“Something is definitely going on. Are you seeing someone? Holy shit, your eyes just did something weird! You are, aren’t you? Who the fuck is it? You know I won’t let it go until you—”
“Please don’t,” I cut him off. “I just… I can’t.” Couldn’t fuck him, couldn’t tell him why, couldn’t do anything.
Jeremy stared at me for a long moment, his eyes dissecting, seeing a piece of the truth. He knew there was someone, but he also knew there was a reason I couldn’t say. It was a sad fact about being queer. Most of us had been there or known someone who had. “Okay,” he finally said, softly. “Just know I’m always here, man, and whatever you say will always stay between us.”
I wished I could tell him, wished I could let all the shit out of my head. Maybe that would help me figure it out. “I know. Thanks. We should get back to it.”
Jeremy nodded, and we did. I did what I was supposed to do and continued talking, kissing ass, and eating fancy, expensive food to get money to try to help others. Such a strange thing, politics.
The Lightning pulled off the win. Anson had been so damn happy when he sneaked out of his hotel room to call, giving me an excuse to slip out of the party.
When they won the conference championship next, he’d been fucking ecstatic, and I’d wanted nothing more than to be there celebrating with him.
He was going to the Super Bowl for the first time in his career, and no one deserved it more—deserved happiness more—than he did.
The Super Bowl was in Dallas the first Sunday in February. A ticket had cost a pretty penny, but I’d bought one without telling Anson. It was the biggest game of his career, and I wanted to watch him play—or maybe I needed to—but I didn’t know if having me there would stress him out. The last thing I wanted was for him to risk being off his game because his secret male lover was there to watch him play. It would fuck with his head, so I decided I’d go, get a room in the hotel they were staying at, and surprise him after the game—whether they won or lost. Hopefully by then, my being there would be a pleasant surprise.
They were playing North Carolina. My dad loved football, and I couldn’t help wondering if he was at home, watching and cheering for his team while I was going nuts for the Lightning. We’d have something in common, something he’d be proud of me for—being a man and liking football—but then I figured that would be canceled out when he realized it was because I liked sucking Lightning dick. Well, one Lightning player’s dick specifically.
Anson missed a block. He fumbled the ball his first possession. North Carolina recovered it, and I cursed, my stomach dropping out. “Come on, Bashful. You can do this. I know you can.”
The first half was messy, and the Lightning were down by twelve points. Anson had missed key blocks and wasn’t on his game. Darren Edwards had been sacked once.
When they went into the locker room at halftime, I sent him a text. I had no idea if he’d see it or not. I was sure they weren’t allowed to be on their phones during the game. They were probably getting reamed by their coach, but I wanted him to know I was thinking about him.
Me: You can do this. I know you can, Bashful. This game is yours. You show them who they’re fucking with, show them no one wants it more than you.
I hit Send and shoved my phone in my pocket.
Then the Lightning took the field again for the third, and suddenly they were like a new team. With the first snap, Darren shot a bullet to Anson, who caught it. He weaved his way through defenders like he had fire in his veins. “Fuck yes! Fuck yes!” I jumped, pumping my fist in the air, gaze riveted on him as he crossed the twenty…the ten…the five. “Touchdown!” I screamed, jumping and patting the dude next to me on the back like we were best friends. “That’s it, baby. You got this.”
The second the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to snatch them back, but no one was paying any attention. Luckily, I was surrounded by Lightning fans cheering and celebrating. Besides, there were many ways I could have meant baby anyway.
Anson made some key blocks, protecting Darren, and I wanted to beat my chest, wanted to claim him, wanted everyone to know he was mine.
“Christ, he’s fucking good when he’s on his game,” the guy next to me told his buddy.
“Fuck yes! Gonna get us a motherfucking ring!” his friend yelled, and damned if I wasn’t proud. The fans were a huge part of why Anson loved football. These people worshipped him. Would they still if they knew? Would being with me take this away from him? The thought made bile climb my throat.