Turning The Page

by Sam Elswit

  "Yeah," Michael breathed, unable to take his gaze off of the bigger man's bewitching green eyes, which had scarcely glanced at him the whole time.

  "Man, I feel sorry for you. Coach is gonna put your ass through the meat grinder." Finally, he looked at Michael. His lips twitch in an enigmatic smile. "You'll be all right though. You look tough."

  "Yeah?"

  "Sure. What's your name, kid?"

  "I-I'm Dwyer, Michael Dwyer."

  As soon as the name left his lips, the bigger man stiffened. He looked away from Michael and snapped the lid on his coffee cup. "New quarterback," the man grunted.

  "Yeah," Michael confirmed. "What's your name?"

  "Terrence Richmond."

  The world tilted on its axis. Michael put his hand on the counter to steady himself. Terrence Richmond was a legend, one of the best quarterbacks in the history of the sport. He was also being relegated to second string due to a legacy of injuries.

  And Michael was his replacement.

  "It's an honor to meet you," Michael practically whispered, feeling suddenly intimidated. He wasn't that much of a fan of the sport off the field, but even he knew who Terrence Richmond was. He also knew that, among fans of the sport, there were rumblings of resentment at the legendary player being benched. Maybe that was why the other guys back in the dorm had seemed sort of... icy toward him.

  "I gotta get going," Terrence said, thumping Michael on the shoulder so hard that Michael sloshed more coffee over the side of the cup. "See ya, kid."

  "See ya," said Michael, staring at the coffee stain blooming on the toe of his sneaker.

  ***

  What they said about Coach Ahren paled in comparison to the man in real life.

  He was sharp and explosive, like a porcupine with spring-loaded quills that could be tripped by a hair-trigger. His face was always red, and the shade deepened depending on his level of irritation. Mildly grumpy (his default, "calmest" setting) was sort of a blotchy ruddiness; irate to rageful ranged between scarlet and a red so deep it was tinged with purple. Michael worried that if he got too upset, one of the coach's eyeballs would pop out from the pressure. Everything the coach said was either snapped, yelled, or bellowed. By the end of the team's first meal together, Michael was actually a little bit scared of him.

  Michael, along with about fifteen other new guys, was awoken the next morning before dawn to begin practice. None other than Terrence Richmond himself burst into room 3B at 4:31AM and grabbed Michael by the scruff of the neck.

  "Rise and shine, newbie," he said, his voice gruff but quiet so as not to disturb Michael's roommate.

  Michael staggered out of bed, rubbing his eyes, and groped around for a shirt.

  "Nope. No need for that, just get your sneakers on. You'll get new gear in the locker room." Like a sheepdog, Terrence herded a shirtless and groggy Michael out of the room, prodding him every so often in the small of the back when his pace lagged.

  They walked out of the dorm and across the residential campus. It was about half a mile to the stadium, where they would be training. Once they got outside, Terrence broke into a brisk jog, and Michael, taking the hint, followed suit. Luckily, Michael was already in excellent shape, so the jog was actually a great, refreshing way to wake up. He sort of enjoyed it, the cool dampness of the August pre-dawn, the buzz of the sodium arc lights all over the campus, and the sight of Terrence's shoulders moving beneath his form-fitting white tee shirt, and his rock-hard glutes shrouded teasingly in his baggy sweat pants.

  In the locker room, Michael and his fellow new recruits were given a rousing and terrifying "pep talk" by Coach Ahren, who somehow managed to express the highest optimism and respect and the utmost disdain for them simultaneously. Terrence joined a line of fellow veterans of the sport, who were to be paired up with the new guys to help them train more effectively.

  But before any training could take place, the coach put them through two grueling hours of calisthenics. Michael wasn't opposed to cardio, in fact he enjoyed it, but this? This was torture. He was fatigued by the first half hour, exhausted by the end of an hour, and at the end of the second hour, he understood why some guys threw up during drills. His limbs were shaking with exhaustion and his lungs burning.

  And it was only 7:00AM.

  They were then herded to the cafeteria to join the rest of the team for breakfast and a lecture. Then back to the field for more drills. In fact, Coach said, they could expect to do nothing but drills for the first three days.

  The training was hard on Michael's body, but his heart was light. He endured it all with a kind of cheerful resignation, because he was happier than he'd ever been in his life. Sure, some of the guys made homophobic remarks, and tossed around gay and fag and stuff like that as insults, but it was nothing like Winsted. It was nothing like MSU. These guys had come from all over the country, and brought with them a variety of experiences and outlooks and backgrounds. The game, their talent, was the great equalizer. The game united them and everything else just faded into the background. They ate, slept, and breathed football, and Michael scarcely had a chance to even think about anything else.

  Except when he looked at Terrence.

  Being paired up with the big man was torture, because Michael had never been so attracted to someone in his life. And he dared to think that part of the attraction was because Terrence looked at him in a certain way, too. He caught Terrence staring sometimes, or watching with a certain expression on his face that made Michael's heart bound. But they never had a chance to broach the topic, because they were constantly surrounded by teammates, coaches, agents, and handlers. There were always at least ten other people around, and while the atmosphere was less oppressive than back in Minnesota, it was still overwhelmingly hetero, and Michael knew that any signs of him being gay would probably not go over too well.

  The first day crawled by at a snail's pace, but Michael, ever adaptable, got used to it quickly, and then the four weeks of training boot camp were over in a twinkling. Suddenly he looked in the mirror and was even more muscular than before, and he felt like he'd only gotten here yesterday. Suddenly his body fat percentage was practically nothing and he was as cut and corded and tendon-y as any figure model in a bodybuilding competition. Sometimes Michael felt strange, like his face was a cut-out from an old picture, pasted atop a stranger's body. But his body also knew more about the game than it ever had, too, and throwing and kicking and running in formation were like breathing. They did team-building exercises in between training sessions and on their days off, and soon the other fifty-plus guys on the team were... well, they were familiar to him, anyway, but that undercurrent of resentment tainted every interaction. Only Guy seemed willing to overlook Michael taking Terrence's place. Everyone else was content to punish him for it, in small ways. They couldn't be overtly nasty, especially because, as the quarterback, Michael was supposed to be a team leader, and Coach Ahren would not tolerate any open dissent within the team, but there was a clear preference for Terrence in any matters requiring leadership or guidance. To make matters worse, Michael simply wasn't the "leader" type. He stepped up as best he could, but after a lifetime of trying to make himself invisible for fear of being discovered, it was nearly impossible to suddenly do the exact opposite.

  Michael was starting to wonder how he would ever survive.

  Chapter 4

  While his skill in the sport was progressing rapidly, Michael was starting to feel in over his head among his teammates. How was he supposed to help the team win if the guys didn't respect him? How was he supposed to earn their respect if he hadn't already? No one was more skilled than Michael, so what more could he do? He tried being nice, because that was his personality, but the guys didn't respond to "nice." He tried being a jerk, but no one likes a jerk, and Michael wasn't much good at pretending. He tried adopting the same loud-mouthed swagger as some of the others, but felt like a damn clown and shortly realized that if swagger wasn't genuine, it just made him look foolish.
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br />   Besides, Terrence didn't swagger. Terrence wasn't loud. Terrence was confident and spoke with authority, and he was only loud when absolutely necessary. Michael tried copying what Terrence did, but that was even worse than fake-swaggering. He knew he had to find his own way to be a leader... he just didn't know what tha t meant. And trying to find himself in the process was making him look like a total ass.

  Things felt sort of bleak a couple of days before their first exhibition game, and Michael was, frankly, extremely nervous. He was grateful that a couple of the guys decided to go up to San Francisco for a little field trip on their day off, and Michael was allowed to come along because of Guy. Much to Michael's relief, Terrence didn't come with them. Not that he didn't like the man, but without training to focus on, Michael knew it would only be that much harder to keep his eyes (and hands) off of Terrence, and when visiting the gay capital of the world, well, anything could happen. Michael was only sorry he would be with his teammates and have to pretend to be straight the whole time, but at least he would get his first taste of San Fran and he could come back later on his own to really enjoy himself.

  "So, uh... where are we going?" Michael asked. "I've never been to San Francisco." Secretly, his heart was pounding at the thought of finally visiting the city he had idolized in his dreams for so many years. He only hoped it didn't disappoint.

  "Oh, really? Me and Chad come up here every couple of weekends. I dunno, I thought we'd go and hit up Hi Tops."

  "Hi Tops?" Michael quirked his eyebrows in confusion. "Shoe shopping? Couldn't we go, I dunno, see the Golden Gate Bridge or Alcatraz or something?"

  "Look, Mike," said Chad, twisting around in the passenger seat to look at Michael in the back. He knew Michael hated being called Mike, so of course... he called him Mike every chance he got. "You live in the San Francisco Bay area now. You can come back and do all that dumb touristy crap another time. Me and Guy have done all that already and we don't really wanna spend the day taking you around like a fuckin' fanny-pack-wearing tourist—"

  "Don't be a dick," Guy admonished, punching Chad in the arm. "It's Michael's first time in SF, we should, y'know, welcome him."

  "Like how?" Chad crossed his arms. "I wanna get my drink on and get my fuck on as soon as humanly possible. I'm dyin' to get laid."

  "Yeah, yeah," Guy said with a wave of his hand. "Let's go over to Baker Beach for an hour."

  Chad groaned and slumped in his seat. "You know there's gonna be tons of people there."

  "Which is why we're only staying for like an hour, and then we're gonna go get wasted."

  "Fine," Chad huffed.

  "Thanks, man," Michael said, grinning at his roommate. "I've always wanted to see the Golden Gate Bridge, y'know?"

  "It's just a bridge," Chad grumbled.

  "A big bridge though," Guy said. "And it's pretty good lookin' for a bridge. I mean it's all orange and stuff. I don't know, there's no other orange bridges that I know of... it's kinda special."

  "You're such a fag," Chad laughed.

  "That's not an insult," Michael said. He immediately regretted it and held his breath with his cheeks puffed out as he waited for the fallout. Oh God, now I've done it.

  "What d'you mean it's not an insult? Sure it is, I called him a fag. A flaming, butt-fucking faggot—"

  "Dude." Guy was leaning his left arm out the window, cupping his forehead in exasperation. "You don't have to lay it on that thick."

  "Fine." Chad ran a hand through his hair. "Is Terrence coming to Hi Tops, then?"

  Guy glanced at Chad meaningfully, although Michael had no idea what the glance was supposed to signify. "I don't know, dude, I'm not his fuckin' nanny," Guy muttered.

  "Could've fooled me," Chad said.

  Mercifully, they got to the parking area near the beach just about then and the conversation ground to a halt. Something was weird about this situation, but Michael could not, for the life of him, even begin to figure out what it was. Not for the first time since leaving Minnesota, Michael was all too keenly aware of being a naive small-town boy with no knowledge of the world or how it worked. He had thought that he was so ready to come out and just be in the world, but it was proving a lot harder and more confusing than he had bargained for.

  He followed his friends down to the beach, which was breathtaking in its beauty. Michael realized in a dizzying instant that he had never been to a beach before, either. He'd been to very large lakes, but he immediately knew that it wasn't the same. The wind out here was salty and cool, the sun was high and hot, baking his skin, while the water lapping at his toes was almost too cold to swim in. He followed Guy and Chad up the beach a ways, and stopped dead in his tracks as they happened a group of sunbathers who were completely naked. Michael goggled at them, because he'd never been to a nude beach before. He wasn't a prude by any means, but due to his provincial upbringing, the sight was still a shock.

  "Oh, right, forgot to tell you, it's a 'clothing optional' beach at this end," Guy laughed. "But hey, look. There's your bridge."

  Once Michael was able to tear his eyes away from the startlingly ordinary naked people, he beheld the sun-drenched Golden Gate Bridge in all its bright orange, steel and concrete glory. His heart surged as he realized, possibly for the first time since coming off the plane, that he had made it. He had made it! Michael's elation was so great that his face split in a huge, dazzling grin, and he gave a great "WHOOP!" and jumped and clapped and stamped his feet.

  "I MADE IT!" he bellowed. "I made it! It's the motherfucking Golden Gate Bridge, holy shit, I'm here!"

  "Yeah you are," Guy laughed. "Damn, I didn't know this was so important to you."

  "Neither did I," Michael said, panting as he calmed down a little. "I dunno, it just kind of hit me... I'm not in Minnesota any more... I'm here. It's amazing."

  "It sure is. A feat of modern technological engineering, I'm sure. Now. Can we go get drunk?" Chad cut in.

  "Shit." Michael ran his hands through his hair, staring at the bridge. "Yeah, I... I guess I live here now, I can come back whenever, huh?"

  "You got that right. Now let's go get into some trouble." Guy thumped Michael on the shoulder, and the three of them broke into a brisk trot back to the car.

  It was only a short drive back uptown to the bar, which was nestled in a neighborhood that looked eerily familiar. Michael stared out the window as they drove, racking his brain. Why did this place seem so familiar? He could've sworn he had seen this street before, except this was his first time outside of Minnesota, so that was impossible. Maybe he had astral projected here in a dream. Maybe he was losing his mind. Or maybe....

  The hair stood up on the back of his neck as he saw a huge red sign that said CASTRO. Michael gasped audibly, making Chad and Guy look back at him.

  "What?"

  "The Castro District," Michael whispered.

  "Yeah?"

  "We're in the Castro District."

  "Yes, we are," Chad said, sounding bored. "That's where Hi Tops is."

  "We're in the Castro District, though," Michael said, gazing out the window in awe. The Castro District was a prominent feature in gay rights history and was the home of the legendary activist Harvey Milk. Being there practically brought tears to Michael's eyes, which he valiantly tried to swallow.

  "Mikey, you are one weird dude," Chad opined blandly.

  Chapter 5

  "Wait, so you guys know where we are?" Michael came out of his daze and looked in confusion at the other boys in the front seat. "You know this is a... y'know, a gay neighborhood?"

  "Yeah," Guy said with a laugh. "That's kind of the point."

  "What!?" Michael's head was spinning. Were they playing a prank on him? Was this some kind of sick joke? Or had he just gotten unbelievably, incredibly lucky? "You guys are messing with me, right?"

  "No. Why? You have a problem with going to a gay club?" Chad glared over his shoulder at Michael. "You better think carefully about your answer, bud, since we're your ride back to San Jos
e."

  "I, uh... no," Michael laughed in disbelief. "No problem at all, I, uh... I'm just... surprised...."

  "Surprised that there are gay football players? Yeah, me too," said Guy. "But here we are, in the flesh. We do exist."

  "So you're both...?"

  "Gay? Yeah. Like, really gay. I've never even seen boobs," Chad admitted.

  "But, you know, we have to, uh, tone it down for work. It's pretty exhausting sometimes," said Guy.

  "Yeah, I know," Michael said, still dazed. "I can't believe this."

  "Why? You mad? You gonna request a room transfer now?" Guy said bitterly. "Wouldn't be the first time."

  "No! No... nothing like that, I... I, uh..." Michael rubbed his hair. "I'm gay too," he mumbled.

  "I knew it!" Chad cried, punching Guy's shoulder. "I told you! You owe me twenty bucks."

  "You guys bet on my sexuality?" Michael said in disbelief. "Gross."

  "I guess so, yeah, but we are jocks. Gay jocks, but still jocks, and therefore allowed to be a certain amount of obnoxious." Guy waved his hand. "You had me fooled, bro. And I'm your roommate. Chad just has the best gaydar ever."

  "Damn right," he said smugly.

  "You don't think the rest of the team knows?" Michael said fearfully. "They can't know, I'll get destroyed on the field, they already hate me—"

  "They don't hate you," Guy said gently. "They just don't respect you. There's a big difference."

  "Yeah," sighed Michael. "I'm just frustrated. I feel like I can't do anything right... and if they know I'm gay it'll only get worse—"

  "That's true," Chad agreed. "Plenty of people know about me and it's only by being my normal, douche-y self that I maintain their respect, but no one really knows about Guy, or T—"

  "Chad," Guy snapped, cutting him off. "Anyway, Michael, your secret's safe with us. We're not gonna out you, as long as you don't out us."