Down by Contact (The Barons 2)

“You think nobody recognizes us here?”

Adrián looked at me and then around before returning his gaze to me. There was syrup at the corner of his mouth and on his fingers. Not enough to make him a total animal, but enough to draw my attention to his lips and those long digits. Good finger-fucking size.

“Some people do, but New Yorkers are different.”

“Less into football?”

“Nah, they just aren’t easily awed. You know how many actors live in my building?”

“I’m guessing a lot.”

“You’re guessing right.” Adrián licked syrup off his fingers only to get them sticky again since he’d managed to pour syrup on his fork. “I don’t know a lot of other football players who live around here, but a lot of basketball players do. People are just used to seeing familiar faces. Regular people just seem kind of over it and unimpressed. Or they’re all rushing around and don’t pay attention to the people around them.”

It made sense, but it was a little jarring to be able to blend with a crowd. Back in New Orleans, seeing celebrities wasn’t exactly out of the norm, but folks weren’t shy about walking up and starting a conversation. People weren’t shy in general, which led to me being drawn into so many conversations with fans that I’d sometimes avoided going outside if I just wanted down time. There was part of me that was paranoid that my fans had lost interest since the video had been put on blast, but people in New Orleans loved football, and where I was from people took a lot of pride in celebrating their kin. An ache started in my chest, that familiar desire to return home. I’d been afraid to since coming out, even though my mom had reassured me that “no one had been surprised.” Whatever that was supposed to mean.

“There goes that face again,” Adrián said. “Getting all heavy?”

“Nah. Not really.”

I shook it off and pushed my plate away. Time to switch gears from the triad of most important things in my life—family, football, and fans. And the easiest way to distract myself? Attempting to torment Adrián Bravo—the dickhead who’d ruined at least half the season for me and was now charming and dimpling his way into my good graces. What did it say about me that I couldn’t hold a grudge against someone who’d gone out of his way to humiliate me? I’d always been the mediator, but I’d never been a fucking doormat.

Setting my jaw, I threaded my fingers together and braced my chin on my hands. He kept eating, fast and efficient and slightly messy, as if he was going to run out of time on an imaginary clock. When he realized I wasn’t looking away, he tilted his head.

“Sup?”

“I got a question for you.”

“Aiight, shoot.”

Leaning forward, I asked, “When did you first realize you were straight?”

His head jerked back. He laughed. “What kind of question is that?”

“Just answer.”

“Why? When did you realize you were gay?”

“We’re not talking about me.”

“Yeah, but . . .” Adrián hesitated, and that was the first sign that he was definitely smarter than I’d been giving him credit for. He knew I was trying to prove a point even though he had no clue what the point was. “I’m gonna go right ahead and guess people ask you that question a lot.”

“Fuck yeah they do. These days, it’s all people want to know. Simeon, when did you first realize you liked men? Simeon, when did you come out? Have you ever tried being with a woman? Did something tragic happen in your childhood?”

“What the fuck?” Adrián set his fork down and didn’t notice it was dripping syrup all over his hand again. “They ask if you got molested?”

“Apparently that’s one way people are trying to rationalize a big butch bastard from New Orleans liking dick.”

“But that’s—” There was some spluttering before Adrián said, “That’s not only stupid, but rude as hell. These people have no kind of home training. You should tell them to piss off and walk out of an interview when they start implying shit like that.”

I slowly nodded, staring at him and wondering who was this alien who caught onto homophobic microaggressions and where was the asshole I was supposed to be picking a fight with?

“I try to get along with the press,” I said belatedly. “If you treat them like shit, they treat you like shit. Just ask Brawley.”

“Whatever. When they start sniffing around here I hope you know I will tell them about themselves if they ask offensive shit in front of me.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why?” Adrián demanded, outrage etched into his face and making itself known in every aggressive syllable. “Because that’s disrespectful. We have our issues, but I’ve never seen you be rude to anyone. Not demanding fans who think they own you just because they dropped sixty bucks for a jersey, and not creepy parents who stay up your ass like you can do something to improve their shitty lives.”