by Anne Tenino
Tank didn’t have an answer. He just stared, white-faced and gasping. In the same kind of pain Jock had known for months, and if his brother wanted to share in his “career”? Then he got to share in this, too.
“I guess that’s how much you cared about my career. And about me.” Jock sneered, knowingly twisting the knife in his brother’s gut. “You know what I believed in my whole life? Hockey and you. Mom’s a religious freak, and Dad makes fun of it behind her back, but I didn’t need to put my faith in them because I had my brother and that fucking ice rink. And then you pulled that shit and all the sudden I didn’t have you, did I? I couldn’t trust anything.”
“I don’t . . .” Tank flapped his jaw a couple more times. “I didn’t mean to tell them.”
Jock huffed, curling up his lip. “I’ve heard that from you before. It’s not good enough.” He turned before Tank could respond and walked off, not seeing where he was going, just leaving. Done. The guys parted for him—where had they all come from?—but no one tried to talk to him as he slammed open the stairwell door and pounded down the steps, two beats of his heart to every footfall. He kept track automatically, focusing on the physical and pulling himself out of his head. Two more flights, round the corner, grab the rail, race down the next set, grab the rail, almost there. Slipping into the white noise of the purely physical. Running through the fog, across the grass as soon as he was outside. Running away.
He didn’t come to until he found himself panting, bent over and trying not to puke. Soaked in sweat and mist. When he could finally straighten up and focus on his surroundings, he was surprised to immediately recognize where he was, even though he’d only ever seen it at night. He’d stopped in front of Toby’s apartment building. Why the fuck had he come here?
Safety.
He scanned the parking area, sucking in breaths and shaking out weak legs. But Toby’s car wasn’t there.
He’s not here for me either.
Get a grip, dude.
He had to walk all the way back to campus. Too tired to run. No one lurked in waiting to torture him more. No idiots in the stairwell, no one hanging outside his room. The whole place was eerily quiet and deserted, as if everyone had gone underground until Jock got over his fit.
He truly appreciated that. Maybe these guys weren’t so bad.
But of course when he unlocked the door to his room, Tank was sitting on Collin’s bed, head bowed, hands clasped between his knees. He didn’t even look up when Jock walked in and stood in front of him.
“How’d you get in?”
Tank cleared his throat, still showing Jock the back of his head and exposing his neck. Maybe that should make him look vulnerable, but since his brother’s neck was nearly as thick as his skull, it didn’t. “I called Collin and he let me in. He also told the guys to leave you alone.”
Jock planted his hands on his hips. “But not you?”
“Yeah.” Tank glanced up, then returned to his omega-wolf pose. “He told me I should leave you alone, but I had to talk to you. I need to apologize, bro. I know you probably don’t want to hear it right now or see me or anything, but you gotta—”
Jock’s hand on the back of Tank’s head shut him up like magic. “I know.”
“No you don’t.” Tank said, lifting his head and fully facing him, eyes red and puffy. “Or maybe I need to say it, I dunno.”
Jock swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded for his brother to go on. He owed it to the guy—Tank never cried, and God knew Jock hadn’t over this whole fucking thing.
“I’m sorry,” Tank whispered. “If telling those guys had anything to do with why you let that guy take the picture—”
“No.” Jock shook his head. “It had nothing to do with it. I was talking shit before. I was pissed because this has been—” He yanked himself away, walking over to the windows and gripping the sill, staring out at the light gray sky and the dark gray buildings and trees.
“You didn’t deny it,” Tank said from right behind him.
Jock rested his forehead on the cool glass, and it sent a chill through his whole body, down his back. He was still wet from his run and there was a breeze over here . . . but that had nothing to do with how cold he felt. He shook his head.
“So you did? You let that guy take the picture? Knew he’d spread it around?”
He had to squeeze his eyes shut to do it, but he nodded yes.
His brother’s arm across his shoulders broke him. He hadn’t cried over any of the bones he’d fractured over the years, or when that guy’s blade sliced open his thigh, or either of his concussions, or when he’d been kicked off the team, but he cried now because Tank still had his back. Even after Jock had betrayed him. “I couldn’t just quit,” he choked out. “I had prospects. I had to—”
“Shhh.” Tank forced him away from the window, turning Jock around so he could hold him. The only person in the world whose arms were stronger than Jock’s and whose shoulder was at the right height for him to sob into.
“I’m—I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” Tank said, his voice raw. “You did the best you could. Only person who needs to forgive you is you.”
Jock laughed in the middle of a sob, blowing snot all over his brother’s chest and neck. “That’s really understanding of you, Beau. You’ve been hanging with too many queers.”
“Yeah, some of my best friends are gay.”
When Jock had pretty much cried himself out, his brother tucked him into bed—seriously. And Jock let him. He let Beau arrange the blankets under his chin and everything. “Thank you.”
Tank smiled, his eyes even redder and puffier than before. “I owed you.”
Jock shook his head, but he was too tired to argue. Half-asleep. “I’m missing my political science class,” he mumbled.
“I’ll write you a note.”
Jock snuffed a half laugh out his nose. “I need to be alone. I don’t care if it’s Collin wanting to get in here, I don’t want to see anyone. Maybe ever again, but at least until tomorrow.” He rolled onto his side, blinking at his brother. His eyes hurt, and he just wanted to close them. “Keep ’em all away from me?”
“’Kay,” Tank said, patting his head and standing. “You got it, bro. Take a nap.”
He nodded, closed his eyes, and immediately dropped off into sleep.
Jock woke up to find the world had gone dark and silent. The sun had set and the frat boys were all snug in their beds, he assumed. The clock claimed it was after one in the morning, which meant he’d slept most of the day away. No wonder he was groggy and disoriented.
Just not actually sleepy. He lay in bed a while, staring at the patterns the campus lights made on the walls of his room, trying to convince himself he didn’t need to know. But like a suicidal moth drawn to a bug zapper, he couldn’t seem to stop himself from getting out of bed and opening his laptop.
He started with email. There were forty-seven, which sounded manageable until he noticed who they were from. A national LGBTQ rights magazine, a couple of reporters from Massachusetts, tons of bloggers, some local news and talk shows, and a major sports cable channel.
Oh, and a bunch from his former friends who he hadn’t heard from since he’d left Avalon. He found one from Max, one from his cousin Lea, and a couple from Danny (with stuff about France and beer terror in the subject lines). He deleted the rest without opening them, and saved the few he hadn’t for later reading. Then he went searching.
It was everywhere. Not the biggest story on the internet, not on the landing page of any national syndicates or anything, but word was out. And people had made comments. Reading those would be a horrible idea. He fought the temptation for long minutes, but he’d been on the edges of the limelight (at least, the local limelight) long enough that common sense won out. If some numbnut’s comment about his inability to put a puck in the net pissed him off for days at a time, he really didn’t need to find out how comments about where he was putting his dick would affect
him.
Jesus, I can’t believe I’m this important to anyone.
He sighed and clicked back to his email. Ten more had come in since he’d been searching, and the first one was from something called “Out Scout.” Maybe it was because he’d denied himself the pain of reading whatever vicious things internet trolls had come up with to say, but he opened the email and read it.
Out Scout was a nonprofit “committed to furthering the cause and concerns of LGBTQ high school and collegiate athletes.” They wanted to help him sue for reinstatement to the team. No surprise—his parents were still pushing him to sue, but Jock didn’t see how he could win. Lots of people had seen him drinking that night, and that right there was a violation of his agreement with the athletic department. He could have been dismissed from the team just for that alone. Forget that no one ever did get in trouble for drinking, the point was that Schnigglehoeffer had grounds.
Plus there was the whole issue of him letting it happen because for whatever reason he’d been incapable of saying, “I don’t want to go pro.” He’d fucked that pooch. Jock rubbed his eyes, the bright screen in the dark room making his vision go wonky. But he didn’t turn on the light or stop reading. Instead he opened the next email in his queue.
It was from another nonprofit, but this one wanted him to give inspiring talks to kids. He deleted it after the first two sentences, because he was about the last person who should be a role model.
The third one was from a guy whose name he didn’t recognize that wanted Jock to “fist, fuck, and felch” him, in that order.
He’d never needed brain bleach so much in his life.
It was the next two that really killed him. One was from the goalie of the Avalon hockey team, and the other was from the second-string center.
Luc, the goalie, thought Jock had gotten fucked over, said some shit about Schnigglehoeffer being a prick and a bigot, and told Jock he should keep in touch.
Mark, the second-string center, thought Jock was a pussy who “took it up the ass,” and blamed him for the shit-talking the Knights were fielding from their opponents. Jock trashed the email before reading Mark’s list of insults.
He hadn’t been close to anyone on the team, not yet, but for some stupid fucking reason, their opinions mattered more than he’d expected. And yeah, he’d expected some flack from them.
Whatever. Better get used to this kind of crap.
Clenching his jaw, Jock held down the power button on his computer until the screen went black, then stared out the window until sunrise. Long enough to watch a large van with a satellite dish and the logo of a local news affiliate decaled on the side pull into the parking lot nearest the frat. He ducked, low enough so he could still see but not be seen (even if his lights were off), and held his breath. Maybe some other newsworthy shit hit the fan.
He kept hoping that right up until the cameraman and reporter were camped in front of the dorm, and the second news van was pulling into the lot.
Stooping, he ran away from the window and out into the hallway, straight to his brother’s room.
When Tank answered his pounding, Jock didn’t even have to say anything. “I already saw the media dudes. No worries, bro, we have a plan,” his brother said, then shoved past him and yelled, “Operation Hockey Boy is a go.”
As doors opened and guys started to spill out, Jock had to let the wall hold him up because his legs couldn’t anymore. He may ridicule these guys for calling emergency meetings over hangnails and posting a guard on the beer fridge, but he knew he could count on them.
As the day wore on and he was escorted by a phalanx of TAG brothers from class to class, he realized not only could he count on them, but he didn’t find them annoying anymore. Maybe it was blowing up at his brother, or knowing that they all pretty much figured he’d chosen to be out, but every time Ricky took out a reporter with a deft clubbing of his cast, Jock appreciated their support without suffering the usual backlash of irritation.
He still had plenty of anger, though. Within twenty-four hours, the campus was a minefield of satellite vans and reporters who’d pretty much ask anyone questions, and he totally got why celebrities sometimes went crazy and beat the shit out of paparazzi. If one more douche bag with a microphone popped out from behind a fir tree and started shouting questions, he’d go all Kanye West on their ass.
“Why is this such a big fucking deal?” he asked Kyle’s girlfriend, Ashley, at one point. Not that she had any special knowledge—she just happened to be walking next to him when he got fed up and snapped it out.
She did have some insight, though. “Because you won’t talk. If you’d have a press conference or somet—”
“No.”
“I thought not.” She nodded. “That’s what we figured your response would be.” Her sorority sisters were part of the operation, too, distracting reporters through whatever means possible, from flirting to pantsing a running camera person. He’d seen that with his own eyes and laughed until he nearly puked.
The third day was what did him in, though. It was a little thing that pushed him into action—for some stupid fucking reason, he listened to his voice mail.
He pretty much didn’t let himself look at the online stories about his outing, he deleted most of the thousand-plus emails he got every day without doing more than seeing who they were from, and he’d muted his phone because it rang all the time, just checking occasionally to see if someone he knew had left a message.
He didn’t mean to listen to the one from Jim, executive producer for No Socks Productions, but the one Danny had left him before that went on so long that he’d lain down on his bed, phone cradled to his ear and zoned out. Next thing he knew, he had Jim’s way too jovial voice telling him he thought Jock had a very “cinematic” mouth, and that he’d love to pay him an “obscene amount of money” to recreate the scene that had gotten Jock outed in the first place. While filmed by his crew for the “premier gay hipster-porn outlet on the internet,” of course.
Jim liked to pepper his statements with Jock’s name. “We’re an all-class production, Jock, I assure you. We could also talk bukkake for some really serious dough. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, Jock, there are a lot of guys who’d get off on nutting on an athlete of your standing. There’s a market for any kinky shit you wanna get up to, Jock, as a matter of fa—”
Delete. Delete, delete, delete. For a split second he was afraid he’d cracked the screen on his phone from poking the icon so hard, and that he’d need to get a new phone on top of dealing with the regular clusterfuck of activity his life had become . . .
New phone number. He didn’t have to keep the same number. Why hadn’t he thought about that before?
He didn’t have to keep any of it—not his email address or his social media accounts or anything. He grabbed his laptop off the window, ordered a new phone online, opened a new email account, then started in on the other shit. Each time he closed an account he felt a little bit freer. Facebook, Twitter, and Tumblr—not looking at any posts, of course—were gone, and he didn’t even want to start new ones.
He may have done this to his life, but that didn’t mean he had to listen to what everyone else thought about it.
Now if only he could do something to delete the media circus. He jackknifed out of bed, landing on his feet when he realized he could. Or at least, he could remove himself from their presence.
As long as it wasn’t too late to register for spring term in Provence.
Toby left for Europe halfway through finals week, relieved to get the hell away from the constant reminders of Jock and his situation, and swamped by guilt over being relieved. Collin had told him that Jock was bearing it all “stoically,” and that Brad and Tank had organized the guys so Jock wouldn’t have to go anywhere without some kind of bodyguard. Toby caught sight of him a couple times, surrounded by angry, frowning fratbros, with a string of newscasters scurrying along behind, shouting.
He’d thought, for a day or so after thei
r meeting in the café, that there’d been some renewed interest there, but Jock hadn’t made any further attempts to talk to him after that, so Toby’d gone back to his holding pattern. Waiting for his bruised heart to heal, the whole time wanting to reach out and offer whatever he could to ease the pain of the sexiest frat boy God had ever created.
Which pretty much left him with hoping that the place the guys had rented would be conducive to “getting away from it all.”
After three days in Tarragona, Toby picked up his rental car and spent a long afternoon following the Mediterranean to Provence, then turned inland to find out what kind of housing the fratbros had saddled him with.
They’d done good. The gîte was beautiful. It was actually a bastide, one of those fortified houses that were actually farming complexes with a main residence and multiple outbuildings. Exactly what Americans thought of when they imagined renting places in the European countryside. This one was a mixture of stone and plaster, the plaster areas painted that mellow shade of pale ochre Toby always associated with Provence: bleached-out sunflower. That was his name for it, at least.
The front door of the house swung open just after Toby parked in front of it, and an utterly stereotypical French farmwife walked out. She was wearing jeans instead of a dress, but otherwise she had all the necessary features. Large nose, lined yet attractive face, dark, graying hair in a bun, determined set to her lips, not fat but definitely well nourished. Toby got out of the car to greet her, stepping into the mild warmth of early spring in southern France. Even now at late afternoon, the sun was exceptionally brilliant. He’d forgotten that since the last time he’d been here. Sunshine in this part of the world was simply different, as if it were made up of alternate hues of the rainbow or something.
He blinked away the brightness and stepped forward as the woman came toward him, holding out his hand to shake. “Madame Bouvinet? Je m’appelle Toby.”
“Welcome!” She beamed at him, then got right down to business. “I will have you drive around to the back, yes? It will be better to park there.” He breathed a silent sigh of relief that her English seemed so good. It would make it easier on the guys.