by Amy Lane
They d laughed him off for a month, and then for another, but by Christmas of that year, when theyd go out with the team for a beer and a buzz-down afterward, they found it hard to find a spot on the table.
“Naw, Cave Man— you and Edwards go have yourselves a little romantic tryst, whydoncha—well let the real men sit here!” Sammy Lyndecker, first string guard,usually wasnt a prick, especially after theyd won, but tonight hed had his vodka in the town car on the way over.
“And how many points did the real men score tonight?” Chris asked caustically.“Because, um, Karcek here pretty much threw all you real men up on his back and hauled you down the court, or werent we at the same game?”
“Yeah, you wanna be a real man, go get yourself some pussy! You can give the media that song and dance about being roommates all you want, but we all know what thats code for, and I dont want no fucking HIV on my court, you hear what Im sayin?”
That night had been the third home game of the month of January, and Chris and Xander had met eyes, and they had known.Theyd discussed it—mostly in caustic terms like, “Maybe if he caught us with a girl in the locker room, that would make him happy,” or, “I swear, Im just going to buy us each a hooker to take home after the game and see if maybe hell leave us alone after that!”
But in the first months of their second season, theyd started to hear the talk.It wasnt that they were “rarely” seen with women, it was that they were“never” seen with women, unless it was an official escort gig, and those usually came with no strings and no phone calls attached. Everyone knew that. Hell—some of the guys with wives got other women to stand in, because the wives werent as comfortable with being in the spotlight as their husbands.
What had seemed “just so obvious” to be hidden in plain sight suddenly became too obvious to hide, and too awful to contemplate, when exposed to Coach Wallicks foul-mouthed intensity. Nobody even joked about Xanders “wife” or Chriss “husband” anymore—and that had been one of the things theyd laughed most about with the team, before theyd gotten to know the other players in the beginning.
So they sat there, at their own table, and Chris looked up and saw a tall, raw-boned girl with a shy smile giving him the eye. She had come with a friend, but her friend was chatting someone else up, and Chris had looked at Xander helplessly.
“Maybe theyll leave us alone,” he whispered, and Xander looked away. “I can take it,” he muttered, but he couldnt meet Chriss eyes. “I cant. I cant watch you take it one more time,” Chris said, his voice raw. Xander looked at him, tortured, but just like Chris, seeing a way out of the taunts and the jibes and the coldness that was making the thing theyd loved—the thing theyd lied for—completely unbearable.
“Ill quit,” he muttered. “Ill quit tonight.” He stood up as he said
it, reaching for his phone, his heart racing and all the adrenaline he hadnt spent in the game rushing through his system, thrilled to the central chord of his heart at the thought of being free.
“Dont you dare,” Chris hissed, grabbing his arm and dragging him down to his stool.“Were going to make playoffs this year. Playoffs. Do you know how long its been since this team has seen playoffs? No, man. Fuck it. Go get me some fucking condoms from the bathroom. Get two.” Chris shuddered then, and Xander had no doubts that sleeping with the girl like hed planned would be about as much fun as eating cold dead fish, with skin.
That didnt mean he didnt want to throw up too, just like Chris. He came back with the condoms, and Chris was leaning into the girl, smiling emptily in her eyes and giving her the same bright tone of voice and vapid responses that Xander remembered from high school,
when girls like Gab rielle had tried to get his attention, and hed said no. He patted Chris on the shoulder in classic “attaboy”, and stuffed the little foil packages discreetly in Chriss pocket, shivering when Chris brushed his fingers on purpose, stopping to squeeze them before letting go. You with me on this, buddy? Xander had bumped his knee on purpose as hed resumed his stool. Always with you.
“Everyone knows who you are,” the girl was saying. “Youre Christian Edwards. I swear, my friend and I came in here just for a chance to see you tonight!” She smiled like a cat then.“But Im the one who got to talk to you.”
Chris had laughed, downing the rest of his vodka and tonic hard, and Xander heard the sound echo in the emptiness of his own heart. “Whats your name, sweetheart?”
“Sandra,” the girl purred. Even at one-quarter profile, Xander could see his friend —his lover—stop and bite his lip, closing his eyes as though something hurt him. He turned then and looked at Xander in the eyes.
“Sandra,” he slurred, making it sound like “Xandra.” “Perfect.” A few minutes later, they were gone, exiting quietly from the crowded sports bar, and leaving Xander to nurse his beer for the next hour and a half.
He wasnt alone , though. Sammy looked over after a few minutes and asked him where Edwards went. Xander had shrugged as though his flesh wasnt made of brittle glass and about to fly apart.
“Went off with a girl,” he said, all the casual in the world. There were hoots and hollers at the main table, and Sammy scooted his stool over to make room for him. “ Bout time—hope shes not too surprised when she pops that white boys cherry!”
Xander had looked at him with true hatred then—the kind that lasted. Sammy had later been put on second string for that moment, because Xander had stopped feeding him shots.Hed had to transfer from the team to save his career.
“Hes not a virgin, Sammy. Hes just picky.”
“Yeah? Well,were gonna have to get you laid next, Cave Man! You see anyone here you like?” Xander would have loved to right then. His gut roiled with bitterness and jealousy, with a black mix of self-hatred and anger with Chris and putrid, furious disgust for the microscope that had done this to them. He would have loved to have found a girl and figured out what in the fuck to do with her, and gone to see Chris smelling of another persons sex, just so Chris could share this moment with him the way they had shared every other goddamned thing for the last ten years. But he couldnt. He couldnt. Because the last thing Chris had said to him had sounded lost and young and frightened.
“Ill call you in a little while. Come get me, okay?” It was the “Come get me” that kept Xander in his seat that night, that started the pattern of every other third-home-game-of-the-month for them.
Chris had asked him to do something, had pleaded for him to do something, and dammit, Xander would do it. So Xander could probably have slept with any girl there that night, fueled with anger and the vision of Chris, naked and alone with another human being, faking his way through heterosexuality in the same way theyd faked their way through being single for the past ten years. But he didnt. Instead, hed taken a pull on his beer, looked at Sammy, and shrugged.
“Im picky too.” The next third-home-game-of-the-month had been his turn. Hed sat on almost the same stool with a pocketful of rubbers, and looked at a little bubbly blond girl with big brown eyes. Almost desperately, he sent a begging look to Chris. Chris threw back his third drink of the night and closed his own brown eyes in pain.
“Whats your name, sweetheart?” God, Xander was bad at this, but the girl didnt seem to notice.
“Kristy,” she burbled, just like a little brook.
He looked at Christian as he said it.“Perfect.”
Reckoning
SOME guys wore suits after a game—snazzy, top of the line, slick, bright ties, newest-cut shirt suits—the kind that impressed the snot out of fans and fucks alike, but not Chris and Xander. When they packed their garment bags for their after-game, they usually put in a nice dress shirt and slacks.Sometimes, if hed just gotten a new pair (since about all of Xanders clothes were made special), Xander would pack a pair of jeans, because for him, it was all about fitting in, and jeans were the way he did it. He still remembered the days of ripped, dirty jeans. It meant something.
Thats what Xander was packing this night, when Chris ca
me in with the requisite two condoms. It was always two condoms—two condoms, one bang. A thicker barrier between them and the horrible thing they were doing, a way to pretend they werent really touching another human being with their lie, a way to pretend that what they were doing wasnt really cheating. Two condoms with the rest of the world, but nothing, nothing ever, between the two of them. Two condoms to hide the fact that even though they might be able to get it up, they rarely, rarely came.
Xander looked at the two condoms this night and said, “I dont think I can do this anymore.”
Chris nodded and then shook his head. His eyes were still red, even after their showers (they never showered together—old habits died hard) because he had come apart with Xander, and once the floodgates had opened, the jag had needed to run its course.
“We have to,” Chris whispered.“We have to do this. Hes talking about trading us.”
It was absurd—and it was true. Xander was having the season of his life, second in the league in points and rebounds and Chris was going to the All-Star Game right with him. The two of them had the team on a playoff pace, it was undeniable, and this time, it looked like they might make it past the first round, but Wallick wouldnt leave them alone. Hed started calling them “Ho” and “Mo” on the court, and the name had caught. More than one shock jock had taken up the cry.
(Penny had told Christian secretly that his parents had stopped watching the news or turning on the radio in the morning.“Dad actually figured out how to use an iPod and Netflix.Its unreal!”)
Xanders heart caught in his throat. Trading them? Oh God. The one thing that made the lie bearable, the only thing that made the lie bearable, was coming home to Chris at the end of the night.
He took the condoms from Chris with shaking fingers, and Chris closed his hand over Xanders in comfort.
“Our contracts come up for renewal at the end of the season,” he said quietly, and Xander looked up, startled.Hed offered to quit, to out them, to scream the truth to the heavens and obliterate the lie. Hed almost done it without Chris, about a thousand times, but he couldnt. It was Chriss dream too.But this….
“What do you have in mind?”
Chris shrugged.“Retirement? A press conference? Having Leo say we still want to play here, but that Bigotmans got to shut the fuck up? I dont know, Xan. I just know that….” Chris ran his hands through his short-cropped hair. Xander missed his curls—hed kept it super short, ever since “Bigot-man” had showed up. One less thing for that acid tongue to drip bile on. One less thing to not try to ignore. One more thing to hide.
“Something?” Xander asked, feeling hope. They could talk to Leo. They could trade to another team, keep the house here, and play somewhere else. Hell, they could come out and let the NBA make the choice. Something. Anything. Anything but two condoms in their pockets, every third home game of the month.
“Lets not get traded mid-season, and then, yeah.Youre right. Somethings got to change. Well change it. I swear.” His breath caught. “God, Xan, I love you. You know that, right?You know… I mean, we never say it, because ourwhole lives, its just been us. Its like saying it is sort of silly, but….” Chris shook his head again, and Xander reached across the distance between them and pulled him against his chest.
“Its not silly,” Xander whispered. “I love you too.”
“You need to eat more,” Chris muttered, probing at his chest. “Ibuprofen and Tums are not a good breakfast.”
“It was Pepto and a croissant,” Xander said back with dignity. “And its better than vodka.”
Chris tried a smile.“Sometimes theres tomato juice—thats good for me, right?”
“No,” Xander said seriously. “No.”
Chris huddled in his arms, a child seeking protection. Xander wondered how it was that theyd managed to be more grown-up at fifteen than they were at twenty-eight.
XANDER KARCEK pounded down the glossy wood of the court, thigh
muscles straining, huge biceps pumping, and sweat dripping into his eyes from his black bangs. The ball sang against the boards in front of him and popped back into the palm of his wide-fingered hand as he dribbled furiously, strides ahead of the enemy, in perfect position to score....
OH, GOD, it was a good game! Xander and Chris—they were poetry in
sweat, an orchestra of heaving muscle, sinew, and bone. The crowd roared like the ocean, and the hollow thunder of their feet on the boards and their hands against each other made even the air tremble in their ears. They were high on the game, blinded by the magic that flowed from player to player to player.
The score was tight —the Kings had a two-point lead through most of the game, and then, in the last minute, Xander was shoved backward by the Blazers forward, falling on his ass and feeling something obnoxiously painful ping in his wrist. But his blood was up, and he was already on painkillers, so he was on his feet before Chris could even look at him twice and hurtling down the court again, coming up underneath and behind William Skaarsgard and stealing the ball.
The crowd erupted, the noise so overwhelming that Xander started hearing under it, so that the blood in his ears, his harsh breathing, Chriss whoops of triumph, they were all louder than the cheering as he whipped a neat one-eighty around Skaarsgard and threw a high, looping pass to Chris before anyone realized hed stopped dribbling. Chris caught it, dribbled, and then behind-the-backed to Washington, who made it down the court and… missed the dunk.
Chris was right up there, though, and he made it, and then the ball was in the opponents hands for a scant second as Oregon set up to recoup the lost two points.
They never made it down the court. Xander told the press after the game that it felt like reaching out to the sky and picking a bird out of flight. The words were bandied about for weeks, because Xander was supposed to be “stoic” and not “poet,” but he didnt care. Thats how it felt—charmed, magical, personal—and before the other team even realized theyd suffered a turnover, Xander was on the outside of the key, where he executed a running three-point shot in front of a raging crowd.
That made it in right before the buzzer.
His team was surrounding him, thumping him on the back, rubbing his sweaty hair, patting his ass, and he was right back with them, in their midst, surrounded by family and light and happy, happy noise. Christian
was there, although after the initial hug with the rest of the team he did what he did in high school—showboated, held clenched fists to the heavens and reared back and roared, leapt impossible heights into the air and whooped—and Xander was not alone, far away, in a box.
He was as happy here as he was in Chriss arms, only the happiness was louder, brighter, and sharper on the nerves. Even Xander, in the eye of the maelstrom, knew it wasnt the sort of happiness that was meant to last—but that didnt mean it wasnt sweet.
The mood at the team watering hole was triumphant, and the women who had managed to filter in through bouncers and propriety seemed to double in number every time Xander looked. They celebrated for a couple of hours, they talked with their teammates, relived their shots, and everyone lifted their glass to Xander and the “magic-birdball” even as the sound bite was replayed again and again on the monitors above them.
Things wound down, though —they had to. Chris put a heavy hand on his shoulder, and Xander looked up to where a group of girls milled, looking at the unattached players in a faintly predatory way.
“Should I guess which one youre going to pick?” Chris asked bleakly, and Xander narrowed his eyes.
“I dont even know which one Im going to pick,” he all but snarled, and Chriss hand tightened, and he bent down to talk privately in Xanders ear.
“It hurts me worse when theyre like me,” he whispered, and Xander looked at him accusingly.
“Theyre all like you,” he said, wondering if that came out right. “Even when I try to pick the ones that arent.”
He sighed then and stood up, shaking off Chriss hand and going to the bar to get a beer and a
spare. He was on his way back, keeping an eye out for someone who didnt look too predatory, someone who looked like she could make him laugh, when he practically walked over a tiny little woman with dark hair, who was urgently texting on her cell phone.
She looked up, an apology on her lips, but when her neck kept falling back before she could actually see Xanders face, her mouth literally swung open at the jaw—but her hands never stopped texting.
Xander had to laugh. He looked over the front of her and down (a long way down) to her phone and started to laugh.“OMG,” he read, “Xander Karcek just ran me over. Hes as tall as an ogre!”
“Oh shit!” The poor girl turned pink, right to the pale end of her nose, and Xander got a good look at her. She was, in essence, the antiChris. She was tiny and feminine, wearing a frilly little black skirt and a white blouse that looked like a pirate shirt. She had a wealth of straight, shiny dark hair, and vaguely Asian features, and she was not laughing or bubbling or socializing without compunction. Instead, she was clinging to her phone, and probably to the friend on the other side of it, with a little bit of terror in her eyes, and looking at Xander with quiet adoration.
Very rarely was Chris quiet.
And Xander liked her already.
“Im not really an ogre,” he assured her with a smile, and she nodded avidly.“Although,” he added, looking around as though this hadnt just been reported on some special about athlete grooming, “if I miss my waxing appointment, I look like one.”
It was socially awkward, and maybe, if his face wasnt up on ten television monitors around the bar, it wouldnt have worked, but she burst into giggles, and he knew he had her.
“I saw that,” she confessed. “It looks painful.”