Out in the Offense (Out in College 3)

“Maybe. And good for him if he’s ready for it, but I’m not. At least not yet. I shouldn’t have to come out on his time clock.”

“Of course not,” Rory agreed.

“I guess I should be ready for anything. If they split with any animosity whatsoever, I’m gonna get screwed. Sky will make sure the whole damn school knows about the queer quarterback and first baseman who used to be lovers.”

“Will anyone really care? Evan paved the way for you last year. Mitch and he were an international sensation. They were getting fan mail from folks on the other side of the world.”

“Evan’s position wasn’t in the spotlight. Mine is…and I’m not ready for the questions and commentary from strangers. It’ll be bad enough dealing with my dad when the time comes.” I jumped up and paced to the front door and back again. “I just want to graduate. If I can get that piece of paper, I can move on and start over.”

“You mean run away,” he deadpanned.

“No. That’s not running away. It’s moving on. It’s called growing up.”

“Right. Well, eat up. Your food’s getting cold.”

I scowled at his head when he bent to take a big bite.

“I just told you something kind of significant. You could at least pretend to give a shit,” I huffed.

“I give all the shits, Christian. Come sit the fuck down already. You’re giving me a crick in my neck,” Rory said around a mouthful of pasta.

He patted the cushion next to him in invitation and then motioned me forward meaningfully. I cast my gaze from him to the array of bowls and plates littering the coffee table before closing the distance and flopping down beside him with a heavy sigh.

“Sorry. I told you I’m a mess.”

Rory squeezed my thigh. “You’re not a mess. But you can only control so much, like the effort you put into your grades or your sport. The rest will work itself out.”

“Does that apply to parents too?”

“That I don’t know. Everyone’s situation is different.”

“What did your parents say when you came out?”

Rory went still. He pushed his plate away and leaned forward with one elbow on his knee. “My dad was long gone. But my mom’s exact words were ‘Get out.’ She added a few expletives to make sure I knew how she felt about queers and fucking faggots. Then she held the door open and told me we couldn’t talk until I found Jesus.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Part of the reason I waited so long was that I knew how it would go down. My mom found God when Dad left us. I don’t blame her for looking for something to believe in. She had two wild teenage boys, rent to pay, and a nowhere job at a supermarket. She took solace in the bottle for a while, then got sober and tried religion. I want to say it worked for her, but self-righteous misery is a dangerous combo if you ask me. I have no issue with God. I’m a believer. The problem is, I know her God and mine aren’t the same. The messages are too different. One says ‘Do unto others as you would have done unto you’ and the other adds a clause in tiny writing at the bottom of the page…‘but only if they look, act, and share the same beliefs as you.’ I prefer the benevolent choice, but maybe that’s because I know who I am, and I know I can’t change it.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m a garden-variety bi guy who really loves dick, baby. I’m not fabulous. I don’t like the color pink, but I get turned-on by guys who do. It took me a long time to admit it, but it’s liberating. I don’t have to pretend anymore. I don’t have to lie or evade questions or act like anyone else expects me to. I get to be myself and think about important shit like…getting a fucking job,” he said with a laugh.

“Do you think you’ll ever talk to your mom again?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I’m okay either way. I have good people in my life…my brother, my friends. It sucks knowing my mom lives five minutes away and wants nothing to do with me, but I can’t lie about who I am to make her comfortable with what she believes.”

“Good point.”

He shifted to face me so our knees touched. “So we covered school, football, your parents and your ex. Anything else bugging you?”

I shook my head slowly. “Uh…well yeah. Do you really have a cat?”

Rory furrowed his brow in mock annoyance as he slid off the sofa. He crouched on his knees and beckoned the unseen cat forward with kisses and a soft plea to come out of hiding. “C’mere, baby girl. That’s a good kitty. Come on, Buttons. There’s my pretty girl.”