Down by Contact

by Santino Hassell

  “You’d still be suspended and sitting on your ass for six games once the season starts.”

  “That’s better than overseeing children.”

  “Nah, it’s not so bad.” Simeon went back to his serious survey of our tiny prodigies. “I kinda like it. The worst part is the parents.”

  “You’re right there, bud.”

  Practice went on for another thirty minutes before we gathered all the balls and trooped back to the Center. A couple of parents were already there, the more hovery ones, including Brayden’s father. The dude gave me the heebs, but I was loath to say anything about it since I had no real reason to fend him off. Just a general vibe of creepiness as he hung around longer than was necessary, drawing out conversation with Simeon, before hauling Brayden off like he was a sack of potatoes that wasn’t moving fast enough.

  And then there was Nicole’s mother, who insisted on flirting with us both, much to her daughter’s horror.

  Yeah, parents weren’t fun.

  “We made it,” I said, once they were all gone and the rec room was cleaned up. “And that one week felt like a month.”

  “Tell me about it. I’m ready to eat and crash. Fuck partying.”

  “Not getting any dick this weekend?”

  “You’re pretty obsessed with my sex life.”

  “Nah. I just don’t know shit else about you other than the fact that you like dick.”

  Simeon slid his hands into his pockets and strolled out of the room while I trailed behind him. “Untrue, dumbass. You know more about me than a lot of the dudes on my team. I never talk about my fam.”

  “So why’d you talk about it with me?”

  “Because I’m stuck with you, so we may as well talk about something.”

  “True.”

  We waved at Sheila and stepped out onto the sidewalk, breathing in deep as a warm breeze blew down the block. It was a perfect New York summer afternoon. No humidity, low eighties, breezy, and in this part of Brooklyn the trees gave a lot of shade. Made me want to go score a good spot at the park and lay out, but I was always too paranoid to do it alone. For all I knew, some asshole anti-Predators fan would set my ass on fire.

  “I’m about to get some grub. I’m starving.”

  Simeon started to answer but his jaw cracked with a yawn, causing his eyes to tear. He raised his arms in a back-cracking stretch. His T-shirt rode up and exposed a long stretch of brown skin a couple shades darker than my own and a ripped stomach. I knew he was shredded just on account of him being an athlete, but seeing all that exposed skin was still disconcerting. Like he was doing an unintentional striptease.

  Fuck, I needed to stop.

  “I should cab it back to Westhampton, but sitting in a car while stuck in traffic makes me fucking nuts,” he said, still yawning. “I should have rented a spot over here.”

  “Shoulda coulda,” I said unhelpfully. “Wanna grab some food before your journey? I could fuck me up some pancakes right about now.”

  “Oh shit, that sounds good. With maple syrup and bacon and potatoes. Mmmmm.”

  Simeon rubbed his stomach, and I watched, wondering if he’d flash some skin again. God, I was messed up in the head.

  “There’s a diner a few blocks away. Overrun by hipsters, but it’s good shit.”

  Part of me half expected him to remember I was the douche bag who’d mocked him on national television before picking a fight and getting us both put on leave for half the season, but he didn’t. He just shot me one of his winning Boudreaux smiles.

  “Let’s do it.”

  Chapter Six

  Simeon

  The diner was empty, which I took as a good sign. So far commuting had been okay except for a few autographs signed here or there, but I wasn’t ready to be packed into a small space with a bunch of strangers while eating. Everything was always so damn hectic that eating was my down time. I didn’t even like dinner parties because I preferred my meals in silence, unless I was with Marcus or Gavin. Call it a byproduct of growing up with constant-noise family dinners and no time to think or breathe.

  Adrián snagged a booth in a far corner and plopped down with his back to the wall. He took off his fitted cap and shook out his dark hair, scratching his fingers through it before running them over his scruff. He wasn’t looking as polished as he usually did during the season, and I dug it.

  He caught me looking and leered.

  “What do you think the gossip rags would say if they saw us now?”

  “Probably make it sound like I’m cheating on Gavin with your dumbass.”

  Adrián’s eyes opened wide. “What? You’re fucking Brawley?”

  “Nah, man. But they like to imply we are, just because they think two faggots can’t be buds without occasionally clicking together like Legos.”

  “Bad analogy, man. Like awful.”

  I snapped open the menu and put it up so I wouldn’t have to see his mournful headshake about my lack of wit. “Fuck you. You just want me to talk about dicks.”

  “Yup.”

  “Why?”

  “Because dicks are funny.”

  I glanced around the diner but no one was paying attention. “Okay, surround sound. Keep your damn voice at a normal level.”

  “I do what I want.”

  And now he just sounded like Cartman. Judging by his snicker, that had been his intention. It would have been annoying if it wasn’t so endearing, and now I had to stop and wonder if this is how Marcus and Gavin felt about me. For the past few years, I’d been the cavalier joker who acted before thinking, Marcus had been the level-headed planner, and Gavin the hotheaded, overprotective one. With Adrián in my role of joker, I had no idea what my role was. Less obnoxious joker? Enthusiastic camp counselor?

  Whatever. Instead of dwelling on my identity crisis, I drooled over the millions of kinds of pancakes this place had to offer. They apparently were known for their pancakes and their pie, and I was down for both.

  “Fuck, this menu is turning me on.”

  “I know, right?”

  Adrián hadn’t even opened his. His arms were draped along the back of the booth as he sat slumped with his thighs spread open. His knees were touching mine, a detail I shouldn’t have noticed but couldn’t help fixating on. What was it about this kid that had me acting like a teenager all over again? I couldn’t even stand his ass, and yet he had that whole badass-in-the-back-of-the-class charm that drew me in like candied bacon.

  “Whatchu getting?”

  “My usual,” he drawled. “Pile of bacon, an omelet, and a stack of pancakes with a side of hash browns.”

  “Oh, man. I’m really turned on now. I’m copying you but getting pecan pancakes.”

  “Biter.”

  “I am a biter.” I wagged my eyebrows, leering and knocking my knee against his. “And a hair-puller, and a moaner . . .”

  “Moaner or screamer?”

  The waitress swooped in and saved me from spilling too much information all over the checked tablecloth. We both ordered, me swapping maple-crusted pecan pancakes for the bananas Foster, and then we both snickered because she’d barely batted an eye at either of us.

  “Don’t dodge the question, Boudreaux.” Adrián hunched forward with his elbows on the table and a naughty smile spreading on his face. “How loud are you?”

  “Loud enough,” I said vaguely. “Haven’t you seen the video?”

  “Fuck no, I didn’t watch that video.”

  “Oh-ho. Now I know what would make you nervous.”

  Adrián had a more interesting reaction than I’d expected. Instead of blustering and posturing about why he would never spend his time watching some homo shit, he flushed.

  “Unlike the rest of our crap society, I don’t peep sex tapes and leaked pics, okay? I take privacy seriously and that’s an invasion of it. I would
n’t like it if some girl I fuck took secret pics and suddenly has my cock on Snapchat.”

  “Why not?” I tilted my head, biting my lip with big sympathetic eyes. “Is it small?”

  Adrián had been mid sip from a glass of water and spat it all over me. He choked and slapped his hand against the table, laughing and coughing at the same time.

  “Fuck you, Booty. That’s bullshit you’re talking right now.”

  “It’s okay if it is. Sometimes the smaller guys put more effort in and really know how to work it.”

  “Motherfucker, I do not have no small dick.”

  “If you say so, partner. No judgment here in the land of seven inches.”

  “And ain’t no need to front over here in the land of eight.” Adrián leaned farther across the table. “Wanna check?”

  “Yeah, whip it out. I’ll measure with my straw. It’s at least four inches in real time, right?”

  Adrián kicked me, and we both cut up laughing. It was the most normal I’d felt in a while, and it was funny as hell that dick jokes took me to that place. But that was the nature of the beast in the locker room. We all sat around each other naked in there or with the trainers so much that players probably saw each other’s pieces more than their significant others did. Talking about cock, and making jokes about each other’s cocks, was our version of bonding.

  And that was part of the reason why some of the guys, even my boys in the Barons, had started shying away from me and Gavin after we’d come out. They were still friendly enough, but there were subtle differences. The absence of dick jokes was one of them. A weird thing to miss, but it was part of the comradery I’d come to appreciate.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  “Nah, something’s up.” Adrián wagged his finger at me. “You went from filling this room with that funny-ass laugh of yours to scowling at the Stevia like you’re feeling salty that there’s no Equal.”

  “And he says I’m bad at analogies.”

  Adrián smacked my arm. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I insisted. “Just thinking thoughts.”

  “Deep.”

  I flipped him off just as the waitress returned with a giant tray of food. We started putting it away without comment, but once I was halfway into my pancakes I couldn’t help casting another cursory glance around. Yeah, the place was empty, but I usually had a couple of people ask for an autograph by now.

  “You think nobody recognizes us here?”

  Adrián looked at me and then around before returning his gaze to me. There was syrup at the corner of his mouth and on his fingers. Not enough to make him a total animal, but enough to draw my attention to his lips and those long digits. Good finger-fucking size.

  “Some people do, but New Yorkers are different.”

  “Less into football?”

  “Nah, they just aren’t easily awed. You know how many actors live in my building?”

  “I’m guessing a lot.”

  “You’re guessing right.” Adrián licked syrup off his fingers only to get them sticky again since he’d managed to pour syrup on his fork. “I don’t know a lot of other football players who live around here, but a lot of basketball players do. People are just used to seeing familiar faces. Regular people just seem kind of over it and unimpressed. Or they’re all rushing around and don’t pay attention to the people around them.”

  It made sense, but it was a little jarring to be able to blend with a crowd. Back in New Orleans, seeing celebrities wasn’t exactly out of the norm, but folks weren’t shy about walking up and starting a conversation. People weren’t shy in general, which led to me being drawn into so many conversations with fans that I’d sometimes avoided going outside if I just wanted down time. There was part of me that was paranoid that my fans had lost interest since the video had been put on blast, but people in New Orleans loved football, and where I was from people took a lot of pride in celebrating their kin. An ache started in my chest, that familiar desire to return home. I’d been afraid to since coming out, even though my mom had reassured me that “no one had been surprised.” Whatever that was supposed to mean.

  “There goes that face again,” Adrián said. “Getting all heavy?”

  “Nah. Not really.”

  I shook it off and pushed my plate away. Time to switch gears from the triad of most important things in my life—family, football, and fans. And the easiest way to distract myself? Attempting to torment Adrián Bravo—the dickhead who’d ruined at least half the season for me and was now charming and dimpling his way into my good graces. What did it say about me that I couldn’t hold a grudge against someone who’d gone out of his way to humiliate me? I’d always been the mediator, but I’d never been a fucking doormat.

  Setting my jaw, I threaded my fingers together and braced my chin on my hands. He kept eating, fast and efficient and slightly messy, as if he was going to run out of time on an imaginary clock. When he realized I wasn’t looking away, he tilted his head.

  “Sup?”

  “I got a question for you.”

  “Aiight, shoot.”

  Leaning forward, I asked, “When did you first realize you were straight?”

  His head jerked back. He laughed. “What kind of question is that?”

  “Just answer.”

  “Why? When did you realize you were gay?”

  “We’re not talking about me.”

  “Yeah, but . . .” Adrián hesitated, and that was the first sign that he was definitely smarter than I’d been giving him credit for. He knew I was trying to prove a point even though he had no clue what the point was. “I’m gonna go right ahead and guess people ask you that question a lot.”

  “Fuck yeah they do. These days, it’s all people want to know. Simeon, when did you first realize you liked men? Simeon, when did you come out? Have you ever tried being with a woman? Did something tragic happen in your childhood?”

  “What the fuck?” Adrián set his fork down and didn’t notice it was dripping syrup all over his hand again. “They ask if you got molested?”

  “Apparently that’s one way people are trying to rationalize a big butch bastard from New Orleans liking dick.”

  “But that’s—” There was some spluttering before Adrián said, “That’s not only stupid, but rude as hell. These people have no kind of home training. You should tell them to piss off and walk out of an interview when they start implying shit like that.”

  I slowly nodded, staring at him and wondering who was this alien who caught onto homophobic microaggressions and where was the asshole I was supposed to be picking a fight with?

  “I try to get along with the press,” I said belatedly. “If you treat them like shit, they treat you like shit. Just ask Brawley.”

  “Whatever. When they start sniffing around here I hope you know I will tell them about themselves if they ask offensive shit in front of me.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean why?” Adrián demanded, outrage etched into his face and making itself known in every aggressive syllable. “Because that’s disrespectful. We have our issues, but I’ve never seen you be rude to anyone. Not demanding fans who think they own you just because they dropped sixty bucks for a jersey, and not creepy parents who stay up your ass like you can do something to improve their shitty lives.”

  He stopped ranting after his voice rose three levels too high, but no one was paying attention or even facing us. After taking a deep breath, he rested his hands loosely on the table.

  “Anyways, I’m not homophobic.”

  “Way to circle back to the only thing you actually give a fuck about.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

  “It means you care more about being called a homophobe than figuring out why you do shit that codes as homop
hobic,” I said flatly. “Which is why I brought this up in the first damn place. Every couple of minutes I catch myself actually enjoying your company now that we’re away from the competition and the adrenaline and the game, but then I remember you making gay jokes on Fox News, and I feel like a fucking idiot.”

  He flinched, but there was no way to know whether he just hated being labeled as someone who hates gays or if he was regretful about his actions. There was no way to tell, which was the exact reason why I couldn’t let it go.

  “If I was homophobic, I wouldn’t be trying to goad you into talking about your sex life. I wouldn’t be playing that game with you to begin with,” he said. “And—”

  “And what?”

  Adrián shrugged, frowning. “Nothing. I’m just not a homophobe. My beef with you just makes me do ill-advised things.”

  “Why do we even have beef?” I asked incredulously. “We were cool back in the Predators.”

  Adrián remained stubbornly silent, but the side of his mouth twitched. It was a tell if I’d ever seen one, but I didn’t know him well enough to know what it translated to. Eventually, I told myself. Adrián talked way too much to keep a secret, even though I had no idea why the seeds of Adrián’s dislike required a top-secret clearance.

  “Fine. Subject change.” I mirrored his pose, leaning towards him with my elbows on the table. “Forget the realizing-who-you-want-to-fuck thing. When’d you lose your card?”

  Relief swamped the table like the funky sweat of fifty-two dudes in a locker room. This was familiar territory for him. Trading sex stories and bragging about conquests, even teenaged ones.

  “I was seventeen,” he said.

  “Wow. I had you pegged for a fourteen-year-old stud.”

  “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

  “Because you’re fine as fuck, and you even looked good back in high school when most people are awkward.”

  Adrián poked at his pancakes again but didn’t take a bite. I wondered if he was fidgeting with his syrup-covered fork to distract from the flush rising up his neck. One compliment from a guy, and he didn’t know how to act. It was adorable.