The Rainbow Clause

by Beth Bolden

  Except he’d definitely been a melodramatic asshole – much harder to deal with than the writing itself, which was never easy, but this time around, it flowed easily and exciting from his fingertips.

  At the very least, Nick thought, as he spun around in his desk chair, the dim lights and tightly drawn shades in his loft promising either 7 pm or 7 am, what he’d feared hadn’t come to pass. He could still write, voraciously apparently, about Colin O’Connor.

  The article had taken shape in record time, which made sense because he’d barely left this desk in days. He couldn’t remember being so driven to get something perfect before, and he’d made more than one underling cry over his type A-plus asshole ways over the years.

  Ultimately, he’d been a lousy affair for Colin to have – fantastic and thrilling in the moment, shitty at the end – and Nick wanted, at the very least, to create something lasting and good. This profile would become part of Colin O’Connor’s legacy, and no matter what had happened between them, Colin deserved Nick’s very best.

  His phone rang.

  It was Jemma. He’d ignored about a hundred of her calls over the last two days, ever since he’d had breakfast with her boyfriend and his best friend, Gabe.

  No doubt she’d tried to pump Gabe for information, and came up alarmingly short. Gabe, when he wanted to be, could be locked tighter than a drum. He was also certain Jemma was desperate to talk to him so she could properly guilt him for how he’d left things with Colin. He was already overflowing with guilt and really didn’t want do a play-by-play over their last few hours together, so he ignored this call, too.

  He returned to his keyboard, fingers sitting lightly over the plastic, drumming rhythmically as he thought of how he wanted to rephrase a particular concept.

  The phone rang again, and Nick let out a silent oath. He grabbed it without checking the caller ID and barked into the receiver, “Jem, for the love of god, leave me alone.”

  There was a conspicuous silence on the other end. Nick realized belatedly that the next caller had probably not been Jemma.

  “I guess I should be relieved that you’re screening everyone’s calls,” Colin said slowly. He sounded about how Nick felt – heartsick and miserable.

  The nauseous roll of guilt in the pit of his stomach doubled in size.

  “I haven’t been screening your calls.” It wasn’t a lie; Colin hadn’t called and Nick had scrupulously, if succinctly, answered every text Colin had sent. He’d kept his promise, and not left Colin in the dark.

  “I heard you had to be aired out a few days ago.”

  Nick did not particularly like the spin either Gabe or Jemma – almost certainly Jemma, if he was being honest – had put on that particular encounter. He’d showered, fuck you very much.

  “I’ve been writing. I get in a zone.”

  Nick clamped back all his questions on how Colin was doing, on how he was handling the ramp-up to his media blitz, if Helen and Mark were behaving themselves.

  “How’s it going, then?” Nick could tell Colin had attempted to phrase it casually, but Nick wasn’t sure an expert actor would have been able to pull that off.

  “Great, actually.” He hesitated. He didn’t think Colin would assume he’d write anything less than flattering because they were undergoing...personal difficulties currently. But he wanted to make certain Colin knew. “I’m not...I wouldn’t...it’s all really good. I promise.”

  Colin chuckled and it was like the first breath of warmth after a long winter. God, you really are a melodramatic asshole, Nick chastised himself. “No references to my smelly feet or my addiction to bad nineties pinball machines?”

  Nick was so head over heels that he honestly hadn’t minded the smelly feet. They’d made him feel affectionate and touched that Colin liked and trusted him enough to see him at his worst.

  He was really so fucked.

  “I think you’ll like it. I’ll send it to you before I send it to Duncan.”

  “You’d send it to me before your boss?”

  Nick could hardly fault Colin for his incredulous tone. Duncan would have his head if he knew what he was saying, but Nick knew it was more important what Colin thought than what his boss thought. “It is about you, after all,” Nick said defensively.

  “Right.”

  There was an infinite pause. Nick’s heart jumped to his throat. There was so much he wanted to say and he didn’t know how to say it. Or what he could say to fix what he’d messed up. Then Colin broke the quiet. “Teddy’s here. I gotta go. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t dead or insane with writer’s block.”

  “Still in one piece,” Nick said, which was mostly true.

  “Talk to you later,” Colin said and hung up. Nick had to put the phone down so he didn’t do something stupid like dial him right back.

  Colin set his phone down on the desk with a soft plastic click. Nick might be in one piece, but Colin wasn’t sure he was anymore.

  He didn’t know what he’d expected after Nick left for LA, but he hadn’t anticipated the sudden distance between them. Even though Nick’s reasons made logical sense, there was a completely non-logical part of Colin that rejected reason and instead wanted to embrace the chaos of emotion.

  The house was silent around him, Teddy’s presence nothing more than a convenient excuse to end a phone call that he shouldn’t have made in the first place. Colin had known even as he’d dialed that he was incapable of telling Nick the real reason he’d called, but he’d made the attempt anyway because something about the other man’s voice still calmed him, despite all the emotional upheaval.

  Colin stood, grabbed his gym bag off the floor, and headed to his car. Putting this off wouldn’t do him any favors. Besides, it was pointless to wait until he could talk to Nick about this, because Colin knew he couldn’t. Not now.

  The drive to the Piranhas’ practice facility was quick. Quicker than Colin wanted it to be, even though he’d bought the island explicitly because it was the closest to Coral Springs and the Piranhas’ compound.

  He parked in the garage, taking the spot that had been specifically and embarrassingly set aside for his use exclusively, and ducked into the elevator. He was one of the first players here, which he’d done on purpose.

  Coach’s office was high above the practice field, with one wall of floor to ceiling windows that looked over the field.

  Colin still had difficulty reading Daniel Mortensen, even a year after joining the Piranhas, and when he entered the room, he wished he could see something of what the man felt on his face.

  Except he couldn’t. Coach was a blank slate; he would be, Colin was certain, a hell of a poker player.

  “Sit,” Coach said, gesturing vaguely to one of the chairs opposite his big desk.

  Colin sat, forcing himself to relax into the chair. He never could have brought Nick to this meeting, but even knowing he knew about it would have made it easier. Instead, Colin was all alone, the first step in this brave new world he’d insisted on creating.

  “Helen tells me you’re telling the other players today before practice,” Coach said, his voice carefully neutral.

  Colin nodded. Thankfully, he’d not been the one to inform Coach Mortensen about his sexual preference, that had happened a year ago, when he’d told Mark and Mark had been tasked with negotiating what would eventually become the Rainbow Clause with the Piranhas.

  Colin hadn’t noticed any different treatment over the last year, but he wasn’t sure that meant anything. Coach was sort of a closed book.

  Coach leaned back in his chair, his expression morphing into something more contemplative. “It’s funny, isn’t it, the requirement to be in this world is a certain uniqueness, but as soon as people discover you’re different, they’re all over you like flies on shit.”

  Colin could hear the echoes of the southern twang in Coach’s voice. He’d done his research and learned that Daniel Mortensen was originally from Georgia, and had gone to the University of Alabama. You c
ould still hear his roots in his voice when he grew angry or excited.

  He was neither now, and Colin tried to even out his breathing, counting his breaths as a way to force himself to relax. He’d taught himself this technique in high school before his first starts at quarterback, and it had also come in handy when he’d had to face his crush in the locker room.

  “Are you saying I’m shit, sir?”

  Coach’s chuckle was rueful but not unpleasant. “It’s the nature of the game to be the shit when you’re the first, O’Connor. You know that.”

  The chair suddenly swung to the side and Coach stared out onto the field, still empty. “When they first told me, I didn’t think you’d ever actually do this. I should have known better.”

  Colin told himself firmly that he could play for a homophobic dick, if that’s what Coach turned out to be. He could. He just didn’t want to. He wanted Coach to be different. Colin just wasn’t sure which side he was going to tip over to.

  “You’ve never backed down from a challenge in your entire life,” Coach continued, his gaze swinging abruptly back to Colin. “It was stupid of me to assume that you’d chicken out. Instead you’re going to be the fucking bravest asshole I’ve ever known.” Coach looked him straight in the eye, for once leaving no doubt about his feelings. “I want you to know I’ve got your back. In the locker room. On the field. In the press. But I doubt you’ll need it because you’re the gutsiest player I’ve ever coached, and Helen is stupid good at her job.”

  “Sir?” Colin couldn’t quite get the word out. It came out a little garbled. Relief flooded through him in a cascade and he still sat there, shocked and disbelieving.

  “Oh, come on, O’Connor, you didn’t think I was going to be a dick, did you?” Coach laughed a little. “I treated you the same as anyone else the last year, didn’t I?”

  Colin couldn’t nod fast enough. “Of course you did. Of course. I just...” Colin hesitated. “Sometimes it’s better to prepare yourself for the worst in these situations. And to be honest, I’m not very good at telling people yet.”

  Coach stood, pulling proudly up to his full six-foot-three height. “Then let’s go get you some practice, son.”

  It should have been easier after the nightmare in Coach’s office didn’t end up being a nightmare after all. But as Colin stood in the middle of the room and met the hardened, somewhat uncaring stares of the players around him, he still couldn’t help but wish that Nick had been around in some capacity.

  He could do this without Nick. What he was learning was that he didn’t want to.

  Colin met Teddy’s eyes, and he gave an encouraging little nod.

  It was inevitable some of these men would hate him in a minute. Inviting it seemed like the most foolish thing he’d ever done. He’d stood in so many locker rooms over the years, terrified to take one glance above the floor. Always afraid he’d be discovered. And now he was standing in one, ready to lay his soul bare.

  “In a month, there’s going to be a big feature article on me,” Colin said. He knew how to give the impression of confidence, all smooth and effortless, with no cracks, but inside he was trembling. “In it, I’m going to talk about my bisexuality.”

  There were rumbles immediately. A few poorly hidden grimaces and expressions of disgust. But not as many as he’d guessed there might be.

  “I know it’s going to cause a lot of media talk and speculation about what happens in this locker room,” Colin continued. “But I’m the same football player I was last year. I’m still as committed as I was last year to winning games, to taking the Piranhas to the playoffs. Reporters sniffing around isn’t enough of a reason to distract us from what’s really important.”

  It was all he’d planned to say. Short, sweet, and to the point. Direct, just like he was. It got the job done, but Colin still wished that Nick had been around to help plan these words that would change his life. He’d done this before; surely he knew the best way to do it. But Colin felt like he’d done a decent enough job muddling through.

  Still, there was a solid, impenetrable hush falling around the room, and Colin, who’d never liked the unvarnished attention he tended to attract, froze.

  Corey Armstrong, one of their veteran safeties, stepped forward. They’d barely spoken before this moment, even though they’d been on the same team for a season. Colin tried not to flinch when Corey laid a heavy hand around his shoulder.

  Corey’s face took on the determination of a very protective bulldog. “Anyone who has a problem with what O’Connor just said, they can come talk to me.”

  This was not something Colin had expected, but he relaxed a fraction as Corey’s arm stayed stubbornly around his upper body. “Is that clear?” Corey repeated.

  “That’s right,” Coach said briskly, clapping his hands. “We’re here to play football. So let’s focus on that.”

  Colin was plenty happy to focus on that, and turned towards his locker, but not before he caught Teddy’s approving gaze.

  He’d dreaded this, but it hadn’t turned out too badly, after all. Colin thought of his phone, tucked into the pocket of his jeans. He should text Nick and tell him that telling his teammates had gone okay. As good as could be expected, anyway. But even though he knew he wanted Nick involved with more certainty than he’d felt since Nick had left, he didn’t know how to approach someone who had made himself so unapproachable.

  Duncan emailed Nick later that night, insisting that Nick come into the office the next morning. “You’ve had your uninterrupted writing time,” he’d said, but what would have been more accurate was, “You’ve had your uninterrupted pity party.”

  Nick took himself to bed at a decent hour, and laid awake for what felt like an eternity, replaying his last conversation with Colin, their last kiss, the phone call he’d had with him, all the texts he should have sent and hadn’t.

  By the time he showed up to the Five Points office at eight, venti coffee in one hand and his sunglasses on, the last thing he wanted to do was to talk about Colin O’Connor.

  The problem was, Colin was all anybody wanted to talk about.

  “You look tan,” was the first thing Jemma said, sliding into the chair opposite his desk. Nick was hunched over his laptop, sunglasses still on, and what he knew was a semi-permanent grimace on his face.

  “Brilliant investigative journalism,” Nick retorted dryly. “I was in Miami.”

  “Yeah, sunning yourself on the beach with Colin. A real drag of an assignment.” Jemma’s challenging stare made him want to crawl under the desk and take cover. Considering Colin was her best friend, it wasn’t a surprise she was pissed off.

  Nick raised a hand of surrender. “Can we just...not do this right now?”

  Her glare shifted to something more speculative. “Despite the tan, you do look like shit, though. Gabe was right.”

  “Gabe is rarely wrong.”

  “Fine.” Jemma tapped her nails on the desk impatiently, as if she had many better things to do than to talk to him. And she probably did. “You can take me to lunch. 12:30, I’ve got a call at eleven.”

  Even though she did leave after Nick agreed, her presence was replaced ten minutes later by Duncan’s.

  “You look good,” Duncan said, leaning back in the chair, regarding Nick opaquely.

  Even though Nick had worked for Duncan Snyder for six years – he’d been Duncan’s first full time hire, way back at the start of Five Points, when all Duncan had had was vision and a name that reminded him of his hometown of Atlanta – there were still plenty of times when he had no idea what his boss was thinking.

  “You’re the only one who seems to think so,” Nick grumbled.

  “Helen called this morning,” Duncan said. He’d always preferred the direct route, and while the lack of bullshit masquerading as tact intimidated others, Nick had always thrived in such an honest environment. Which was probably why, despite being offered a variety of different opportunities over the years, Nick had stayed at Five Points. />
  Also, there was definitely something to be said about being the most senior writer on the staff.

  “They’ve nailed down the final timing?” Nick asked, even though he already knew. He’d been sitting in the Piranhas’ conference room when they’d finalized it. But Duncan didn’t need to know that particular detail. He definitely didn’t need to know how close he and Colin had grown over the last month, even though he would almost certainly guess when he read Nick’s profile.

  Duncan nodded. “We need to finish the profile and get it over to Helen’s people. Of course, they want to do a final polish.”

  Nick rolled his eyes. He’d known Helen for years – and Helen had known him for years. When was the last time he’d not gotten something this important right? The truth was almost certainly that Helen had guessed correctly that he and Colin were sleeping together and wanted to make sure this fact hadn’t adversely affected Nick’s performance.

  “Here,” Nick said brusquely, rotating his laptop and gesturing to the screen. “Read it.”

  It was hard to sit there and watch Duncan slowly make his way through his words. Putting his heart into it was a horrible cliché, but probably not completely off base. Nick paced around some, went to grab more coffee from the break room, and when he came back, Duncan was sitting back in his chair, looking terrifyingly thoughtful.

  Duncan skewered Nick with a look so pointed it might have been crafted as a weapon. “You do realize you weren’t exactly being subtle, right?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

  Nick took a long sip of coffee. “I do realize.”

  “Do I want to ask what you being so deliberately obvious means?”

  He thought for a long minute. “I haven’t decided yet what being so deliberately obvious means,” Nick admitted. He couldn’t yet admit, especially to Duncan, that Colin was probably going to decide that for him.

  “It’s one of the best things you’ve written,” Duncan said. “But I’d have expected nothing less. You’ve been waiting for this opportunity for a long time.”