Down by Contact (The Barons 2)

All that changed once I was face-to-face with any of the guys on my former team. There was something about the Predators that had been toxic for me from the very start. I’d been a third-round draft pick for them, and I’d jumped at the chance to be on a team known for being ruthless on the field. When I was a kid, that had been bomb to me. I’d looked at them like misunderstood warriors since the media often dwelled on the negative rumors surrounding their brand.

But then I’d spent my first year in their locker room, and it had been the most poisonous environment I’d experienced in all my years of playing ball. The kind of aggressive homophobia that had driven me out of my skin because I’d been so damn scared of any of them finding out that I was gay. Gay as fuck. I hadn’t been that terrified of being outed in high school or when I’d played at LSU. But the Predators? I’d regretted signing with the New Jersey team as soon as I’d done it, and had been halfway glad to have only gotten as far as their practice squad.

Adrián hadn’t been the worst. In fact, he’d been one of the few I’d felt safe around. But that had changed when the Barons signed me, started me after their original QB wound up injured, and we’d trounced the Predators at every game. Instead of seeing it as me bettering my career and making a smart business move, Adrián had accused me of handing over the Predators’ playbook to a longtime rival.

We’d hated each other ever since. Including an unfortunate scuffle in Ibiza.

“Should I tweet him?”

“Do not tweet him.”

Marcus and I glared at each other as I clutched my phone.

“More people will watch if they remember we hate each other.”

Marcus’s mouth twitched.

“I could tweet Fox News instead.”

He flopped backwards with a loud, despairing groan. With his long arms and legs splayed out, it looked like he was doing a huge snow angel on our pain-in-the-ass white carpet. If there was one thing I’d learned once we’d bought this giant mansion after signing with the Barons, it was that two dudes who liked to party and host wing-eating contests had zero need for a white carpet. His girlfriend, Jasmine, agreed.

“Do what you gotta do, Simeon, but don’t come crying to me when Gavin gets pissed that you broke your promise at the start of this season to keep it clean. The last thing we need is more drama after what happened last year.”

What happened last year was Gavin Brawley, our tight end, getting suspended for the entire season while under house arrest. He’d chased down and assaulted a Predators fan who’d recorded me hooking up in a club bathroom, and had threatened to out me. I still blamed myself for what had happened, even though I’d begged him not to get involved. I’d known Gavin for a long time, and it would have been hard not to predict where that confrontation was going. But he’d driven off in pursuit of the guy before I could stop him.

“Look, it’s just a tweet, sugar bear. Stop trying to be my daddy—”

“Nobody wants to be your daddy. Not even your own daddy.”

I choked on a laugh and looked around to find something to throw. After settling for the remote control, and smiling triumphantly at his pained grunt, I fired up Twitter. Commenting on social issues wasn’t exactly out of the norm for me—I did that and still posted funny cat memes or heckled my teammates. However, I didn’t usually comment on social issues relating to LGBT people. It was a whole new world for me, but I was about to go balls in for my million and a half followers.

Hey @FoxNews maybe tell your reporters not to bait folks into homophobic comments. How is that sports coverage? #YouHadOneJob

Fans care abt the athletic rivalry btwn @Barons and @Predators not ppl’s opinions on my sex life. @FoxNews is more like a gossip rag erryday

Beautiful. Who needed a press conference when I could drag someone with two hundred and eighty characters?

With my shoulders loosening and the throb in my head slowly easing up, I plopped back onto the couch. Looking at my notifications tended to be a mess, and this time was no different. A bevy of retweets and replies had my phone exploding—my fault for not turning them off—but it was one that caught my eye. From Adrián fucking Bravo.

Uh-oh . . . @SimeonBoudreaux is in his feelings again. I wasn’t talkin about your sex life, son. You fuckin wish.

I gripped the phone so hard I was surprised the screen didn’t shatter.

Marcus hopped to his feet and walked over to me. “Turn off your phone, man.”

“And let him get the last word?”