by Eden Finley
“Huh?”
“Boston,” he says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “The two times we’ve kissed was when we were here. Totally Boston’s fault. You don’t want me. Boston wants you to want me.”
“Boston is a shitty wingman,” I complain.
“Yeah. Not the best at picking the ideal guy for you.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Let’s just say you’re not the first closeted guy to screw with me. I kind of have a penchant for them.”
Shit, I’m already an asshole. “It’s not my intention to screw with you.”
“That’s a slight improvement on the others.”
“Others? How many have there been?”
“Two. Plus multiple crushes.”
A pang of jealousy hits me, which is ridiculous. Lennon’s been with other guys. That’s a given. That doesn’t mean I want to hear about it, though.
“It started with Daniel Pirro.” He sighs wistfully, and I hate it.
I may not want to hear it, but apparently, we’re doing this.
“In high school, I wasn’t out, but I’ve always been one of those guys where it was obvious. I used to say I’m like the Luke Skywalker of gay guys.”
“Wow, think highly of yourself, huh?”
Lennon laughs. “No, but the gay is strong with this one. I set gaydars off within a two-mile radius.”
“Sounds convenient.”
“Except when you’re a sixteen-year-old kid.”
I wince.
“I don’t know if Daniel or maybe his friends saw me checking him out or if they just got a kick out of humiliating me, but one day after school, Daniel—the fucking captain of the football team—corners me outside my AP class.”
AP classes? Figures Lennon is smart. I barely graduated. I did enough to pass so Ma and Dad would continue to let me play hockey. I’m not dumb, but I’m not exactly college material.
“I was always the last to leave, so everyone had already gone. I was waiting for him to hit me or tell me to stop staring at him or something. Instead, he asked me out.”
My stomach churns. I don’t really want to know where this story is going, and I thank God that I had my older brothers to look out for me. I never had to worry about being outed and getting hurt—all my fear has been about my career, even back in high school. I was practically born wearing skates, and it’s all I’ve ever cared about.
“What happened?” I ask.
“I thought he was fucking with me, but when he stared right at me with vulnerable eyes and asked if I was like him, I … well, yeah, I fell for it. I was getting everything I’d fantasized about for months, so I didn’t question as hard as I should have. I went home thinking I had an actual chance with a football player.”
I fake gag. “Football. Pfft. Hockey is way sexier.”
Lennon must be too stuck in his memory, because he doesn’t even try to laugh at my attempt at lightening the mood.
“What did he do?” I ask.
“For our date, he was waiting for me outside the movie theater, and when I approached, he smiled. I’ve replayed that look on his face for so long, trying to find anything sinister in it, but to this day, I still confuse it for a genuine smile. Because as soon as I reached him, he looked over the top of my head. I turned to find the entire football team behind me.”
“Oh, fuck. Did they—”
“They didn’t do anything,” Lennon says. “A few fag-bombs were dropped, threats, and some pushing around. It was scary, and yeah, Daniel joined in, but the manager of the movie theater stepped in before anything worse could happen. He was on a cigarette break.”
“Lucky.” I hate to think what might’ve happened to Lennon if the manager hadn’t been there.
“I ran home and made the mistake of telling my mom what’d happened.”
“How is that a mistake?”
“It made her worry about everything from that point. She wanted to pull me out of the school, but none of the other schools in the area offered the AP classes I was taking. I chose to stay, thinking it’d be like a movie where I’d be constantly looking over my shoulder and worrying about being attacked by the football team, but I don’t know whether it was the manager or my mom talking to the school, but they pretty much left me alone other than some taunting and occasionally tripping me in the hall in front of everyone. I got good reflexes after a while. It wasn’t ideal, but I’ve heard of worse. Last I heard, Daniel had come out in college. Doesn’t play football anymore though.”
“I’m sorry.” The words are empty and meaningless.
The fear I have about coming out seems trivial in comparison to how scared sixteen-year-old Lennon would’ve been outside that movie theater.
“Then come the college years where I meet Dylan.”
“Another football player?” I ask.
“Worse. Baseball.”
I groan. “You’re killing me, smalls.”
Lennon laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “He asked me out a few times before I said yes. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake.”
“How long was it until you made the same mistake?”
“Hey, I lasted a good few months,” Lennon says proudly. “Then he turned up at my dorm after the team won their conference.”
“Championship winners are just too hard to resist, huh? Is that all I have to do? Win the Stanley Cup? No pressure or anything.”
“After tonight’s performance by the Dragons, I don’t have anything to be concerned about.”
“Ooh, ouch. Is that what your article’s gonna say tomorrow?”
“Maybe. But your name isn’t even mentioned, as promised.”
“Besides, I’m not the one who fucked up out there tonight,” I say. “Wait, we’re totally getting off track. Dylan.”
“When I told Mom I was dating a baseball player, she was worried it was going to be another Daniel situation. I assured her Dylan was different.”
“Maybe you should’ve stayed away from guys with a D,” I say.
Lennon laughs. “And become straight? No thanks.”
It takes a second to realize what I said had come out wrong. “I meant their names. Daniel and Dylan. You know a name that doesn’t have a D in it? Ollie.”
This makes Lennon laugh more.
“I’m just gonna shut my mouth. You were saying?”
“We had a couple of dates, doing the whole sneaking around thing, because while he was closeted, he wasn’t like Daniel. He was at least willing to admit he was gay but had to keep quiet because of his career prospects of making it to the majors.”
I recognize a giant similarity between Dylan and me, and I don’t like it.
Lennon’s tone softens, as if reading my mind. “You’re not like Dylan. You already acknowledge me in public, which is more than he did.”
“So, did you get over it and dump him?” It’d make me feel a lot better if that were the case. Part of me wishes I had the strength to tell Ash to leave sooner than he did. We both know Ash stayed with me for far too long.
“I wish I was smart enough for that. Because we both had roommates, we didn’t have the chance to, you know, do much … uh, physically. We planned for him to come over to my dorm when I knew my roommate had back-to-back classes. We were kissing when my roommate came back for a book he forgot for a class. Dylan hadn’t been there long, so we were still fully clothed but going at it up against the wall. When we heard the door click, we quickly separated, but it wasn’t fast enough. My roommate’s gaze flicked between us, and before either of us could speak or come up with a lie, Dylan punched me in the face and told me he came by to study, not to hook up, and that he wasn’t gay.”
I suck in a sharp breath. “What the fuck?”
“Oh, that’s not even the worst part. The next day, he pretended like he didn’t do anything wrong. Knocked on my door, practically let himself in, and threw himself on my bed, completely ignoring the shiner on my face. Said he was ‘protecting what w
e had.’ That weekend also happened to be the start of spring break, so when I went home, Mom saw the black eye, and the worrying became worse. She was convinced I was the victim of a hate crime, and then having to explain it was my boyfriend who did it? I understand she has the right to be worried, but I’m not one to hide who I am.”
And I am. And that’s the entire reason we’re on the phone right now instead of face to face.
“Shit, I didn’t mean that as some kind of dig at you. I understand why you can’t—”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I completely understand. It sucks, but it’s my reality. I chose this when I decided my career was more important than anything else.”
Lennon draws in a deep breath I can hear through the phone. “I wish it was easier for you to have both.”
“Can I ask you something? Why, after all of that, did you go into sports journalism? Like, shouldn’t you hate the industry and everything it stands for?”
Lennon hesitates, and I can practically hear him opening his mouth to say something but changing his mind. When he does finally find his voice, it’s small. “Just because I don’t have the talent to play the sports I love, that doesn’t mean I don’t still love them. I’ve been obsessed ever since I was little. I like analyzing plays and the general atmosphere of a game and am fascinated by team mentality. I guess you were born with the athlete gene, and I was born with the spectator gene.”
“I admire you for not holding resentment.” I admire a lot about Lennon after what he just told me.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I resent those assholes from my past. But that resentment also motivates me to make a change in the sporting industry. I want to write more pro-LGBTQ stories. The NHL, MLB, and the NBA still don’t have out players on their current rosters. If it weren’t for Matt, the NFL wouldn’t either. I wasn’t lying when I said I want to support gay men in sports.”
“And I have all the hope in the world that you’ll succeed.”
Chapter Twelve
LENNON
Stopping us from going there again is a smart idea. My cock disagrees, but with the way Ollie reacts to my past, even he can’t admit that he won’t hurt me. The best thing to do in this situation is walk away before becoming invested.
With my track record, I can’t risk it.
Maybe third time’s a charm.
Wishful thinking.
Not to mention if we were to start something real, I’d be putting more than my heart on the line. Female reporters who’ve gotten involved with athletes tend to not stick around in the industry for long. Whether they’re honest about it from the beginning—something Ollie and I could never do because he’s closeted—or if they’re found out, they become targets, labeled as jersey chasers, and then their articles are ridiculed for being biased.
My jock issues aren’t the only thing holding me back.
So, yes, even if I’m kicking my own ass for turning Ollie down, I did the right thing.
In the coming days, the Dragons are plagued by illness, injury, and stupid penalties. They lose the same way they started the series—with a fucking shutout.
They leave the arena with their heads hanging low but their hopes high. This is the furthest the Dragons have been in five years, and they show potential for next year.
During the press conference, Ollie’s not even present. The team captain and the head coach are the only people giving interviews. They do the usual thank-yous, praise their team for getting as far as they did, and spout bullshit about an optimistic future for the team. By the time I’ve written up the gist of my article and made my way out of the arena, I can’t find Jet or Ollie anywhere.
Not that I want to see Ollie. Last time I sought him out to give my condolences, we ended up lip-locked and grinding against one another.
I wait by the players’ entrance and get out my phone. There’s no message from Jet, so I text him asking if he’s already left.
Leaning against the wall, I tap out some more notes on my phone to add to the article before I send it off to my editor. Every time the door clicks open, I perk up, only to be disappointed when it’s never Ollie who steps through.
No, I’m waiting for Jet. Not him.
Keep telling yourself that.
Some of the players look at me weird, like I’m some sort of puck bunny, but most of them keep walking.
Jet texts back saying he left for a date as soon as the game was over, and apparently, it’s going so well I shouldn’t go home until later. Like, a lot later.
Great.
I’m about to give up and think Ollie’s gone too, but as I push off the wall, I run into two people who have familiar faces.
Oh, sweet Neil Patrick Harris, this is not good.
“Clark,” Ollie’s mom singsongs. Ollie’s parents’ matching smiles are a little unnerving.
My heart pounds. “Uh … hi, Mr. and Mrs. Strömberg. Didn’t expect to see you here.” Or ever, for that matter.
“Ollie didn’t tell you we were coming?” she asks. “We wouldn’t have missed it. We had faith it’d turn out better, obviously, but we were here just in case.”
I nod, not knowing what else to do. “W-why … I mean …” Why are they being nice to me? Last time I’d checked, Ollie had said he told them I cheated on him.
“Why what, dear?” Ollie’s mom says.
“Umm …”
The door clicks open again, and a towering presence appears behind me.
“Ma. Dad,” Ollie says. I swear I hear him curse under his breath. “Hey, can you give me and Le—Clark a minute?”
They give us a peculiar look, but then his dad points toward the parking garage. “We’ll be in the car.”
Ollie smiles, but it looks fake. “Thanks.”
He pulls away from where his teammates are still pouring out of the stadium.
“I have a confession to make” is the first thing out of his mouth. “I lied” is the second.
“Lied? About what?”
“About telling them you cheated on me. I … I, uh … oh, God, this is bad.” He takes a deep breath. “I didn’t tell them we broke up. They still think we’re together.”
I step back. “Why? I mean, how? What?”
“Our stupid plan worked. Ma hasn’t bugged me about coming out in six months. She’s told me if I want to keep you, I’ll have to face it eventually, but she’s stopped with all the pro-LGBTQ crap and hasn’t mentioned that video of Adam Rippon interviewing his own mom in ages.”
“Oh, the one where they talk about him deciding to come out before the Olympics?”
“Yeah, that one. Ma can recite that interview word for word, but it’s been months. It’s the longest break I’ve gotten from all her idealist talk.”
“That’s great.” It’s a little sad he had to lie about having a boyfriend to get them to back off, but the important thing is they are. “It’s your life. You can tell them whatever, but what has this got to do with me? Other than they still think I’m Clark?”
“I told them you were out of town on business, which is why you couldn’t be here tonight. I didn’t think … I never thought you’d run into each other.”
“I was waiting for Jet, but he’s already gone home. Well, technically, he’s gone on a date and told me not to come home if I can help it.”
Ollie stares off into the parking lot. “I want to ask you something.”
My gaze flicks up to his. “What is it?”
“A favor, of sorts. But we both win.”
“Listening.”
“Come home with me tonight. Spend some time with my parents as Clark, and then crash in my room. I’d offer you my spare room, but Ma and Dad are in there.”
“In your room?”
That’s the worst idea I’ve ever really, really, really wanted to do.
“I’ll take the floor,” Ollie says. “I just … if you don’t come back with us, Ma and Dad will probably ask questions, and you said yourself you need to not be home right now. Win-win?”
<
br /> I bite the inside of my cheek. Going home with him would be stupid. Really stupid. But with his parents in the room right next to us, I doubt we’d be in the mood to maul each other. Maybe. Nothing says boner killer like the chance of parentals overhearing. And it will get me out of listening to Matt and Noah’s little brother getting plowed.
Even though I know it’s a bad idea to dangle temptation in front of both of us, I find myself saying, “Okay. I’m in.”
As soon as I agree to it and Ollie’s face lights up, I know it’s a mistake and I’m one hundred percent screwed.
No way am I going to stay off him tonight.
The sweet torture of being pretend boyfriends starts as soon as we arrive at Ollie’s surprisingly modest apartment. The open plan shows a small living room and kitchen with two bedrooms side by side opposite the front door and a bathroom-slash-laundry off the kitchen.
Taking in the hardwood floors and crown molding though, I’m certain the quaintness still costs more than my entire monthly income.
Once in the confines of his apartment and out of the public eye, Ollie turns on Mr. Boyfriend, and fuck, I love it. From the way he wraps his arm around my back to the way he offers me a bottle of water from his fridge without asking and hands it off like I’ve been here before and done this a thousand times … it paints a nice picture that we can’t have.
As we take seats on the couch and Ollie puts on SportsCenter, the rest of us grumble.
“Don’t do this to yourself,” I say and turn to his parents. “Is masochism an Ollie trait or a Strömberg trait?”
“Definitely an Ollie trait,” his mom says. “Nic and Vic too. It seemed to skip over Leo and Max.”
“But Leo and Max are stubborn as all hell,” his dad says.
“Now that’s a Strömberg trait,” Ollie says. “All of you guys are the worst.” He looks at me. “That trait skipped me. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” I mock.
“What about your family?” his mom asks.
“Uh, well, I have a younger sister who’s still in college. She’s known to be stubborn. Mom and Dad are kind of set in their way of thinking. I’m delightful.”