16. Cooper

CHAPTER 16

COOPER

Hotel Laviol was one of those new hotel builds made to look like an old fashioned skyscraper. All brick and wrought iron on the outside, entirely out of place in a long row of bland, corporate, cookie-cutter, high-end hotels. One of those see-and-be-seen places, attracting celebrities who came to Austin for the South by Southwest film festival or when they wanted to pretend to be down to earth and country.

So of course they chose to stay in a hotel where one night cost more than a month's rent for most people in the area.

It was also home to a popular bar, a pseudo-speakeasy type with expensive themed cocktails and little lighting. You'd think that if they could charge forty dollars for a martini, they could afford light bulbs, but I guess they needed to invest in artisanal flavored olives instead.

I was definitely not meeting their dress code when I hopped out and handed my keys to the valet, a college kid who recognized me right off the bat. "Holy shit! Cooper Howard!" he breathed. "Me and my dad have seen every game you've ever played, ever since you got with the Troopers!"

"Awesome." I smiled—just because I was a man on a mission was no reason to be a dick to the kid. "I'm thrilled to meet a fan!"

He preened a tiny bit. He couldn't have been older than nineteen, if even that. With the vibes of a very wiggly puppy, he clutched the keys to my truck to his chest. "Could I, um... could I get an autograph?" he whispered, glancing back at the valet stand where an old man waited, looking entirely unamused.

"Sure, do you have something to write on?"

The kid nodded and fished a slip of paper out of his pants pocket—a receipt for a sandwich shop across town—and grabbed a pen from the stand. After getting his name, Donny, I wrote him a quick note. He folded it carefully, tucking it into his vest pocket, then took a picture with him to send to his dad. "Thank you so much! Oh my god, my dad is gonna die when I call him later!"

"I hope not," I teased. "We don't want to lose any fans!" We'd drawn a bit of attention, a few more people drifting over with their phones out. I took some more pictures while Donny parked my truck, slowly drifting towards the entrance. Buoyed on a wave of selfies and friendly fans, no one said a word to me about my casual attire in the midst of all the retro dresses and sharp suits. Politely waving off the offer of drinks from several people, I scanned the small bar for my quarry.

Jameson Creel was holding court at the end. I'd imagined him perched in some booth with a few likeminded twits around him, but he was on a stool with a fancy cocktail half-drunk in front of him, a tall Raphaelite man beside him. A few folks chatted with him, and he was laughing, slapping backs, putting on the good ol' boy show, all while his companion lounged against the bar, bored.

"Creel," I said firmly as I reached the bar. "Haven't seen you since the last time we played."

He eyed me, recognition sparking through the haze of drink and whatever else he'd been imbibing that evening. "Coppertop Howard," he laughed, reaching out to tug one lock of my hair. "Still wearin' it too long, huh?"

"I hear you've been talking about someone I care for very much." I ignored his attempt at a jab.

The bartender raised her brow at me. Is there going to be a problem? she asked with a gesture. I shook my head subtly. "Could I get whatever's your favorite?"

She smirked. "I think you can handle it. Sure."

Eyeing me thoughtfully, Creel leaned on his elbow. "So, he got you too, huh? That little twink's still at it."

The bartender placed a drink in front of me, something clear with a skewer of fruit and a wedge of blood orange on the rim. I took a sip and managed to hide my surprise—it was just water. The bartender winked, heading down the line to take the next order. "You know, badmouthing someone like that? It's not a good look, Creel. You're not winning any friends."

"Baby, go grab us a table, huh?" he muttered to the beautiful man beside him. I don't know if Creel caught the eye roll, but I did. The man pushed away from the bar and sauntered over to one of the two-tops in the middle of the room, the perfect place to people-watch and make sure he was watched too.

"Ricardo's a bit of a socialite in Chicago," Creel preened. "Met at this gala the Field Museum held for donors. Best ten grand I've ever spent." He eyed Ricardo the way some people would eye-fuck a sports car or mansion.

"Good for you." Bad for Ricardo. But I had the feeling Ricardo knew the score. He was already talking to another man, his posture far more relaxed and expression agile and open. Maybe bad for Creel instead.

"So, I'm guessing you're, what, defending your little guy's honor? Seriously, Howard, you can do better than a clinger like Lucas. He's not exactly gonna do you any favors, is he?"

I sipped the water before plucking out the skewer and pulling off a cherry. "What sort of favors do you think I'm owed, Creel? What did you think he owed you , for that matter?" Movement to my right caught my attention. A few people had their phones out, either for pictures of their favorite player or picking up something ugly brewing. We were being quiet—or I was, at least—but our body language was anything but friendly. "What did Lucas do to make you ruin his career?"

"Please," Creel snorted. "He's getting long in the tooth for cheerleading. Probably why he glommed on to you. Gotta have some financial security, huh? I saw what they upped your pay to last round." He saluted me with his almost-empty glass before finishing it off in two gulps. "Lucas is pretty enough but hardly worth keeping around long-term. If you're gonna splash out on someone, they need to be worth it. An investment, you know?"

Off the field, I wasn't an aggressive person. Some of the guys called me a human golden retriever, and that was pretty accurate. Creel was severely pushing my limits, though. I didn't want to get my own headlines declaring I'd snapped, I'd gotten violent, I'd attacked him in public. But the urge was strong.

Lucas would be inconsolable if I got myself canned because of this asshole. Hell, he'd be torn up if I even got fined because of Creel. I took a fresh sip, popped another piece of fruit in my mouth, and turned to lean against the bar and face Creel fully. "Is that what it was for you then? Lucas wasn't a good investment?"

"You get it," he mumbled, signaling for a refill. "He was fun, you know? Bright guy. But that Mary Sunshine shit, the whole nonprofit thing? That's a recipe for a miserable life. He moved in with his sister, yeah? Because he can't afford his own place. I don't need that kind of baggage. Besides, it's hard enough being open in the league, you know? Lugging around a cheerleader who paints his nails and wears glitter? I'd be a laughingstock, even if he wasn't bottom of the barrel. He's fine for a fling, but when I came out, I needed the right image."

"You don't make any sense," I sighed. "Judging Lucas for how he presents himself, assigning value to men based on what they can provide for your public image... What are you trying to hide, Creel? Just how miserable are you?"

Something hot and angry flashed in his eyes, but he held himself still. He wanted to lunge at me—you didn't play our position for as long as we both had without learning the signs of an incoming tackle. I braced, even knowing he wasn't going to follow through. Because that could change at any second, couldn't it? Especially given how touchy he was, the closer I got to the meat of his problem.

"Fuck off, Howard. Go to your little boy toy and have fun with him, but don't get too attached. You're the golden boy right now, but people won't put up with that nonsense for long." The bartender set another drink down in front of him, eyeing him warily. "I'm good, doll. I've got a room upstairs. I ain't drivin'." Reluctantly, she moved away. That was going to be his last drink of the night, whether he liked it or not. "Look, you're young. You've only been in the big time for a few years now." He winked sloppily. "I follow your career, you know? You're good. Better than good, if someone was gonna press me on it," he added with a chuckle.

"Thanks..."

"But it's not all about how you play. You need to have your image, right? Cultivate that shit. And when it got out that I'm gay, people had some real strong things to say. I had to show 'em. It's not all that shit they see on TV and the internet." He waved one hand lazily, a mix of a derogatory gesture and a floppy whatever sort of motion. "So, I made sure Lucas couldn't run his mouth, you know? Had the papers drawn up and all. And he signed 'em and stayed shut up."

So aware of those cameras on me, knowing it was going to be all over socials soon, I pushed my drink aside and leaned in close. I had not only myself to think about here, not only Lucas, but Queering Sports and everyone involved there too. The team. My family...

"What I don't get," I said quietly, "is why you're suddenly so all fired up to help a queer youth sports organization when you've done your damnedest to distanceyourself from the community for years now. You insist there needs to be a whole separate league to appease the bigots. Playing respectability politics. Why are you throwing time and money at Queering Sports now? Why hurt Lucas like this?"

Creel stared at me for a long moment, the scent of juniper berries and citrus strong on his breath, eyes red and watery. "Maybe I'm growing as a person," he offered lazily, his smile slow and sharp.

"Bullshit."

He chuckled. "Maybe my agent told me to cultivate a friendlier image if I expect to keep getting sponsorships and all that jazz. It's been thin on the ground lately, and the queer-friendly sports leagues thing is really hitting in a big way. More out players in all of 'em," he sighed, frustrated.

"So you don't believe in the organization, but you want to boost yourself. Why am I not surprised?" I muttered, pushing away from the bar. "You know, I was going to kick your ass for hurting Lucas—you cost him his job, his reputation. Hell, he might even lose his volunteer spot with Queering Sports because of you. But I'm not going to. Because I give a damn about him, Creel. And about myself. I know who I am. He knows who he is. You..."

I shook my head, suddenly exhausted by him, by everything he'd set into motion. "You're just a sad sack of shit who's afraid of himself. No one should judge you for being in the closet, but we're gonna judge the hell out of you for hurting people to make yourself feel better."

Creel waited until I was halfway to the door before calling out, "You could never kick my ass, Coppertop."

"You're right. You're doing a good enough job for the both of us."

I stopped in the restroom to splash cold water on my face and breathe. It had been close, the urge to plant my fist in his face. He'd have deserved it, a small part of me reasoned, even while more of me pointed out that would've only made him the victim, giving him more fuel for his fire. "Let him burn out," I muttered to myself, scrubbing my hands over my face. I needed to get to Lucas, to make sure he was doing okay. If he even wanted to talk. I had no idea how things had gone with his friends, if he let them stay. I hoped he had, for his sake—he needed someone at his side, and if it couldn't be me, it should be chosen family.

When I reached the valet stand, Donny was gone, and the new guy didn't seem to recognize me at all, which suited me just fine. With the exception of a couple stopping to take a not very discreet selfie with me in the background, people flowed past me going and coming. I stood in silence, half waiting for Creel to stumble out after me.

As they pulled up with my truck, I thought to check my phone and saw a text from Phil. He'd attached a picture from someone's twitter and added Do Not Fuck This Up!

In the picture, I was leaning in towards Creel. We looked like we were just having a chat. It had been taken too far away to make out his expression clearly, but he'd been glaring at me, pissed to high heaven.

I sent back a quick assurance that I was already on my way home and shoved my phone in my pocket to accept the keys from the driver.

Pulling out onto the road, I had a decision to make: left towards my place, right towards Lucas.

That was a no-brainer.