9. Jase

"Are you fucking kidding me? All those videos… Jesus Christ. After everything I did to get you to the NFL, how could you go and throw it all away by assaulting those guys?" Dad paces in front of my eighty-inch plasma screen, his face bright red, eyes glowing with anger.

I scrape a hand down the back of my neck. "I didn't throw anything away. He and his friends were bigoted assholes who deserved a hell of a lot more than what I gave them."

"Those videos make them all look like the victims, and you as someone who was itching for a fight. You're supposed to be a role model, someone people aspire to be like. Think about all the young kids who look up to you. What the hell do you think those videos say about you?"

"They say nothing about me because you can't even hear the fucking words. It's bullshit editing that made those guys look like the victims," I growl. "I wasn't about to stand there and let them say that shit, especially with my teammate right next to me. It was wrong and they needed to be shut down."

And intolerance is just as bad as spewing slurs, especially when the hate is directed at your own kid.

"You could have lost everything, do you understand that?" Dad continues to pace.

It takes everything in me to stay quiet even though I want to scream at him that he did the exact same thing those guys did to Lucas. He made Kyle a victim with his fucking verbal lashing the night he came out and then lost him, his oldest son and the shining star of our family, hours later.

How the fuck can Dad stand there and berate me for defending Kyle's memory when it was he who drove him away for good? He doesn't know what I heard that night, what has haunted me ever since the cops showed up at our front door at three o'clock that morning with the news that Kyle was never coming home. But that argument is burned into my memory forever, and there's no way I'd let anyone unleash that kind of hate and get away with it, especially when I couldn't save him. But I sure as hell will avenge his memory.

"Lucas made his choice. He can defend his own actions," Dad grumbles. "And what were you doing there, anyway? Isn't that a gay neighborhood?" Dad stops wearing a hole in my floor long enough to continue his bigoted diatribe. He whirls around, his eyes narrowed, suspicion in his choked voice.

"What the hell do you care? You've made it clear I screwed up. Hell, you flew here to yell at me in person. Does it matter why I was at the bar in the first place? It won't change anything."

And that's the real truth. It won't bring back Kyle, and it won't change who I really am, either.

Dad walks over to the large window overlooking the city, his shoulders squared. His shoulders slump the slightest bit as he runs a hand through his thinning hair.

I grit my teeth. "You can't even look at me right now. Why not?"

Part of me wonders why I even bothered asking. He never accepted me as an equal to my other brothers. I was always damaged, injured, broken. If he knew I was secretly gay to boot, he'd turn his back on me, too, just the way he did to Kyle.

And Kyle was his favorite.

How could I expect even a shred of respect when he always looked at me as the one who stepped in shit because how the hell else could I possibly get to the NFL otherwise?

I wonder what's going on in his mind right now. This is the longest stretch of silence between us since he stepped into my condo, mainly because he's been pretty busy ripping me a new asshole because of my "bad judgment."

"Stay away from those places." His expression turns dark. "You'll create all kinds of negative perceptions if you don't. You want to be friends with Bentley? Do it behind closed doors."

What would my dad say if he could read my mind and see the shit I want to do to Bentley behind said closed doors? See that those closed doors are the very closet that I'm still in because of how awful of a human he is. His head would probably spin right off his neck if he only knew the truth.

I press a hand to my temple. Fuck. I have to shut this down now. Fantasizing about Lucas before I really knew him was one thing. But now we're going to be thrown together for this charity work and I'm sure the media will have a field day speculating about us for the next four weeks. I need to keep my distance as much as possible because he already saw way too much at the bar last night. And I'm afraid that perception will become reality if I let him get too close.

"You think the same thing about Gabe Kelly? That I should stay away from him in public, too? You were in love with the guy, remember? You put him on a pedestal almost as tall as Bryce's for the longest time until he announced he was gay. Then you had a problem with him."

Dad's voice catches. "That kind of behavior has no place in the NFL."

I recoil. "Behavior? Christ, I could whore myself around with jersey chasers, drink my face off nightly, and be idolized, but a guy says he's gay and all of a sudden society crumbles from shock and horror? How the fuck is my ‘behavior' more acceptable according to society standards? Don't you think that sounds a little bit fucked up?"

"It's how the world works." Dad's voice is flat. "Don't be fooled into thinking that gay guys will ever be seen as strong and powerful in comparison to the straight guys they're surrounded by."

I give my head a hard shake. "That's crazy fucked up. Strength has nothing to do with sexual preference."

"Perceived strength does. And the guys who come out have it harder than any of their teammates. They don't have the same support; they don't get the same opportunities. It's a career crusher."

"Gabe Kelly doesn't seem to be suffering. He's fucking killing it right now."

"And how many fans do you think he's lost because of his choice?" Dad folds his arms over his chest.

"It's not a goddamn choice to be gay!" In my anger, I sweep my injured arm over a pile of sports magazines on a nearby table. A sharp roar tears from my chest, but I refuse to give in to the pain. "It's a fucking proven physiological fact. Maybe more people should read instead of judge."

You included, Dad.

The stricken look on Dad's face makes my gut clench. The same things he saw in Kyle's future are the ones he's panicked about right now for fear that some other ignoramus is thinking them about me.

Fuck them.

And fuck him, too.

My arm throbs and I clutch it in my hand, trying hard not to wince. I really should have gone for an X-ray, but I didn't want to deal with people. Unfortunately, that doesn't seem to apply here at home where people are still giving me a hard time about standing up for what I believe should be a freedom to goddamn be.

"You have a chance to be one of the greats, to make a successful long-term career for yourself. Don't destroy it by giving in to what you think you know, because trust me, son. You're wrong and one wrong action will crush your dreams."

Blood rushes between my temples as splintered memories from that night come flying at me like razor-sharp shards of glass, relentlessly jabbing my flesh and tormenting my brain. They pop between my ears like exploding bullets.

I've heard those words before… felt the anguish and the fear and the disappointment.

Angry, raised voices, shattered glass, squealing tires, police sirens… fuck, I'm being thrust back to a time where I couldn't stop the horror that was about to crash down on my family.

He left before I could convince him to stay, and then it was over.

I grab on to the arm of the couch. Dad's voice is still in my ear, shattering my heart because it's not the first time he's ever spoken those words.

My lips tremble. And I repeat the last words of my dead brother when I say, "Crush my dreams, Dad? Or crush yours?"