Braden righted the shoe and started reorganizing the row below it, making sure the toe of each shoe was precisely angled. Uh-oh.
“What’s wrong?”
“I got cut from the play today.” He shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, however, the tension radiating from him told another story.
“What? Why?”
“They don’t need me. I was a glorified errand-boy. Jacques’s new boy toy is taking my place. I can’t really complain. I start practice with my new team in two weeks. When I reminded him that I had to cut my hours, he said that didn’t work for him. So…Ricardo is stepping in. Of course, the timing wasn’t an issue when I first signed on. Whatever. I didn’t have a real part, so I shouldn’t be bummed, but…”
“But you are,” I finished. I opened my arms wide and wiggled my fingers. “Come here. You need a hug. Bring it in, Marquette.”
Braden chuckled. “I’ll be fine. Thanks anyway.”
“I’m not taking no for an answer. I’ll tackle hug you if I have to…you know I will.”
“You’re ridiculous,” he said, shaking his head as he stepped toward me.
I wrapped him in a strong embrace and breathed him in. Fuck, he smelled good. I hated that he was unhappy. I didn’t know how to make it better in the middle of a sporting goods emporium, but he seemed to relax in my arms.
“I know.” I kissed his cheek and released him when a couple of kids raced down the aisle. “So, come clean. How long have you been here, and what did you reorganize?”
Braden gave a sheepish shrug. “Less than an hour and um…the Dodgers display is completely in order.”
“Lucky Dick’s,” I chuckled. “Well, now that I’m here, I might as well look at shoes too.” I pulled a random sneaker from the shelf. I held it up for inspection, tugging on one of the neon green laces. “What do you think of this one?”
“It’s hideous.” He snatched the sneaker from my hand and returned it to the shelf, then sat on the bench in the middle of the wide aisle and toed off one of his own shoes to try on the shoes the salesgirl brought over. “I like these.”
“What size are you?”
He lifted his brows lasciviously. “Thirteen.”
“I’m thirteen and a half. Hmm, your dick isn’t that much smaller than mine,” I teased, sitting beside him.
“Shh!” Braden smacked my knee and glanced around the empty aisle.
“What’s the problem? If a store is called Dick’s, you’re allowed to talk about your dick. In fact, it might be a rule.”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s the opposite of a rule. So, what are you doing here? And do not say ‘dicks.’ ”
I snort-laughed. “I’m having a quarter-life crisis.”
“You’re twenty-three.”
“It’s early, but I’ve always been more mature than my peers.”
“Yeah, right. Spill it. What’s up?” Braden prodded. I let out a beleaguered sigh and filled him in on my afternoon. “Geez, poor Anna.”
“Hmph. It’s not like Sophie is twisting her arm. Anna doesn’t have to go along with this. Just like she didn’t have to go on a date with you,” I huffed. “Did Sophie ever tell you what happened with her online guy?”
“Supposedly he had an emergency with one of his kids.”
“Assuming he was real.”
Braden nodded. “I know. Phoenix said the same thing. That girl lives for drama. Looks like she’s moved on to helping you and Gus with some PR work now.”
“Fucking fantastic,” I groused.
“The Pride angle is a good one, actually. If nothing else, it’s good to raise awareness in sports. And it sounds like it’s a high-profile event. You might even make the news.”
“Maybe you’re right.” I studied his profile thoughtfully, then cocked my head and blurted, “They want me to bring a date.”
“Huh?”
“To that sponsor dinner.” I darted to my feet and paced the aisle. “I can go alone and still represent. If you can’t go, I’m not gonna worry about a date. I’m more freaked out about being a queer poster boy for a professional sport. I could be good at it, but I’ve always thought it would be better to keep the game in the forefront.”
Braden inclined his head and smiled. “You’d be great at it.”
“So would you.”
“Yeah, but…not really.” He pulled the shoe from his foot and set it back in the box. “My parents are in denial. It makes it hard to be out and proud.”
“They know you’re bi.”
“They choose to believe I’m not. Or that I’m going through a stage. It’s my mom. She’s a good Catholic girl from a traditional family. I think she feels guilty that she left Spain, guilty that she didn’t have more kids, guilty that the one she did have was sick all the time. Add queerness to all that guilt and it’s just…a heavy burden.”
“But it doesn’t have to be,” I argued. “And why didn’t I know you’re Spanish? You don’t look Spanish.”