“How do you know?”
“The Internet, smart guy. There’s pics of you and your dad at an MLB All-Star game from a decade ago. You were a good-looking kid.”
“I know, right?” Adrián settled back into his cocky shtick and pretended to preen. “I had a lot of girlfriends, but I wasn’t allowed to date until I was seventeen. And I was too chicken to fuck anyone at school and get in trouble.”
“You’re messing with me.”
“Nope. I was a goody-goody. My parents had me on serious lock. All my dad cared about was me going pro in whatever sport I chose, and my mom—well, my mom didn’t think teenage boys should date.”
“’Cause hetero boys are scum?”
Adrián laughed. “Yeah, pretty much. She didn’t want to inflict me on someone until I was more mature, I guess. Gave me a ton of speeches about cousins of mine who turned out real shitty with kids by different women and didn’t do right by none of them. She wanted me to be, like, a paragon.”
“Huh.” His mom sounded a lot like my mom. Maybe we were secretly related. “So, who’d you give your laminated and protected-by-mama V-card to?”
“This girl Daniella. Total cliché, but she was a cheerleader. We did it in the back of her dad’s truck, and I hurt my back.”
I snorted out a laugh. “Sexy story.”
“I’m not trying to impress you.” Adrián flipped me off, but he was snickering at himself. “How about you? Lemme guess—fourteen?”
“Yup.”
“Man, I’m basically Dionne Warwick over here. All I need is a headband and a hotline.”
Damn, this dude was making me laugh at his ridiculous jokes. The more I tried to stifle my guffaws, the louder they got, until we were both cracking up together like a couple of dorks.
“Anyway, it was an older guy. He was in high school but didn’t make the football team, so we both did the Pop Warner league together. I was better, and he was salty about it, so at first we just talked shit to each other, even though he was a few years older.”
Adrián nodded slowly. He squinted at me as if visualizing the scene. “Okay, okay, I can see where this is going. He was creeping on you.”
“Nah. I was creeping on him. He should have told me to step off since he was sixteen, but he didn’t, and shit happened.”
Adrián’s lip curled. “I dunno, dude. That’s creepy.”
“Who you tellin’? But back then, I didn’t give a damn. I was a horny kid, interested in sex way too early, and closeted as fuck, so the options were real slim.” Thinking back to that time was weird, because it had been creepy and inappropriate, and my mama would have tore that boy up. “The first time I had good sex was in college. Before that, no one knew what the hell they were doing with their dicks.”
“Maybe because immature-ass dudes only care about trying to get off instead of how to please who they’re in bed with. That’s how I was until I was older,” he admitted. “Sex was just about blowing my load, until I went to college and got with girls who weren’t having that bullshit.”
“Heh. You expect me to believe you’re some sex master now?”
Adrián smirked, dimpling at me, and knocked his knee against mine beneath the table. “Let’s just say I know how to work my dick, and my stamina is the truth.”
A handful of braggy, mostly joking words, and my body was at attention. Dick twitching, heart pounding, and my stomach cramping up. I pressed my lips together and said nothing. Adrián pointed at me, delighted.
“You got nervous. I saw you, Simeon.”
“You didn’t see shit.”
“Shut the fuck up. I saw you get all serious face and back away. My bomb sex skills intimidate you. Admit it!”
“Keeping dreaming, Bravo. But I do have to tell you something.”
“Lemme have it.”
I extended one arm so I could lightly touch the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got something right there.”
The dark wings of his brows crashed down in consternation, and a flood of conflicting emotions danced across his striking face, but none of them was indignant or annoyed or disgusted—the reactions I was used to getting from straight men when I touched them and they weren’t interested. Or sometimes even when I touched them because of interest that was obvious to me and not to their own selves. Denial was powerful in most men, but Adrián Bravo settled on intrigued.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I brushed the pad of my finger against his lips, wiping the syrup away even though it left the remnants of sticky residue. Touching his mouth sent my thirst into hyperactive overdrive, and my mind betrayed me. Filled with images of dragging him closer for a messy kiss where I used my tongue to get him clean right before dragging him to the bathroom to get really nasty.
Where was my common sense? My inner angel to tell me to stop craving this bastard just because he had a pretty face and, according to him, a talented dick? Hadn’t I learned my lesson? My dick going from half-mast to fully risen proved otherwise. I would absolutely go down on him in the bathroom if the opportunity arose. I could hate him even while he was in my mouth.
He wasn’t reacting as much as I wanted him to, so I dropped my hand next to his and upped the ante.
“You got some on your fingers too.”
“Yeah? You gonna get all mother hen on me about that too?”
He thought he was so cool and collected. It was kind of cute how much he underestimated my competitive spirit.
“Not quite mother hen, but . . .”
I grabbed his hand after a quick scan of the diner, and brought it to my lips. His arm locked up briefly, a spasm going through his fingers, but he didn’t fight. Not when I parted my lips, and not when I enveloped the syrup-covered digits with my mouth. I sucked the syrup off, suctioning harder than I needed to for the current situation, and flicked my tongue.
“Oh fuck.”
We locked eyes. There was no hiding how dilated his had become. The way his breathing had picked up, or the bouncing of his knee.
I slid my mouth off, leaving his fingers coated in saliva, and grinned.
“I won this round, Bravo.”
Adrián grabbed a napkin with trembling hands and roughly wiped his fingers.
“Yeah. I guess you did.”
Chapter Seven
Adrián
“Are you happy with yourself?”
“Yeah, Dad. I’m fucking thrilled.”
“Watch your mouth when you’re speaking to me.”
I sat on one of the bleachers, hunched forward with my phone to my ear and my gaze on the kids. Two weeks into this program, and we’d finally managed to wrangle a scrimmage for the little suckers. We’d pressed to them that it would be no big deal if this all fell through and they didn’t get to play another team, but my heart had soared when we’d gotten the okay.
Simeon had jumped around like a kid, but I’d suspected these children from Staten Island had only come through because we were gonna be there. Or rather . . . the parents had only come through for that reason. A couple of moms were hanging on Simeon’s every word, and now Brayden’s dad was glued to his side like it was a competition.
“I just don’t get why you’re calling to ream me right now. At this moment. I’ve been suspended for weeks, and you couldn’t bother to call me then. Why’re you so pressed now?”
The sound of a lighter flicking could be heard through the phone. The man had gone most of his life without picking up a cigarette, and he’d decided to pick up the habit at forty. In my opinion, that should have disqualified him from ranting at me about good life choices.
“You know, Adrián, I tried to raise you the right way.”
“Yeah. You did. Raised me to be a winner.”
“I’m not talking about that,” he said sharply. “And you know it.”
“How
would I know that? I grew up being Rosendo Bravo’s son, the best pitcher in the MLB, and you wanted me to rise to that occasion. Now I’m a fuckup.”
“You’re not a fuckup. You just make bad choices.”
Sighing loudly, I watched Simeon kneel beside Brayden and give one of his pep talks. The guy was fantastic at it. I was all about planning and getting the kids in line, but he had the soft touch I could never muster. And it worked. Before my eyes, Brayden went from sullen to smiling and nodding. Fucking Simeon.
“I wonder what the fans would think if they knew linebackers with big contracts still got lectured by their pops?”
“They probably wouldn’t be surprised. You have fame and money and a career, but you’re not thirty in age or twenty in maturity. Get it together.”
“Get what together? My suspension is not a new development, Dad.”
“No, but this is.”
“What—” The sound of an email notification filled my ear. Sighing, I said, “Hold on, and then I gotta go. Kids are waiting.”
He muttered something in Spanish about me going through “all of this” to end up a peewee football coach. My dad. Such an understanding guy. His saltiness was amusing for a hot second until I scanned the article he’d just sent over.
Bravo’s and Boudreaux’s Suspension Gets Cozy
Beneath the headline was a picture. My heart stopped as I realized it’d been taken from outside the diner, but it started again when I realized none of the erotic finger-sucking had been captured by the creepy photog. It was just us laughing over a million pancakes.
“Okay, and?” I said. “It’s a good picture. We’re being all friendly and shit, and my edges look fresh.”
“It looks like you’re on a date.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, I am serious. You’re supposed to be coaching kids, not having meals together. What were you thinking?”
“Wait—” I stood up on the bleachers. “How—hold up. You’re criticizing me for sharing a meal with the dude I have to hang with for a month and a half? That’s all you’ve got?”
“I’m criticizing you for not being bright enough to anticipate how the media would spin you sharing a meal with a gay man.”
My jaw dropped, and I looked over at Simeon again. He was high-fiving Delilah as the other kids gathered in a circle. As if sensing my gaze, he looked over his shoulder and motioned for me.
Anger gathered in my chest in a way it rarely did. “I always knew you didn’t love the gays, but damn. I didn’t know you refused to break bread with them, Pops. Not very Catholic of you, is it? What would Jesus say?”
“Jesus would tell my pendejo of a son to take his career seriously and be mindful.”
“All righty then. I’m hanging up.”
“Adrián.” My father rarely yelled, so when he raised his voice even a little it had the impact of rolling thunder. I could feel it in my bones. “Don’t turn me into a villain. I am proud of you, of our family, for doing ten times as much as the people who always thought less of us. I just don’t want anything to ruin it for you.”
Irritation softened like melting butter. He never complimented me. Rarely ever said he was proud. Not because he didn’t love me, I’d never questioned that, but because he subscribed to the old-school belief that the moment he lightened up . . . I’d start tripping.
“I got you, Dad. Don’t worry.”
We hung up, but I kept my phone in my hand.
“Bravo,” Simeon shouted across the field. “Come on!”
“Give me a second!”
I opened Twitter, stared at the screen for a second, and then grinned.
Oh snap . . . one lunch w/ @SimeonBoudreaux and the paps are already planning our wedding. We better hurry before it’s outlawed again!
J/K there’s about seventy ladies w/ bowlegs who can tell y’all about how straight I am. People need to calm down with the gay panic shit.
The first reply I got was from Rocky Swoops.
@AdriánBravo ey boy you better watch it with that gay ally shit lmao remember who you’re coming back to
@SwoopsR_ You staking your claim on my friendship, Swoops? Lol
@AdriánBravo Nah just making sure we can stay friends
I snorted. He was such a clown.
After shooting off another couple tweets about the work we were doing at the Center and a few more aimed at my teammates, I shoved my phone in my back pocket and joined Simeon. The kids were lined up and running through a banner before the game started. Yaritza was calling out their names with a megaphone like it was a big game, and the rest of the counselors had brought the other campers to cheer. It was cute. Or it would have been if there hadn’t been crowds of waiting fans behind barricades and a pool of reporters waiting nearby. Both our agents were also lurking, although they were probably going to cut out as soon as we were away from the masses.
“Sorry, bud. I’m here now.”
“What the hell were you doing playing with your phone? There’s actual photographers here, you know, and we’re the ones who arranged this game. The jig is up about keeping our location on the low.”
“Tell me about it. My father just called me because the Bravo-being-gay-for-Boudreaux rumors have already started up.”
Simeon shot me a startled look. “What?”
“Yup. Someone took a picture of us eating lunch, and everyone is tripping like we were on a date.”
“Were we just eating lunch in the picture? Because the other part would look pretty gay, man.”
“Yep, just the eating. Don’t worry about it. I already clapped back on Twitter. Tagged you and everything.”
Simeon hesitated for a second before pulling out his phone. I grinned in anticipation, feeling really good about myself for standing up to the homophobes. My grin faded once Simeon’s lips pursed and he shoved his phone away again. He shook his head.
“What?”
“Nothing. The game is about to start.”
“Dude. What? Did someone say something?”
“Yeah. You.”
“What the fuck? How was there anything wrong with my tweet? I was defending you.”
Simeon laughed. “Adrián, I get that you’re trying, but those tweets didn’t have a goddamn thing to do with defending me and had everything to do with you wanting to prove you don’t like men. Because that would be the worst thing in the world, wouldn’t it?”
“Uh, yeah, it’d be pretty bad since I’m not fucking gay. I have no problem with you being gay, or anyone else, but I’m not.”
“Because you like eating pussy.”
“Yup.”
“Guess what? There are people out there who enjoy eating pussy just as much as eating a twink’s tight little ass. It’s called being bisexual or pansexual.” I started to protest, but Simeon cut me off with a sharp wave of his hand. “And besides that, your little joke about gay marriage isn’t funny.”
“Wow. I guess everything I say is wrong.”
“When you’re making light of the fact that our government is being run by bigots who want to strip away my right to marry and probably to adopt a kid? Yeah. It is wrong. I don’t give a shit about you trying to get a pat on the back for being a good ally, or that the only way to get through to your fans is to talk about how funny it is that anyone would ever assume you like dudes. What I do care about is that you once again turned me into a joke.”
He started away while I stood there like a chump, scrambling for a way to defend myself and coming up short. I was vastly unprepared to argue with a gay guy about microaggressions, especially when I’d thought I was doing the right thing.
“Simeon,” I called after him. “Come on, man.”
“Just focus on the damn game. People are looking.”
He was right. There were parents, and photographers, paying attention t
o our little spat. A few even had their cameras poised as though they’d documented the heated exchange, which was just great. With one picture implying we were fucking and this series making it seem like we weren’t getting along, it was starting to look like this PR stunt might backfire.
Simeon
“We fucking suck.”
“Hey!” I protested, poking Brayden’s shoulder. “Watch your mouth.”
“He curses,” Brayden muttered, nodding at Adrián. “A lot.”
Adrián had the decency to look chagrined instead of sulky and resentful, which had been the case for the past hour. For the entire scrimmage, he’d stood at the edge of the field with his arms crossed and his mouth set in a frown when he wasn’t coaching.
“Yeah, well, I’m kind of a jerk.” Adrián said, glancing at me and then away. “Don’t be like me, kid.”
Now, that had been an unexpected admission. That a grudging comment was enough to impress me either meant I was just as soft as Gavin had always said, or I was sweet on Adrián despite his asshole nature. Given how salty I’d been over his need to insist he was definitely no way not even a little bit queer because pussy, even though he’d practically creamed his pants in the diner, it was more likely that I was starting to crush on the bastard. There was no other reason it would bother me so much.
“You guys can’t get this upset every time you lose a game,” Adrián said matter-of-factly. “You think I win all the time?”
“We definitely don’t think that,” Delilah informed him. “No one does.”
Adrián gave her a dull look. “What I’m trying to say is, we all lose. Fu—shoot, me and Simeon do this for a living, and we lose. You guys have been playing for, what? Ten days? Come on, now.”
“Yeah, but we’re not pro,” Jory said, kicking at the grass. “And those kids aren’t either. We just suck.”
“Those kids are from an actual football league in Staten Island,” I piped up. “They’ve been playing together for a while. Besides, this was just a scrimmage.”
“Oh, like the preseason game when you two got so mad you got into a fistfight?” Brayden asked with an arched brow. “My dad said it wasn’t about the game, but I think he’s wrong.”
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