Down by Contact (The Barons 2)

With the game officially over, the parents and surrounding fans converged on us for autograph signing. While we signed, journalists yelled out questions that we mostly ignored. Not because I hated reporters the way Gavin had in the past, but because both Mel and Casey had advised us to speak of nothing but the camp.

Once the crowd was cleared, Casey spirited Adrián away in his car. Mel did the same with me, but I asked to be let out a few blocks away by the pizzeria. I wasn’t totally shocked to see that Adrián had requested Casey do the same for him. Pacini’s had become our spot in the past two weeks.

“That was the first time I ever heard you talk positively about your half a minute with the Predators,” Adrián noted as I approached. He stood with his hands shoved in the pockets of his sweatpants and his baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes. He wasn’t exactly disguised, and I suspected there were still one or two paps loitering nearby. “Was that all bullshit to make the kiddies feel better?”

“Nope. I was grateful for my time on your team.”

“Then why did you start talking shit the moment you bounced?”

I laughed incredulously. “Because the moment I left, you and your boys started throwing subs about me selling out your playbook. It caught me off guard. Especially when you went along with the nonsense.”

“Why me?” Adrián demanded. “I wasn’t the only one.”

“You weren’t, but you were the only one’s opinion that mattered to me. Most of the others already treated me like shit, but not you. I thought we were friends.”

“We-we—” Adrián broke off with a sharp inhale. He lifted his cap just enough to wipe sweat from his brow. “We were.”

“Then why’d you jump on the bandwagon? You’ve been riding it for years, man. Didn’t get off until a week ago.”

“I know.” Adrián gnawed on his lower lip. “Shit, Simeon. I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry? I’m an asshole? I’m a sorry asshole? I don’t even know why I acted that way, or why I was so mad. I just was. Felt all betrayed and bitter, like . . .”

“Like what?”

“Like you’d walked out on me without even giving me a heads-up. It stung, man. I was pissed. So when the other guys started popping shit, yeah, I went along with it. Because it was something I could actually say out loud.”

I glanced around again and wondered who else was hiding and witnessing Adrián treating the front of the pizzeria like his own personal confession box.

“Why couldn’t you just say the real reason? What’s there to hide?”

“I don’t know,” he said again. “I just felt weird talking about it.”

I knew why. I could see the reason in his frustrated brown eyes and lip-biting nervousness. The way he fidgeted and shifted from foot to foot, and the way he kept lifting his hands before dropping them again. As though something in him had been urging him to touch me.

All signs pointed to Adrián Bravo being into me, and he was so caught up in a sexuality that had been predesignated for him at birth that he didn’t understand, or notice, his own damn feelings. All he knew was that he wanted me around. And that he wanted to play an immature game that would guarantee he got to say filthy things to me and vice versa.

“I’m sorry about Twitter,” he said in another urgent rush. “I’m stupid, okay? I always say the wrong things when I’m trying to be funny. I’ll delete them if you want me to. Or I’ll tweet an apology or some shit. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Just don’t ice me out.”

“Fine.”

“You accept my apology?”

“Yes,” I said, fighting a smile. “I accept your apology. But if you do it again, it’s a wrap.”

“I won’t. I swear.” Relief brightened his face and his dimples made their first appearance all day. The man was far too adorable for his own good. “Lemme make it up to you, man. Dinner at my place. Screw pizza. I’ll cook and everything.”

“You sure about that?”

“Fuck yeah, I’m sure. People are gonna say shit anyway.” Adrián twisted his hat around so the bill was backwards. “Might as well give them something to talk about.”

Chapter Eight

Adrián

There was no food in my house.

I remembered after we stepped through the door. I’d deliberately scrubbed the place down and cleared out my fridge before training camp, and had failed to restock even though I’d been back a few weeks. Food shopping was awful in general, but doing it in NYC was even worse. I had a car here, but driving to the grocery store was stupid, and pushing one of those grandma shopping carts down the street was out of the question.