Adrián leaned down to brush his lips to my forehead then to my lips. It was brief, chaste really, but he managed to pour every ounce of affection into that touch. I sighed when he pulled away.
“Besides,” Adrián said, holding my hand tighter. “I’m not even mad. I’m kind of happy it went down that way.”
“Because you’ll be the subject of every single newsroom for weeks?”
“Hells yeah. And a Lifetime movie. Shit, they better find someone fine to play me.”
This time I didn’t try to hold in a laugh.
“God, Adrián. You damn lovable fool man. I fucking love you.”
“And I fucking love you too.”
I closed my eyes again. The pressure that had been building inside me and manifesting in phantom injuries began to dissipate. There was nothing but the sound of the sirens, the radio, the low voices of the EMTs, and the comforting weight of Adrián’s hand. His presence by my side.
I couldn’t imagine what would happen because of his actions—with the media, his fans, or the League. All I could imagine about the future was that we would be going through whatever came our way together. And with him by my side, we could take on the entire world.
Epilogue
Adrián
Watching my dad grill burgers alongside Joanne Boudreaux, who’d made delicious sides from scratch, was as close to surreal as anything had ever been.
The fact that several of the Barons were present for the Grant Street Center benefit barbecue just made it even more dreamlike. But it was real, and it was happening, and me and Simeon were grinning broadly and handing out plates of food as my mother collected the donations.
“This is nuts,” I muttered while grinning winningly at the next person in line. “What if we run out of food?”
Simeon glanced back at the dozens of coolers. “Nah, that ain’t happening, love.”
“Well, what if—”
“Hush,” Simeon said in one breath before saying “Take care now!” in another to one of the people who’d lined the block to donate, get some boss food, and snag a glimpse of the famous athletes involved.
When the next person was going down the assembly line of NFL stars-turned-food servers, Simeon nudged me.
“You worry too much. This was your idea, and everyone loves it. The reporters are practically jizzing themselves about this exclusive. And looky there—” He nodded over at our parents. “They’re basically besties now.”
I followed his gaze and had to blink another couple of times to make sure the vision wouldn’t disappear before my eyes. Coming out to my father had been taken out of my, and my mother’s, hands after my big declaration at my last game of the season. After the adrenaline had faded, and I’d returned home with Simeon, panic had set in. Not about the NFL, but about my parents.
And they’d stayed silent for almost a week. I’d thought it was a sign of them officially writing me off . . . but it hadn’t been. Week two of post-coming out drama had started with my father calling me with a “game plan” about getting out of my contract if they gave me shit, and potential teams who would pick me up in a heartbeat. He’d tried to ignore the big bisexual elephant in the room, but my mother hadn’t allowed him to.
Turns out, he’d been bracing for the news since that first photo at the diner. He’d fucking known all along, and he’d come to terms with it on his own. He still wasn’t impressed by my fight with Rocky, though.
Week three of post-coming out drama, and my new suspension, had started with me getting an intense fine for my attack on Rocky Swoops . . . which had been paid by the rest of the Predators. It had taken an incident like that for my team to step up and show that they could be decent people—which they’d done by supporting me and apologizing to Simeon on behalf of Rocky. Rocky had gone radio silent since then. No statement, no mention of his own suspension, and his social media had all been deleted. He was just gone.
Part of me worried. I’d been doing a lot of reflecting, especially about the time we’d been roommates, and now I was wondering if Rocky was queer and closeted. Deeply closeted and self-loathing. But I hated that I even cared. Simeon found it sweet. I thought I was turning into a sucker.
“Hey look, it’s Brayden.”
I followed Simeon’s gaze to see Brayden, who’d grown a good six inches in the past six months, and his parents (both of them) having an animated discussion with Noah. Noah was talking a lot with his hands, and his loud Queens accent carried enough for me to distantly realize he was talking about Brayden working part-time at an LGBT community center.
“How’d Brawley find himself such a do-gooder?” I asked, shooting a glance at the hulking Viking of a tight end. He didn’t even smile as he dropped loads of potato salad on each plate. Fucking grim reaper. “Jesus, does he ever smile?”