33. 33

33

Robbie McGuire

“Be reasonable, Robbie,” Ant says in a hushed tone on the phone, “you’re still signed off. You can’t just fly out to see me.”

“Why not? My flight is booked, and I’m already at the airport.” He’s quiet for a couple of seconds, and I can all but hear the cogs of his mind grind as he tries to think of something to say that will dissuade me. “I’ll say I’m there to boost morale. You guys have been on a massive losing streak without me, so it makes sense for me to get my ass out there to cheer you all on.”

“I think massive is a bit strong.”

“Fine, you’ve lost more than you’ve won without me.”

“You’re really fucking impossible to deal with, you know that, McGuire?”

“You have alluded to it once or twice.”

It’s almost midnight by the time I get to the hotel. It’s freezing in Detroit, but the hotel is nice. I’ve stayed here a few times before. The rooms are spacious and modern with a classic contemporary slant that gives them a lived-in feel. Since I’m staying here on my dime, I booked a great room on the top floor.

The Vipers lost again tonight. Ant texts me to let me know that most of the team is at the VIP bar drowning their sorrows, so I check in and head straight up there.

The bar is a high-end space with a good vibe. The walls and ceilings are painted an inky dark blue and the lighting is moody. It’s been designed to make guests feel secluded. Enclosed. Private. It’s working because the second I walk in, I spot my teammates, and even from fifty feet away, I can tell they’ve let their hair down in a big way. Alcohol is flowing like water. The guys are still wearing their game-day suits, and that, along with their bulk and the raucous bursts of laughter erupting from them, makes them hard to miss.

Ant spots me first. We lock eyes and neither of us moves. I don’t know about him, but for me, it’s because I can’t. He’s so gorgeous and guarded, and somehow, he makes more sense to me than anyone ever has. The corners of his mouth twitch as he fights a smile. He looks away and doesn’t make a move toward me. It kills me, but I get it. We have eyes on us now whether we like it or not. I understand why he can’t do it .

At least, I understand in words. I’ve spent a lot of time talking to my mom and dad about it this week, and they’ve helped me understand how and why Ant might feel the way he does about coming out. I get it in words. I really do. It’s just that my heart is struggling to catch up.

Bodie is the second to see me.

“Robbieeeee!” he roars as he speeds over to me and lifts me off my feet. He’s as drunk as I’ve seen him in years. His eyes are vague and unfocussed, but God, he’s in a good mood, and seeing me unexpectedly seems to have made his night. Luddy and Pejic follow suit and beat a path to me.

“Thank God you’re back,” says Pejic. “We’ve been losing ground without you, bud.”

“I’m not officially back for two more days,” I remind him. “But I thought I might be able to convince Coach to let me join practice tomorrow, and if that fails, I can cheer you on when you play the Cats.”

Soon, I’m surrounded by a horde of players saying my name. There are fists stretched out in my direction and open hands offered. Big bodies crash into me as everyone tries to welcome me back at the same time. I’m passed from person to person until I can’t tell who I’ve already greeted and who I haven’t. There’s such a profusion of embraces that they quickly become indistinguishable from each other.

There’s only one that stands out. It’s not an embrace so much as a light, covert touch. A big, heavy hand drags across my lower back when no one is looking. The hem of my shirt is worried and tugged gently as if the person doing it doesn’t want to let go.

I’d love a beer, but I can’t drink because of my concussion. Still, I have a Coke in my hand and another soft drink waiting for me before I so much as have time to order anything, and the guys are talking loudly and over each other, all trying to catch me up on what I’ve missed. I’m way too sober to keep up, but I do my best to follow as many threads of conversation as possible.

The entire time, the ghost of Ant Decker’s fingers burns invisible tracks into my skin.

“Damn, McGuire,” says Luddy, “Did you manage to catch tonight’s game? We missed you.”

I’m here with the team, talking, laughing as they throw beers back, but I’m not here. Not really. I can hardly think straight. I can barely function. Everyone around me is too bright, too loud, too close. The only person that feels real and right is leaning over the bar, nursing a whiskey and trying not to look at me .

I know he’s happy to see me. It radiates off him, but he’s trying so hard to hide it. The muscle in his jaw has been working since I got here. Ceaselessly. Without pause. His eyes are dark and clouded over. The storm isn’t brewing on the horizon. It’s not forecast to make landfall in a few days or even hours. It’s raging inside him.

I do what I can to act normal. I talk to the guys and work my way around the room the same way I’ve done time and time before, only this time, for the first time in my life, I feel like an actor playing a role.

It’s not just the storm in Ant’s eyes that upsets me. It’s the weight and gravity behind it. It’s the fact it’s set in. It’s the fact that behind the clouds and hot pressure systems, behind the thunder and lightning, there’s sadness.

And fuck, I hate that.

Time drags out so that each song that plays feels like a lifetime, but eventually, the throng of Vipers thins out until only a few of us are left standing. And most of those standing aren’t standing straight.

Ant leaves his post at the bar and gravitates closer and closer to me. I feel lighter, better, and more right with each step he takes toward me. Bodie, the legend that he is, doesn’t leave my side, making it safe for Ant to merge into our group without drawing unwanted attention .

Bodie is nattering incessantly about Beth, and Ant is mumbling something or other to my right. The music is loud, and it’s not until Bodie pauses his soliloquy about my sister that I’m able to make out what Ant is saying.

“No touching. No touching.”

“Ant,” I whisper, not looking directly at him, “I won’t touch you in public. I know this is important to you. I’d never do that to you.”

He digs his hands deep into his pockets, looks down at his feet, and says, “I’m talking to myself, Robbie.”

The second his words land, I’m done. He is too. Everything and everyone around us ceases to exist.

“We have to get out of here,” I say. “Now.”

He looks away from me and nods. “What room are you in?”

“Top floor, number 16.”

“Message me when the coast is clear,” he says.

He leaves first, and I leave two songs later.

The tap on my door comes less than two minutes after I send the text, but still, it’s enough time for my entire body to revolt. I’m breathless and panting, and my heart is pounding in time with the echo of the music playing in the bar downstairs. Or it’s pounding in time with the mystical force that keeps me upright when I’m not with Ant. A force that’s rapidly fading, losing power, losing control, now that it senses he’s near.

I swing the door open and pull him inside without even checking to see whether anyone’s looking.

There’s no kiss like a horny, desperate kiss from Ant Decker. There just isn’t. Our mouths are open and on each other. Our bodies are pressed against each other hard, hands grabbing flesh and pulling hair.

We don’t say a word, not even hello, until we’re lying naked on the floor and we’ve both spilled into the other’s mouth.

When we’re done, I climb into his lap, sitting astride him, and cradle his head in my arms. I’m quiet for longer than I’ve ever been in his presence since the day he bit me.

“I should cut you lose,” he says when the silence changes from easy into something complicated and heavy.

“No.”

“I should.”

I turn his face toward me. There are a thousand questions in my eyes, and I let him see all of them. Big questions, life-changing questions, and more. Things I know about myself and about him. Things I know about who and what we are to each other .

“God knows I should cut you loose, but”—he tries not to kiss me, but he can’t help it. He kisses me like I’m air and he’s drowning—“I can’t. I can’t do it. Do you understand me? I can’t, so you should do it. You should, Robbie, because you can find a girl, you can date someone else, and all this will go away. It’ll be like it never happened for you. People will forget all about this. I’d do it if I were you. I swear I would. I can’t because I’m me, and for me, even if you go away, this is still who I am.”

I know he can see my rage and pain because he flinches when he looks into my eyes, but I hope that behind all that, he can see the mountain of compassion I feel for him.

“You’re wrong, Ant,” I say firmly. “You’re not in this alone, and it won’t go away for me if you go away. This is who I am too. And it’s not just who I am. It’s who I want to be.”

“That’s only because you don’t understand what it’s like.”

My anger is quick to flare and quick to die. “Then help me understand. Explain it to me because I don’t understand how you can be this huge presence, this big, in-your-face, I-don’t-give-a-shit-what-people-think-of-me guy, but be completely trapped under this at the same time.”

He’s quiet for a while, biting his bottom lip, squeezing it together in the middle and gnawing on it lightly. “Okay, here’s the best way I know to explain it. You grew up thinking you were straight, right? Or mostly straight?”

“Right.”

“Well, I didn’t. I’ve known I was gay since I was six years old. I’ve never been confused or even thought I might be attracted to women, and what that means is that I’ve sat at countless tables, on countless benches, and in locker rooms, countless places where I’ve known I’m gay, and no one else has. I’ve heard what people say about people like me when they don’t think we’re listening, and every single time it’s happened, I didn’t just hear it. I sat there, knowing they were talking about me. And yeah, I get what you’re saying. I don’t have the easiest time with people. I don’t particularly like them or being around a lot of them at once, and in lots of ways, I don’t care what they think because most of the time, I think they’re a bunch of assholes anyway. But at the same time”—Ant pauses as if he’s unsure if he can make the next leap required to say what he wants to say, or as though he’s unsure if he should—“everything hurts my feelings. Everything. Really stupid, minor shit that most people don’t even remember, it all fucks me up. I hate it, but I can’t help it.”

I grab him and crush him to me, caging his head in my hands. That’s how he feels? That’s how Ant Decker feels? Not angry or defensive? Afraid of being hurt. Fuck, that kills me more than him not looking at me in the bar did.

“I didn’t know that was how you felt, Ant. I’m sorry. I don’t want that for you. I won’t let anyone hurt you, okay? I’ll keep your secret for as long as you want me to.”

At first, he struggles against the steel grip I have on him. My hands and arms are a confine made of bone, sinew, and skin that he rails against. He fights it until he can’t anymore. Until he’s worn down, eroded, corroded by life and years of hiding, by reality, and mostly, I think, by the fact he’s looking into my eyes and can see how much I mean what I just said.

He drops his head and buries his face in my neck, taking a jerky, uneven breath.

“I’m not crying,” he says. “It just sounds like I am.”

I hold his head tightly, running my fingers through his hair and kissing his crown until he settles.

“That’s not even the main thing. It used to be, but it isn’t anymore,” Ant says, his voice small and childlike. “It’s you, Robbie. Now it’s you. You’re so fucking sweet and so fucking nice, and people are dicks, and I just…can’t stand the thought of you getting hurt. I can’t stand it, okay? I can’t fucking stand knowing that if we come out, a fuck-ton of people are going to have shit to say about it, and you’re going to read it and hear it and see it. I don’t want that for you. I don’t want to be the person who does that to you. Please don’t make me be the person who does that to you.”