by Beth Bolden
The music pulsed in long, drawn-out beats around them, and Colin pulled Matt closer. Colin felt the familiar white noise static of pleasure beginning to take over his brain as Matt did something clever with his hips, grinding his dick right against Colin’s with a mischievous grin.
Of course, that was the moment it all went to hell.
“Oh my god, you’re Colin O’Connor!”
It wasn’t Matt’s voice, but the person over Matt’s left shoulder definitely got his attention. Probably because whoever the dickwad was who’d decided to announce his identity, had screeched it loud enough that now everyone in the near vicinity knew.
Matt stopped moving and took an instinctual step back, confusion clouding his features. “You’re who?” he asked and Colin was frozen in place, not sure whether to try to brazen out all this attention or to just run.
The blond man who’d yelled stepped around Matt and from the way they eyed each other, Colin figured out really quickly they knew each other.
“I can’t believe you’re dancing with a football player,” the blond snorted with derision. As if Colin was the only player in the NFL to be queer. Newsflash: he wasn’t. Nobody was out, but he knew of lots of players who didn’t identify as straight privately.
“I was, until you interrupted, you asshole,” Matt bitched right back. “And I was definitely going to take him home, too, until you interrupted.” He turned away from the interfering blond, and luckily, most of the crowd had already forgotten about the altercation.
Matt reached out and his fingers brushed Colin’s forearm, his muscles tense with panic. “Let’s get out of here.”
Colin swallowed hard. He wanted to. That much had been obvious from the bulge of his erection in his jeans. Matt was really cute. But he didn’t want some meaningless fuck. He wanted late nights cuddling on the couch, and lazy, late mornings breakfasts and fancy dinners and then non-meaningless fucking. He opened his mouth to try to explain this, but Matt must have seen the answer on his face, because he threw up his hands and swore.
“See, you dick,” he called back to the blond, who’d retreated but was still throwing plenty of snotty looks their direction, “you just cost me another hookup. Fuck you.”
“You wish,” the blond called back, and that was Colin’s cue to leave.
He retreated right back to the VIP section he’d left, and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He pulled up the text conversation with Teddy, and typed out: not sure this is for me, maybe I should go.
Glancing up, he searched for the waitress who’d been so eager to serve him earlier, but she was nowhere to be found. With too many emotions threatening to break through the vodka numbness, Colin stood back up and started making his way towards the exit. He felt a hand grab his shoulder right before he made it to the door, and jerked around, ready to tell some asshole off for touching him. But it was only Teddy, smiling back at him, eyes bright even in the darkness of the club.
He waved his hand towards the exit, and Colin took it to mean that if he was leaving, Teddy would, too.
A minute later, they were finally out of the hot and close air of the club, breathing in the night air, right off the ocean.
They walked around the corner, away from the line of people waiting to get in who might recognize either of them. Colin slumped against the brick wall, and he must have been drunker than he’d thought, because he felt about five seconds from word-vomiting everything up.
The boy from high school.
Jemma.
How football was both the best and the worst thing to ever happen to him.
The curse of his bisexuality.
Fucking all of it.
Teddy reached out and cupped his shoulder reassuringly. “It was never gonna be easy, man.”
It exploded out of him.
“I could do hard in my sleep,” he ranted, his voice raising, and he knew he’d lost it because he literally did not give a shit. He’d tell the fucking whole world right now. “I do fucking hard every single damn day. This isn’t just hard. This is impossible.”
Teddy’s hand didn’t move and he just gripped tighter. “I know,” he said calmly, like he’d been expecting the outburst, even though didn’t make any sense because Colin had a reputation has a steel-nerved, emotionally-cauterized machine who didn’t let things like fear or anxiety get in the way of what he wanted. He was Matty Ice Part 2, at least on the field. As for off the field, Teddy was maybe the only one in Miami who he’d let get close enough to see the rest. Definitely the only one who he’d told his secret to.
“I can’t date. I can’t take someone out. Because any guy who wants that doesn’t want to be some dirty little secret. And the rest, they just want to fuck. And I can’t do that. I want more.”
Colin braced his hands on his knees, and tried to force the sob back down his throat. He’d never given up in his entire life, but this felt like surrender.
“It sounds like you know what you need to do,” Teddy said, his voice still soft. Gallingly sympathetic, because they both knew what he was implying.
“Yeah,” Colin laughed bitterly, because otherwise he might cry, “I was trying to avoid that. Sort of a last resort type of thing.”
“If you want what you say you want, I don’t think you have a lot of choice.” Teddy paused, waiting until Colin had leveraged himself upright before wrapping his arms around him in a tight bear hug. “You gotta know, I support you, whatever you do.”
Colin let out a sob then, squeezing his eyes and throat tight against the onslaught that was threatening to overwhelm him. Apparently when you’d held your emotions in check for so long, sometimes they just escaped out of you when you least expected it. “Thanks, man. You’re the best.”
“Let’s get you home.” Teddy let him go and fumbled in his pocket for his phone. He called a car. As they waited, he turned to Colin again. “I’m gonna say it again, not gonna be easy.”
“No.” An understatement. But the more Colin thought about it, the less it felt like surrender and the more it felt like staking everything he had on the outcome of the battle. And Colin knew he was in his element when it came to a fight.
The call with his agent went about as well as Colin expected it to go, even though his agent knew all about his sexuality, and had even negotiated a clause in Colin’s contract with the Piranhas that would make this whole process easier now that he’d decided to move forward.
But it was one thing to ready the clause for a far-off day when Colin decided to come out, and another for him to actually decide to do it.
“All I’m saying is give it a few more years,” Mark argued. “You’ve just finished your rookie year. It’s going to go over better if you’re more established.”
Colin looked out on the moody Sunday morning sea, choppy and blue-ish gray. The water looked how he felt. “No offense, Mark, but I’m not doing this because of how other people will react. I’m doing this for me. So no, I don’t want to wait a few years. I’ve waited long enough.”
Like everything else, once Colin had decided on a plan of action, he was dead set on seeing it through. Which Mark knew, but since Mark was Mark, and a real jackass – albeit a jackass who was hell at the negotiating table – he argued anyway.
They both knew that Mark would be calling up the Piranhas organization today and setting everything into motion. It was only a matter of how much breath Mark planned to waste.
“If you’re absolutely set on it, then I’ll give Helen a call.” Helen was the Piranhas’ Director of Public Relations.
“Also tell her that I want Five Points doing the story.”
Mark gave a groan. “I know they’re all trendy right now, because of the Kimber Holloway story, but I think we can come up with an outlet that’s a bit more high profile. Like, let’s say People.”
“No.”
“You know that wasn’t one of the negotiated points of the Rainbow Clause. Helen and the Piranhas might want People. I’m just saying.”
The
thing about Mark was that he kept Colin on his toes. He was sneaky in a way that Colin had been completely unprepared for, and still didn’t really like, exactly. But his underhanded methods were very often successful, and Colin couldn’t help but respect his success. He also thought Mark was good practice for learning to spot unscrupulous people, which was something he’d had to deal with a lot more since entering the NFL.
In the league, pretty much everyone had an agenda. The trick was to shift their agenda until it was your agenda.
“I think the Piranhas are going to want to stick with what makes me happy, Mark,” Colin pointed out. “I also think that they’d be open to a suggestion from you.”
“Fine, I’ll let Helen know you want Five Points. That bastard Duncan Snyder better be fucking thrilled and realize he owes me until the end of time for this.”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way to let him know,” Colin said.
“Damn straight. I’m sure they’ll want to meet to hash all this out, and I’ll send you an email when I know something.”
“You’d better. You know how this works. Nothing without my approval.” Colin let his tone take on a hint of warning. That was one of the first things he and Mark had agreed upon when Colin had signed with him as a client. Nothing was assumed; everything was checked through Colin first.
Colin might be ignorant about the seamier side of the NFL, but he wasn’t going to let someone else run his career for him.
“Yes, yes, I know,” Mark grumbled. Like Colin’s successful rookie season wasn’t responsible for the brand new, rose gold Rolex he’d been wearing.
“Colin O’Connor is what?”
Jemma looked up from the coffee she was soaking up with a paper towel. Coffee that Nick had knocked over because of the news Duncan had just brought to their morning meeting.
Shocked would be an understatement right now. Flabbergasted would probably be closer to the truth, and Nick had even wondered during the interview with Colin O’Connor all those months ago.
Of course, entertaining a vague idea that he might not be straight was not the same thing as, “Colin O’Connor is going to come out as bisexual and we got the exclusive story.”
Thanks, Duncan. That was a $5 coffee I just spilled.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t wonder,” Jemma scoffed under her breath. “I watched that interview footage. You practically surgically attached yourself to him.”
“You knew,” Nick stated, because of course she had. Colin O’Connor was one of those guys who would tell a woman – or a man, apparently – every piece of salient information when he declared his intention to woo.
Intention to woo. Nick knew he was reeling. That much was clear.
Jemma’s glare was openly scornful, which she wouldn’t have dared when she was still Nick’s assistant. Unfortunately, she had more than earned her promotion during the Rio Olympics, when she’d substituted for Nick at the last moment. Nick found himself missing the days when she was still afraid to tell him know exactly how she felt.
“Of course I knew.” She hesitated. “I thought you’d be a whole lot happier about this.”
“I am, I am, I’m just…”
“Acting like a total tool?”
Yes, he definitely missed the days when Jemma had been less comfortable being outspoken.
“Surprised,” Nick corrected with an equally venomous glare her direction.
“Children,” Duncan, the owner of Five Points, said sternly, looking up from his laptop. “It’s too early for this. Jemma – you’re here because you wrote the most comprehensive profile on O’Connor to date. Nick – you’re here because you’re going to write his coming out profile.”
It was a good thing that his coffee was already spilled, because Nick would have just knocked it over again.
Duncan glanced from Jemma to Nick. “No complaints about that? Nick is probably shocked silent, but Jemma, I at least expected you to argue to replace him. I know you’re good friends with him.”
“He’s my best friend. And that’s why Nick is the right person to write the article.” Jemma looked unexpectedly contrite. “Also, I know Nick has been waiting for an opportunity like this for a long time. He’s got a personal angle for the material that I don’t. No arguments from me.”
“I’m glad you approve,” Duncan said with wry amusement in his tone. “Nick?”
“I mean, yes, I mean, god, of course I’ve been waiting to write this. This article is why I majored in journalism. Opportunities to tell stories like this don’t come around very often.” He remembered when he’d started college and had imagined that there’d be chances around every corner to change the world.
He wasn’t jaded and bitter – not entirely, anyway – but he could still acknowledge that he hadn’t stumbled onto many chances to change the world during his career so far. He’d settled for arguing unpopular opinions, but it wasn’t the same.
It wasn’t special. Not the way this was.
Jemma glanced over at him. “Why does it feel like there’s a but on the end of that?”
“There’s not,” Nick insisted, but Jemma was right. There was a but. He’d never let himself consider Colin really wasn’t straight. He’d done so for practical self-preservation reasons.
Besides, he told himself, even if by some bizarre happenstance, he happened to be interested in you, he’s probably not as good looking as you remember.
It was a unique experience to walk into a room of people he worked with when his sexuality was no longer a secret.
Colin figured he’d better be okay with repeating it a lot in the next few months, but it still felt like a mini internal battle every time he had to meet someone’s eyes around the conference table.
Then Colin looked up and to his surprise, didn’t see Jemma on the conference call screen. Instead, it was that guy that had interviewed him last time he’d been in LA. Her boss, or ex-boss, or whatever.
He’d sort of, absolutely, definitely counted on it being Jemma. After all, she’d gotten where she was today partially because of another groundbreaking article on him, and then she’d written the one on Olympic swimmer Kimber Holloway and her mother, and so it seemed like flawless timing, at least to him.
Maybe not to Duncan Snyder, though.
The meeting started by a quick introduction around the table, including the screen at the far end.
Mark and Helen, the Piranhas’ Public Relations Director, were supposed to be jointly hosting this meeting, at least from what Colin could tell from the meeting invite he’d received via email. But Helen was clearly letting Mark know who was in charge, pinning him with a steely glance from the opposite side of the huge, white, conference room table. Helen was the one to suggest they go around the room and introduce themselves, because, as she’d put it, “We’ll be working closely together in the next six months.”
Colin had naively always assumed that when you came out, you just did it. But apparently, in today’s media-driven world, it wasn’t nearly that simple. He’d discovered this particular fact when he and Mark had been negotiating his rookie contract. He’d wanted to put a broad clause in about coming out, giving him the power to do so if he chose to. The Rainbow Clause, as it had been nicknamed, had turned into a whole separate addendum.
At the time, Colin had hated the negotiations, terrified by all the mounting media speculation at how long it was taking him to come to an official agreement with the Piranhas. He’d worried that someone would find out about the real reason for the delay, but today he was grateful because it meant the difficult parts were already behind him. All they had to do was plan--however minutely--the actual details.
Helen introduced herself. Mark jumped in and introduced himself next, even though there were three underlings sitting between him and Helen. Colin barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Anyway, it provided a brief respite before he had to face the man at the end of the table. He looked like the Wizard of Oz, suspended on a huge screen, the tips of his dark, mussy hair f
ading into the ceiling, and his gray eyes piercing whenever Colin met them across the table.
He didn’t really remember the man. All he had was a vague haze of pain and numbness when he remembered those weeks. The only thing that stood out to him was the way Jemma had smiled at her new boyfriend Gabe, bright and earnest and painfully in love.
At least, it had been painful for Colin. As for Jemma, he’d known instantly how happy she was, and that was why he’d let her go with a stiff upper lip. Because really, she’d never been his in the first place. She’d been a pipe dream of normalcy, representing a hazy future where the Rainbow Clause was a distant thought, not an immediate need.
“Nick Wheeler,” the man said. His eyes seemed to bore right into Colin, and Colin had to force himself not to squirm in his chair. He was vulnerable enough. He didn’t need some interviewer savant to pick out all his insecurities right away. “We met at the beginning of the season last year.”
“I remember,” Colin lied. He hesitated then decided, fuck it. This was his Rainbow Clause, damnit, and he was going to exercise every hard-won section. “I assumed Jemma would be here. That she’d be writing this.”
Nick leaned back in his chair, a glimmer of amusement in those stormy eyes that the magnification made impossible to miss. Colin couldn’t decide if they were gray or blue, and already on edge, the inconsistency annoyed him.
“She’s got another assignment,” Nick said. “I hope I’m an acceptable alternative.”
“Perfectly acceptable,” Helen interrupted, shooting an apologetic look Colin’s way. “We’re all familiar with your work.”
Colin wasn’t, but he guessed he probably should be. He just didn’t really like sports commentary, even when the commentators weren’t talking about him.
“I’m sure you’re very good at your job,” Colin said stiffly.
A smirk tweaked the right side of Nick’s mouth up. “You sure about that?” he asked.
Colin forced himself to look straight down the table. Lots of things in his life had been hard-won, but this felt like a bigger battle than it should have been. He should have felt like whoever was going to tell his story was on his side.