"Coach?" Boyle half raises his hand, then lets it drop. "How long is this going to last?"

Coach sighs, and for the first time he looks more tired and stressed than angry. "Too long. But if we all stay focused on the game, no trouble, no scandals, hopefully the press will lose interest in us and annoy someone else. So nobody else had better get their attention with non-baseball stuff. Unless it's because you rescued orphans from a burning building or something." He pauses. "No, not even that. No media attention, period, unless it's because we're playing a winning game."

There's a half-hearted murmur of agreement, but I feel like my breath is frozen in my chest. It's not that I want to come out—I'm still getting used to what it means to acknowledge this about myself—but the feeling of not being able to because of the potential media circus is… awful.

I grew up in a liberal family, surrounded by people who were openly queer or active allies. We had a couple of minor skirmishes when I was younger with people who found out my parent was gay and didn't want their kids to play with me, which sucked, but generally, the idea of queer being something bad or that needs to be hidden isn't one that's been part of my life.

I know that's not everyone's experience—Uncle Luke was kicked out of home as a teenager and hasn't had contact with his parents since—but it's been mine. It never occurred to me that if I did work out I was attracted to men, I would have to hide that. My desire to keep things under the radar was because I didn't want to deal with the media if I didn't feel it was a hundred percent worth it. Not because I can't. This is an eye-opening feeling, and I don't like it.

Coach leaves, and Polly leans over. "I heard the media is camped outside Hannaway's house," he murmurs. "And they tried to follow his parents to their jobs."

"Christ," Laringo hisses. "Why'd he have to be such a dumbass?"

There's a general murmur of agreement, though a few of the guys look like they want to argue. I get it—we've all gotten drunk before, even though we're underage. And it's not like we all ask to see a girl's ID before we hook up—though you can bet your ass I'm gonna from now on. But Hannaway threw his team under the bus, and seriously, who gets that drunk the night before a game? My limit's zero if I'm playing the next day, because there is no fucking I in team.

So yeah, if we gotta deal with the fallout from his shit, then I'm going to call him a dumbass and not feel like we need to rally around him.

But given all the media attention on us right now, how dangerous is it for me to be going to Blaise's place for sex?

After agonizing over it all the way to McDonald's, I decide that me hanging out at a friend's place isn't the same as coming out—and given I've never even been that close to Hannaway, it's unlikely any reporters will be following me to notice anyway. And in the spirit of "friends do nice things for their friends," I texted Blaise and asked if he wanted anything to eat. He's getting a Big Mac meal.

He opens the door as I walk up the"stai's and smiles at me. "I saw you pull up. Did you get my fries?"

"And the rest." I pass him the drinks tray but hang on to the food as I walk past him into the apartment. It's weird, because I've only been here once, but I'm comfortable here. "Did you just get home from work?" He's still wearing his suit pants and shirt, though the jacket and tie are gone.

"Yeah, I was changing when I saw you and the need for fried potato took over my entire being. Dump everything on the counter, and I'll be back in a second." He puts the drinks down and then disappears into his room. I take the food out of the bags, perch on a stool, and try not to drool at the scent of my fries while I politely wait for him to come back. He's right: fried potato makes everything better.

When he comes back out, he's in sweatpants and an old FU Kings tee. It gives me a funny feeling, seeing the same logo I wear at every game on his chest. "Cool T-shirt."

He smirks. "Thanks. I bought it when Peyton Miller came out. Gotta support that football team, you know?"

"I'd be offended, but him being a student here was the deciding factor for me picking this school." It mattered to me that the school rallied around Peyton when he kissed his boyfriend at a game. I didn't think I was queer then, but I didn't want to be part of a system that wouldn't support the community. "That doesn't mean I'm not gonna pretend you bought it for the baseball team."

He laughs and slides onto the stool beside me. "Whatever makes you happy. You could've started eating."

"Habit. Uncle Luke has a thing about waiting for everyone to get their food before eating." I rip into my sandwich with gusto, and for a few seconds, the only sounds are of eating.

"So," I say when the second sandwich is gone and I'm mopping up ketchup with fries, "how's your week going?"

Blaise side-eyes me over his own fries. "Probably better than yours."

He knows, then. A tiny frisson of fear skates down my spine. What if he plans to sell his story to the media? He needs money, and I bet some of the seedier sites would love to break a story about another FU Kings ball player right now.

But… Calla said he was one of her besties, and I've heard her talk about how crappy it is to out people. I'm sure she wouldn't be such good friends with someone who'd do that. And even if she would, it's kind of late for me to worry. Blaise and I have hooked up twice already. If he wants something to sell to the media, he's got it.

So I swallow my fries and say, "I can't talk about it. But probably."

He nods. "I don't need to hear about it, to be honest. It's taken over my socials, and I don't even follow any baseball stuff, so I can't imagine how much worse it is for you. I just wanted to put it out there that I've seen it, and this can be a stress-free zone."

I wish I'd bought him extra fries. "If I wasn't already here to suck your dick, I would be now."

His laugh is genuine. "Wanna try something new?"

A tiny bit of trepidation creeps in. "Like?" I'm not sure if I'm ready for anal.

"Ever sixty-nined?"