“He’s my roommate. Why?”
“I thought so. You must have eaten his leftovers ’cause I overheard him talking about finding out his roommate was gay after class. I know Max lives with you too, but I don’t think he meant him. It was more like he wanted me to hear so I’d confront you. I don’t think anyone paid attention to him. Well, maybe Moreno. He’s pissed you yelled at him the other day. He’ll get over it and—it’s not a big deal, but I thought you’d want to know.”
“Uh…right, thanks,” I said distractedly.
Gonzalez patted my back companionably, then switched topics to Monday Night Football. We dissected the teams playing that night as we headed to the locker room. I had to give myself credit for a masterful acting job ’cause I didn’t give a fuck about the Redskins’ chances with their new QB. All I wanted was to run ahead so I could call Max and find out what the hell was going on. But I had more work to do first.
I gave a rah-rah speech about last weekend’s game and added something about the tougher competition coming up. I tried to keep it positive while pointing out that we needed to make improvements. I sensed the residual sullenness from Moreno that Gonzalez warned me about, but he was a big boy. He’d get over it before the next game. Or he wouldn’t play.
Once my team captain duties were complete, I showered, dressed, and raced to my car to call Max.
“What’s going on with Sky and you? Carson Gonzalez said Sky outed me in his art class and—”
“Huh? What are you talking about?”
“You heard me, Max.” I tossed my bag onto the back seat before getting behind the wheel. “He made it sound like he specifically wanted the guy on my team to wonder if I’m queer. This must mean you broke up again, and that little shit is on a mission to get some kind of warped revenge.”
“Well, he was pissed when he caught us in bed, but we worked it out and—”
“He didn’t ‘catch us in bed!’ That sounds so creepy. We were fully dressed, for fuck’s sake!”
“Yeah, but you were wearing his shirt and he got pissed. I guess I had that other guy’s cologne on my skin. Sky thought it was yours and…it escalated from there.”
I groaned aloud. “Look, you need to sort your shit out with him and leave me out of it.”
“I’ll talk to him again,” Max said in a defeated tone before adding in a rush, “I just—he came out to his family this weekend. It didn’t go well.”
“Oh.”
“I know. And I think he was hoping I’d say I was ready too.”
“What did you say? Do you want to come out?” I choked.
“No way! Maybe that makes me a dick, but my baseball career will be over before it begins if I come out. I’m not ready for that.” He sighed heavily, then continued. “Don’t worry, Chrissy. I’ll talk to him. I’m heading home now and I bet you are too, but could you just give us an hour alone?”
“Yeah, but I’m moving out as soon as I find a place. I can’t deal with seven more months of this bullshit, Max. He’s too volatile. I have enough on my plate right now.”
“You’re not going anywhere. Just let me talk to him and work this out.”
“Fine. Text me later.”
I disconnected the call, then swiped my damp palms on my jeans and pulled out of my parking space. I wasn’t sure what to do now. I was hungry. I could grab something to eat and get started on my stats homework. It would give me an excuse to call Rory. I needed to hear a friendly voice who’d joke with me about seasonal latte flavors. Someone uncomplicated and unexpectedly kind. And someone who, after two days apart, hopefully didn’t think Saturday night was a big mistake.
I stopped at the next red light to check my Bluetooth setting, then I scrolled for his number, and pushed Call.
“Yo.”
I gave a half laugh. “Do you always answer your phone like that?”
“Yeah, I’m a man of few words. I s’pose you are too. You’ve been ignoring my messages.”
“You only left me one. I think it said, ‘You okay?’ And yeah…I’m okay.”
“Good. So, how many messages was I supposed to leave?” he countered.
“Three.”
“Why three?”
“It’s the perfect number. One is too casual, two could be a butt dial, but three indicates active interest without seeming overboard.”
“That’s a very detailed estimation. And three just happens to be the number on your jersey. I know you’re not into numerology. You must be superstitious.”
I chuckled. “I am. Comes with the territory. Are wrestlers superstitious?”
“Some are. Not me.”
“I didn’t think so. You’re too practical to be superstitious.”
“True. I walk under ladders on the regular and I own a black cat. Actually, she owns me. I’m kind of her bitch. Whatever she says goes.”